Read Online Missing by Becky Citra - Free Book Online Page A

arthritis.”
    â€œThey’re incredible,” I say.
    â€œGrandpa had a show once,” says Van proudly. “In the gallery in town. They asked him to take the show to Vancouver but he didn’t want to move the birds so far.”
    â€œThey belong here at Gumboot Lake,” says Heb. “There are no foreigners among them, just everyday birds you can see around here.”
    â€œCan I touch them?” I ask.
    â€œOh yes,” says Heb.
    I pick up a little bird that is the color of a summer sky. “I love this one,” I say.
    â€œMountain bluebird,” says Heb. “The male. It’s a pretty little thing.”
    He gets up stiffly and walks around the room with me, naming birds: northern flicker, blue-winged teal, wood duck and a ruby-throated hummingbird that fits in the palm of my hand.
    I’m amazed at how good his memory is now. “I’ve spent my whole life watching birds,” he says. His eyes twinkle. “Tried to get my grandson here interested but no luck. Now young Ginny, she’s got the bug. I’m starting her on a carving of a mallard.”
    â€œI think they’re wonderful,” I say.
    â€œWell, it’s a hobby that’s kept me out of trouble.”
    Heb is tiring. He sinks back into his chair and pulls the blanket around his thin legs.
    â€œWe’ll leave you now, Grandpa,” says Van.
    â€œThank you for showing me your birds,” I say.
    â€œGoodbye, Thea.” Heb puts out his hand for me to shake. It feels as fragile as the tiny hummingbird.
    â€œGoodbye,” I say.
    â€œYou come in and see me before you go to bed, Van, and we’ll have that game of chess.” Heb’s grin is wicked. “My boy and I are at a draw, Thea, three games to three. Tonight’s the night I whump him.”

    On the way back in the boat, I tell Van about the newspaper article about Livia Willard. He’s amazed that he has never heard of her before. We’re both sure that his grandfather was talking about Livia at dinner. In his muddled-up mind, did he think that Van would get blamed for Livia’s disappearance?
    We decide to go to the museum on Friday to see if we can find any more newspaper clippings. The museum is open from one till four, so we’ll have to skip out of school. It’s the last day so it’ll just be pizza and a movie anyway. Since Van and I usually ignore each other at school, I almost make a sarcastic remark about Van preferring to hang out with his youth-group friends instead of coming with me to the museum.
    I bite my lip and keep my mouth shut. I’m getting smarter.

N ine
    It’s Thursday after supper and something amazing has just happened. I’ve lured Renegade into the round pen. First I opened the pen’s metal gate, and then I got a bucket of grain. I walked slowly down the middle of the corral, shaking the bucket so the grain rattled. Renegade followed me at a wary distance, unable to resist, right through the gate and into the pen! I dumped the grain on the ground, then slid back around Renegade with the empty bucket and shut the gate.
    Now I am outside and he is inside.
    I take a deep breath. I’m not so cocky now about trapping him, just apprehensive.
    In my pocket is a crumpled piece of paper. I don’t need to take it out to read it. I know what I wrote.
    Control movement.
    Control direction.
    Those are the two things I need to work on first.
    Renegade finishes his grain. He trots around the pen, his head lowered to the ground, blowing through his nose. He makes three or four circles and then he stops and presses his nose against the metal pipes. They’re too high for him to stick his head over. I wonder if he’s feeling as nervous as I am.
    I pick up a coiled rope that I’ve laid on the ground, ready for this moment. It’s soft and about twenty feet long. I felt a small burst of triumph when I found it in the tack room. It’s exactly