Tourist attractions are my favorite places.  Tired and distracted parents herding their tired and distracted children.  Both youngsters and adults are looking everywhere at once; there are plenty of people milling around, and it usually only takes a moment.

A small hand fits into my palm.  Eager little eyes light up at the prospect of a tasty treat from a nice man, and they are mine.  So soft, so trusting.  Oh, they cry later, at least for a while, until I’m finished with them.  That’s the only real problem – they don’t last very long.  But today I had found a new place, a new playground, and another soft, warm, wonderful child of my very own. 

The day is perfect, bright and filled with sunshine.  I mill happily among the gawking crowds, dressed anonymously in an old blue sweater, my straw hat shadowing my face, and with my camera slung over my shoulder, I am the personification of the harmless tourist.  And oh, the little boy is beautiful – innocent face, round cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes – a younger version of the stone angels gazing beneficently on the passersby.  The ideal moment arrives when the dark-haired mother moves ahead to corral her wandering daughter back into the fold, and the father gazes rapturously at the soaring gothic architecture. 

The boy looks around for his mother and doesn’t see her.  His eyes tear up and his lower lip starts to quiver.  The moment has arrived, and I move in, but another man standing nearby tucks his paper under his arm, then turns and kneels, asking the child what is wrong. 

His interference makes me angry.  He has no right!  “Excuse me, young man, but I’ll handle this,” I interrupt.

He turns his head and looks up at me, his dark eyes warm and kind.  He studies me for a few seconds though, and his face changes.  It is subtle, just a hardening around the eyes, but I’ve learned to read faces, you see.  You have to if you’re going to say the right thing, to be what people expect, because people believe what they want to believe, see what they want to see.  This man seems to see a little more.

“Are you his father?” the man asks.

I smile my well-practiced ‘kindly, harmless old man’ smile.  “I’m his uncle,” I assure him in a smooth voice that has worked so many times before.  “We just got separated.”  I take my child’s hand.  It’s soft and slightly wet where he had been wiping his tears.  He tugs, trying to get away.  “Come on, Brian,” I say brightly.  “Let’s go find your mother.  She’s right over this way.”

But a surprisingly strong grip circles my wrist.  “I’ll help you find her,” the man insists with a cold smile, and he squeezes a little harder.  One of his blunt, hard fingers digs in a little and hits a nerve.  My hand goes numb and my fingers open automatically, reluctantly releasing my prize. 

The boy just stands there, blinking in confusion until the man sweeps the child up into his arms, holding him high, and shouts.  “I have a lost child here.  Does anyone know his parents?”  His voice carries easily over the crowd.  Heads turn, and an answering cry from across the square is heard.  The mother dashes to them in a clatter of well-worn sandals. “Oh, Charlie, you bad boy!  I told you to stay close.”  She grabs the child, clutching him to her.  “Oh, thank you!” she gushes with an embarrassed laugh.  The man with the dark discerning eyes and the hard hands just nods and retreats, casting a cold look in my direction.

I quickly move away and disappear into the crowd.  I find a concealing doorway and step back into the shadows.  My heart hammers in my chest from both anger and fear.  How dare he?  That child was mine!

I breathe deeply for a moment, gathering my wits about me, thinking about other places I could go, other likely sources of…but then my heart lurches as a heavy hand squeezes my shoulder and pulls me farther into the darkness.  A soft, malevolent voice whispers in my ear.  “I see you’re a man who likes little boys.” 

I try to turn around, but the hand stops me and I feel cold, smooth metal against my throat.  “Been doing this for a while, no doubt,” the cultured voice observes in the same, sibilant whisper.  “You’ve got the routine down pat.”

“I…I…I didn’t mean anything by it!  I just was going to take him to his mother.  I swear!”  The door behind us opens and I’m backed into a service hallway that smells of moldy concrete and unwashed toilets.

“Really?” the voice asks with a hint of dry amusement.  “How very thoughtful of you.”  The knife moves so fast I’m not really aware of any pain, but I can’t seem to get enough air to breathe.  Then there is blood spilling down the front of my blue sweater like a river.  My hat tumbles to the floor and I stagger, one hand clutched to my throat in a vain effort to stem the streaming tide of red. 

“Methos!” a voice shouts, and footsteps ring against the stone.  I turn, hoping for rescue. It’s the man with the hard hands. The dim hallway is getting even darker, and my knees start to buckle.  I reach out to him and try to cry for help but only manage a choked gurgling noise. 

“My God, what have you done?  You can’t just…”

But I don’t hear the rest.