Read Online Dream With Little Angels by Michael Hiebert - Free Book Online

Henry maybe believed so much in God.
    â€œReally?” I asked.
    He nodded. “That’s right. Absolutely nothing. Except it took me ten years to do it.” One of his trademark dramatic pauses followed.
    â€œHow come?” I asked. “Why ten years?”
    One of his eyebrows lifted and he grinned sneakily at me. “Because I stole it.”
    My eyes widened. In the backseat, the fear on Dewey’s face hadn’t changed. His fearful eyes set into his round freckled face surrounded by all his thick red hair made him look like an alarm bell ready to go off at any second. I looked back to Uncle Henry.
    â€œYou stole this car?” I asked. “Does my mom know? That’s grand theft auto.” I knew these things on account of my mother being a police officer and all.
    â€œNo, she don’t,” Uncle Henry said. “And let’s keep it our secret, okay?”
    Narrowing my eyes, I considered this. “I don’t rightly know if it’s ethical for me to keep somethin’ like this from her. Frankly, Uncle Henry, I find this quite disturbin’.” And I did. I couldn’t believe he was a car thief.
    â€œWhy don’t you ask why it took me ten years?” he asked.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Why did it take you ten years?”
    â€œBecause I took it one piece at a time. Smugglin’ them out in my lunch pail, or under my jacket. My tailpipe’s seven years older than my muffler, which is two years older than the rearview right here.”
    He tapped the mirror as we pulled into our driveway.
    â€œWow,” I said. “That’s amazing.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t, ass face,” Carry said, opening her door and getting out. “It’s a stupid Johnny Cash song. I can’t believe how gullible you are.”
    She slammed her door as Uncle Henry turned off the ignition. “Well, at least she talked to us,” he said, and smiled. Dewey let out a loud sigh, almost like he had been holding his breath the last five miles. The normal color was creeping back into his face as we all got out of Uncle Henry’s car.
    A heavy wind had set into the storm. The rain now fell slanted and the few tall pines along the sidewalk looked about ready to snap while their upper branches tossed like kite tails. We were halfway to the front door of the house when one of Mr. Farrow’s tools roared to life across the street. Both me and Dewey stopped midstep and turned to look at his garage and that strip of bright white light beneath it, shining like a shark tooth in the middle of such a dark and gloomy afternoon.
    â€œWhat is it about that house that catches you boys’ interest so much?” Uncle Henry asked. He was on the top step, protected from most of the rain by the overhanging roof. Me and Dewey were still out in the elements, getting wetter by the minute, but neither of us cared. Our eyes met and we both knew what the other one was thinking, and that was: How do we answer such a question?
    After a moment of silent consideration, I decided that when in doubt, honesty was almost always the best policy and most certainly the safest way of keeping out of trouble (yet more advice handed down from my mother). So I took up the initiative.
    â€œWell, Uncle Henry,” I said. “We’ve been noticing somethin’ peculiar about the roadkill lately.”
    He just stood there, looking at me expectantly. But it was Dewey who finished the observation. “There ain’t none no more,” he said. “Not a one. Not any where.”
    Uncle Henry stared back at each of us a moment longer. Then he nodded his head without so much of a smile or anything and said, “I see. You know, this sounds like the kind of thing we need to discuss more inside the house, out of all this rain. And probably best done over hot cocoa, I figure.”
    Twenty minutes later in the living room, with me and Dewey on the sofa and Uncle Henry in the