The Tenderness of Thieves (11 page)

O
N THE WAY HOME,
I stopped at the wharf, straining my eyes to catch a glimpse of Handel pulling in his boat for the day. Plenty of fishermen were coming in, their clothes stained with guts and other remnants of life from the sea. Handel’s friend Mac was standing at the bow of his father’s boat, swinging his thick arms, like he wasn’t sure what to do. Two of Handel’s brothers, Colin and Finn, were nearby, caught up in conversation. But no Handel.

Not yet.

I had to wait awhile before I saw his long blond hair flying in the wind and that steely stare. He walked toward Colin and Finn. Ducked under a rope strung across the dock. Nodded at each one, then went to join Mac, both of them staring out over the water. My heart pumped with excitement and nervousness. I wanted him to see me, wanted to see his reaction, if he would smile a secret smile or pretend he didn’t notice I was standing there, waiting for him, too concerned his friend and his brothers would notice. When he did see me, I didn’t get a full secret smile, but I got half of one, the left side of Handel’s mouth raised up in a way I’d seen before.

I wiped a hand across my face, pretending it was the heat, when really I wished that somehow with a swipe of my palm I could erase my own smile, the one that wanted so badly to appear on my lips in reply. Then I went to wait in the place Handel and I had decided the other night was far enough away from our neighbors’ nosy glares and where his friends would never go—a coffee shop in the glitzy strip on the way out of town. Decided this when we were leaving the lighthouse in the protective cloak of the summer darkness. When I got to the café, I laughed a little to myself. I’d never once entered before, never even thought about it. It was so different from Slovenska’s, with its tall glass windows shining in the sunlight and its carefully decorated interior, new couches and coffee tables made to look used and worn and scattered about in a way that was supposed to seem casual but whose places had obviously been choreographed to the last detail. It was almost empty. A pretty blond girl was working the counter.

“I’ll have an iced coffee,” I said.

She smiled. “Coming right up.” The blond girl actually said this, like something out of a movie. At Slovenska’s they barely acknowledged you were there and orders were shouted loudly in coarse voices with strong accents. I had a feeling this girl would pronounce all her syllables with precision.

“Thanks,” I said when she handed me a tall frosty glass so unlike the plastic cups I was used to getting everywhere else.

“Are you visiting for the summer?” she asked.

The attempt at conversation was surprising. “Me?” I somehow needed confirmation from her, even though there was no one else nearby.

The girl laughed. Nodded.

“Um, no. I live here year-round.” I almost wished for a mirror to see what I looked like, so I could figure out exactly what was in me today that allowed me to pass for someone other than a townie.

“Lucky,” she said. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Yeah. It gets really cold during the winter, though.”

“But you’ve got the beach. Even when it’s cold, I bet it’s beautiful.”

“It is,” I said, but ended our conversation by heading off to one of the couches. I shouldn’t go making friends with the girl working if the point of coming here was to stay off people’s radar. Though, it’s not like I had a reason to think people would take special notice of me and Handel.

I sipped my coffee. Wishing he would hurry up.

Then the words “Hello, Jane” were spoken softly from behind me.

I turned to see Handel standing there, looking every inch the bad boy. I would have to take back what I’d thought before, about how Handel wouldn’t get noticed in a place like this. Maybe I could get away with passing as the blond girl’s friend, but how could people fail to notice someone like Handel?

“Hello, yourself,” I said, even though it was a little cheesy to talk like that. “I have something to confess,” I added, though I wasn’t sure why this was what came out next.

A strange look passed over Handel’s face. He didn’t sit. Not yet. “Confess?”

Guilt simmered in my middle. “Another boy asked me out today, and I kind of said yes.”

“Oh.” Handel seemed relieved, even though I’d just told him he might have competition. He walked around to the front of the sofa and joined me there, sliding in close. Our legs touched. “You’re going out with someone else?”

“Sort of,” I said. “My friend Bridget likes him, or at least his friends, and then I made it a group date. You know, more like me and the girls are going out with someone else and that someone else’s friends.”

“Do I know him?”

“Definitely not. He’s from out of town. He only summers around here.”

Handel’s eyebrows went up. “Interesting.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m hoping he’ll fall for Bridget. Or anyone else. He’s nice, but not my type.”

“What’s your type?” Handel asked.

I walked right into that one. “I think you already know the answer.”

“I’m not sure I do.” He glanced around the coffee shop, taking in the two other people sitting across the room, a man wearing a business suit at one table and a woman at another, in a light dress that must have cost a fortune, high-heeled sandals on her delicate feet. Neither of them had any color from the sun. “You fit in easily in this place. I don’t.”

“Neither of us do and you know it.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” He covered his face with his hands. Slid them down to his chin. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But we just—” I started but didn’t finish. Handel suddenly looked like he wanted to run away. “All right,” I agreed. I would have followed him anywhere. Done anything he’d asked. I downed the last of my iced coffee, and we headed outside. Handel went around the building to the back of the coffee shop, where there was a little deck built on stilts that hung out over the water. He stood at the edge, watching me all the while until I joined him there. The water lapped against the shore. Everything about this part of the beach was soft and gentle, unlike the beach in our part of town.

Handel inched closer. “You’re really going out with another guy?”

“I am. You never know.” I leaned into him a little. I liked hearing the slight tone of jealousy in his voice. “It might be fun.”

“I bet he’s a good guy. Rich.”

“Definitely rich,” I said, thinking Handel was just kidding around. “But I don’t care. I’d rather have a night for . . . for me and you.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say “us” since we’d only gone out twice. But I wanted there to be an “us.” I mean, I hoped there would be soon.

“Maybe you should care.”

“Maybe, but I don’t. No way.” I stared at Handel, daring him to contradict me. I was sealing a pact between us by showing there wasn’t room for any boy other than him.

He ran a hand through his hair, something he did when he was nervous, I was learning. Like when he reached for his cigarettes, his other nervous tell. “If the time comes when you realize this was all a mistake, just remember I warned you about me.” He tried to laugh, like he was only joking, but there was something else underneath the sound. Pain. Or maybe regret. “Jane Calvetti,” he added.

“Handel Davies,” was all I responded, because I was too caught up in the fact that our faces had gotten close. Really close.

I could say that this was the moment I’d been dreaming of for so long, when Handel and I kissed for the first time, and how he looked into my eyes with his own, staring at me like I was the only girl in the world who could ever matter to him. I could describe in detail how his mouth felt on mine—soft but hungry, gentle but full of want—how his fingertips grazed the skin of my lower back, just underneath the hem of my shirt, giving me chills; how my knees turned to jelly as we stood there, kissing like we might never have another chance, and how Handel had to hold me up in his arms so I wouldn’t melt away. I could explain all of these things, but then I would also have to talk about the part when Handel slid a finger across the tender skin of my neck, just under my chin, traced it right along the tiny red seam there, and whispered softly in my ear, “You have a scar.”

If I talked about all of that, I would also have to explain how I’d nodded at Handel in response to those words, told him right then how I’d gotten it on that night in February. But I wasn’t yet ready to discuss this with him, not just yet, nor the part about how after this exchange I decided it was probably time to go home, which also meant going our separate ways, all the romance of our kissing gone so suddenly, and all the life drained out of me, too.

“Be a good girl and don’t scream,” said the voice from behind me, male and cold and terrifying in the darkness. “Don’t turn around.”

I didn’t do either thing. Didn’t make a sound, not even a little one. Just stood there in the pitch black of the O’Connors’ study, frozen, still halfway out of my seat in the reading nook, hair falling forward over my shoulders, hands pressed hard into the wood of the wall, knuckles turning white.

After the lights went out—first in the front yard and then inside—it wasn’t long before I heard sounds, and not the kind that came from the heating system or an old empty house straining against the cold. These were the sort from people entering—people who didn’t have keys, people who weren’t supposed to be there—which would make it breaking and entering. It all happened so fast, and they were there before I even knew what was going on—the men, the boys, the robbers—whatever they were.

And I was alone.

“This place was supposed to be empty,” hissed a second voice, also male, low and nervous. “She wasn’t supposed to be here!”

“Don’t you move,” said the first voice again.

There came a crash. The overturning of a chair and something else. The smash of a vase, the shattering of glass, shoes, boots maybe, kicking the shards. The faint trickle of water as it dripped onto the floor between the sounds of other things breaking and crashing, and the crisp
snap
of stems underfoot. The
shhhhhh
of papers sliding to the ground. I couldn’t see anything or anyone. There was the darkness, broken only by the occasional beam of a flashlight, and there was the fact that my captor had me facing away from everything and everyone. The only thing I could make out in all that black was the slight gleam of glass on the face of the clock, and the shine of metal on my captor’s boot as it caught the glare of flashlights.

“Where does she keep the jewelry?” someone said, a third voice.

Doors opened and slammed shut. A table, or maybe it was a desk, overturned and a great resounding
boom
echoed outward.

“Hurry up!”—the second voice again.

Another pair of footsteps sounded along the floor, pounding out a run on the grand staircase that wound gently up from the entryway of the house, each step muffled by the rug until they hit the landing, where there was only wood. There was a sharp creak as the footsteps got closer.

I whimpered then. I couldn’t help it, didn’t even realize the sound was about to come out of me. With all the noise, all the banging and the searching, I thought it might be drowned out alongside everything else, but it wasn’t. In a split second hands were on me, arms around me tight and unforgiving, and one of them, one of them went around my neck, put me in a headlock. I could feel the body,
his
body, the one of my captor, flat and tight against my back. More sounds escaped and kept on coming with a will of their own, that is, until I heard the man, the boy, whoever he was, whisper in my ear “Shut up or you’re dead” so close and so frightening that my brain finally shut my voice down.

And then, then I felt the knife.

He held it to my throat. It was cold and it was sharp, so sharp it cut straight through the thin gold chain I was wearing like it was butter, the one with the tiny mosaic heart my mother had given me for Christmas. It fell to the floor with a soft
clink
amid the din. I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid that any little shift would push me toward that blade, so I stayed as still as I could.

It seemed like I might have to stand like that forever.

I stood, unmoving, for what felt like a hundred years.

Then, “What are you
doing
to her?” shouted a different voice, the newest one, the fourth, and it was shot in our direction like a bullet.

I flinched.

The man, the boy, the one who had me in his arms but not in a way that I’d ever wanted to be in a boy’s arms, swiveled and shouted toward the fourth voice, “I’m taking care of loose ends.” When he turned around, that knife sliced right across my neck, not a long cut or a deep cut but still a cut, and the pain was immediate—the pain and the blood. I felt it trickling, warm and wet along my skin.

Were they going to kill me?

The grip on my neck loosened, and I fought the urge to scream, but then I felt hands, more than two—I wasn’t sure whose—at my head, my eyes—and my heart sped until I thought it would fly out of my chest. Two bodies at my back now, four hands fumbling around my face, and a bag being shoved over me—no, not a bag but a scarf, thick and suffocating across my eyes and falling down over my nose.

I was blindfolded.

The rush of blood to my head, the terror, all of it combined, made me dizzy. I thought I might faint.

There came the righting of a chair, Professor O’Connor’s desk chair, I thought, and the scrape of it on the floor behind me, stopping at the back of my knees.

Hands again, two this time, different from the Headlock Man because these were gentler, on my shoulders and pushing me down. I was meant to sit, so I did. Then my arms were pulled behind me, behind the chair, then the feel of thick twine wrapped around them, tied together. I didn’t struggle, tried not to. My breath came in great spaced-out gasps, my body forgetting to breathe after each gulp of air, head spinning, heart racing. I needed to get ahold of myself, so I began to pay attention to my lungs, pushing them open and closed in a rhythm. Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused their exit. I didn’t want to die because I couldn’t keep quiet and couldn’t keep still. I had to give myself the chance of living through this.

“That’s right, stay calm,” went that fourth voice again. He’d whispered those words, his tone less violent than the others and more in control, a tone that said
trust me.
I wanted someone to trust right now, too, I really did. But then, how could I trust one of
them
? He was close, very close, I could feel his body, feel the heat pouring off him from the stress of the situation. From the stress of breaking into this supposedly vacant house and instead finding out it wasn’t vacant at all. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice low and husky and altered. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, all right?”

I wasn’t sure if this was a question and it wasn’t like anyone was giving me choices, so I said nothing. Stayed silent in the dark of the night with the blindfold over my eyes, the winds of the snowstorm outside howling.

But he’d wanted an answer. “All right?”

I nodded. I nodded, even though it wasn’t all right. None of this was all right. I wasn’t all right.

“Good girl,” he said, those words spilling out at me for the second time, but this time with urgency, like my whole life depended on the ability to continue to be the good girl, the quiet girl, the girl who listened. “Just stay still,” he whispered, closer now, next to my ear, like he really was trying to save me, as though it was in his power to do this very thing, his breath on my neck, fast and worried.

And I sat there—we sat there, me and him—I don’t know how long, in the noise of the crashing and the destruction of the O’Connors’ house, the shouting and the shattering, in this place that I loved and relaxed and relished the various books the professor left for me. My mind gone blank. My mind trying not to think anything at all. My mind wishing for this nightmare to end.

Then suddenly it seemed like it might.

There came a silence. A stopping. A gathering of footsteps nearby.

My body tensed with fear, and there came those words for the third time, rewarding the fact that I’d stayed still and quiet, that even in my terror I’d behaved.

“Good girl,” my captor whispered, trying to soothe me I think, and for a moment he almost had me. I almost trusted him. I almost believed he meant well, wanted to save me after all.

But then came another set of footsteps, an unexpected set, loud and sure, the steady
thump, thump, thump
of heavy shoes pounding against the carpeted stairs and then the
thwack, thwack, thwack
across the wooden floor at the top, the sounds of a man approaching, a confident man. One with no idea what situation he was about to happen upon.

The footsteps came to a halt.

“Jane?” My name, called out in the darkness, cutting through the fear. Then again: “Jane?”

And next, “Daddy?” I called back.