Thief by Greg Curtis

for weeks after. Anger and rage burnt through him for days after that as he lay in bed, barely able to move. The James’s boys had thought him too cowed to ever try again, but they hadn’t reckoned on his rage. Or his methods. The second time he had gone after them the only way he could, with his wits. He was half their size, and didn’t know how to throw a punch anyway, but he was a lot brighter than them.
     
    He’d had a secret weapon up his sleeve, a police band radio. His father had been the local cop, and Michael had secretly repaired his old unit that he’d thrown out in the trash when it blew. Electronics had been a hobby of his, and he’d wanted to hear the real live stuff his dad got involved in, catching bad guys, that sort of thing.
     
    Using his wits he’d cooked his own goose most thoroughly.
     
    He’d gone to the James’ after school that day, and told them that Billy had died and that the police were coming for them. It was gas chamber time. Of course there was no death penalty in Canada, never had been, but they were too stupid to know that. It had been worth the new bruises to see the fear in their eyes. After all, his father was the cop, so he should know. The two boys had run for their home as fast as they could, hoping no doubt to hide all the stuff they’d stolen off the other kids, and tell their father so he could somehow save them.
     
    Mr James was a rigger, a large angry powerhouse of a human being and not a nice man to deal with. No doubt the two of them thought he’d beat up the law or something. But he wasn’t about to let them have that dream for long.
     
    While they were still running he’d called in a peeping Tom report at Mrs. Hunt’s house. She lived directly across the street from the James’ house. And so by the time the two of them got there, the only police car in town was already waiting, directly in front of their home, exactly as he intended, while his father was busy searching the grounds.
     
    The boys had done exactly what he’d expected then, they’d panicked and run for hell and high water, not daring to go home, not when they thought the police were already there, hunting them. Looking back he realized, their father had probably been as rough on them as they were on everybody else. Maybe even worse. There was something ingrained in their violence. But he hadn’t guessed that then, and if he had, would he really have cared? Even now he didn’t know.
     
    The boys had spent the first night in someone’s garage, hiding under a truck tarpaulin, while the whole town went looking for the missing boys. The creator only knew what dark fears had run through the boys’ minds as they’d hidden there, watching the whole town hunting them. The next night they’d spent at the disused truck stop, while the town went absolutely berserk with worry. On the third day the town had called in the army to help in the search, while the two boys had managed to smuggle themselves aboard a truck heading south.
     
    And all the while Michael had known both the intoxicating feeling of power as they’d run, and the ice-cold terror of being caught. As the days went by, and the town went into mass hysteria, the guilt and fear had grown in him like an evil weed. But he hadn’t told anyone what he’d done. It couldn’t have helped any, since he didn’t know where the boys were either. At least that was what he’d told himself. In truth he’d just been scared.
     
    Finally of course it had all fallen apart, as he should have known it would. The boys had been stopped at the city. Trying to steal food they were caught easily, and taken to the local police station. Thereafter they’d spilled everything. About their actions, about Billy, and about him. Of course they didn’t know about the radio part or the fake call. But his father did. In about two seconds he’d put it all together and then found the radio hidden under Michael’s bed.
     
    That was a bad day.
     
    Unlike the