David Hosp - Among Thieves

The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.

Copyright 2010 by Richard David Hosp

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: January 2010

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ISBN: 978-0-446-55802-0

Also by David Hosp

Dark Harbor

The Betrayed

Innocence

For Joanie, with my love

The largest art theft in history took place in the early morning hours following the 1990 St. Patricks Day celebrations in Boston. Two men dressed as police officers entered the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum off the Fenway, tied up the guards, and made off with thirteen works of art. Several of the stolen masterpieces were priceless, including two oil paintings and an etching by Rembrandt, a rare work by Vermeer, a Flinck, and a Manet. The thieves also took works of lesser value, including five unfinished Degas sketches, a Chinese beaker from the Shang dynasty, and a finial that adorned a flag from Napoleons army.

The works have never been recovered. Today, their value is estimated at half a billion dollars.

Liam Kilbranish looked down at the lump of flesh curled in front of him on the cement floor. His heart rate was steady; his movements economical. His eyes were nearly as black as his hair.

Still no answer? he asked.

The lump gave a moan. Liam knew it was useless. It would continue.

He could remember how it had started for him. Or ended. It was all a matter of perspective, he supposed. Whichever view he took, the memory was etched in his mind, as solid and real to him as the gun in his hand. He would have said he remembered it as if it were only yesterday, but no yesterday hed known in the three and a half decades since had ever lived and breathed for him like that night. It was what drove him; what made him who he was, for good or for bad.

Hed been reading when they arrived, tucked away in the tiny closet of the ten-by-twelve room he shared with his brothers in the row house south of Belfast. A worn woolen blanket was bundled about his spindly, pale, nine-year-old legs; the beam of his flashlight was trained on the pages cradled in his lap. Hed always been a solitary boy, and the closet had been his refugea place where he spent hours on end, reaching into other worlds as his brothers slept undisturbed.

He was devouring Winnie the Pooh yet again. It had been a favorite of his since the times, years before, when his father would read to the family in front of the fireplace in the living room. Gavin Kilbranish, his father, was a hard man; a dangerous man when crossed or disobeyed; a man who saw the world in bold strokes of black and white. And yet when he read to his children there was a richness to his voice that hinted at another side, banished and almost forgotten. It was that side of his father Liam sought through the words on the page as he nestled on the closet floor.

Pooh had just gorged himself on Rabbits honey, swelling his belly until he could no longer escape from Rabbits hole, when Liam heard the front door shatter. He switched off the flashlight and brought the blanket up around his chin. The smell of the plain, soapy detergent that reminded him of his mother still lingered in his mind, haunting him.

There were four of them. Dressed in black, with ski masks and assault weapons that gave off a dull gleam when they caught the shafts of moonlight carving through the saltbox houses narrow windows, the men moved through the dwelling with military efficiency. Liam listened as they rounded up the others in his family from the front of the houseMother and Father and Meghan and Kateand pushed them into the back bedroom he shared with his brothers.

He watched the scene unfold through the crack in the closet door as his parents and siblings were lined up in front of the bed along the far wall. He could read the confusion in their facesexpressions of fear and shock, mixing with the disorientation of being ripped so abruptly from deep slumber. Only his fathers face reflected comprehension. Gavin glanced briefly at the closet door and gave a nearly imperceptible shake. Liam fought the urge to emerge from hiding to join his family.

The tallest of the intruders stepped forward and addressed Liams father. Gavin Kilbranish, he said. It sounded as though he was pronouncing a verdict. You know who I am?

Liams father nodded slowly. His expression didnt change.

Then you know why were here.

Gavin nodded again.

The man stepped back and turned to one of the others. Hes yours if you want him, lad.

The second man walked over to Liams father, unslung his gun and drove the butt into Gavins stomach, doubling him over. Then he swung it upward, connecting with his jaw, and Liams father crumpled to his knees. He was on all fours, spitting blood into the cracks between the scarred floorboards. It was the first time Liam had ever seen his father at the mercy of another human being.

The second man knelt before him and produced a small weathered book of snapshots. Opening it, he held up a picture of a hard-bitten, middle-aged man. My da, he said.

He drove a fist into Gavins nose. The sound of cartilage snapping was loud, and Liam was afraid he might be sick. The man flipped a page and held up a new picture, this one of a younger man. A shadow of the previous face remained. My brother, William, the man said.

The words still hung in the air as he cracked the butt of his gun down over Gavins head. His scalp split and blood flooded forward over Liams fathers face.

A new page was flipped, revealing the image of a young woman. My wife, Anna. The man stood and kicked Gavin hard in the ribs, drawing a wheeze and a grunt. Gavins spit was now a frightening mixture of blood and mucus.

The man stepped back and turned to a final picture that showed the angelic face of a young girl. She couldnt have been more than five, and her gap-toothed smile seemed at once joyous and mournful. The man pulled a black pistol from underneath his coat and pointed it into Gavins face. Gavin rose up on his knees and looked back at the man. He showed neither panic nor fear; only hatred and defiance.

The man in front of him had both hands out now, one pointing the gun at Gavins head, the other clutching knuckle-white to the picture of the girl. My daughter, Katherine, he said. His voice cracked with unredeemed rage as he said her name.

He pulled the trigger.

The screaming lasted for only a moment, and it was drowned out by the thunder of gunfire. Liams mother and four siblings jumped and danced as the bullets shredded their bodies. They fell over each other in their attempt to twist free, toppling onto the bed behind them, settling and then sliding onto the floor, leaving the sheets stained red.

At last there was silence. Two of the men dressed in black moved forward, nudging the bodies with their toes to make sure the family was dead. After a moment Liam heard a choked sob from the man with the pistol who had killed his father.