David Hosp - Among Thieves

Lissa considered the question. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe you’re a better person than my parents.”

Finn said nothing. There was nothing to say. He could have tried to persuade her that he knew how she felt. After all, his own parents had abandoned him. He’d had to grow up quickly and learn to fend for himself, just as she had. There was a difference, though, and he knew it. He’d never known his parents. To him, they were specters in the mist. On his good days, growing up, he’d convinced himself that there was a reason beyond selfishness for their absence. He’d invent myths-romantic tales of intrigue that had forced his parents to leave him. The story of Moses in the bulrushes, told to the children in the orphanages by stern nuns, had always appealed to him. Perhaps, like some biblical king, he’d been set adrift for a purpose, and his mother and father lived their lives watching over him until the day when they could reveal themselves to him.

They were childish dreams, but he’d clung to them. Deep down, he still did. And that was what set Sally apart. She could hold no such illusions. She knew who her parents were, and they knew her. Her abandonment was personal. He could never convince her otherwise, because he didn’t believe it.

It took a few moments for them to finish their coffee and for Lissa to pick up the tab. They left quietly; there was a melancholy feeling they all shared in their silence. Outside, the weather matched their mood. The rain had let up enough to allow them to walk without getting drenched, but a light sprinkling continued. The air was warm and humid again. Finn could feel the barometric pressure in his ears, and it made it seem as though something in the atmosphere was getting ready to explode.

As the door closed behind them, they didn’t look back. If they had, they might have noticed the man settling his check at the table near the window, two over from their table. He was of average height and build, and the only things that stuck out about him were his black hair and eyes against his fair skin. He’d arrived just after them, and sat at the table by himself, casually listening in on every word of their conversation.

Thursday morning was a total loss for Finn. It was as though he were swimming in a pool filled with mud. It would be easier if he could go to the police and enlist their help. That wasn’t an option for him, though. His client wouldn’t allow it, and he was bound to obey

Devon ’s wishes. Sometimes it seemed as though the canons of legal ethics were drawn with an eye toward creating as many dilemmas as possible for lawyers, blind to the difficult realities faced by those who paced the courthouse halls.

He started the day by dropping Sally off for school in the morning. She seemed in mildly better spirits after a decent night’s sleep. She was still quiet, but regarded him without animosity. Perhaps, he thought, she was coming around.

He let her out in front of the school. “One of us will be here to pick you up when school ends,” he said. “Probably me or Lissa.”

She nodded and said, “Thanks.” Then she slammed the door and headed up the stairs to the main entrance and Finn pulled away.

Thanks. It was such a simple little word, said millions upon millions of times every day without thought or reflection. To the woman at the Dunkin’ Donuts counter who poured your coffee. To the man who held the elevator door for just a second longer to let you on. To the kid who bagged your groceries at the store for a summer job. It was said over and over and over, to the point where it almost lost meaning and became a part of the blur of modern reality. Said but never felt; heard but never acknowledged.

That was not the case with Sally. For her, common courtesy was a luxury-one that she clearly had rarely been afforded, and was hesitant to bestow on others. And so when she said the word to Finn-thanks-it made him feel as though, just perhaps, he was doing a good thing.

That feeling of accomplishment lasted only a moment, however, and as he swung the car around and headed for the office, he confronted reality. He would spend part of the morning putting together a motion for a new bail hearing. It made sense: he couldn’t get Devon out of jail until a new hearing was set. He would file the motion and then convince Devon that he was better off out of jail. Accomplishing that seemed a long shot. The man’s fear had been evident at their last meeting, when Devon explained the situation to him. He seemed determined to remain in jail, where he believed he was safe. Even if Finn could convince his client, though, there were no guarantees that bail would be set after Devon ’s behavior at the last hearing.

In the meantime, Finn felt helpless. It seemed as though there was nothing he could do to move the matter along, and he was stuck playing inadequate surrogate father to Devon ’s daughter.

By the time he pulled up to the office he’d worked himself into a sweat, just wrestling with his options. That, in turn, made him angry with himself. Lissa was right after all. Devon was his client, not his family, and this wasn’t, in the end, Finn’s problem. There was no rational reason he should treat it as though it were.

He opened the car door and stood up. Arching his back to stretch out, he looked around him. The weather was warming, little by little, and the buds were beginning to appear on the trees along the street in Charlestown. It was a beautiful place in so many ways; it retained much of the charm of the Old World. He’d built a good life for himself, he thought. Or, if not a life, at least a good professional reputation. He was far better off than he would have been if he’d stayed on the path of his youth. Few others were so fortunate. If he could, he was determined to give Sally the best chance she could have at a normal life. Right now, that meant working to get her father out of jail.

Liam Kilbranish was no longer watching the lawyer. He would return to that soon enough; for the moment he had other things to do.

He took his time. He was careful. He made sure that he knew the layout of the neighborhood well. One of the things that made planning difficult in this city was the layout. It had grown in fits and starts, without any semblance of the urban planning that one might find in a more modern city. Streets followed the original cow paths of premodern times, and neighborhoods had sprouted up, grown, died, and sprouted up again in a whimsical manner. As a result, the streets had few patterns and twisted and turned in an illogical stitching of one-way lanes and dead ends. Knowing the streets was paramount. The likelihood that a chase would ensue was low, but he had to account for the possibility. If it happened and he was unprepared, it would be over in moments.

Once he was sure that he had memorized the area, he went back to the safe house in Quincy. He had to make preparations there, too, if his plan was going to work. The place had a basement, which made things easier. It was a shallow space, with a low ceiling and walls that blended cement with the natural bedrock that had been blasted away to hollow out the ground underneath the little house. There was a furnace that looked as if it had been replaced within the past decade, and a water heater that was smaller than he would have chosen. There were no windows, which was a blessing, and the only way in or out was a staircase leading up to a kitchen. With a little work it would be perfect for his purposes.

Broadark was sitting on the couch, and he watched as Liam went up and down through the doorway in the kitchen, getting the place ready. The television was off; the man had given up his channel-surfing habit. Instead, he was watching Liam intently, and Liam could tell that he wanted to say something, though he held his tongue for a while.