The Good Thief (23 page)

“For what?”

“To fix the socks.”

They went back to their room, and Dolly slipped the ragged knitting over the bed knob. Then he threaded one of the needles with the yarn, and began to make small vertical running stitches along the ragged edges. When he finished, he connected the stitches on either side with a longer piece of yarn, creating a grid. Then he tied it off and began weaving in the opposite direction, under and over and through.

“Where did you learn that?”

“My mother taught me.”

Ren watched the pattern appear beneath Dolly’s hands. It was hard to believe that Dolly had ever had a mother. He darned socks the same methodical way he’d killed the men beneath the streetlamp—with skill and without emotion. He maneuvered the needle until he’d built up a delicate web across the hole in the toe. He did the same with the heel, counting rows quietly under his breath.

“Why do you think Mrs. Sands takes care of him?” Ren asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dolly.

“I’ll bet he did something terrible.”

“He’s only a dwarf,” said Dolly. “I don’t think he could have done much of anything.” Dolly set aside the first sock and slipped the second onto the bedpost. He sucked on the end of the yarn and threaded the needle with his giant fingers. He began to weave over the missing heel. The bed knob disappeared as he brought the strands together. Ren thought of all the terrible things that Dolly had done. All the terrible things he had yet to do.

“Are you still going to kill him?” Ren asked.

“Who?”

“The man you were hired for.”

“I think I better.”

“Why?”

“I’ve already been paid.” He pulled the finished sock from the bedpost and handed it to Ren. “And he knows I’m coming for him. If I don’t get him, he’ll get me first.” Dolly crawled to his place underneath the bed. “But I’m too tired now. Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Ren leaned over the edge of the mattress. “How?”

Dolly was squeezed tightly into the space, his forehead nearly touching the wooden slats. “Necks. Necks are the easiest.”

“You won’t use a gun?”

“Too much noise.”

Ren rolled back onto the bed. He pulled one of Mrs. Sands’s quilts over his shoulders and watched the late-afternoon sun cross the walls. “What if I asked you not to kill him?”

Dolly sighed.

“We’re going away. You could come with us.” Ren twisted the quilt in his hand.

“I’ll think about it,” said Dolly. “But I’m not going to promise.” After a few minutes he turned over, rolling the mattress and lifting Ren along with the frame. The bed settled back on its legs, several inches to the left, and Ren could hear Dolly’s breath grow even as he started to snore.

Ren stared at the ceiling and thought of the man in the top hat, the heavy weight of his body as they pushed it through the hospital basement door. He touched the scab on his cheek where the man’s knife had cut through. In a week the hard crust would be gone, the skin underneath pink and new. Ren had already convinced Dolly to confess. If he could stop him from killing anyone else, and if he prayed as hard as he could, it might be like it had never happened at all.

When Benjamin didn’t return before midnight, Ren went downstairs to fulfill his promise to Mrs. Sands. He took down the same dinner tray he had seen her lay out and quickly put together a supper of stale bread and dried sausage along with a small bruised apple, and covered the whole thing with a napkin. He placed the tray on the table next to the socks that Dolly had fixed. Then he crawled inside the potato basket to wait.

Almost an hour passed, until Ren had pins and needles in his legs. Just when he thought the dwarf would not come he heard something in the chimney. A few moments later the small man crawled out from the fireplace. Ren watched from the potato basket as the dwarf circled the room, then lifted the napkin and snorted. He ignored the stale bread and sausage and took the apple to a stool by the fireplace, carving the fruit expertly with his knife and eating the pieces right from the blade. He was wearing the same clothes Ren had seen him in before—a short brown jacket, green trousers, and small, rough boots. When the man was finished, he gnawed on the core, spitting the seeds into the fireplace. Then he licked his fingers, unlaced his boots, took off his socks, and reached for the ones Ren had left.

The dwarf inspected the toes. He fingered the heels. Then he was up and walking between the tables, behind the counters, lifting the lid on the trunk. Ren tried to keep an eye on him from the potato basket, but the dwarf slipped out of sight, into the back of the kitchen, moving chairs and knocking pans.

Ren held his breath, listening. Then all at once his hair was nearly torn from his head. His body was yanked from the basket onto the floor and the small man’s horrible wrinkled face pressed into his own.

“Where’s Mary?” the dwarf barked. Bits of apple sprayed onto Ren’s forehead.

“I don’t know any Mary.”

“The woman who lives here. The woman who runs this house!”

Ren tried to pry the fingers from his hair. “She’s at the hospital.”

The man loosened his grip. He looked stricken. “Is she dead?”

“She’s got influenza. She asked me to take care of you.”

The dwarf let go of the boy. He picked up the knife he’d used to cut the apple. “Do I look like I need taking care of?” The blade was nearly the same length as the handle, the point curved at the end. The dwarf backed into the fireplace, then took hold of the rope. “When’s she coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

The small man seemed undecided whether or not to leave. His voice became plaintive. “She never gets sick.” He twisted the rope in his hands, as if Mrs. Sands’s illness was going to follow him up the chimney and find a way to snuff him out.

It took a few moments for Ren to realize that the man was frightened. He picked up the tray of food. “You should take something.”

The dwarf looked over the bread and sausage. Then a thought began to form on his face, and he let go of the rope and slipped the knife back into his pocket. “Is the pantry unlocked?”

They opened the door to the back room and found the larder full. The shelves were stocked with jars of pickles and preserves—strange colors and suspicious shapes floating in glass containers. There was a piece of cured meat wrapped in cheesecloth, a small cask of beer, a string of sausages hanging from a hook, metal canisters of flour and brown sugar, and a tin that was labeled Molasses .

The small man chose a jar that was yellowish orange. Ren took it down off the shelf for him, then watched as he opened the top with his knife. Inside were half-moons of soft molten pink. The dwarf pierced one and lifted it, glistening, to his mouth. “Peaches,” he said, and stuck his knife in for another. He did not offer any to Ren. The boy stood by, wondering at Mrs. Sands’s reasons for tolerating such a visitor. The dwarf finished the jar and proceeded to lick the edges, to dip his tongue inside and clear away the remains of the juice.

“Get me another. That one, over there.” The small man pointed to a green jar in the corner. It was filled with pickled onions. He poked them with his knife, peeled them layer by layer, and slid the translucent coats between his lips. It seemed as if he would eat forever. Ren passed down jar after jar, and the dwarf made short work of them, lining the empty glasses along the pantry wall. The boy wondered if he should put a stop to it, but he kept remembering Mrs. Sands and what he’d promised.

The dwarf did not slow down until he reached the herring. Then, after devouring the last piece of fish from the tin, he paused, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and slumped against the wall. “Have you got the key?”

“No,” said Ren.

“We’ve got to find it. Those mousetrap girls will clean through this in an hour.” He loosened his belt and slid to the floor. “Christ.”

“Why do you live in the chimney?” Ren asked.

“I don’t live in the chimney. I live on the roof.”

“And Mrs. Sands lets you do it?”

“This house is mine as much as hers. Our mother left it to the both of us.”

Ren turned to the dwarf in surprise and was met with a hard stare. It was a look that expected ridicule, a look that dared it to come. Ren thought of how, as Sister Josephine deloused her, all that Mrs. Sands cared about was that this small man had his socks.

“Did she die?”

The dwarf wiped his hands on a napkin. “Of course she did. That’s what mothers do.”

Ren clung to the empty jar of preserves. He could feel a chip in the glass, beneath his finger. “It must be cold in the winter up there.”

“It is cold. But it’s safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“From the ones who hate people like me. Or you.” He nodded at Ren’s scar, and the boy instinctively pulled it into his sleeve.

“At least you can hide it,” said the dwarf.

Ren rocked back and forth on his heels, feeling caught. Then he pushed his stump out of the sleeve again. It was hard and pink and crossed with scars. But he realized that compared to the dwarf, it was not bad-looking. Not really.

The man let out a soft belch and rubbed his tiny stomach. “I have a house up there. And a stove.” He stuffed his shirt back inside his trousers, then heaved himself forward onto his feet. “Would you like to see it?”

“I would,” said Ren, and he realized that he did. “Very much.”

The dwarf seemed glad of this, nearly as glad as he had been when he’d discovered the pantry unlocked. He crawled into the chimney. “You must push yourself through it,” he said, holding on to the rope. “Get a grip with your feet—one underneath, and one across. And keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed when you can. It will keep the dust from getting in.” With that he tied the rope around his waist, stepped onto the fireplace irons, and hoisted himself into the hole.

Ren watched from below, listening to the shuffle of the dwarf’s back against the bricks. It hardly seemed to take any time for him to reach the top. Then he was gone and the pale sky showed through, a tiny window in the dark.

The rope came tumbling down the empty space toward the boy. The weight of it was thin, the ends frayed and brittle. Ren tied it around his waist as he had seen the small man do. He glanced up into the tunnel. It seemed longer than before. He crouched and climbed onto the metal grating, kicked aside the few remaining dusty logs, and ducked his head inside the flue.

The space was small, not much wider than his own shoulders. The sides were smudged black and coated with a thick, gray crust. Ren touched it with his fingers. The brick was cool. He took hold of the rope with his one good hand, dug his other elbow against the stone behind, pushed one heel to the corner, and lifted himself into the chimney.

About two thirds of the way up there was a narrowing of the flue. Ren’s body would only fit through diagonally, his shoulders pressing into the corners, his head forced to one side. He could no longer lift his knees to push himself forward. He clung to the rope and began to panic.

“I’m stuck!” he called.

Ren leaned one way, and then the other. He slid several feet before he was able to jam his toe into a crack and stop his descent. A cloud of ash fell from the walls, and soot got inside his nose and his mouth, between his teeth and underneath his tongue. His arms were raked and raw, his ankle twisted painfully beneath him. “I’m falling!”

He heard the dwarf say, “Christ.” And then Ren felt a tug at his waist. Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed, he was helped up the chimney, knocking his head and bumping his elbows. Occasionally he lost his footing and dangled on the end of the rope like a fish. A few minutes more and he was through the window of sky, into the fresh air, the small man taking hold of his jacket and hauling him out onto the roof.

He patted Ren’s back. “It’s easier going down.”

Ren rubbed his face with his sleeve. He coughed and spit the ashes from his mouth. It was nearly morning, the sun brightening the horizon in the east. From the roof Ren could make out the entire town, the mousetrap factory looming over the center of the city, the river circling it all like a protective arm. To the south the marketplace rose in the square. To the west the bridge crossed over the river and marked a passageway through the woods. Just beyond those woods was a gathering of hills. Somewhere within them was the entrance to the mine that had claimed the lives of all the men of North Umbrage, and beyond that, the road to the hospital.

The air was clearer here, the taste not as rancid as on the street. Ren thought of all he had done since he had left Saint Anthony’s; every step that had brought him to this place. Spread out before him, both the town and his own past seemed less frightening. Everything was better, Ren realized, when you looked down on it from above.

The dwarf motioned for Ren to follow him into his home, which was little more than a shack from the outside; an abandoned pigeon cage wrapped in rags. But inside, the room was quite cozy, the walls lined with animal hides. Bits of worn leather and what looked like pigskin, stretched and pulled taut between pieces of fur. Squirrels and raccoons and beaver pelts covered the floor and in the corner was a large deerskin. There was still a head attached to it, with glass eyes fitted into the skull. It must have been where the dwarf slept, for there was a pillow there, and over it hung several shelves of books.