The Thieves of Darkness (8 page)

A
T EIGHT O’CLOCK
that evening, KC’s friend Bonnie stood at their apartment door sobbing, her shirt torn, her skirt in tatters. KC held her tight as Bonnie told her what the man had done to her. She was afraid to tell her mom, to go the police. No one would believe a poor young girl; the man’s wealth would buy him lies and would condemn her to a reputation as a greedy slut looking to take advantage of the rich. They had both seen it happen too often—the kids who “had” always seemed able to escape situations the kids who “had not” were punished for. KC was sure Bonnie wasn’t the well-to-do man’s first victim, but they had no proof.

KC dried Bonnie’s eyes and walked her home. She asked for the man’s address, but Bonnie was reluctant; she knew her friend and didn’t want KC to do anything stupid. But KC had a way of convincing people to see her point of view, of getting them to bend to her will whether she was right or wrong, whether they wanted to or not.

The granite town house was double-wide. Ivy flowed down the façade from the roof parapet five stories up. Polished brass rails and lion-shaped knockers adorned the entrance.

KC slipped in through the unlocked back door and padded across the kitchen, her heart pounding, ready to explode from her chest. That was the first time she could taste the air, see the colors grow a bit brighter, her senses heightened by fear and adrenaline … and she liked it.

Once she had made it into the house, though, she didn’t know what she would do. She had no plan, no goal in mind. She was just fifteen and angry. She looked around at the display of wealth, at the artwork and statuary, at the silver and crystal. Never had she thought people
lived like this, and the fact that the pervert who had assaulted Bonnie lived this way sickened her.

She wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her friend but didn’t know how. She thought of vandalism but didn’t have the stomach for destruction. Arson was out of the question, and she couldn’t even ponder physically harming the man, but she still wanted to cause him pain. And as she walked about the vacant home, staring at how the moneyed people lived, it came to her. He was a man of possessions. He liked his riches, his art, his jewelry … and young girls. He liked to possess things, even people, and Bonnie had been just another piece to satisfy his ego lust, his power trip.

She knew exactly how to hurt the man.

She grabbed a pillowcase and filled it with watches and silver, gold bracelets and cuff links. She avoided electronics and hardware, focusing on smaller, tangible pieces of value.

As she headed for the back door, the painting on the wall called to her. It was of two sisters, sitting by a pond. She didn’t know what type of painting it was and had never heard of Monet, but for some reason it resonated with her soul. It wasn’t large, no more than two by two. She looked at her bag and looked at the painting. And without a second thought she snatched it from the wall.

And all hell broke loose. The alarm screamed as dead bolts slammed home in all of the doors. She raced to the windows only to find them all locked, their seals impossible to break. She was suddenly trapped. A fifteen-year-old girl with a bag of stolen goods in her hand, she would have no explanation, no way of talking herself out of being sent to a girls’ home or worse, prison.

Her mind began to race. She tried every door and window to no avail. She soon heard the police siren’s whining approach and within moments there was a pounding on the door. She collapsed to the floor, shaking, terrified, the tears streamed down her face. What would her mother say?

And then it came to her. She wasn’t sure from where the thought arose, but her mind became suddenly focused and resolute.

She tore her shirt and screamed, she screamed as loud as she could. She threw the bag of valuables into the closet and put the painting back on the wall. The police pounded the door again and KC answered with another scream.

And the door exploded open. Two cops barged into the room to find KC on the floor crying. She cried harder as the woman officer leaned down to her, asking who she was, and she simply answered, “I could never do those things he asked.”

“What things?” the woman asked.

And KC said, “Ask Bonnie.”

The man was arrested the next day; he had preyed on countless teenagers and was found to possess a cache of child porn in his closet. And no matter how much money he had, it would never buy him out of prison for crimes against children.

KC arrived back at their apartment that night to find her sister sitting with a middle-aged, gray-haired woman. Cindy looked up, her face streaked in tears, and raced into KC’s arms, sobs racking her nine-year-old body. KC held her tight, rubbing her back to calm her; she crouched and clutched Cindy to her chest.

“Hey, kiddo,” KC said. “It’s okay. What’s up?”

But as KC stroked the auburn hair out of Cindy’s face, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, she could finally see into her blue eyes. She saw the pain; she saw the suffering that no nine-year-old should ever know.

And KC’s world spun. She knew what had happened before the gray-haired woman had uttered a word. Their mother was dead. Jennifer Ryan had “fallen” from the Langate Tower.

Their mother had battled depression for all of her thirty-four years, but it had become acute in the last twelve months. Jennifer Ryan had taken to wearing false smiles under lying eyes, her conversations with her children growing distant and odd. And every night, KC heard her mother’s gentle sobs as she lay in bed clutching the Bible. She was a God-fearing woman who never missed Sunday Mass, who lived her life by the Good Book and never would have knowingly condemned her
soul by taking her own life. So, as she sat there with Cindy, two sisters suddenly alone in the world, KC knew her mother had finally gone insane.

KC sat on the floor, rocking Cindy in her arms.

“Your sister will have to come with us,” the lady said. “We will place her with a family.”

“But I’m her family,” KC said through her tears. “Her only family.”

“I know this is hard—”

“Do you?” KC exploded. “Do you really or is that some line they teach you at Child Services?”

KC stopped herself, reining back her emotions, in a matter of seconds maturing into adulthood. She held tight to Cindy and looked at the older woman. “Imagine that someone you love dies and then you are ripped away from the only other person in the world who cares for you and you’re dumped with uncaring strangers. I can take care of her.”

“How old are you, child?”

“Nineteen,” KC lied. “I work, I can support her,” she lied again. Convincingly. She had a knack for it.

The woman looked at the two sisters clutching tight to each other. She looked at the small apartment, the meager furnishings. The three hearts in the room were breaking. “You have no one else? Where is your father?”

KC and Cindy looked at each other. “He’s dead,” Cindy whispered in shame.

“Please don’t take her from me,” KC whispered. “I’m all she has.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone, child.”

KC held tight to Cindy. “We’re not alone.”

The woman packed up her bag and stood; she took a deep breath and looked at KC with sympathetic eyes. “Let me see if I can work something out.”

KC stood and walked the woman to the door, closing it behind her. She turned back to her sister and held her tight, their tears merging. No one would separate them. No one would take Cindy away from her.

But as KC stood there, the fear began to creep in. She had no skills, she, too, was still a child, there were no means of support, her words to the woman a desperate, naive plea to keep both of their hearts from further damage. For as much as Cindy needed KC, KC needed Cindy. She loved her sister. Though she was six years her junior, they shared a bond, like identical twins. KC resolved she would find a way. She would put herself aside and be there for her sister.

That was the last time she cried.

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
KC was back in the house on Trafalgar Square. This time she knew better. She grabbed the pillowcase from the closet, still filled with valuables. She once again looked at the painting by Monet upon the wall; she looked at the two sisters holding hands. She went to the kitchen, returned with a knife, and cut it from its frame. She rolled it up, tucked it into the bag, and slipped out the back door.

She went to the pawnshop on Piccadilly. Old Man Rist stood hunched behind the counter, an icon of the run-down neighborhood. She knew him from church, or rather he knew her mother.

“I’m sorry about your loss, child,” the man said, his ancient, wrinkled face sincere with emotion.

KC nodded and placed a silver goblet on the counter.

He looked at her with sad, troubled eyes.

“It was my mother’s. My sister and I, we need the money.”

Rist really did know KC’s mother, he knew her well, and he knew that she never had the means to possess such an item. As he looked at the goblet and up into KC’s eyes, it broke his heart, for he knew what KC was doing. He gave her a thousand pounds for it, almost its real worth. He couldn’t swindle a motherless child.

And so it went for the next three months. Whenever they needed money for food or rent, KC would sell Mr. Rist a piece from the Trafalgar house pillowcase. But throughout that time not once did she consider selling the painting. She hung it on the wall of Cindy’s room, above the bed, as a reminder that they were family, they were the sisters who would never stop holding hands.

KC cared for Cindy as if she weren’t her sister but her daughter. KC grew up overnight; helping Cindy with her homework, cooking for her, cleaning for her. They had each other and neither would let the other come to harm.

But after three months the bag was empty; it was all gone but for a single piece. KC feared their illusion of security was over. There was nothing left to sell. KC went back to the house on Trafalgar, but it was empty, cleaned out and for sale.

And the panic surged through her again. KC needed money and she needed it by week’s end. She sat every night staring at the painting that hung over her sister’s bed, thinking of its worth, but she had made a promise. She feared if the painting was sold, their future would be over.

KC walked down to Piccadilly and sold the last piece, the man’s watch, to Mr. Rist. Three thousand pounds. Only enough for one more month.

And as she walked from the door, he was standing there. He was shorter than she was: He stood about five-seven, and was a wisp of a man. His hair was jet black, perfectly groomed, his lightly tanned skin accentuated pale, blue eyes. And though his face was strikingly pure and innocent, he scared her. But then he smiled; it was a warm smile, it carried through his eyes, and it vanquished her fear and concern.

He nodded to her. “Hi.”

She looked at him and smiled.

“Mr. Rist is a good man. He would never turn you in.”

KC’s heart fell. “What do you mean?”

“No, no, no, don’t worry. I just meant he cares for you.” The man’s accent was American. Southern. It had one of those friendly tones, the kind that soothed, the kind that could take the edge off even none-too-friendly words.

KC was speechless. This man knew what she had done, what she was selling.

“Please understand, I mean you no harm. My name is Iblis, I knew your mother. I know what you have gone through. I know you’re raising
your sister and what you have done; I think it is incredible.” The man began to walk slowly down the street. KC fell in step, unsure why. “But to think you can steal to support her. You’re fifteen, KC. You’re stepping into a deadly world.”

KC turned to leave, not sure if she was running from this man or from her situation.

“KC, wait. I just want to help.” The man smiled.

KC turned back and looked at him. The warmth of his voice was alluring, it gave her a comfort she hadn’t known for three months now. And there was quality to his face: his skin was pure, unmarred by blemish, almost childlike, which imbued it with innocence and inspired trust. But his eyes—she had never seen such pale blue eyes. She thought it silly but they seemed unnatural; they frightened her.

“How?” KC asked, her voice filled with suspicion.

“I want to teach you.”

And in a Fagin–Artful Dodger–like way, he did. She was desperate. She had nowhere else to turn. He taught her about locks and cylinders, alarms and safes. He taught her how to case a house. He taught her what to steal and what not to steal. He explained the way the police worked and the intricacies of the law. He showed her how to fence stolen property, its inequities, how stolen goods went for a fraction of their value. He taught her that one well-planned heist could cover her for five, ten years, even life. It was all in the planning. The execution was critical, but the job could be a bust from the start if the planning wasn’t thorough.

He differentiated himself from thugs and criminals. He explained his craft as an art, as a field of study, one that had been around since the beginning of time. The true art was in never getting caught. Prisons were filled with the foolish, the unlucky, the desperate and greedy. A craftsman would never have to worry about that downfall if he planned carefully and followed the one rule of thieves: Never trust anyone, not even family.

KC understood him. But what kept her human, what kept her focused, the reason she was doing what she was doing, was her sister. She
loved her, and Cindy would be the only person she would ever trust.

KC and Iblis sat in a large apartment, its tables covered with architectural plans and drawings, books and research. KC studied it all, devouring the forbidden knowledge that would allow her to support herself and her sister. Throughout her training, Iblis had given them money, made sure that they were always covered. He came by the apartment often, befriending Cindy, bringing bags of food. Iblis was like the older brother KC never had. After doing all the caring for three months, it felt good to have someone care for her.

“Why are you doing this?” KC asked, turning around in her chair and looking at Iblis, who sat at his computer.