The man simply put his foot on the wallet and held Sammy out at arm’s length.
“He did it,” Sammy shouted. “He’s trying to blame me. He did it!”
“He has a very good grasp of English.” The American lady observed him through cool, intelligent blue eyes.
Sammy started shouting in Italian, then French, blaming the man over and over.
“Let him down, Darren,” she said.
That was when Sammy realized he was truly caught, because American Lady knew the Englishman. “Gigolo!” Sammy shouted, then took another look at the man.
No, he wasn’t handsome enough for a gigolo. He must be a bodyguard.
Sammy knew what that meant. Fat Woman had told him time and again. He was going to jail and there they would kill him. If he escaped, Fat Woman would kill him, because she expected him to do his job without getting caught. She couldn’t stand bungling little snots.
“What’s your name, boy?” American Lady asked, her blue eyes appraising him.
Sammy was going to die. But he didn’t cry. He lifted up his chin and stared at her, lips clamped shut.
So Joey, the guy who sold flowers, answered for him. “That’s Sammy the Gypsy. He’s the best cutpurse in Capri. Thank God you caught him—he’s bad for business. I called the police for you.”
“He’s filthy. He looks like he’s starving. His parents should be ashamed,” American Lady said.
Joey laughed like a braying donkey. “He’s got no parents. He’s just a little bas—”
Sammy rammed his head into Joey’s ’nads.
Joey doubled over.
Sammy tried to scramble through the forest of legs that surrounded them.
But American Lady caught him by the hair and jerked him back.
He yelled in surprise. Then he tried to shame her. “That’s not nice!”
Englishman grabbed his wrist again.
American Lady pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her fingers. “It certainly isn’t. How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”
Sammy looked at her blankly.
Joey recovered his breath and came roaring at Sammy. “Give me the little bastard. I’ll take care of him for you.”
“You mean you’ll turn him over to the police?” American Lady asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
Sammy backed toward her, away from the gleam in Joey’s eyes.
“I think not,” American Lady said decisively. “I’ll handle this matter. Darren, take Samuel back to the hotel and see that he’s bathed.”
“Oh, madam. Not really! Look at him. He is a Gypsy.”
“Romany is the correct term,” American Lady said.
“Fine,” the Englishman said in disdain. “But as the twig is bent, so grows the tree. This child will never be anything but a thief.”
“I don’t believe that.” American Lady bent down to Sammy. “Samuel, I’m going to take care of you.”
“Why?”
She laughed. “My husband would say I’m a pushover for small things in pain. He could be right about that.” She straightened and said to the Englishman, “Take him to the hotel. I shall deal with the police and whoever has been caring for this child.”
Samuel’s skin hurt where the servants had scraped off a lifetime of dirt. . . .
No, wait. He was in a tent in the basement of a ski lodge. He’d faced off with an avalanche, and it was freezing in here. That was why his skin hurt. . . .
Samuel’s third memory was American Lady telling him his name was now Samuel Faa, a typical Romany name, and that Darren and his wife were going to be his father and mother. Which he didn’t understand at all, since Darren had supervised his bath and clearly wanted to murder Samuel by drowning.
But when Samuel asked Darren why, Darren sniffed and, in his formal stiff-ass English manner, he told Samuel that American Lady was Mrs. Mason and a powerful, rich boss with strong views about helping the helpless youth of the world, so Darren did as he was told. “As you will learn to do under my direction, Samuel.”
Samuel didn’t complain, because every day someone fed him food, real food, not leavings from someone else’s plate. And not just once a day, either. They did it all the time.
He was a smart boy. He figured there were a lot of possible explanations.
Like the wicked witch in the story, American Lady was fattening him up to eat him.
She was going to sell him to a pimp.
Or his favorite—he’d died and gone to heaven.
But while he was scared, every time they put food in front of him, he ate it.
His memories of coming to the US were a blur—of driving in a car, of getting on a plane, his wrist held firmly in Darren’s hand. Of seeing American Lady—Mrs. Mason, he now called her—go forward to the front behind a curtain while he and Darren moved to the back. Of arriving in the cold, dark city of Boston, driving to another huge hotel, going inside, and realizing this wasn’t a hotel, but Mrs. Mason’s house. He met his new mother, who seemed even less pleased than his new father to meet him.
He kept up a brave front until everyone’s back was turned. Then he sneaked upstairs, looking for a place to hide. He found it in an empty room with a window seat overlooking the street. He closed the curtains, climbed in among the cushions, and cried. He cried in confusion, because he didn’t understand where he was or what was happening to him. He cried in loneliness, because he couldn’t know when Mrs. Mason and his new parents would realize he was truly a worthless bastard and throw him out in the street. And he cried in anger because he never cried. He never cared. It was easier that way.
When someone touched his shoulder, he jumped around in a fury and shouted a curse word he’d learned from Fat Woman.
A little girl stared at him, unblinking. It was Isabelle, four years old, wide-eyed, clean, and the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he no longer cared about Mrs. Mason or his new parents or this strange hotel. All he cared about was the humiliation of her watching him while he cried like a baby.
“Stupid bitch. What do you want?” he shouted, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
He didn’t seem to frighten her. “To make you feel better.” Although he was twice her size, with calluses on his palms and the vocabulary of a trucker, she wasn’t afraid of him. Instead she offered her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she stroked her hand along his leg. “I’m Isabelle. I can make you feel better. I promise.”
He’d heard the whores in the streets talking to clients. He’d seen people, all kinds of people, rich and poor, male and female, drunk and sober, humping and grunting in dark corners. Under the weight of his having seen beatings before and after, and women crying, his illusions about his mother had faded and died.
The little girl was saying stuff like the whores said to the johns.
But the little girl didn’t seem to know anything about that. Instead she put her hand around his ankle and held it. And drew the hurt out of his bones, out of his heart. She absorbed his loneliness, his fears, leaving him erased clean as a chalkboard and ready to face this new world. As she did, her bright expression faded, leaving her gazing at him with tears in her eyes.
It was weird. It was frightening. “What are you doing?”
“I told you. I made you feel better. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” So did she know about him now? He sort of felt like she’d soaked up some of him. “Do you want me to pay you? I don’t have any money, but I could get some.”
“No. You don’t have to steal anymore. But don’t tell my mother that I helped you. She doesn’t like it when I do what I do. She says it’s different, and girls like me shouldn’t be different.”
She spoke so well. She was so smart. “What kind of girl are you?”
“I’m adopted, like you. So you shouldn’t do anything different, either.”
He thought he should warn her. “I’m just a dirty Gypsy bastard.”
“No, you’re not. I heard them talking downstairs.
You’re Sammy, and you’re safe now.” She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, a messy, little-girl kiss. “I’ll take care of you.”
He liked the words. He liked the kiss. But she was nothing but a kid. “You’re stupid. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
She didn’t pay any attention to that. “I come here a lot. It’s quiet and it’s sunny, and no one makes me do anything. I can look out the window instead of studying books, or be warm in the sun instead of worrying about sunscreen, or sleep. . . . If you want, you can use my corner, too, when you want them to leave you alone so you can be yourself.”
“I’m always myself.”
“Then you’re very lucky.” Her smile blossomed. “Will you read me a story?”
Not to another soul would he have admitted it, but to this pixie, he was able to say, “I don’t know how to read.”
“I do. I’ll read you a story.” She picked up her book, the one with the colored pictures of knights and castles and dragons and princesses, and she read it to him. At the end of the book, the dragon was chased to his cave, the knight and the princess got married, and Samuel was in love.
Darren found them.
Isabelle was asleep on Samuel’s chest.
Samuel was sitting absolutely still, terrified of waking her.
As her maid carried her away, Samuel would have followed her, but Darren put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and stopped him cold. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “She’s not for you. You can’t ever have her.”
Samuel didn’t know where the words came from. From the heights of his soul, maybe, but more likely from the depths of his gut. But he distinctly remembered saying, “I don’t want to hear can’t or won’t or don’t anymore. I’ll be who I want. I’ll have who I want. And I want her.”
He’d had her, too. She had been his, and he had been hers. They had lived together, and not just once. Both times, she had seen past the harsh exterior he presented to the world. They had had something real together. And the second time, when he could have kept her forever . . . he’d screwed it up.
Even in the depths of his sleep, Samuel knew this was his last chance to make things right.
The pain in his face eased. He sighed and opened his eyes.
In the darkness, Isabelle was leaning over him, her hands on his face.
“Whatryadoing?” he asked groggily.
“You’re snoring. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. So I’m fixing your nose.”
Each breath he drew was clearer. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She lifted her hands away. Lay down, her back to him. “Don’t even ask me to fix your balls. You deserve every bit of pain you’re suffering.”
He grinned into the dark, and pulled her close, her body relaxing against his, yet separated by the mummy sleeping bags that kept them alive, kept them warm.
She might not know it, but holding her made everything better.
Chapter 13
Isabelle reached out for Samuel in her sleep, and woke when her hands slid across the slick nylon of his sleeping bag.
She missed his heat. She missed the way he fought with his nightmares. She missed the fact that even when his nose was healed, he snored.
He’d been gone for a while, though, because his body warmth had faded from his side of the tiny two-man tent. She opened her eyes, frustrated that she cared. That she liked sleeping with him, holding him in her arms, being glad that of all the men in the world, she was trapped with him, that if they had to die . . .
Well. They’d lived through the night, and that was a miracle. They could get out of here, too. Somehow.
She looked around.
Light came through the thin nylon walls of the tent. Light that seemed focused off to the left side toward the table. Laid out beside her were clothes: a gold sweat-shirt, green ski pants, a purple thigh-length parka, all approximately her size, if not even close to her taste. She pulled them on over the long underwear, shivering as the chill of the clothes stole away the lingering warmth of the sleeping bag.
A camp lantern sat on the table, its LED light shedding enough illumination for her to see that the area around the tent had been swept clear of dust and debris. A breakfast had been placed on the table: a bottle of water, an energy bar, a battered apple.
Samuel knew how to forage.
She drained the water, then muttered, “No cappuccino?” She was grateful to be alive. She was glad to fill her stomach. But Dracula was wrong. Blood wasn’t life. Caffeine was life, and she needed some.
She picked up the lantern and went in search of Samuel, wandering up and down the rows of lockers. She found him at the back, lit by another camp lantern, dressed in mismatched ski clothes, and using a pickax to pry open a series of lockers set behind a now-open wire mesh cage.
He looked her over, grinned, and nodded. “Nice.”
“I feel like a Mardi Gras necklace.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“No, and I’m grateful.”
“Don’t be grateful to me. Be grateful to the women whose lockers I’ve broken into.” He showed her the point of the pickax. “It’s not as elegant as your lock picking, but it’s warmed me up.” Walking over to her, he tucked his hand under her chin and turned her face from side to side. “You look like you’re going to live. Last night, I wasn’t so sure.”
“I was fine.” He looked good this morning, too, his nose completely healed and a twenty-four-hour growth of dark beard covering his chin.
“You had done too much. You were ready to lie down and die.”
Vaguely, she remembered thinking just that. Vividly, she remembered him running his hand up her leg and rubbing her rear. And her flare of fury. For one wild moment, she almost asked him if he’d groped her merely to revive her.
But that would be stupid. Getting her on her feet might have been his primary objective. But he’d enjoyed himself, too, and she saw no reason to give him an opening to suggest a rerun.
He was still observing her, standing a little too close, breathing her air.
She pushed his hand away and stepped back. “Now—can I help?”
“That would be great. We’re not going to starve to death—there are dry rations galore, not to mention energy bars and sack lunches. Water’s a little more difficult. I think the blanket of snow is acting as insulation on top of us, so the temp has leveled off at about freezing. Fluids are slushy. Yet we can’t light a stove to heat them up because—”
“Because it’ll take oxygen.” She sighed. He was right, but the choices down here were tough ones.
“I’ll open lockers.” He showed her the pickax. “You sort stuff into piles. I’ve got it organized.” He pointed. “Perishables go there. Obviously, we don’t have to worry about refrigeration.”
“That’s enough fresh food to keep us for weeks.” She looked around at the cavernous room, and added hastily, “Not that we’ll be here for that long.”
“No, of course not. Canned foods, energy bars, breakfast bars go there.” He pointed again. “Bottled water, Cokes, juices.”
She looked at the assembled bottles and licked her lower lip. “Any coffee drinks?”
“Maybe. What’ll you give me for one?” He wore one of his patented clever-guy smirks.
“I won’t kill you in a caffeine-deprived rage. How’s that for a deal?” She smirked back, sweet as only she could be.
He reached into an empty locker, retrieved one of the bottles he’d stashed inside, popped the top, and handed it over.
Good to know she could make him fear her. Taking a long drink, she sighed with delight and contemplated the admirable qualities of coffee.
Abruptly he said, “I thought I had it figured out.”
“What?”
“How to let someone know we’re here. When I was at the bank, Dina was in my head giving instruction.”
“She’s a mind speaker. You’re not.”
“No, and I don’t know
why or how, but we were communicating. So I tried to put in a call this morning. Sent it good and hard so it would get through.” His mouth curled in disgust.
“No luck?”
“Think of the cartoon where the coyote thinks he’s chasing the Road Runner into a tunnel, but it’s an arch painted on the rock.”
She flinched at the mental image.
“Exactly. I hit that wall so hard my brain bounced.”
“What do you think happened to your lines of communication?”
“I don’t know. I never have trusted Dina, but she had the perfect chance to betray us while I was at the bank and didn’t. Now we’re here, and I don’t know if she was so freaked about me talking in her head for a change that she shut me down. I don’t know if she set us up to be killed in this avalanche. For all I know, the cigarettes finally caught up with her and she dropped dead of a heart attack.”
“Or the Others found out she was helping us and killed her.” She was pleased to note that the caffeine was moving through her veins, because she was putting logical thoughts together.
“That’s possible, too. Have you ever heard how she got her nose sliced in half?”
“No, have you?”
“No. Last I learned about Dina was when Genny realized she and Martha were sisters. I didn’t even realize there was a similarity.”
“I didn’t know either, Sammy.”
“Really?” He moved his head back and forth. “That makes me feel better. Not quite so insensitive.”
She smirked at him. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He smirked back at her. “As soon as I said it, I knew you were going to hit that one out of the ballpark. Now—ready?” he asked, and gestured toward his well-sorted piles.
“Sure,” she said expansively.
“Here’s where I put the alcoholic beverages.”
“Wow.” She surveyed the veritable mountain of whiskies, schnapps, wines, and beers.
“Skiers do like their libations.” He grinned. “Clothes and blankets there. Any tools you run across—there.” He grabbed an energy bar, opened it, and took a big bite. “Don’t forget to eat. Maintaining body heat at this temp will really burn the calories.”
Chains of Fire Page 8