back to me. âFeeling sick again?â he says. There is a tone tohis voice that worries me. It isnât concern; itâs sarcasm. It is like he is saying that he knows more than I do, that he knows what is going to happen and I donât. I hope he is wrong.
âIâm just tired,â I answer.
I take my bag and go upstairs and go into the room and lock the door. I take a book out of my bag and try to read it. The letters of the words all look like strange insects crawling over the page. But time doesnât crawl by. Before long it is dark outside. I turn out the light in the room and wait.
His footsteps come up the stairs and pause for a long time, too long, in front of the door. When the snick of the outside lock comes, I start breathing again. I stuff the pillows under the covers to make it look like Iâm in there. I crouch in the shadowiest corner by the window. I start counting the times I breathe in and out. I am up to three thousand four when I hear the sound of the door downstairs. Yes, I think. Itâs just as I hoped. Heâs keeping to the same routine he follows every night. He always spends time in that toolshed before he comes up and goes to bed. I peek out the lower corner window and see his shadowy shape cross the yard and the light go on in his toolshed.
My feet donât want to move. âNow,â I say to them. With small, timid steps I make my way over to my backpack, open it, and fish around for what I want, a heavy thing with a pistol grip. I pull it out. A power screwdriver. The door may be locked, but the hinges are on the inside.
The whirring of the drill sounds terribly loud, even though I keep telling myself it isnât. I stop everything and listen. I donât hear anything and I continue. One screw, two, three. The screws are long and heavy, and I put each one into my pocket as it comes out. I have to get up on my toes to reach the top ones. I drop the fifth screw and it hits the floor with a loud thwack . Again I stop work and listen. But all I hear is silence. I start breathing once more.
Finally the last screw is removed. I stand up and take the foot-long crowbar from my pack. I pry it between the jamb and the door. The door pops free with a soft thump . I grab hold and pull it toward me, and the locks slip out. Now that it is free on both sides, the door almost falls over, but I lean my shoulder against it and manage to prop it against the doorjamb. I slip out and pull my pack out after me. I canât get the door exactly back into place where itwas, but by leaning it a little I make it look like it is still closed.
I should have looked out the window before I left the room to see if light was showing under the toolshed door. But it is too late for that now. I put the pack over my shoulder and then start down the stairs, stepping sideways on each stair to try to keep them from creaking. It takes me a year to reach the bottom.
Now Iâm only a few steps from the front door. But that is not where I am heading. I need evidence. I head for the room with the computer in it. There has to be something in there that I can take and use as proof, proof that my uncle isnât who he says he is, proof that I really am in danger.
The door is open again and that same light is shining from the computer screen. But I donât focus on that. Instead I turn to the pile of glossy pages next to the keyboard. I turn one over and it almost makes my heart stop beating. It is a photo of my mother. And it is not an old picture but a recent one. How do I know that? Because she is wearing the same brand-new blouse she was wearing the last day I saw her and Dad go out the door. But she doesnât lookexactly the same as she did on that day. On that day she didnât have her hands tied together and she wasnât leaned back against the rough board wall of a shed and she didnât have a piece of duct tape over her mouth.
15
Hard Evidence
I STOP LOOKING at
âIâm just tired,â I answer.
I take my bag and go upstairs and go into the room and lock the door. I take a book out of my bag and try to read it. The letters of the words all look like strange insects crawling over the page. But time doesnât crawl by. Before long it is dark outside. I turn out the light in the room and wait.
His footsteps come up the stairs and pause for a long time, too long, in front of the door. When the snick of the outside lock comes, I start breathing again. I stuff the pillows under the covers to make it look like Iâm in there. I crouch in the shadowiest corner by the window. I start counting the times I breathe in and out. I am up to three thousand four when I hear the sound of the door downstairs. Yes, I think. Itâs just as I hoped. Heâs keeping to the same routine he follows every night. He always spends time in that toolshed before he comes up and goes to bed. I peek out the lower corner window and see his shadowy shape cross the yard and the light go on in his toolshed.
My feet donât want to move. âNow,â I say to them. With small, timid steps I make my way over to my backpack, open it, and fish around for what I want, a heavy thing with a pistol grip. I pull it out. A power screwdriver. The door may be locked, but the hinges are on the inside.
The whirring of the drill sounds terribly loud, even though I keep telling myself it isnât. I stop everything and listen. I donât hear anything and I continue. One screw, two, three. The screws are long and heavy, and I put each one into my pocket as it comes out. I have to get up on my toes to reach the top ones. I drop the fifth screw and it hits the floor with a loud thwack . Again I stop work and listen. But all I hear is silence. I start breathing once more.
Finally the last screw is removed. I stand up and take the foot-long crowbar from my pack. I pry it between the jamb and the door. The door pops free with a soft thump . I grab hold and pull it toward me, and the locks slip out. Now that it is free on both sides, the door almost falls over, but I lean my shoulder against it and manage to prop it against the doorjamb. I slip out and pull my pack out after me. I canât get the door exactly back into place where itwas, but by leaning it a little I make it look like it is still closed.
I should have looked out the window before I left the room to see if light was showing under the toolshed door. But it is too late for that now. I put the pack over my shoulder and then start down the stairs, stepping sideways on each stair to try to keep them from creaking. It takes me a year to reach the bottom.
Now Iâm only a few steps from the front door. But that is not where I am heading. I need evidence. I head for the room with the computer in it. There has to be something in there that I can take and use as proof, proof that my uncle isnât who he says he is, proof that I really am in danger.
The door is open again and that same light is shining from the computer screen. But I donât focus on that. Instead I turn to the pile of glossy pages next to the keyboard. I turn one over and it almost makes my heart stop beating. It is a photo of my mother. And it is not an old picture but a recent one. How do I know that? Because she is wearing the same brand-new blouse she was wearing the last day I saw her and Dad go out the door. But she doesnât lookexactly the same as she did on that day. On that day she didnât have her hands tied together and she wasnât leaned back against the rough board wall of a shed and she didnât have a piece of duct tape over her mouth.
15
Hard Evidence
I STOP LOOKING at
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