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A young adult mystery revolving around three young friends and a ghost. Vintage 1950s. |
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THE HAUNTED MILL MYSTERY Chapter One - The Watchers The three small figures huddled together on their bellies in the tall weeds, invisible unless someone came within a few feet. They peered carefully between parted weeds, focused on the deserted mill, its water wheel still turning. "Sarah, are you pulling our legs?" said Monk, as he turned his face to her. "Honest, I really saw it last night." "Tell us again what you saw," said Pete. It was summer vacation and the three had been friends for years. They had started school together, except for Sarah who moved to town in second grade. Monk and Pete liked her from the first day when she socked Claud Myers hard enough to make him cry. He'd pulled her pigtails and called her "sissy girl." Any of the other girls would have cried to the teacher, but Sarah stood right up to Claud, and the bully never bothered her again. She was a tomboy, freckled face, yellow pigtails and all. Sarah was as tall as Pete, and had twice the spunk. She never backed down on anything that would make her look girly. Monk and Pete became her best friends; it didn't hurt that she was the best pitcher in their class. Monk was the accepted leader. He was an inch shorter than the others, at five-foot, but was wiry and the most daring. His brown mass of hair curled down his forehead and he habitually tossed it back with his hand, which he did now. "Yeah, Sarah, start at the beginning," he said. "OK, OK. Like I told you, I rode my bike out to the creek yesterday afternoon. My mom wanted some cattails for her flower arrangement and I knew they were growing in a marshy spot by the creek." "I know where that is," said Pete. "That's where we hunt for frogs, Monk." "Anyway," she continued, giving Pete a glare, "I was in a hurry to get home because it was nearly dark and the light on my bike is broken. I was pedaling fast and just as I passed the mill I saw a weird yellow light shine through the window." "What kind of a light?" Monk asked. "It was yellow and kind of dim. It flashed for just a second, then went out as I passed by." "Why didn't you stop and try to see what it was?" Pete asked. Sarah looked him straight in the eye, "Would you? I told you it was almost dark, and I wasn't about to go poking around that mill by myself in the dark. Everyone knows it's haunted." "Ok, I didn't mean anything, Sarah." "Maybe you just imagined it, or maybe you saw some fireflies out of the corner of your eye," Monk suggested. Sarah bristled at this, "I saw a light. It was yellow and it was dim. Not like a light bulb or a flashlight, or a firefly!" The mill lay below them and about fifty yards across the meadow. A dirt road, more rut than road and seldom used, passed directly in front of it. Behind them a rising moon filled the sky, bathing the scene in ghostly light. A monotonous creaking came from the slowly turning water wheel. Long ago it had moved the large circular grinding stones, turning wheat into flour, when this had been a working mill. Now the wheel was still turned by the flowing water but the stones sat silent and unused. A tinkling sound of dripping, splashing water came to them clearly as the wheel’s paddles left the water and rose upward. The only other sounds were the constant droning of insects that infested the weeds, mixed with the melodic droning of bull frogs in the stream. Fireflies wove their blinking messages above the meadow grass, helping to create an eerie mood. At another time the three friends would be running through the meadow trying to catch them, but they weren't interested in fireflies tonight. "Do you think we'll see anything, Monk?" said Pete. "I don't know. It depends on what Sarah actually saw. "I told you," Sarah hissed. "I saw a flash of light, right over there through the window." To the right the woods crowded up to the mill itself, where the flowing stream effortlessly turned the water wheel in passing on its journey to the Mississippi. Directly in front of the watchers lay an empty meadow. Nothing stood between them and the mill except waist high weeds and meadow grass interspersed with wild flowers. Pretty yellow, white and blue flowers were closed up tight now, but brought the meadow to life in the sunlight where they grew amid the green and brown meadow grass. The boys focused their attention on the front of the mill where Sarah pointed. Left of the window an empty doorway stood out; a black hole against the weathered wood of the mill. The door had been missing as long as Monk could remember, but looking at it now it was a gaping mouth in the moonlight. Restless at the lack of activity, he said, "Let's get closer." "I don't think we should," Pete said, "it looks awful spooky to me." "Oh, come on scaredy," Sarah chided him. "Look who’s afraid now?" Sarah was always ready to prove that she was capable of whatever they were. A trait that Pete found particularly annoying at times like this. Without another word, Monk began to snake through the grass on his belly headed for the side of the mill with Sarah and Pete close behind. Clouds of insects rose from the grass, disturbed by their passing, and the three crawlers waved irritably at them as they swarmed above their heads. As Monk paused for the others to catch up, two yellow eyes suddenly appeared at the window, then, just as quickly disappeared. They stopped in surprise. "Did you see that?" whispered Monk. "Yeah, let's get out of here!" said a nervous Pete. "No, wait a minute, let's see what it is." "Yes," Sarah agreed, "maybe we'll see it again." "I think we'd better beat it out of here," Pete repeated hoarsely as they huddled closer together, straining to see in the moonlight. "If we saw it, maybe it saw us!" "It was probably just a cat with its eyes reflecting the moonlight. Wait here, I'm going closer. I want to get a peek in the mill," Monk said. At that moment, two glowing eyes reappeared off to their right, as a ghostly white shape flowed from around the corner of the building and into the open meadow. "Look!" yelled Pete, pointing at the white figure. The yellow eyes stared at them from below its arm. Its head seemed separated from its body. "It's a g-g-ghost!" stammered Pete. "Come on!" Monk shouted. Leaping to his feet he ran away from the mill. Running as only those chased by ghosts can run, the three figures quickly disappeared over the brow of the hill. The white figure moved a short distance in their direction then, arms waving, stopped to listen to the disappearing sounds of running footsteps. Then, with a low chuckle, it moved back toward the mill and vanished into its dark interior as the meadow settled again into its nocturnal rhythm. Crickets began to chirp again and fireflies flitted randomly about, while the bull frogs again bellowed their songs of love from the stream's edge. In the meadow, a tiny rustling in the grass attracted the alert ears of a hunting owl and silent wings swooped through the moonlight. A sudden flash of talons, a single shriek, and a tiny life ended with only the slightest stir in the night. Ten minutes later and a mile away, Monk stopped at the edge of the Barstow's farm breathing hard. Sarah and Pete flopped down in the grass beside him, panting from their run. They listened intently, looking back the way they'd come, trying to stop their pounding hearts and gasping breathing. Hearing no sounds of pursuit, they began to relax. "Wow! Did you see that thing?" Pete gasped. "It really was a ghost. I never believed in them before." "Didn't I tell you I saw something out there?" panted Sarah. "But you didn't say you saw a ghost. Did you see how evil those eyes looked?" said Pete. "I wonder if anyone else has seen it. Whose ghost do you think it is, Monk?" "Don't know. Mr. Weaver at the drugstore said old McIntyre comes back to guard his money. No one ever found it. But I thought he was just trying to scare me." "Who was McIntyre?" Sarah asked. "He built the mill years and years ago. He was dead even before Mr. Weaver was born, I guess. But he told me everyone always said McIntyre was such a miser that he starved himself to death, and he was supposed to have a pile of gold hidden away somewhere around the mill." "I always thought that was just a town story," said Pete. "My dad said that after McIntyre died a lot of people looked all over the mill, digging holes in the yard and everything, looking for that gold. He said it was just a tall tale." "Gosh," said Sarah, "if that really is McIntyre's ghost, why would he still be haunting the mill?" "Who knows," said Monk. "Who cares," said Pete, "Let’s go, no matter whoever or whatever it is, it gives me the willies." "Me, too," Sarah said with a shudder. "We'd better get home anyway, Monk. If my folks notice we’re missing we'll be ghosts," said Pete. "OK, but we need to take Sarah home first and sneak her back in through her bedroom window before we go to your house, Pete. None of us wants to be wandering around alone tonight.” Nodding in agreement, and having caught their breath, they crossed the Barstow's pasture and walked briskly down the dirt road toward town. The moon was shining overhead by the time Monk and Pete boosted Sarah through her bedroom window. Fortunately, her room was on the ground floor and away from her parent’s bedroom. Then they hurried down deserted streets to Pete's house, where Monk was sleeping over. Shinnying up a big oak tree, they stepped from a large overhanging branch onto the narrow second story balcony outside of Pete's bedroom. The wooden screen door to the bedroom let out a squeak as Pete started to open it. "Wait a minute, Pete." Monk squatted down and accurately spit on the rusty hinge. "Try it now." "Great, not a sound," Pete murmured in appreciation. They tiptoed into the bedroom and threw off their clothes. Laying blue-jeans and shirts on the floor, they eased into Pete's bed, careful not to make the iron frame rattle and disturb his parents. They'd waited until his parents had gone to bed before slipping out to meet Sarah, and they didn't want to get caught now. But once in bed, they were too excited to sleep and lay whispering for a long time about ghosts and hidden gold. At last, exhaustion overcame them and they dropped into a restless sleep. Chapter Two - A Dirty Trick The next morning Pete and Monk whispered together as they ate their toast and oatmeal. Eager to get away from the house they made a plan. Mrs. Mitchell, busy with her morning activities, paid them little attention other than to make sure they had plenty to eat. "Mom, can Monk and I go fishing today?" Mrs. Mitchell thought for a minute before answering. "Well, I guess I could pack a lunch for you," she said. "Whoopee!" shrieked Pete. "Come on, Monk, let's dig some worms." Mrs. Mitchell smiled after them as they ran out the back door and headed for the garage. Then she took an empty shoe box down from the pantry to use as a lunch pail. Knowing the boys as well as she did, she filled it with food. She fixed several cold chicken sandwiches, wrapped them carefully in waxed paper, packed them into the box and added two plump apples while the boys were rounding up bamboo poles, hooks and earthworms. Soon, poles, lunch and worms in hand, the boys were walking down the quiet neighborhood street. Ten miles to the east, the broad Mississippi River rolled south toward the gulf, but only two miles north of town Mill Creek flowed in a gentle curve to eventually merge with it. It was there, in the deeper holes below the mill, that the big catfish lurked in the cooler shadows of the tree lined bank. The boys' bare feet kicked up tiny clouds of dust as they once again turned onto the dirt road that ran past the Barstow's farm. Beads of sweat trickled down their faces as the hot August sun beat down on their bare backs. Soon they reached the damp shade of the creek bank. After baiting up, they threw their lines into the slow moving water and flopped down on their backs to gaze at a blue sky through the leafy canopy over their heads . There was silence between them for a long time as they watched heavy white clouds slowly move across the open patches of sky on invisible currents of wind. "Monk, do you believe in ghosts?" "I dunno. I guess so, but I never saw one before last night. Did you?" "Nope. Boy, it sure was scary. I get a chill just thinking about it, don't you?" Pete said. "Yeah." At talk of the ghost, both boys sat a little more erect, casting uneasy glances around them. They unconsciously inched closer together. "You know, Monk..." "What?" "I'm not sure I like being this close to the mill, even in the daylight," Pete said. "I know what you mean, Pete, but we're almost a mile from the mill and ghosts don't run around in the daytime." "They don't? How do you know?" "I read it in a book once," said Monk. "They stay where something terrible happened to them, or where they've left something undone." "You mean like McIntyre dying with all his money still hidden?" Pete asked. "Uh-huh, maybe he's trying to protect it or something," Monk replied. "Wonder why he was so stingy, Monk." Monk thought for a while before answering. "Oh, some people are just that way, I guess. You know, like Mr. Johnson at the hardware store. My dad says he's a real tightwad and never spends money if he can help it." "Mr. Johnson's like that, all right," Pete agreed. Both boys sat quietly for a while, watching the bobbers on their fishing lines, hoping for a nibble. Bored at last, Pete turned toward Monk. "It sure is hot. Wanna go swimming?" "Good idea, bet I can beat you across," Monk challenged, starting to strip off his jeans. "You're on," Pete said. Scattering jeans and shorts carelessly, the boys splashed into the cool water and struck out for the opposite bank. Although the water was little more than waist deep in this part of the creek, they swam easily through it. Monk reached the far bank first, with Pete only an arms-length behind. Laughing and splashing like a couple of playful otters, the ghost momentarily forgotten, neither boy chanced to see a figure step quickly from behind one of the oak trees. Then, just as quickly vanish behind it again. Soon, out of breath, the boys began swimming in slow circles, just enjoying the pleasurable feeling of cool water on hot skin. As their breathing slowed, the shadowy thoughts of the previous night returned, putting them in a more somber mood. "Pete," Monk said, at last. "What?" "Let's go back to the mill tonight." "Huh?" said Pete, dropping his feet to the muddy creek bottom and turning to face Monk. "Are you crazy!" "No," Monk said slowly, "but I want to see that thing again." "Why? You were scared enough last night," said Pete. "I know, but I was thinking. If it really is McIntyre's ghost maybe we'd see where he hid the money." "Maybe, but what if he saw us, Monk?" "We'd run, just like last night. He didn't catch us then. Maybe he can't go very far from the mill. Come on with me, Pete." Pete turned toward the bank, wading slowly through the water. "I don't know, Monk. We'd have to sneak out again and my dad will really give it to me if he finds out." "Awe, come on, Pete. I've got to go home this afternoon, but I'll slip out and meet you at your house about ten. What do you say?" Pete didn't answer. He was standing on the bank and looking around frantically. "What's wrong?" "Our clothes are gone!" "You sure?" said Monk, coming out of the water himself. "Yeah, look, we left them right here." "Naw, we must have been farther up the creek," said Monk, turning to look up the stream. "They couldn't have blown into the creek, could they?" asked Pete. "No, the wind isn't blowing much," Monk replied. The two boys stood, naked, drops of water evaporating from their sun-browned bodies as they looked around frantically, unable to make out the puzzle. "Someone must have taken them," Monk said, angrily. "Do you think it was the ghost?" Pete whispered. Suddenly, high-pitched shrieks came from behind a nearby tree, and a freckled face, wrinkled with laughter and framed by two shoulder length braids, peeked around it. At this, both boys whirled and raced back into the water, diving out of sight, only to reappear with just their heads showing. "Sarah! You give us back our clothes," shouted Pete, his face red from embarrassment. Sarah, who was now rolling on the ground hysterically, sat up and, with an attempt at self-control, held out a pair of jeans tauntingly. "Come and get them," she said, tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. "Come on, Sarah," Monk pleaded. "That's not fair. Be a sport." "Yeah, Sarah, at least turn around so we can come and get them," said Pete. "Oh, all right," Sarah said, at last, catching her breath. "But you both looked so silly," and she broke out in a new fit of laughing. "Come on, now, Sarah, let us out," Monk said again. "Just turn around, OK?" Sarah turned around then, sitting Indian style on the ground, her eyes squinted shut, occasional giggles still bursting through her lips. The boys waited a moment, watching to see that she was not peeking, then they both quickly left the water, grabbed their clothes and ducked behind another tree. They tried their best not to look embarrassed as they emerged, but their red faces gave them away. "That wasn't fair," said Monk. "No, it was a dirty trick," added Pete. "Well, I think it's a dirty trick for you to plan on going to the mill tonight without me," Sarah said, putting the boys on the defensive. "Well, we're not even sure that we're going," said Pete. "It sounded to me like you were too afraid to go," Sarah taunted. "I'm not either, and we are going," Pete responded without even thinking. "Good! Then I'm going, too. You just try and get away without me," said Sarah, with a self-satisfied smile. "All right, if you're sure you want to go," said Monk, in exasperation. "Just be ready to slip out when I give our signal hoot." "I'll be ready, but how are we going to watch the mill without the ghost seeing us?" Sarah asked. "It knew we were there last night." "I don't know, yet," Monk said, "but maybe I'll think of something before tonight." "Anyway, let's eat lunch, I'm starved," said Pete. "Mom put in plenty of food so you might as well have some, too, Sarah." Sitting down on the shaded bank, the three friends disposed of their sandwiches while making plans. Then, as the morning passed, they started back toward their homes while, back in town, a phone was ringing. "You want to get that, Pat?" said Sheriff Jeffers. "Sure, Sheriff," said Deputy Pat Malone, as he pushed his magazine aside and reached across the desk for the receiver. "Sheriff's Office," he said. "Uh-huh, he's here, just a minute. For you, Sheriff," he said, turning back to the open magazine on his desk. The sheriff left the county wall map that he had been studying and took the four steps to the phone. "Hello, this is Sheriff Jeffers, what can I do for you?" "Sheriff, can you talk freely?" said the voice on the other end of the line. "No, I don't think so, Sam," he said. "OK, then, just listen. We need you up at the capitol tomorrow. If you can be here say, 'The weather's just fine'," said the voice. The Sheriff thought for a few seconds, then continued, "Sure, Sam, the weather's just fine here, too. You know, I'm about due for a fishing trip myself. Maybe I'll just take a few days off and join you. "Pat, you got any pressing plans for the next couple of days?" he asked his deputy. "No, Sheriff, I'm not going anywhere," said the deputy, looking up briefly from his magazine. "OK, Sam, I'll pack my rod and be up tonight. Thanks for the invite, see ya soon." Putting the phone in its cradle, he turned to the deputy. "Think I'll take some time off and do some fishing, Pat. Can you handle things here?" "Don't know why I can't hold down this chair just as well with you gone as here," he laughed. "OK, then, I might as well go on home and pack," said the sheriff, as he plucked his hat from the rack near the door. "See you sometime Saturday, Pat." "Catch a good string, Sheriff," replied the deputy. He looked up only as the sheriff closed the door behind him. Outside the jail, Sheriff Jeffers slid behind the wheel of his old Chevrolet pickup and drove off towards his house. There, he threw together a few clothes, put his bag in the truck bed, and his fishing pole in the gun rack, before driving slowly out of town. A few miles outside of town, he turned onto a side road which connected to the main road leading toward the capitol. Speeding up, he drove steadily on towards the city. He was curious about the surprise meeting that had been called. Curious about its secrecy. At about the same time, Deputy Malone locked the jailhouse door, climbed into his patrol car, and drove off on his rounds. He waved at all of the townspeople he passed, but the friendliness of the wave never reached the half mocking sneer that was his normal expression. A large, square man, he made most people feel mildly uneasy, if not actually threatened, by his presence. Chapter Three - A Narrow Escape "Who-whoo. Who-whoo." The sound came from the bushes outside Sarah Brewster's window. A moment later her feet appeared, immediately followed by the rest of her body. She sat poised on the window ledge a second before dropping lightly to the ground. She ducked into the bushes where Monk crouched, waiting. After a whispered greeting, they quick-walked down the dark streets toward Pete's where Monk hooted like an owl once again. While they waited in the shadows, Pete climbed down the tree next to his balcony. Once together, all three slipped along the sidewalk, keeping to the darkest shadows wherever possible. "Look out, here comes a car," said Monk, and all three quickly dodged behind a nearby hedge. They waited until the tail lights disappeared, and they could no longer hear the engine, before continuing on their way. "Whew, was that close," Pete said. "That was Deputy Malone. He'd have wanted to know what we were doing out so late." "And he'd have told our folks about it, too," said Sarah. "Yeah, but he didn't see us," Monk added, "so let's go before someone else comes along." At the edge of town they moved more openly. Heading toward the Barstow's once again, they short-cut through the pasture, then struck off over the fields. They circled around to arrive at the old mill from downstream, where they could take advantage of the black shadows of the woods. On the way, Monk had outlined his plan. They paused at the edge of the woods as he went over it again to be sure it was clear. "Sarah, you and Pete work your way over to the front of the mill. Stay low and don't get too close. Just watch. I'm going to sneak right up to it on this side. I can stay hidden among the trees most of the way." "Monk," said Sarah, "let's not go any closer." All three were much more uneasy now that they were close to the mill. The plan hadn't sounded so dangerous when they were in the open fields. "Come on Sarah, you wanted to come along, don't chicken out now." "But what if it's there?" she whispered, frightened. "I don't like it either," said Pete. "It's too spooky." "Awe, it'll be all right. Go on, if we don't see anything we'll meet back here. But don’t get any closer to the mill unless I give you the signal, OK." "I guess," Pete said, reluctantly. "All right, but be careful," said Sarah. Monk watched as the two friends crawled along the ground toward the front of the mill. Then he turned and slipped cautiously from tree to tree, until he was as close as possible without moving into the open. From his new vantage point Monk had a perfect view of the back and side of the mill. He could see the water wheel turning, flat blades sliding past the small window in the loft, the dripping water splashing back into the stream as the paddles rose and then sank back into the stream. The wet wood sparkled in the moonlight as the wheel turned. There was only one small window on this side of the mill, but Monk saw nothing looking out from there. He began to inch his way forward until finally he was crouched against the mill's wall. Creeping along the wall he stopped when he reached the corner and lay down flat against the ground. Ever so slowly, Monk stuck his head around the corner then he froze! Only a few feet from his face stood the ghostly form. Monk lay perfectly still, his heart pounding so loud that he was sure the white figure could hear it. But the figure just stood there, forever it seemed to Monk. He could see it clearly in the moonlight. It's feet seemed almost in his face, he could even make out the pattern of the tooled leather boots, and if it looked his way... Monk gave an involuntary gasp as a sudden realization hit him. At the slight sound the figure turned but Monk leaped to his feet and shot past the figure before it could react. "Run!" he yelled, as he sprinted toward the spot where he knew Pete and Sarah should be watching, the ghostly figure right behind him. At the sight of Monk, chased by the ghost, both Sarah and Pete were paralyzed with fear, but his shout brought them to their feet and got them moving. The trio formed an eerie picture as they raced through the moonlit meadow. Sarah, taller and faster than most boys, her twin braids flapping behind her, pounded through the grass toward the tree-crowned crest of the hill. Close behind, Pete ran with equal determination. Monk, even further behind, flew after them, spurred on by heavy breathing close behind him. Running, not from a fear of ghosts, but from the sudden knowledge that the apparition behind him was very real and bent on catching him. The white shape let out a sudden groan, as one foot twisted on a hidden obstacle. The "ghost" fell heavily to the ground. His fall gave Monk the needed edge and he merged into the tree's shadows at the top of the hill. The figure in white got slowly to his feet. Cursing quietly under his breath, he pulled the sheet from his head, rolled it into a ball, and looked up at the empty hilltop. Limping the last few yards to the top he stood among the line of trees and watched the three children fading into the distance. He kept watching until all three were completely out of sight, then turned and limped back toward the mill. Inside, he briefly lit a shaded kerosene lantern that he’d left just inside the doorway. Instantly, two ghostly lights appeared. A tin cover with holes punched in it allowed two beams of light to escape, giving the appearance of eyes when seen from a distance. As the man removed the tin cover, the room was suddenly filled with dim yellow light. Looking quickly around he picked up a half empty bottle by the door. Uncorking it he took a long swallow, then shoved the cork back in and slipped it into the hip pocket of his denim work pants. Picking up the white bundle, he blew out the lantern and left the darkened mill, heading off through the trees. Minutes later a car motor sputtered to life and roared off into the night. A short time later, the three friends squatted under the bushes outside Sarah's bedroom window. Gasping for air, they spoke in hoarse whispers. "What do you mean it wasn't a ghost?" Sarah asked Monk. "It was a man. When I peeked around the corner of the mill there he was, not this far away," he said, gesturing with his hands. "What did he look like?" Pete asked. "I don't know. He was all covered with something white, and his back was turned, but it was a man all right." "But if he was all white, how do you know he wasn't a ghost?" said Sarah. "I could see his feet clear, they were close to my face, and he was wearing fancy leather boots." "So what?" said Sarah. "Who knows what ghosts wear on their feet." "Yeah, ghosts might wear fancy leather boots, too," said Pete. "I never heard that they went around barefoot." "No, ghosts don't have boots like that. Those boots were real, and so was the man. I heard him breathing hard, and I heard him grunt when he fell." "Well, I think it was McIntyre's ghost," said Sarah. "I know a ghost when I see one, I guess." "It wasn't a ghost, I tell you!" said Monk in exasperation. "Well, I'm not going to stay here all night and argue about it. I'm going to bed. Boost me up," said Sarah. She stepped into Monk's cupped hands and vanished through the dark window, then her face reappeared, shining white in the moonlight. "I'll see you both tomorrow," she whispered, before disappearing inside again. "I’d better go, too, Monk. See you later." "Night, Pete." Left alone, Monk turned and walked uneasily up the empty street toward his house, stopping often to listen for the sound of footsteps. Later, alone in bed, he lay on his side staring out the window, thinking about all that had happened in the past two nights. I know those were real boots I saw, and I know ghosts don't buy fancy boots, he thought. And ghosts don't make heavy footsteps when they chase you either, or gasp when they fall down; or even fall down, I'll bet. But how can I convince Pete and Sarah? What could he be doing out there, anyway. He's up to something, that's for sure. I wish I could talk to dad about it, but he'd woodshed me for sure if he knew that I've been sneaking out at night. I don't think he'd even listen to me. And Sarah and Pete would get it, too. Still, I want to know what that phony ghost's up to. I don't like being scared, or chased like that. Monk turned on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He tried to think of a way to convince his friends that the "ghost" was no ghost at all. I've got it! Ghosts don't leave footprints. If I can find his footprints that will prove to Pete and Sarah that he's real. Maybe then we can figure out what's going on. He'd be afraid to hang around the mill in daylight. Tomorrow I'll go look for footprints, maybe Pete will come along. Sarah will have to believe me then. With that decision made, he drifted off to sleep, only to dream of running, running into darkness. In the state capitol, Sheriff Jeffers sat at a long conference table, surrounded by representatives from state and federal agencies. He was to be part of a secret task force that had been called together by the governor, at the request of the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. ATF agents had been aware for months that large amounts of illegal moonshine alcohol was being sold down river and was turning up in various parts of the state. Agent Polk was filling in the task force on their latest information. "No, we haven't identified the man in charge of the local operation, or even exactly how the 'shine' is being moved, but we're pretty sure that it's coming through your area Tom. We don't want to send in our agents yet because the moonshiners will just go into hiding if strangers start poking around, don't you agree?" Sheriff Jeffers nodded. "Yes, I do. We have a small community and strangers stand out, especially city folks. Meaning no disrespect, Bob, but you boys in suits would cause as much talk as a brass band. Everyone in the county'd know you was there inside a day." "That's what I thought. But how else can we find out how the stuff is moving, Tom?" "Why not let me just poke around, kind of quiet like, and we'll see what turns up." "Fine," said agent Bob Polk, "but meanwhile, I'd like the highways watched closely, especially where they enter and leave the area of old Highway 44. Can the state police handle that without being obvious, governor?" "I'll see to it, Bob. You hear that, Sam? Any trouble handling that?" "No sir, governor, and we'll have officers at the ready to move on your say so, Tom," said a uniformed man at the governor's side. "Appreciate that, Sam. It looks like it's going to turn into quite a fishing trip, all right," chuckled Sheriff Jeffers. "Good, then we're all set. It's up to you for the next move, Tom," said agent Polk. "Now, how about some lunch before we all starve?" A murmur of approval went around the table as chairs scraped the floor and the meeting turned to more social concerns. After all, these men didn't often get to meet with their cohorts in other agencies. Chapter Four - Ghostly Footprints The morning sun was streaming in through his window when Monk finally woke up. He was tired from the previous two nights of little sleep, and he'd slept until almost nine. Surprised that his mother hadn't gotten him up, he threw on his clothes and hurried into the kitchen where he knew he'd find her at work. "Hi, Mom," he said, as he plopped down at the table. "Good morning, sleepyhead. I thought you were going to stay in bed all day." A smiling, barely plump woman of thirty-six, Mary Thompson put two thick slices of her homemade bread in the toaster. From the pan still warming on the stove, she ladled a generous helping of oatmeal into a bowl, which she placed in front of Monk. "I thought you must be tired to stay in bed this long, so I just let you sleep." "Thanks, Mom, I'm starving,” Monk said. “Mom, do you think ghosts make footprints?" he asked, through a mouthful of oatmeal. "Why, I don't believe I ever gave it much thought. What on earth brought that up?" she said, as she finished buttering the toast and placed it on the saucer at Monk's elbow. "Oh, Pete and I were just thinking about it yesterday. But if there were ghosts, do you think that they'd make footprints?" "Hmm. Well, ghosts are supposed to be spirits, I guess. And spirits aren't physical things," she mused, "so I guess ghosts wouldn't leave footprints." "That's what I told Pete." As he finished his oatmeal and licked the last of the homemade butter from his fingers Monk said, "Mom." "What, son," Mrs. Thompson answered from the sink, where she was wrist deep in suds and dirty pans. "Can I go over to Pete's?" "I guess so, but be home in time for lunch." "OK, Mom, thanks." Taking his dirty bowl to the sink, he gave his mother a quick hug. Outside, he trotted off toward Pete's house where he found him playing mumbley peg in the front yard. Balancing the open blade of his jack knife on the tip of his elbow, he flipped it off so that it twisted as it fell to the ground, where it stuck blade first in the dirt. "Good one, Pete," Monk said. "Hi, Monk, how you doing?" "OK," he said, squatting down as Pete retrieved the knife. "Pete." "Huh." "Pete, I know that wasn't a ghost we saw last night. I know it couldn't have been, but I'm going to have to prove it to you and Sarah." Pete folded his Barlow knife, dropped it into his pocket, and hunkered down facing Monk. "How you gonna prove it?" he asked, his curiosity aroused. "I got an idea last night before I went to sleep. Listen, you know that ghosts are spirits, right?" "Yeah, I guess so." "Well, spirits can't leave any footprints, right?" Pete thought about that for a while. "No, I guess not," he said, finally. "All right then, if we can find footprints where it stood that will prove it's not a ghost." "What do you mean, we? I'm not going near that place. Last night was enough for me." "Come on, Pete, I need you. Sarah will never believe me even if I find the footprints, unless someone else sees them too. She'll think I just made it up." "Look, Monk, whatever that thing is it's chased us twice and almost caught you last night. You can call me chicken if you want, but that thing scared me plenty and I don't want any part of it, ghost or no ghost." Needing to interest Pete in going along, and not wanting to go back to the mill alone, Monk tried another angle. "It scared me plenty, too, Pete, but there's something funny going on out there, and I want to know what it is. Maybe he's a crook, using the mill for a hideout. Might even be a reward," said Monk, knowing that Pete was saving up for a new bike. That got his attention. "Reward? Do you really think so?" "Maybe. I don't know, but we'll never know if we don't go look for those footprints. What do you say?" Pete thought for a minute, weighing his fear against a possible reward. After all, he had been saving all summer for a bike. "OK," he said at last, "let's go and look, but if we see any sign of that ghost I'm leaving." "Of course," Monk agreed. Pete told his mother they were going to Monk's and the boys headed off in the direction of the mill once more. But this time they both slipped carefully through the trees until they reached it. After watching the mill for any sign of movement, Monk finally screwed up his courage, ran to the side window, and peeked in. "It's OK, Pete. It's empty, come on. Let's look for the footprints," he said, as Pete joined him. They separated, each searching the ground carefully. "Over here, Pete!" called Monk, from the corner of the mill. "Here's where he was standing when I peeked around the corner, and look, there his footprints." "You’re," said Pete, examining the ground, "and here's where he started chasing you. See how the prints are deeper?" "Uh-huh." Both boys became completely engrossed in their tracking as they followed the prints part way across the meadow, sometimes losing them in the tall grass, only to find them again. "That proves he's no ghost, I guess, but why is he trying to scare people away?" Pete wondered. "I don't know. Let's look inside. Maybe we can find something," said Monk. They walked cautiously through the empty doorway of the abandoned mill. They were curious, but prepared to run if they had to. The old mill was just one large room, with a vertical ladder nailed to the back wall which disappeared upwards into a low loft. Downstairs everything was a jumble of old boards, crates and the remains of rotted flour sacks piled against the back wall. What was left of the mill machinery was rusty and in pieces. The water wheel, which had turned the huge grinding stones in the mill’s heyday, was still turning creakily, filling the room with a low groaning and the sound of splashing water; even though the grinding stones no longer turned because of the rotted machinery. The years of abandonment and neglect were evident everywhere. It had been empty for years and no one ever came there except an occasional hobo looking for a roof for the night, or kids wanting to explore. But even that happened rarely. The place was in a dangerous condition and the townspeople had forbidden their children to play there. "I don't see any clues, do you, Monk?" "Look at the footprints in the dust. Someone's been here a lot, or maybe several people," Monk said. "Keep looking around down here, Pete. I'm going to see what's up in the loft." Pete watched as Monk slowly climbed up the ladder and stepped out of sight at the top. "See anything, Monk?" he called. "Just some more old junk, like downstairs," came the muffled reply. Pete examined the broken, rusting, machinery. It had once been used to grind flour when the mill was working. The huge grinding stones were still there, but the top one had a large crack running from the center to the edge. He noticed that someone had scratched initials into the edge of the bottom stone. Running his fingers across the scratches Pete could just make them out: H.M. "Hey Monk, who do you think H.M. might have been?" he called up the ladder. "Do you think maybe McIntyre might have carved his initials here?" "Monk! Hey, Monk!" he shouted, when his friend didn't answer. Suddenly worried, he was just about to start up the ladder when Monk walked in through the doorway behind him. "You calling me?" he asked, smiling. Pete jumped at the unexpected voice behind him and whirled around, startled, his face white. "Monk! How'd you get out there?" he shouted, half glad to see him, and half mad at his friend for playing such a trick on him. Monk stood in the doorway, dripping wet, laughing so hard he had to lean against the door sill. "I'm sorry, Pete," he said, "but you were white as that phony ghost. You were plumb spooked." "Spooked! I'll spook you if you scare me like that again. How'd you get outside from the loft? Monk walked over to Pete as he explained. "The old water wheel turns right past the loft window. I wondered if I could ride it down from there," he said, serious once more. "I wasn't sure if I could, but if you grab the paddles just right you can hold on and ride all the way down to the water. It's deep enough there to jump off at the bottom before the paddle turns under again. It's really fun, but wet," he laughed. "Well, you sure gave me a start, right enough. I was just going to go up and see why you didn't answer." "Sorry, I didn't mean to really scare you. There's nothing up there but rafters and an empty loft. Did you find anything down here, Pete?" "Nope, just you, and the initials H.M. carved into the bottom mill stone." "Well, at least we know there's no ghost out here," said Monk. "That's something anyway, but I still want to know what that guy's up to." "Maybe he's looking for McIntyre's money and doesn't want anyone else snooping around." "Maybe--but I don't think so. It doesn't look like anyone has been digging or anything, does it?" "No, but he's sure out here for some reason. It must have been him that made the light Sarah saw, and we've seen him twice. Something's sure going on," Pete said. "You're right, but what could it be?" "Monk, I think maybe we ought to tell someone about this." "Tell who? We can't tell our folks. They'd ground us for the rest of the summer, sure." "What about the sheriff?" "Sheriff Jeffers," mused Monk, "yeah, he'd know what to do all right, I guess. And he might not tell on us either. OK, let's do it. Come on, Pete, let's get back to town and get it over with." Once they had made up their minds to tell Sheriff Jeffers about the strange happenings both boys felt better. Anxious to share their discovery with someone in authority, they headed back towards town. Chapter Five - Forced to Tell The sheriff's office was small, two rooms located next door to the barbershop. One room was sectioned off into twin cells made from flat steel bars woven and welded together. The other room held two small desks with a chair at the side of each. A rifle and twelve gauge shotgun stood in a gun rack mounted on the wall between the desks. Deputy Malone looked up from a well-worn hunting magazine as the boys opened the door. The sheriff was noticeably absent from the room. Deputy Malone pierced Monk and Pete with an icy stare as they stopped, just inside the doorway. "What is it?" "Oh, nothing, we were just looking for the sheriff," said Monk. "Sheriff's gone fishing for a few days. I'm acting sheriff while he's gone. What do you kids want with him?" "Nothing much," said Pete, "we just thought we'd say Hi. Come on, Monk, let's go." Both boys turned toward the door, but the deputy's harsh voice stopped them, and they turned back to face him. "Ain't you the Mitchell kid?" he asked. "Uh-huh," Pete answered. "And you're Monk Thompson, ain't you?" the deputy said, looking hard at Monk. Monk nodded uneasily, a lump in his throat seemed about to choke him. He hadn't been aware that the deputy knew him. "Come on over here, both of you," the deputy commanded. His chair scraped on the floor as he pushed it backwards and stood up. Then he stepped around the desk to stand between the boys and the door. He towered over them, seeming to fill the room with his presence. Both boys lowered their eyes and looked at the floor. "Now then, you wanted to see the sheriff. Well, I'm the sheriff while he's away. You just tell me what it is you wanted to see him about. Monk shifted nervously from one foot to the other before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded small and hollow to him. "It's nothing much, really. It can wait, I guess," he said. "I don't have time to play kid games with you. I said tell me why you came in here. Now do it!" Monk jerked slightly as the deputy raised his voice. "We think there's something funny going on out at the old mill," he blurted out. The deputy's eyes narrowed as he focused on Monk's face. He suddenly seemed dangerous, and from this close Monk almost gagged from the overpowering odor of his after shave. "What do you mean, funny? You boys been fooling around out at that mill?" He waited for an answer, looking first at one boy and then the other. Monk tried to think. Talking to the deputy wasn't what he'd planned, but now he felt trapped and didn't know how to avoid telling him what they'd found. "Well!" the deputy said, impatiently. "Let's hear it. Tell me what you mean by 'funny'!" "Sarah said she'd seen a light out there, and we went out to see what it was," Pete said, the words spilling out in a string. "Sarah? What Sarah? You mean the Brewster girl?" "Yeah," Pete said, suddenly sorry that he had mentioned her name. "So, the three of you went out to the mill. What did you see?" said the deputy, slowly. "Someone's been hiding out there at night, trying to scare people off," Monk broke in. The deputy's dark eyes swung from Pete to Monk, his expression inquisitive, his lips a tight, thin line. "And what makes you think so, Mister Thompson?" he said, sarcastically. "Cause we saw him," said Monk. "Saw what exactly?" "A man was dressed up in a sheet to look like a ghost," said Monk. "And he chased us," added Pete. "Chased you? Now let me get this straight. You three kids sneaked out to the mill, at night, and imagined you saw something that chased you. More than likely you was scared by the dark, or a spooky tree," the deputy said. "No, he was real," said Pete. "We found his footprints today, right where he chased us." Monk caught Pete's eye and gave a quick shake of his head, but it was too late. "You went out there again," said the deputy ominously. "What'd you find besides footprints?" "Nothing, just footprints," Monk said, quickly. "Footprints," the deputy laughed dryly, "probably your own, or some hobo's passing through. Now you kids listen to me good," he said, his voice hard and brittle. "That mill is old and falling down. It's a dangerous place and off limits to all you kids. If I find out you've been playing around out there again I'll bring some charges on you, understand?" He glared down at the boys and waited for their answer.. "Yes, sir," said both boys together. "And I'm going to have a talk with your folks about you kids sneaking out there at night. I'll bet they don't know about that. No telling what mischief you've been up to. You kids get out'ta here and don't come back with any more of your fairy tales. Now, git!" Both boys hit the doorway together as he stepped aside. They raced down the street until they were well out of sight of the sheriff's office. The sound of the door banging shut spurred them on. After they were gone, Deputy Malone stood still, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, as though he'd made up his mind about something, he pulled his hat from the deer antlers by the door and hurried to the patrol car parked in front. Gunning the motor, he drove off up the street in the same direction the boys had taken. As he passed, he gave no sign that he saw them dart behind an ancient maple tree. "Now we're in for it all right," Monk said, after the deputy passed. "He's on his way to talk to our folks right now, I'll bet." "Oh man, will I get it," said Pete. "Me, too. My dad will wear me to a frazzle when he gets back from Sommersville tomorrow," said Monk. "I guess we'd better go tell Sarah about finding the footprints, and warn her about the deputy!" "Yeah, she doesn't even know we went out there today. She'll be mad that we didn't take her along." They set off at a trot. By cutting through neighboring yards they reached the Brewster's white frame house just as the deputy was leaving. He had evidently gone there first. They crouched down behind the hedge next door to the Brewster's, while the deputy and Mrs. Brewster stood in conversation on the wide front porch. They were just able to make out what was said from their position. "Don't you worry, Deputy," said Mrs. Brewster. "I'll see to it that Sarah doesn't go fooling around that mill again. Just wait till her father hears about this. The very idea, sneaking out like that at night. And I'll have a talk with Mrs. Mitchell, too. I'm sure she'll be as upset as I am." "Thank you, ma'am," said Deputy Malone politely, "I sure hate to bother you about this, but that place is about ready to fall down and I sure don't want anyone hurt out there." "We'll see that the children stay away from the mill.” I'll go see Mrs. Mitchell right away," she said, as she reached behind her back to untie the apron she was wearing. As the patrol car pulled away from the curb, Pete and Monk inched deeper into the hedge, hoping no one looked their way. The boys could not hear what happened next as Mrs. Brewster moved deeper into the house. They waited where they were until she stepped back to the screen door and called inside to Sarah. "Sarah, you stay right in your room until your father gets home. I'm going over to the Mitchell's, you hear?" "Yes, mother," came the muffled reply. Mrs. Brewster opened the screen and marched determinedly down the steps and crossed the street. The boys heard her mutter, "The very idea" as she passed their hiding place, and went on up the street. "Come on, Pete, let's talk to Sarah before her mom gets back." "OK." Pete was already thinking uncomfortable thoughts about what Mrs. Brewster would say to his mother--and what his mother would say to his father--and what his father would have to say to him later on. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he trailed after Monk. They jumped over the hedge and crossed the Brewster's lawn. Slipping around the side of the house they crawled under the bushes below Sarah's window. Monk quietly hooted like an owl, their secret signal. Almost immediately, Sarah's head appeared at the window. "Monk?" she called, cautiously. "Yeah, we're here. Pete and I heard part of what happened. Are you in bad trouble?" "I guess so. The deputy said we'd all been sneaking out to the mill at night. He made it sound awful. My mom is furious. She said she was going to ship me off to visit my Aunt Edna in Montrose for the next couple of weeks, till school starts. She's going to call my dad and see if he can drive us to the train station in Sommersville tomorrow morning." "Wow, that's too bad," said Pete. "And all because of that ghost. I wish I'd never seen him, or even seen that light," she said. "It isn't a ghost at all, Sarah. Is it, Pete?" "Nope." "What do you mean?" "Pete and I went out to the mill this morning. I figured that ghosts wouldn’t leave footprints and if we could find his prints that would prove he was real." "Did you find any footprints?" Sarah asked, excitement beginning to grow in her voice. "We sure did," Pete said. "Right where he started chasing Monk, and we followed them across the field where he chased us, Sarah. And there are lots more in the dust inside the mill." "But what is going on? Why would anyone be out there? And what reason do they have for trying to scare people away?" "Don't know yet, but someone is trying to scare everyone away for some reason, you can bet on that," said Monk. "Pete and I went to the Sheriff’s office to tell him what we found, but Sherriff Jeffers has gone off fishing and Deputy Malone made us tell him about it instead. He got really mad and threatened to tell our folks." "So that's how he found out. I wondered how he knew we'd been there." "We didn't want to tell him, Sarah, but he kind of forced it out of us," said Monk. "Awe, it was my fault, Monk. If I hadn't told him about going back out there and finding the footprints, maybe..." "Forget it, Pete, he'd have gotten it out of us anyway. He's pretty scary and he had us trapped in the office. You remember how quickly he got between us and the door? He wasn’t going to let us get away until we told him what we knew." “There's nothing we can do about it now, anyway," said Sarah. "All of our parents will know we were sneaking out at night. But did he believe you about the ghost? Will he investigate?" "Not a chance," said Pete. "He just laughed at us. He said we'd probably scared ourselves and imagined the whole thing." "But he was awfully interested in what we'd found at first," said Monk, thoughtfully. "Did you see how curious he was when you said we'd been out there today, Pete?" "He did, didn't he, I'd almost forgotten. But then he just laughed at us and ordered us to stay away from the mill. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?" "Yes it does, but he's just about made sure we won't go back," said Sarah. "My mom's going to stick me with Aunt Edna, sure." "Gosh, Sarah, I'm sorry. Is your aunt that bad?" asked Monk. "No, not really. It's just that she's mom’s older sister, you know. She never got married and she isn't used to having any kids around. She makes me wear dresses all the time and has a conniption if I even get dirty or anything. I have to stay in the house most of the time, and do sissy things with her." "Sounds pretty bad to me," Pete said. "Almost makes you look forward to school starting again, I'll bet." "Almost," Sarah laughed, "but what do you think will happen after my mother talks to your mom?" "I dunno. Ground me for the rest of the summer, maybe. You know, work, work, work, and never leave the yard. That sort of thing. What about you, Monk? Your dad hasn't come home yet, has he?" "No. He's been trying a case in Sommersville, but he's supposed to be back tomorrow night. Mom will probably call him after Deputy Malone talks to her. That only gives me today and most of tomorrow to figure something out." "What about your mom, what will she say?" asked Sarah. "Oh, she'll holler and cry, most likely. I don't mind the hollering but I hate it when she cries. When my dad gets home he'll plumb wear me out, I guess. Being a lawyer makes him pretty touchy about me getting in trouble, especially with the sheriff’s office. I think he feels it makes him look bad, like he isn’t teaching me to respect the laws." "My dad will hide me good when he gets home tonight, I expect," said Pete. "He’s told me to keep away from that mill more than once. And he won’t be happy I was sneaking out at night." "Quick, duck, here comes my ma," said Sarah, who had been watching from the window. Both boys ducked back into the bushes as Mrs. Brewster marched back across the street and up the porch steps. Sarah's face disappeared from the window as soon as she heard the screen door slam shut. "See you," they heard her whisper before they crawled carefully back through the bushes, trotted around the corner of the house and down the block. "What now?" said Monk. "I'd better go on home and get it over with. Don't guess I'll be able to get out again for a while. What about you?" "Might as well go home, too. See ya, Pete." "Yeah, see ya." Pete turned and slowly started walking toward his home. Monk watched him go for a minute, then, his hands jammed deep into his pockets, he trudged on down the street towards his own house. Chapter Six - A Daring Plan The house looked the same as always when Monk got there. Everything was quiet, but the minute he walked through the door Monk knew the deputy had already been there. His mother was silent as he entered, a sure sign that there was something seriously wrong. She was usually humming or singing as she worked around the house, but now she was quiet. "Hi, Mom," he called cheerfully, as he entered the kitchen door. His mother turned from the bread dough she was kneading and gave her son a critical look before speaking. "Deputy Malone was just here." "Oh, what did he want?" asked Monk. "Is what he said true? Have you kids been going to the mill at night, Monk? Have you been sneaking out of the house, you and Pete and Sarah?" "Only twice, Mom. Sarah said that she saw a light at the mill on her way home the other evening. Pete and I teased her about seeing ghosts until she dared us to go look for ourselves. That's all, Mom, honest. It was just on a dare." "But the three of you did sneak out didn't you?" she asked. "Well, yes," Monk said slowly. He knew his mother well enough to know what that admission would mean. "Deputy Malone said that he'd caught you playing out there and you made up some wild story about being chased by ghosts to get out of trouble. He said that anyone that had been chased like you said you had would be afraid to go near the mill again. But he said you went there again." Monk's face felt frozen as he heard the deputy's lies. Why would he lie, he wondered to himself, that didn't make any sense. "Mom, he didn't catch us out there!" he said. "And we were chased by someone. Someone wearing a white sheet over their head. He acted like a ghost, waving his arms and everything. Pete and I went to the Sheriff's Office to tell him about it, but Deputy Malone said the sheriff had gone fishing, so we told him what we saw." "Monk! You stop that nonsense this instant," his mother commanded. "Are you going to stand there and tell me that the deputy sheriff is going to come into this house and lie to me about something like that? I'm ashamed of you! You just march yourself right on to your room." "But, Mom..." "Not another word out of you, young man! I declare, I don't know what's gotten into you. Now, march!" Mrs. Thompson slammed the bread dough down on the counter and began to knead it vigorously. "But, Mom." "No buts. You march right to your room, and no dinner tonight, either. Just wait till I tell your father about this. Playing at the mill is bad enough when you know you're not allowed out there, but sneaking out at night, and then lying about it. I just don't know what's come over you." Monk turned away and walked down the hall to his room as his mother continued to knead the bread, taking out her frustration on the dough. He could still hear her muttering to herself as he shut the door and threw himself on the bed. Why won't she listen, he wondered. How can she believe the deputy? But he knew the deputy acted differently when he was around grown-ups. He had them all fooled, and adults always believed other adults over kids, anyway. But what reason could he have to lie, he asked himself again. All of a sudden it hit him. Maybe he’s the ghost! No, he couldn't be, he didn't seem to know we'd been out there. At least, if he knew, he didn't know who it was, and he would have if he was the ghost. But what then? Maybe he knows what's going on. That must be it. But now what? How can we get our folks to believe what really happened? He lay back on the bed as the first glimmer of an idea began to form in his mind. Staring at the cracking plaster on the ceiling, he made a daring plan. A plan that might work, had to work, if he could only manage to sneak out one more time. But to do that he had to risk making his mother even more upset than she already was. First, he had to stay out of sight and then he had to convince her he had gone to sleep. Later, still in the kitchen Mrs. Thompson was cleaning up after baking bread. Four loaves of freshly baked bread sat on a wire rack on the counter, evidence of her attempt to channel her feelings after speaking to Deputy Malone. She wasn't sure what to think after hearing Monk dispute the deputy's version of what had happened. She wasn't in the habit of doubting Monk, yet he had sneaked out of the house, that was certain. And, while she wasn't comfortable with the deputy, she saw no reason for him to lie to her. She would have to let Frank figure things out, she decided. After all, he was the lawyer in the family. It was his job to get to the bottom of things. Chapter Seven - All Alone Monk stayed in his room the rest of the afternoon, impatiently waiting for dark; waiting for his mother to go to bed. For a while he thumbed through one of the three Zane Gray novels piled on his dresser. Monk had read all of The Frontier Trilogy and Zane Gray was his favorite author, but before long he put it back, unable to concentrate on the story. He made a mental note not to forget to take them back to the library. They were due on Monday. His room seemed boring now that he couldn't leave it. He liked to be up and doing, especially now. He circled around the room, trying his yo-yo, then spinning a top on the floor. He even tried shooting marbles on his bed, but nothing helped, and the long afternoon seemed to drag on forever. When it finally began to get dark he knew it was after 8:00 p.m. His mother usually went to bed between 9:30 and 10:00, so he took off his shirt and draped it over a chair, he was already barefoot, since he seldom wore shoes in the summer. He climbed into bed with his pants on under the sheet. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to breathe slowly and regularly, pretending to be asleep. Mrs. Thompson ate dinner alone. Sitting at the kitchen table, she only nibbled at the pot roast she'd prepared for dinner. She knew she must follow through with his punishment, but she felt guilty about Monk going hungry. She decided to take a sandwich in to him later, when she went to bed. When she took the sandwich to his room, she found Monk asleep. He looked so peaceful that she was sorry she'd punished him. Well, I'll make it up to him tomorrow. It is for his own good, she thought. Monk heard his mother tiptoe in to check on him. Heard her put something down, then quietly back out, shut his door and walk down the hall to her own room. As soon as he heard her footsteps moving away, Monk carefully eased out of bed; slowly, so the springs wouldn't creak. He opened his door just enough to see down the hall to his parent's room. After a while he saw the wedge of light from under her door go black. He waited a few minutes more, just to be sure, then carefully closed his door. He put on his shirt and dropped out the window to the ground, his bare feet making no sound on the thick grass outside. He was thankful now for not mowing the lawn. A summer of going barefoot had toughened his feet almost to the consistency of shoe leather, and the ground felt cool as he went down the street. He ran through the shadows toward Pete's. When he reached the aging two-story house, the downstairs light was still burning, but Pete's bedroom was dark. He guessed Pete had been sent to bed early, too, anyway, he had to chance it. As quietly as he could, Monk climbed the large oak tree again, and stepped down onto the second story balcony that opened off of Pete's room. Crouching down next to the screen door, so he wouldn't be seen from the street, he called softly, "Pete." "Shh," came an immediate reply, followed by Pete's face at the screen door. "What are you doing here, Monk?" "Pete, Deputy Malone lied to my mom, too. He told her the same thing he told Mrs. Brewster. And my mom believed him. She wouldn't even let me explain what really happened." "I know, my folks told me all about what he said. My dad was really mad. He took me out to the garage...and my ma cried and everything. Why do you think the deputy did that, Monk? It doesn't make any sense." "Maybe he's in on whatever is going on out there. Maybe the sheriff is, too." "Do you think so? Wow, what can we do if we can't tell the sheriff, and our folks won't believe us? I'm scared, Monk!" "I don’t know, but I can’t think of any reason the deputy would lie if unless he’s part of what’s going on?" "I wonder. It seems crazy but what can we do, Monk? We’re just kids and no one believes us." "I've got an idea, but my dad will be home tomorrow night so whatever we do will have to be tonight." "But we can't do anything tonight. My folks are so upset they've been checking on me. And besides, what could we do?" Monk looked straight at Pete, his face only inches away since they were whispering quietly through the screen. "I'm going back to the mill tonight!" he said. Pete remained motionless, his face against the screen door that separated them. For a long time neither boy said anything more, then Pete spoke again, his words coming out slowly through clenched teeth. "Monk, don't go out there alone. I've got a really bad feeling." "Come with me then," Monk said earnestly, not wanting to go alone either. "I can't, Monk, I can't." Pete choked on the words. He had never failed his friend before, and he was afraid of what Monk might walk into at the mill. "Why not, Pete? We could wait until your folks are asleep." "I can't because I promised. My dad made me swear I wouldn't go there again." "Oh! That's all right. I understand," Monk said, with a show of bravado. He squared his shoulders slightly, "But that's why I've got to go tonight, before my dad gets home. I might never get another chance to see what's going on. And besides, no one will think that any of us would go back out there tonight, not after all the trouble the deputy made for us." Pete pressed his forehead against the screen. "Monk, I didn't tell you everything, my dad's taking mom and I to Sommersville tomorrow. We're going to visit Grandma Mitchell until Sunday. We'll be gone two nights." "Because of what Deputy Malone said?" "Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, don't do anything until I get back, OK? It's too dangerous for you to go out there by yourself." "I can't wait, Pete. Tonight's my only chance. If I don't go tonight, my dad will probably make me promise not to go there again, too. Something big is happening and I have to find out what it is before he gets home tomorrow." "Don't do it, Monk," Pete said, urgently. "I'm really scared. Don't go out there alone, that deputy will be watching, I know it!" Pete put his hands, palms open, against the screen. Monk could clearly see how seriously he felt the danger, so he tried to sound more confident than he felt. "It's not likely that he'd be there tonight. He won't expect any of us to go out there, at least not so soon." As Monk stood up to leave, the porch creaked loudly under him. At the sound, Mrs. Mitchell called up the stairs, "Pete, are you in bed?" Yes, ma," he called back. At the sound of her voice, Monk quickly stepped back to the shadow of the oak. By, Pete. See ya later," he whispered, as he stepped out of sight into the tree's branches. "Monk! Don't do it! Don't go alone. Monk!" Pete whispered hoarsely, but Monk was gone, swallowed up in the darkness. There was nothing he could do. On the ground, Monk padded silently across the lawn and down the street before stopping to think things out. He had counted on Pete going with him, but that wasn't possible now. Both because of Pete's promise, and because his parents were obviously keeping a close watch on him. If he left the house, they would be sure to notice and foul up Monk's plan by searching for Pete. He certainly didn't want to go alone, but he had to do something. His natural curiosity was aroused by everything that had happened, but even more than that, the deputy had made it appear that the three friends had lied, and he had to prove they were not the ones doing the lying. Telling the truth is just about the most important thing to Dad, he thought to himself. He's told me over and over again that being a lawyer is all about finding the truth. I'm stuck now, anyway, I guess. I've got to see if someone's out there tonight! So, nervously, checking all around before he moved out of the shadows, he started off in the direction of the mill. The moon, almost full, bathed the road in its eerie light. It made everything appear different, mysterious. Monk imagined strange shadows moving out of the corner of his eye, making him jump at nothing. Familiar trees and bushes took on grotesque shapes and outlines. Just before he reached the band of trees by the mill, clouds floated across the sky covering all but a thin sliver of moon. What little light remained increased the sinister atmosphere as he glided silently from tree to tree. He made a noise only once, when a twig snapped beneath his heel. He paused to listen, but nothing moved. The night sounds continued undisturbed, and he went on. At last he reached the edge of the clearing. With a shudder, he realized he was in exactly the same spot as the night before, looking from the trees toward the mill. I should have come from a different angle, he thought. His heart pounding, Monk crouched down behind the last tree. It was a large oak. One huge root twisted out of the ground, forming a small pocket into which he crawled. Resting his cheek on the protruding root, he settled himself as comfortably as possible. He expected to watch the mill all night if he had to, but he had to be home before his mother was up in the morning. Monk stared at the dark window as he waited, but fatigue made his eyes began to lose focus, and his head occasionally nodded. Finally, the moon slid back into full view once more as the clouds scudded across the sky. Moonlight flooded the clearing, showing the old mill in all its detail. It sparkled off the dripping mill wheel and cast a shimmering reflection on the slow moving water. It also fell on Monk's dozing form. Tired out at last, he lay curled against the tree root sound asleep. He was unaware that eyes watched from the shadows; eyes that had been waiting for any movement in the woods; eyes that recognized the sleeping boy's outline by the tree. Chapter Eight - Caught While Monk slept, strong hands tied a length of rope to his foot, then, holding the loose end, moved back out of sight. The waiting shadow raised a bottle to his mouth several times as the night wore on. The moon was halfway on its journey across the sky when Monk finally began to stir. He opened his eyes and blinked at the mill in confusion, not at first realizing where he was. Then he jerked wide-eyed awake. At that instant an ominous voice came out of the darkness behind him. "Hello again, boy." Monk leaped to his feet in terror, then jumped away from the sound in the shadows; but he took only two steps before the rope yanked him cruelly to the ground. Harsh laughter greeted his fall as the deputy stepped out of the shadows, the rope held tightly in his left hand. "Looks like you tripped up this time, boy," he said. "Here, let me help you." Reaching out one ham-like hand he jerked Monk roughly to his feet. Holding tightly to both Monk's arm and the rope, he forced Monk toward the front of the mill. "Jed," he called quietly, "look what I found." "Looks like a ghost hunter," said Jed, as he stepped from the empty doorway. "Yeah," laughed the deputy, "and this time the ghost's caught him." Both men chuckled humorously as all three went through the black doorway. Inside, while Jed lit the lantern, the deputy pushed Monk toward the back wall of the mill. Keeping the light turned low, he brought the lantern over close to Monk so that they could see him clearly. The deputy left the rope tied to Monk's foot and looped the free end around a piece of rusted machinery. Monk could take only a few steps before being stopped by the rope. "You sure he's the only one?" Jed asked. "Where are his friends?" "Yep, he's all that came tonight. I waited 'til he woke up to be sure no one else showed." "Now what?" said Jed. "Haven't thought it all out yet. We can't turn him loose, that's certain. Not after tonight." "Won't his folks miss him come sunup?" said Jed. "I reckon so, but we got maybe four, five hours 'til then." "Let's just clear out," urged Jed. "No, not 'til we have to. Be quiet a minute and let me think." The deputy sat down on the dusty grinding stone and looked at Monk. Shaking a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, he struck a match. The brief flare of the match illuminated his face. In that moment, it looked harsh and his eyes glinted maliciously. Monk shivered at the face. He'd never noticed how cruel the deputy's face looked. "How come you came back out here? Didn't your ma tell you to keep away?" asked the deputy. Monk swallowed hard before answering. "Yeah, but I had to find out what was going on before my dad got home." "Where is he?" "He's working on a case over in Sommersville. He'll be back tomorrow night." "I thought your folks would light into you kids something fierce after what I told them," said the deputy. "Didn't really expect to see you here again. How come you're all alone this time?" "We all got into trouble. Pete has to go to Sommersville and Sarah has to go stay with her aunt, all because of what you said." "So that's why you came alone," said the deputy. "Jed, you got any paper around here?" he grunted, over his shoulder in the direction of the second man. "I think I saw some in one of the crates." "Go find me a piece big enough to write on," he ordered. Monk wondered what the deputy was up to as Jed rummaged around at the back of the room. To Monks surprise, Jed pulled aside some of the jumble of old boards to expose neatly stacked crates, filled with bottles. Taking a crumpled piece of brown wrapping paper from one of the boxes, he handed it to the deputy. "What's in those bottles?" Monk asked. "Grade 'A' moonshine, boy. Nothing but the best homegrown corn liquor," Jed said, proudly. "Shut up!" the deputy ordered. Untying the rope from the machinery, but keeping the end tight in his hand, he pulled Monk over to a flat board that rested on a crate. He ironed the crumpled paper out on the board with his palms. Digging a pencil stub out of his shirt pocket, he pushed it toward Monk. "Take this, boy. Now you write just what I tell you." "What for?" Monk asked. "Never mind, just do it!" he ordered, then he began to dictate slowly, waiting as Monk copied down each word. Dear Ma, I'm not going to wait and get a lickin' when pa comes home. Monk stopped writing and tried to protest, but the deputy cuffed him roughly on the side of the head. "Keep writing." he said. I'm big enough to get by on my own, so I'm leaving. Don't worry about me. Monk Monk wrote slowly as the deputy looked over his shoulder. As soon as he finished, the deputy grabbed the pencil and paper and put them into his shirt pocket. "Now what, Malone?" said Jed. "I'll sneak this into the kid's room and leave it on his bed where it will be found. It will confuse things and give us some time to get rid of this shipment at least." "But won't they go out looking for him? Jed asked. "Sure, but they'll come to me first, since the sheriff's out of town, and I'll see they look in the wrong places. Couldn't be better." A toothy grin spread over the lower half of Jed's face. "What'll we do with the kid now? Want me to dump him in a hole in the woods?" The deputy considered the implications of this for a minute, before rejecting the idea. "Naw, not yet. We don't want anyone stumbling on his body and blowing everything. Put him up in the loft for now. Gag him and tie him good. I've got to plant this note in his room before it gets light. You'd better skedadle, too. You don't want to be seen out here," he said, just before leaving the mill. Pat Malone wasn't as calm as he seemed. He was worried. Kidnapping was a serious crime in this part of the country, and if he was tied to Monk's death in any way it would mean a death sentence. On the other hand, if he let Monk go it would ruin the whole operation for everybody. And he would be on the run himself. He reached his car and drove down the road with the headlights off until he neared the edge of town. Parking down the block from the Thompson's, he walked quickly toward their house. Once there, he checked the neighborhood for lights. Seeing none, he glanced at his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning. No one should be awake to see him. Crossing the lawn from the side, he saw the bedroom window still open. It was an easy matter for him to climb in, leave the note, and get back to his car. The whole thing took only five minutes. It wasn't until he was back in his car, on the way to his own house, that he realized how tense he was. When the deputy left the loft, Jed pulled Monk over to the ladder attached to the back wall. It led up to the tiny loft overhead. He pushed Monk up the ladder ahead of him. Carrying the lantern and holding on to the rope, Jed followed Monk as he stepped from the ladder into the loft. It was too low for Jed to stand fully upright. By lantern light, Jed pushed Monk to the floor and tied his feet tightly together. Then, tying Monk's hands behind him he ran the loose end of the rope through a low rafter and knotted it. Lying on his stomach, with his hands behind him and his feet tied together, Monk was completely immobilized. Even if he tried to roll around he was tethered to the low rafter, so he couldn't get very far. Then Jed pulled a bandanna from his pocket and tied it around Monk's mouth. With one last tug at Monk's hands, to be sure the rope was tight, Jed picked up the lantern and started to climb back down the ladder. He stopped with just his head showing through the loft opening and looked back at Monk. "Be quiet now. I'll be around close enough to hear any yelling. Not that anyone would hear you way out here, anyway," he said. "Have a nice rest, and don't go nowhere." The sound of his coarse laughter was the last thing Monk heard as Jed's head was swallowed up by the floor, and he was left in darkness. Chapter Nine - Escape Monk opened his eyes as the first faint glow of light glanced from cloud to cloud across the morning sky. From where he lay, twisted on his side from attempting to break lose during the night, he could see puffy patches of clouds through the small window in the loft. He watched the colors change slowly from a dull glow to rosy pink before becoming the brilliant white of morning. He had finally fallen asleep from exhaustion, hands tied behind him. Lifting his head, he looked around the loft as the light grew stronger. It was his first clear view of the loft since being left there. He ached from sleeping on the hard floor boards. Both his hands and feet were throbbing from the ropes that cut into them, and his muscles longed to stretch from their cramped positions. Thirst gnawed at him, too. As he tried to move, he discovered that there was enough slack in the rope for him to roll onto his back, so he did. If I could just get my hands in front of me, maybe I could get to my Barlow knife, he thought. But it was no use. The rope holding him passed from his hands to the rafter and he couldn't manage to get his hands down below his knees. "I'd have to stand on my head to get out of this," he thought. Then, as he realized what he'd said to himself he had the answer. In desperation, he inched his feet up the wall. By squirming from side to side, he was able to creep close to the wall and work his legs and feet above his head. From this position, helped by gravity, he pulled his knees down to his chest. With a terrific effort, he was able to slide his bound hands past his buttocks, knees and finally, over his feet. His hands were now in front of him, but his feet were still tightly tied. He lay back, gasping from the effort, until he could breathe easier. Then, by pulling on the rope with his bound hands, he gradually managed to get to his feet. Monk fumbled with his belt until it came unbuckled, and then struggled with his zipper until it pulled free. By wriggling his hips, his jeans dropped down to his knees. He bent down and, with numb fingers, was able to pull his Barlow knife from the pocket of his jeans. He cradled it carefully. Bringing it up to his mouth he managed to open the large blade with his teeth. Then, he sat down and slowly sawed back and forth on the rope that held his feet until it parted, strand by strand. His feet were now free, but his hands were still a problem. He couldn't hold the knife and cut through the ropes binding them. He was stumped, but only for a minute. Sitting down, he propped the knife between his feet, blade up. With slow movements he slid his ropes up and down the blade until they finally dropped free. Tears came to his eyes as circulation returned to his hands and feet. As feeling returned to his hands, Monk quickly adjusted his pants and crept carefully to the ladder opening. The mill appeared empty, but just as he stepped on the first rung of the ladder he heard the crunch of footsteps outside. Stepping quietly, Monk sped to the loft window. Just in front of him the mill wheel turned creakily. The splashing water masked any sounds he made as he once again stepped onto the wheel, held on, and disappeared into the water below, just as Deputy Malone entered the mill. A few underwater strokes brought Monk to the far side of the stream. He pulled himself into the weeds at the edge of the bank and crawled forward until he was hidden in the trees. From there he looked back to be sure he was out of sight, then sprang to his feet and ran deeper into the woods until he was well away from the mill. At last, he dropped to the ground, his muscles trembling. He had to rest. Chapter Ten - Monk is Hunted While Monk was catching his breath the deputy was in his car, driving fast towards town. When he found the loft empty, he panicked. As soon as he saw the cut ropes, he quickly searched the surrounding woods. When he found no sign of Monk, he'd dashed back to his patrol car. Wet and scared, Monk rested with his back against a tree, looking back the way he had come. He knew that whoever had come into the mill must have discovered his escape by now and would be looking for him; but he hoped they wouldn't look on this side of the stream. He had to get help, but he didn't know who he could he trust. He'd already tried the sheriff, and that had made things much worse. Both Pete and Sarah would be out of town soon, and he guessed his own house would be watched. Besides, after yesterday, Monk wasn't sure his mother would believe him anyway, especially not after she found his phony note. The whole thing did sound crazy, he admitted to himself, and who would believe his word against the deputy sheriff's. Dad will believe me, he thought. He just has to! Holding tight to that hope, he wearily pulled himself up and struck deeper into the woods. He wanted to get farther from the mill before he crossed back over the stream and headed towards town. At last he had to leave the protection of the trees, and move in the open, in order to reach town. Crossing an open hayfield, Monk reached the road below town and began to trudge warily along. He had traveled way out of his way in order to remain hidden by woods. About a mile outside of town he saw an old Chevy pickup, hood open, parked along the roadside. Two men were standing beside it talking. As Monk approached, one of them looked towards him. Suddenly he felt both pairs of eyes on him and he stopped as one of the men started his way. An uneasy feeling crept up Monk's back as the man sauntered down the road in his direction, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Monk didn't recognize the man. He was sure he'd never seen his face before, yet there was still something about him that seemed familiar. What was it? Looking him over from head to foot, Monk tried desperately to think what it was that seemed familiar. The man was only twenty or thirty feet away when it hit him. With his eyes fixed on the man's fancy, tooled leather western boots, Monk realized that he'd seen them before. Seen them up close, close enough to touch, two nights ago; just before he had started to run with the ghost right behind him. And that's what he did now. His fatigue vanished, replaced with the fear of a hunted animal, as Monk whirled and ran. The man in the boots yelled to his companion, then started after him. Once again Monk relived the experience of two nights before, when the ghost was breathing heavily behind him, his footsteps too close. But this time it was bright daylight, and the ghost was a determined man bent on catching him. Leaving the road, Monk reached the wood-rail fence that bordered the alfalfa field. Diving forward, he slipped between the rails, hit the ground, rolled, and was up and running again before the man reached the fence. With a glance over his shoulder, Monk saw him stop part way over the fence and shout at his partner, who ran back towards the truck. Monk took advantage of that second, when the man was turned away from him, to drop to the ground and crawl to the side as fast as he could. Monk hoped the man wouldn't remember exactly where he had last seen him when he turned back around. The alfalfa was two feet tall and Monk could easily hide in it if the man didn't know exactly where to look for him. He had to lose the man quickly, because he was tired. Too tired to keep up the race for long, and he was sure the second man would try to head him off with the truck. Some distance away now, Monk crawled slowly forward, on a diagonal line to his original direction. He wanted to reach the row of trees planted on the far side of the field as fast as he could. Raising his head just enough to peak over the alfalfa, he saw his pursuer running in circles, half way across the field. That gave him an idea. An idea that came from his favorite author, Zane Gray. "Think like an Indian, do the unexpected," he whispered softly. When Monk reached the far edge of the field, the man was still running back and forth in the alfalfa, searching for him. Monk waited until his hunter's back was turned toward him, then slipped under the fence and scurried across the six feet of open area to the trees. Keeping out of sight behind a tree he made deep footprints in the dirt leading into the next field. Running into it a short distance, he made sure that he trampled on some plants, leaving an obvious trail. Then he dropped down to the ground and rapidly crawled back to the shelter of the trees. Keeping very low, he crawled up to one of the largest trees. Monk kept the trunk between himself and his pursuer as he stood up. Staying completely hidden behind the trunk, he waited until the man reached the trees and discovered his footprints before he slipped around the tree as the man passed about ten feet away. The man followed the trail Monk had laid into the next field. As he did, Monk went down on all fours and crawled back into the original field of alfalfa. He snaked his way back into the middle of it, careful not to mash the alfalfa as he had when he was running. By moving slowly, he was able to completely disappear without a trace. It was an old Indian trick, and Monk had done it often before when playing with his friends. But now it was for real and he was being very careful. He knew that he was safe for the moment, as long as he didn't give himself away by making the stalks of alfalfa wave too much as he crawled along. For a while, Monk could still hear the man searching through the next field. At first the man had run into the field until the tracks disappeared, then he had come back and searched among the trees. After that he zigzagged up and down the second field like a bird dog trying to flush game. As the sounds of his searcher faded into the distance, Monk began to breathe easier. But he was still afraid to leave his hiding place. He didn't know who else might be watching, or where the man with the truck had gone. As his breathing returned to normal he began to feel the heat. It was hot and prickly now that the sun was climbing higher, and the constant buzzing of the bees in the alfalfa seemed louder than he had ever noticed before. Just when he decided that it might be safe to move, he heard footsteps returning and more steps coming from the direction of the road. Monk held his breath as they came closer and closer before stopping some distance away. "Did you find him, Joe?" It was the deputy's voice. "No, he disappeared in the field somehow." "Hang it all, that kid's getting to be a real pain in the neck. We have to find him or he'll blow our whole set-up." "I know," said Joe, "but he's just gone. He's hiding in one of these fields." "You and Al keep watching the fields today. I've got to get back to the office. The kid's mother found the note, and I've got to steer her south of town. As soon as it's dark I'll pick up Pete Mosley's hound and we'll do some hunting. That hound has a good nose and should run that kid to ground pronto," said the deputy. "OK," Joe replied, and the two men walked back toward the road together. Now Monk knew that he had to get out of the field, but it was going to be hard with them watching. He would have to worm his way, field to field, the long distance to the woods before dark. Somehow he had to get away before the dog started to track him. He knew the men didn't want to be seen searching the fields in the daylight, but after dark they could move more freely; just a group of hunters out with their dog. Chapter Eleven - The Runaway Note Mary Thompson was up early. She wanted to fix Monk a big breakfast of bacon, potatoes and fried eggs to make up for his missed meal the night before. As soon as the toast was buttered, she poured a big cup of hot cocoa before going to wake Monk. She was surprised that he wasn't up already after spending the afternoon in his room. Afraid that he might be sulking, she walked down the hall and rapped lightly on his door. "Monk, dear, time to get up. Breakfast is ready." When there was no answer she knocked again then opened the door. "Monk, come on to breakfast, don't...," but the room was empty and his bed wasn't mussed like it should be if he'd slept in it. Only the top sheet was thrown back. Then she saw a piece of wrinkled brown paper on his pillow. She quickly picked it up and read it through twice, then hurried down the hall to the kitchen. Picking up the receiver from the wall phone she turned the crank twice. "Hello, Merle, get me the sheriff's office right away," she said. A moment later the phone was answered. "Hello, Sheriff?" she said. "Oh, Deputy Malone. This is Mary Thompson, is the Sheriff there? "Oh, I see. Well, I don't like to bother you, but I'm worried about my son, Monk. "Yes, I punished him yesterday and I'm afraid I may have been too hard on him because his room was empty this morning. Deputy Malone, I think he's run away! I found a note on his pillow. It said he was leaving!" Mrs. Thompson sniffed back a sob, and a tear slid down her cheek, as she held the receiver to her ear. The deputy's routine questions were reassuring, but it was difficult for her to speak of Monk running away never the less. "Yes, it looks like his handwriting," she continued. "I just don't know what to do. Monk has never done anything like this before. It's not like him at all! "No, I called your office as soon as I found the note. You'll try and find him? Oh, thank you, Deputy. "What's that? Yes, I'm going to call his father now. He's been in Sommersville for the last few days, but I'm sure I can reach him at either the courthouse or the hotel. "Yes, I'll wait to hear from you. Thank you, good-bye." As soon as the deputy hung up the phone she rang for the operator again and placed a call to her husband in Sommersville. He wasn't at the hotel, and no one was answering the phone at the courthouse this early. She left a message for him at the hotel, then called both the Brewster's and the Mitchell's to see if Sarah or Pete had any idea of Monk's whereabouts, but with no luck. Neither of them knew where he was. After that there was nothing more she could do until either the deputy called, or she was able to get through to her husband. She knew he would be in court at 10:00 o'clock so she stayed by the phone, calling every ten minutes as breakfast hardened unnoticed on the table. Alice Brewster went immediately to the front door as soon as she hung up the phone. Marshall was already warming up the car and Sarah was sitting in the back seat with her suitcase. Alice had been on her way out the door when the phone rang. Stepping onto the porch, she called for her husband and Sarah to come back inside. "What is it Alice?" said Marshall Brewster, as he came through the doorway. "You'll never believe it. That was Mary Thompson, she said Monk's run away. She found a note in his room this morning." "I can't believe it. Why on earth would he do a thing like that?" "Mary thinks it is because she punished him last night, but I can hardly believe that. Mary's never been able to stay mad at that boy." "Monk wouldn't run away from home, Mom. Something must be wrong," Sarah piped in. "Hush, dear, his mother said he left a note saying he was going. "Marshall, Mary will need us here. I'll call my sister so she won't be expecting us today. We simply can't leave now. I think we should go over and see if there is something we can do to help." "Yes, of course,” Marshall said. “She must be going crazy all alone with Frank still out of town." "Is it OK if I go over to Pete's, then, Mom? Maybe Monk told him something," said Sarah. "Uh, yes, I guess so, dear, but only for a little while. And don't you go anywhere else, I may need to call for you." "OK, Mom," she said, already halfway out the door. A similar scene was playing out at the Mitchell's. Neither family could imagine Monk running away from home. It simply wasn't in character. Pete's parents were talking together when Sarah arrived, which freed both children to go outside without attracting their attention. Hurrying around the corner of the house so they wouldn't be overheard before they said anything. "Do you believe Monk ran away?" Sarah asked. "No, of course not. Something's happened to him." "But his mother said he left a note," Sarah went on. "I know, that's what I can't understand. Especially since he wasn't planning to run away when he came over here last night." That information caught Sarah's attention. "He came over here last night? When?" "Late, after his mother went to bed. He wanted me to go back out to the mill with him, but I couldn't. My folks were checking on me. I told him not to go out there alone! I said it was too dangerous, but you know Monk once his mind's made up." "Gosh, do you think he went there by himself, after everything that happened?" "Yes, I'm sure that's where he was going when he left here. Maybe the ghost caught him?" "He must have. Monk would never have run away from home. But what I can't figure out is why he would have written a note saying he was running away. That makes no sense. What can we do, Pete?" "I don't know, but I'm scared, Sarah. Monk thought the sheriff and deputy must be up to something out there, otherwise why would the deputy lie about us." "I'm frightened, too. We have to do something, but what? The only good thing is that my folks aren't shipping me off to Aunt Edna, right now. Mom said we couldn't leave until Monk is found." "Same with my mom. We aren't going to grandma Mitchell's in Sommersville, either. At least not right now. All we can do is listen and wait, I guess. Maybe we'll think of something," Pete said. "It sounds like we're all going over to comfort Mrs. Thompson pretty soon," Sarah said. "I think our dads are going out to help look for Monk. Mrs. Thompson told mom that she had talked to Deputy Malone, and he was going looking for Monk, too." "I'm not so sure I'd want him looking for me," Pete said. Not sure of what to do, and with no way to sneak away to look for Monk themselves, they decided to wait and watch. They hoped that Monk would turn up on his own. Meanwhile, ever so slowly, Monk inched his way through the alfalfa. He was careful not to disturb the stalks too much as he crawled. There was no breeze and waving alfalfa could give his position away. He was tired, hungry, thirsty and frightened. Sweat trickled down his back. It felt like insects crawling inside his shirt, and dirt stuck to his body, adding to his discomfort. His knees were already sore from all the crawling. As he rested, the droning of the bees on their pollen runs through the alfalfa blossoms was hypnotic, and his mind drifted to Sarah and Pete. He wondered if they knew he was missing, or if they were unaware he was gone. He realized that there was probably nothing they could do, in either case. They must be in Sommersville already. I'm on my own, he told himself. The Mitchell's called Pete and Sarah back inside. After talking to Mrs. Brewster on the phone, both families had decided to wait with Monk's mother until the deputy called back. Deputy Malone had already told Mrs. Thompson that a boy like Monk had been reported heading southeast across the fields just after daybreak. That meant he was headed away from both the mill and Sommersville. The deputy was going to call back later, but he suggested all of them might help search for Monk, once he had a better plan of action. By the time Monk reached the relative safety of the woods, the sun was nearly setting, casting long shadows, but it was more comfortable in their coolness. He was near exhaustion, but his fear drove him on. He was still too close to the fields to be safe, so he went deeper into the trees. At last he stopped. His stomach was gnawing at him now and his throat was terribly parched. His tongue felt twice normal size and his lips stuck together when he talked to himself. "Boy am I thirsty," he said aloud, just to hear himself. "I've got to find some water and a place to hide, soon." Just then, he heard the baying of a hound somewhere in the distance. It didn't register with him at first, but then he realized what the baying meant. The dog had found his scent in the field. His heart began to pound again. Be calm now, he told himself. I've got to think and I can’t think if I panic. He took a deep breath to steady himself. I've got to get to the stream. The water will hide my scent from the dog, but I've got to get there before he catches me. It won’t take him long to track me through the fields. The shadows were deepening, and Monk moved as quickly as he could through the gloom under the trees. When he reached the stream again, he waded straight into the water, it was shallow here. Stopping in the middle, he cupped his hands and scooped the clear, cool water to his mouth again and again. Using everything he'd learned from reading Zane Gray’s books, he left the stream on the far side, and ran a little farther before wrapping his arms around a leafy tree. He rubbed himself against it to leave a strong scent. Then, walking backwards so that all of his footprints were going in the same direction, he retraced his steps and waded back into the stream. That ought to confuse them for a while, he thought. Now I've got to go downstream. In the distance it was clear that the baying of the hound was coming closer. Monk hurried on. A few hundred yards downstream, he found what he was looking for. A tree grew close to the near bank with one branch stretching out over the water. It was low enough for him to reach by jumping. On the second try he managed to grab it and hold on. He pulled himself up onto the limb and crawled along it to the main trunk. He chose another branch that stretched in the opposite direction. He crawled out on it until it began to bend from his weight and then, hanging by his arms, he dropped to the ground. He was a good fifteen feet from the stream, and on the opposite bank from where he had laid the false trail. "Now let that hound try and smell me out," he said, pleased with himself. He headed even farther away, as fast as his weary legs would take him. Monk could hear the sounds of the hunt clearly now. When his trackers reached the water upstream from him, he heard them splash across; heard the hound bay louder when he struck Monk's scent on the opposite side. From the sound, he could tell the hound was no longer moving, but was barking "treed." He smiled to himself. He knew what he was going to do now, and he jogged toward the Wilson's farm. It was a perfect place to rest. Jennifer Wilson had told everyone that they were going on a vacation, so no one should be home. They had no dog to give him away and, most important to him right now, they had early bearing apple trees. The Wilson farm came right up to the woods, too, so Monk could look the place over before leaving the protection of the trees. As he reached a rise at the edge of their property, the farm lay before him. A large yellow moon was hanging just above the horizon, and he could see everything clearly in its light. To his right, the house stood dark and silent off to the side. Behind it, and closer to Monk, was the barn. Monk thought about hiding there but the empty windows and doors reminded him of dark, watchful eyes, and he decided to stay away from the buildings. He didn't want to feel trapped again. To his left, was a small grove of apple trees, and he headed straight for them, prompted by the empty growling of his stomach. He picked several of the tiny green apples and gnawed at them hungrily. Their juiciness satisfied his thirst and their tartness satisfied his hunger, for the moment. Slumping to the ground he propped his back against a tree and closed his eyes, just for a minute, but his exhaustion caught up with him, and he dozed. When he jerked awake the moon had moved noticeably higher in the sky. He felt a little better and began to plan his next move. He ticked off his options on his fingers. I can't go home because they are watching for me, and I don't even know what they look like, except for the deputy, Jed, and the two men I saw at the road, he thought. That's at least four, and the Sheriff would make five, if he's part of it. But there might be more. Someone is making all that moonshine and bringing it to the mill. Why the mill, I wonder? It occurred to him that he didn't know whom he could trust. The safe town he had lived in all of his life suddenly seemed unfamiliar and dangerous. If the sheriff's office was in on this, anyone could be a part of the bootlegging operation; even people he knew and trusted. He had heard about moonshiners making homemade alcohol and selling it illegally to avoid the expense of a real factory and paying revenue taxes. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought about what his parents must be feeling. They're probably looking all over for me, he thought. I've got to get to them somehow. But if the house is being watched they might be in danger, too. I wish Pete and Sarah were here, they could get word to my dad. He'd know what to do. But they must be in Sommersville; at least Pete should be, and Sarah's probably already on her way on the train. Just then, an idea occurred to him. If he could get to Sommersville and find Pete, together they might figure a way to reach his dad, without getting caught. They always made a good team together. Monk thought if he walked all night he should be able to reach Sommersville by dawn, and he knew where Pete's grandparents lived. Getting to his feet Monk stretched. His muscles were stiff from all the running and crawling he'd been through, but he felt rested. Setting out, he followed the trees east, until he hit the road to Sommersville. From there it was only about fifteen miles. If he kept to the road he should make it by dawn. Half the town had been out searching for Monk following the deputy's false tip. Sarah and Pete were in the back seat of the Brewster's car. Mr. Thompson, Monk’s dad, had requested a delay before presenting his summation to the jury, and had driven home. He and Mary were driving the roads hoping to find some trace of Monk. The other families had divided the roads into sections and were methodically searching the area south and east of town. Pete had told the Brewsters about Monk's late night visit, and his plan to go to the mill. Mr. Brewster was skeptical, but convinced that Sarah and Pete believed what they were telling him. Turning the car around he headed back to town. Mrs. Brewster wanted to go home, feed Sarah and Pete and get them to bed, over their loud protests. Mr. Brewster promised he would keep looking, and would drive out to the mill to look for Monk, just in case he had gone there. Chapter Twelve - Cut Off The trip through the woods to the Sommersville road was uneventful, but long. Monk trudged along, always on the lookout for anyone watching. Once he heard a dog in the distance, but it was too far off to tell whether it was following his trail or just out hunting. A car was passing when Monk reached the road. It was too dark to make out who it was, so he crouched down in the grass by the roadside until it was out of sight. He didn't trust anyone now. Wonder if my mom and dad are looking for me? Thirty minutes later, Monk was walking along the edge of the road. It was easier to walk in the road, and he was making good time. He tried to remain alert and stopped often to listen, but he was too tired. He was often startled by shadows, as he almost sleepwalked along. Just as he entered the deeper shadows from a clump of tall cottonwoods, he felt a chill that was deeper than the shade. He stopped, wide awake again. His breath caught in his throat as a familiar voice rose from just ahead. "Been waiting for you, boy. Thought you might try this way, eventually." A few feet ahead Monk could just see a darker shadow detach itself from the trees and move forward. His first thought was to run, but it was already too late. "Don't move," said Deputy Malone. Monk could see him more clearly as he stepped into the road. "Move one step and I'll blow you apart," the deputy hissed. "You've led me quite a chase, but now it's over." Monk saw a gun hanging loosely from his hand as the deputy walked toward him, and any hope of running disappeared. Cold fear knotted his stomach. Monk knew the deputy couldn't afford to let him go, and his body might stay undiscovered in the woods for years. The deputy was suddenly blinded by the headlights of a car as it rounded a bend in the road. He threw up his left hand to shield his eyes. At this unexpected move, Monk dove for the side of the road without even thinking. He rolled into the bushes, then ran away from the road. He was surprised that no shot rang out after him. Must be afraid the driver will hear, he thought. Monk paused in the cover of some trees and looked back down the road. No one seemed to be following. The moonlight reflected from the sheriff's car. It was stopped beside the deputy, but Monk couldn't hear their voices from where he crouched. Wanting to get farther away from the deputy, he turned and ran back the way he'd come. The sheriff, returning from his meeting at the capitol, had stopped by Deputy Malone, surprised to see him by the side of the road. "What's going on, Pat?" he said, leaning his head slightly out the car window. "Looking for a runaway, Sheriff. Monk Thompson's run away from home. Got his folks plumb frazzled." "That so. You sure he's run off?" "Yep. He left a note. He's run away all right. I thought I might see him on the road. Walking through the woods at night's a pretty scary thing for a kid to do." "It would be if he's in the woods, "agreed the sheriff. Well, can't do much right now, and it's getting late Pat. You might as well go on home for tonight. I'll look into this in the morning." "OK, Sheriff. By the way, how was the fishing up at Jackson Creek?" "Poor. Too durn hot I reckon. Came back early out'a plain boredom." "Too bad, maybe you'll get lucky next time." "Maybe. Well, I'll be getting on home. See you in the morning, Pat." "Night, Sheriff." The deputy turned away from the car as it drove off and walked back toward the trees, disappearing into their shadows. A few minutes, later his patrol car backed onto the road and raced off, throwing dirt from its spinning wheels. Chapter Thirteen - A Safe Haven Now Monk knew the roads were being watched, and somewhere men with a dog were searching for him, too. He didn't know where to go, then he remembered something he'd read, "Do the unexpected." What would that be? he wondered. He needed to find a safe place to rest. If he could get back to the mill, he could hide in the loft. That would be the last place the deputy would think of looking for him. At least he hoped so, and when he was rested maybe he could think of a way to reach his dad. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, and with a prickly feeling at the back of his neck, Monk started back toward the mill. Behind him, unaware of his presence, another pair of eyes had watched the deputy speed off. Stopping his truck out of sight, the sheriff had hurried back through the trees, suspicious of the deputy's actions. He pondered this series of events, turning them over in his mind as he walked back toward his truck. A mile down the road, Monk turned off to the left and crossed an empty field, running bent over while he was in the open. Once on the other side, he stopped to listen. He waited for his heart to quit pounding, before going down the bank to the stream where it curved close to the road. The dog would track him if it accidentally hit his trail, so he stepped into the slow moving water. The night sounds masked the tiny splashes he made as he walked along. He planned to stay in the stream, as much as possible, until he reached the mill. When it seemed that he had been walking in the stream forever, he stopped again to rest. He realized that he'd been almost sleepwalking again, and had to look all around before he recognized exactly where he was. Then he realized he was just upstream from the mill, where the water was shallow and quick. Continuing, trying not to splash, he stayed close to the far shore as he neared the mill. Bending low over the water, he tried to blend into the shadows from the trees; tried not to make even a ripple in the water. He was more afraid now, but he had to go on; had to reach the water wheel without being seen. Monk studied the mill, trying to pierce the darkness. It seemed deserted, but it had looked that way the night before, too, when the deputy had caught him. Is he there now, waiting for me in the shadows, Monk wondered. He was not going to be that careless again. Just then, a match flared briefly, near the corner of the mill. Monk froze. Had someone spotted him? Afraid to move, or even breath, he sank even lower, until he was only a small dark clump at the edge of the water. The match was quickly cupped in the hands of a man lighting his cigarette. His head was partly turned, so that Monk was unable to see who it was from where he crouched. "They coming yet?" came the deputy's voice from inside the mill. "Nope, I ain't seen nobody!" the smoker replied. "Well, they shouldn't be long now, this trip will have to be the last. With that darn kid still loose and the sheriff back, we'll have to clear out of here before morning." "Yeah, too bad that kid getting away from you. He's got more luck than sense," said the man at the door. "This has been a good set-up." "Been near perfect," said the deputy, "'til that ghost scheme backfired." "Uh-huh, Joe and I got a kick out'a taking turns scaring them kids." Monk recognized Jed's voice. So the sheriff isn't part of the gang after all! Monk thought. As Jed walked around the corner, the red glow from his cigarette disappeared. Monk started walking again. He stopped a few yards upstream from the mill wheel. He lay flat in the water and let himself float. With a little push he began drifting toward the waterwheel. He knew what he was going to do now. First he would get inside and hide in the loft. Maybe he could overhear what they planned to do next, and find out who else was involved. Then, when the men cleared out, he could safely get to town and locate his parents, or the sheriff. He should be safe in the loft as long as he didn't make any noise. The deputy obviously thought he was far away, and they had no reason to think that he would come back here. The only way he could get inside from the water was to float down to the slowly turning water wheel, grab one of its paddles, and let it lift him to the top. Monk was sure he could jump to the small opening in the loft as he passed it. He had gone out this way twice but he'd never tried it the other way. He would have only one chance to jump for the opening before the wheel carried him past it and back down to the stream, but it was a small jump. The water was deeper water now. Holding his breath he went under the dark water and swam forward. His face broke the surface again, only a few feet from the wheel. One smooth stroke of his arm and he was there. The wheel turned slowly and powerfully past him, rising up some eight feet, before arching down again. Monk took a deep breath and reached out with both hands. He grabbed hold of a paddle as it rose out of the water. Holding tight, he was lifted out of the pool, his knees banged against the next paddle as he was dragged out of the water. Lifting his feet, he felt for a firm foothold on the slippery wood and braced himself as the tiny window came closer. When the wheel carried him opposite the window, he reached out for the frame, ducked his head and jumped, all in one motion. Misjudging slightly, he bumped into the far edge of the opening bruising his side, but he held on and quietly slipped into the darkness of the loft. Chapter Fourteen - A Fiery Escape Inside the loft, Monk stood still, afraid to move until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He couldn’t afford to make any noise. He knew the deputy was below somewhere. Monk held his breath, hoping no one had heard him bump into the window frame, but the creaking and splashing of the wheel had covered any other sounds. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he begin to make out the walls. Suddenly a faint beam of light streamed up through a crack in the loft floor as someone lit the lantern in the downstairs room. Carefully inching toward the light, Monk lay down on the floor. With his eye over the crack he could see down into the room below. Deputy Malone and Jed began to uncover crates of bottles from the rubble at the back of the mill and stacked them near the door. Every few minutes the deputy paused to check his watch. "They ought to have been here afore now," he grumbled. "Go on out and see if you can hear anything." "OK, OK, don't get so jumpy. They'll be along all right." Stubbing his cigarette out on the floor, Jed slouched out the doorway as the deputy continued moving the bottles of moonshine from the back to the front. It was dirty work and after making several trips he stopped to pull a red bandanna from his back pocket. He began to mop his forehead with it, when, like magic, the sheriff suddenly appeared in the doorway, a leveled revolver in his hand. "Up kind'a late ain't you, Pat?" came his slow drawl. The deputy, caught with his back facing the door, whirled around, his right hand grabbing for his holster. "No need for that, Pat, it's too late already. Just stand easy now, hands behind your..." The sheriff suddenly pitched forward in mid-sentence. His head hit the floor with a dull thud, and he lay crumpled on his side. Monks hopes, which had soared at sight of the Sheriff, fell even lower than before. He looks like a giant doll some kid tossed away when they got tired of him, thought Monk. Jed filled the doorway where the sheriff had stood moments before, a length of wood held in his hand like a club. The deputy didn't move or speak, for a moment. The two events had happened so fast that he was still in shock. Then he seemed to relax, his shoulders slumping, slightly. "Thought maybe the sheriff had already taken care of you," said the deputy. "Nope, just had to wait for the right time to clunk him one," said Jed. "I saw him sneaking up through the trees while I was down by the stream. Figured I'd give him a little surprise of my own," he said. "Well, better get him tied up. There's still some rope over by the ladder," the deputy said. Monk watched as the unconscious sheriff was tied hand and foot, then dragged to one side and dumped against the wall, out of the way. The two men continued moving crates of moonshine to the door, passing under Monk's vantage point on each trip. All at once Jed stopped, eyes staring at the floor by his feet. "What the... Pat, look here!" The deputy joined him and both men stared at a small puddle of water on the floor. Then, almost as one, both pairs of eyes turned upwards as a drop of water splashed into the puddle. In the darkness, Monk hadn't noticed the water running off of his clothes as he lay on the floor of the loft. It had formed a puddle and unnoticed, had begun to drip down through the crack in the floorboards. Now it was too late! Panic caught at his throat. The deputy walked over to the ladder, his eyes on the dark opening. Monk was frozen, afraid to move, but just as the deputy's foot touched the bottom rung of the ladder they heard low voices outside. He paused, one foot still on the floor, looking upward. "They're here," Jed said, turning toward the doorway. "About time, too," said the deputy, his attention diverted. "Let's get the stuff loaded and beat it out of here, quick." The dripping water forgotten, both men hurried out carrying boxes of moonshine whiskey. Able to breathe again, Monk crept to the window and carefully peered out. He could see the tail ends of three large canoes pulled up onto the shore. Going back to the crack in the floor, but careful not to let water drip on the crack this time, he looked into the room below. The deputy and Jed returned, followed by several other men. They spoke little as they made trip after trip, filling the canoes with crates. After the last crate was carried out, Monk heard the heavily loaded canoes scrape against the shore as they were pushed into the water. He listened to the oars rhythmic sounds as they alternately entered and left the water as the canoes were paddled down the stream. As he watched, the deputy came back into view alone. The sheriff was conscious now. Monk could just see him through the crack, laying there quietly, eyes on the larger man as he reentered the mill. "Well, Sheriff, guess this is good-bye, for you at least. No hard feelings I hope, but you know I can't let you leave here alive." "Figured as much," came the sheriff's drawl. "Course you and the other boys won't get away with this. Not after murdering a Sheriff." "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Sheriff. You're going to have an unfortunate accident. You got careless, see, and knocked over this kerosene lamp." As he spoke, the deputy threw the lighted lamp against the side wall, splashing kerosene onto the wall and floor. Flames exploded, spreading rapidly along the tinder dry wood. "So long, Sheriff, keep warm," he laughed as he went out the door. Monk watched until the deputy left the room. One whole wall was already on fire, and tongues of flame were licking their way across the floor toward the sheriff. The light and heat was intense as Monk ran nimbly down the ladder, his Barlow knife already in his hand. The sheriff's eyes opened wide in surprise as Monk appeared and slashed the ropes binding him. The sheriff had always seemed a slow moving man to Monk, but as soon as the ropes fell away he leaped to his feet and grabbed Monk's arm, pushing him toward the door. "Quick, boy, before the whole place comes down on us!" "Not that way, he'll see us! Follow me, there's another way out." Monk turned and ran back up the ladder as lightly as a monkey, the heat and billowing smoke urging him on, the Sheriff at his heels. The loft was already filling with smoke. It funneled up the loft's opening, and out through the window, like a chimney. "The window," Monk choked out. "We can grab the water wheel and ride down to the stream." Lifting Monk, the sheriff sat him on the window ledge and watched him vanish in the smoke as he reached out for the turning paddles. Squirming through the small window himself, he felt for the wheel. Grasping a paddle as it passed, the Sheriff was pulled out and fell hard against the wheel. Upside down, he let go and splashed head first into the water. The mill was engulfed in flame now and the crackling roar of the old timbers covered them as Monk and the sheriff bobbed up out of the water like corks, coughing from the smoke. They swam downstream and crawled out of the water and into the weeds. The canoes were gone, but they could see the flames reflecting from the deputy's patrol car. He was taking no chances on the Sheriff escaping. "That was a close one, son, thanks," the Sheriff said, quietly. "What were you doing up in the loft anyway?" "It seemed like the only hiding place where they wouldn't look for me," said Monk. "I escaped from there about dawn and they've been looking for me ever since. They've even got the Mosley's hound tracking me, and the deputy almost caught me again when you drove up the road. I didn't know where else to go." "Right smart, son," said the Sheriff, laying his big hand on his shoulder. "It was a good thing for me that you were there. Come on, let's get to my truck. We'll make a stop at the Barstow's. We can phone the state patrol boys from there. I don't think the canoes will get past them." As they carefully worked their way through the trees by the glow from the fire, Monk told the sheriff everything that had happened over the last three days. "You did real good, son. I couldn't have done better myself, and I been sheriffing for a pile of years." Monk smiled at the compliment. With someone else in charge at last, he was able to give in to his exhaustion. "Why go to the Barstow's? Why don't we go into town and call," he asked. "Well, that deputy's still around, and now that he thinks I'm out of the way he'll be looking for you, most likely. I want to get some help on the way before I show up alive. I don't want him to have any chance to slip away. "I knew illegal booze was being moved downstream to the Mississippi River, but didn't know who was behind it, or how it was being done. My fishing trip wasn't for catfish, it was for two-legged fish. I've been at the capitol, meeting with the state troopers and the federal revenue agents. They believed another shipment was just about due, so I came back early to see if I could turn something up." He smiled, "I guess you could say something turned up." "Wow, you mean the government is interested in this, too!" Monk gasped. "Yep. They been looking for this operation for quite a spell, and thanks to you the case is solved." As they reached the place where the sheriff had hidden his truck, he checked to make sure no one else was around before coming out in the open. Soon they pulled into the Barstow's yard. Taking no chances of a slip-up now, the sheriff pulled the car around the house, out of sight from the road, before they went to the door. Mrs. Barstow met them at the porch, having heard the truck drive in. "Hello Sheriff, what are you doing here this time of night? Why land sakes, what have you been up to? You look a sight," she said, as she got a better look at him. "And Monk Thompson. Do you know most of the town's been looking for you? And your poor ma is worried half to death." "Never mind that now, Martha," the Sheriff cut in, "I'll explain everything later. Right now I need to use your phone. We're in a hurry." "It's right in here, Sheriff," said Mrs. Barstow. Monk could see she was itching with questions, but she saw that now wasn't the time, and kept them to herself with an obvious effort. In the lighted kitchen she could see that both Monk and the sheriff were the worse for wear. They were dripping wet, covered with mud and they smelled of smoke. She placed a bowl of fresh oatmeal cookies on the table and led Monk to a chair. As he wolfed them down she poured him a glass of milk. Between bites, he tried to fill her in while the sheriff was hurriedly making phone calls. First to the state police and then to the state capitol. When the sheriff was finished, he hung up the phone and turned to Martha. "Where's Jim, Martha?" "He's still out looking for Monk, along with half the town. We all thought he'd run away." "Has he got his shotgun with him?" said the sheriff. "No, it's here. Do you want it, sheriff?" she asked in surprise. "If I could borrow it for a while I'd be obliged, Martha." She quickly left the room, returning with a twelve gauge pump shotgun and a box of shells. The stalk was worn from use but the gun had obviously been well cared for. The sheriff took them both and quickly pushed shells into the gun. "Thanks, Martha, I'll take this along, just in case," he said as he and Monk walked quickly towards the car. The fire had been reported by this time, and a line of car lights was on its way towards the mill. But by the time the fire department and help arrived, the mill was nothing but a fiery heap of timbers throwing sparks high into the night sky. Marshall Brewster and Frank Thompson arrived with the others. Mr. Brewster shared what Pete and Sarah had told him with the waiting men, while Mr. Thompson paced around, staring at the fire with a worried expression. The other men milled around, helplessly, their faces somber, as the last traces of a building turned into charred ashes; the same unspoken thought in each of their minds. Chapter Fifteen - Foxed and Outfoxed The sheriff drove through town along the back streets. "What will we do now, Sheriff?" Monk asked. "The federal boys will pick up the canoes down river all right, but I want to grab that deputy of mine afore he skips on us, son?" "But won't he be gone by now?" "Maybe, but I don't think so. He's so cocksure of himself that I don't think he'll give up the game so easy. I figure him to hang around hoping to find you. He thinks you're the only one left that could mess up his plans. He doesn't know the state and federal boys are onto the game." "But how will we find him?" Monk asked. "Might not have to. Unless I'm wrong he'll find us, or you, really." "Huh?" "We'll park behind the Stone's house and walk over to your place. If I were him, I'd figure you to try for home and I'll bet he's watching for you to show up there. He's probably got your folks and neighbors out on a wild goose chase looking for you." They parked the truck out of sight, and the sheriff and Monk walked along the bordering hedge until they could see down the street to Monk's house. It was only a few houses away and the house lights were on, casting shadows from nearby trees. "Monk, do you think you can make it to your house alone?" "Sure, Sheriff, but aren't you coming?" he asked, anxiously. "If you think you'll be all right, I'm going to work my way down the alley out of sight. Give me a few minutes and then head on home. I'll be watching you from that clump of bushes at the side of your house, OK?" Monk thought for a minute. Since the lights were on in the living room his mom was probably there, worried sick. "I guess so," said Monk. "OK then, you count to a hundred and then go straight down this side of the street." Monk watched nervously while the sheriff disappeared before he began counting. At one hundred he started walking down the deserted street. When he was almost there, he saw the lights go off. He started to run, anxious to tell his mother he was all right. He jumped up the steps two at a time, jerked the door open wide and dashed into the darkened hall shouting. "Mom, Dad! I'm..." As he crossed the threshold an arm wrapped around him from behind and a big hand was clamped over his mouth. He couldn't breathe! He struggled frantically in the dark, but it was no use. "Now I got you for the last time, boy," hissed the deputy's voice in the dark. "First the Sheriff and now you. Ain't no reason for me to leave this setup now. You just keep real quiet now, ya hear, or I'll have to let you have it right here." Monk nodded his head slightly and the hand moved away from his mouth so he could breathe again. The big man pulled and dragged Monk through the house toward the kitchen. In the dark they knocked over a lamp stand at the end of the hall. It crashed to the floor with the sound of breaking glass. The screen door to the kitchen banged shut behind them as they passed through to the back yard. Monk stumbled as he was jerked across the yard and shoved roughly into a car parked at the back of the house. Just as the deputy bent down to get into the car, Monk heard a thud, and watched wide eyed, as the deputy sank slowly to the ground and the sheriff's face suddenly appeared at the car door. He was holding the shotgun like a club. "You all right, son?" he said, worry evident in his voice. Gulping back tears, Monk nodded, unable to speak. The sheriff's tense face began to relax as he saw that Monk was all right. "Well now, that was real close, son. Never expected him to be in the house. Lucky you made some noise. Soon as I heard things falling over I knew we'd been outfoxed. But it's all right now. We've got him, thanks to you. You're a regular hero in this case." Tears of relief welled up in Monk's eyes. He was exhausted to the bone and hadn't slept in a bed for two days. Looking down at him, the sheriff smiled. "You must be beat, son. Go on in the house and get to bed. I'll cuff my ex-deputy and call the state boys to pick him up and locate your folks. Then I'll come in and sit with you 'til they get here, OK?" "Uh-huh," Monk grunted through a wide yawn. "I'm sure bushed all right. Where is everyone, anyway?" "Out looking for you, most likely. I'm sure Malone had everyone out looking in the wrong direction to keep them out of the way. " "Good night, Sheriff. Sure glad you're back from fishing," Monk said before he walked back into the house, and to his bed. "Night, son." Monk turned once on his way to the house. "Sheriff?" "What is it, son?" "Thanks!" "The thanks all go to you, son," the sheriff replied. His voice sounded warm and safe, to Monk. Sometime later, Monk opened his eyes briefly to see the sheriff sitting next to the bed. He was reading one of Monk’s Zane Gray books. Feeling safe at last, Monk closed his eyes and was immediately asleep again. He was still dead to the world when his parents arrived and his mother cried to see him safe. His father, holding back the moisture in his own eyes, listened as the Sheriff related all he knew about the events of the last three days. When Monk finally woke up, it was early afternoon, and the yard was full of his friends. News of his exploits had flown through the town and they were waiting to hear his story first hand. Sheriff Jeffers had called him a real hero, the first one the town had ever had. That evening after everything calmed down and, Monk was alone in his room, he smiled to himself as he suddenly thought about the coming first day of school. What a terrific "What I Did Last Summer" theme I can write for Mrs. Crabtree this year, he told himself. * * * Later in the week, Monk, Sarah and Pete hiked back to view what was left of the mill. There was nothing left standing except a few blackened timbers and everything was covered with a thick layer of ashes. Poking through the rubble, Pete said, "Look, the grinding stones have moved." When they went closer they saw that the weight of the stones had caused the weakened floorboards to give way. The stones now lay at a tilt, and the floor underneath was splintered. "Pete, Sarah, look. Something's down there!" Beneath the splintered floor boards, at the base of the grinding stones, was a small space. Inside was a metal box, blackened from the fire. Careful not to fall through the opening, the boys pulled the box through the hole and carried it away from the ruins. "Do you think it could be McIntyre's treasure?" said Monk. "It must be," Sarah responded. "Otherwise why would it be hidden under the floor?" Slowly, Monk pried back the lid. It was warped from the heat. Inside the box were two small weathered leather pouches. Pete opened them, one after another, dumping their contents out onto the grass. All three gasped, as two small pyramids of coins formed at their feet, one gold, the other silver. "Yahoo!" Sarah shouted. Grabbing Monk and Pete by the hand they began to dance around the coins, whooping and shouting wildly. "I can't believe it," Monk said, when they stopped to catch their breath. "Me neither," said Pete. "That has to be McIntyre's hoard, hidden right under everyone's feet all these years. "That's why no one ever found it, I guess," said Monk. "And never would have if it hadn't been for the ghost," Sarah added. "Yeah, and there wasn't really any ghost at all," said Pete. At that exact moment, the grinding stones crashed through what was left of the floor, sending up a cloud of ash. All three jumped at the sound. They watched in shocked silence as the ash settled back to earth, covering the stones. A sudden breeze, one of those rare zephyrs that come out of nowhere and vanish as suddenly, whispered over the stones. As they watched in astonishment, the initials, H. M., magically appeared as the breeze scattered the ashes from that corner of the stone. "Or was there a ghost, after all?" Monk whispered, staring at the initials. Sarah looked at him, "It's almost as if someone, or something, brushed off those initials on purpo..." "It's time to go! Let's pick up the coins," Monk interrupted. Hurriedly scooping up the coins and stuffing them back into the cracked leather pouches, they recrossed the meadow - alive with butterflies in the sunlight - and disappeared over the hill. None of them looked back; just in case there might be something to see. The End |
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