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“Give me that beer!” Skip laughed, took the can from Trevor, popped the tab, and took a deep swig.
Cody did the same with his can. “Want a sip?” He held it out to Trevor, who shook his head. He’d tasted beer in Seattle and hadn’t liked it all that much.
“So am I in your club now?” Trevor asked.
The two older boys looked at each other and grinned. “Sure, kid,” Cody said. “Hell, you can be in any club you want. You can even be president.”
Trevor was still digesting the words when Skip put a finger to his lips. “Listen. I think somebody’s coming.”
From the direction of the house came the sound of a door closing. When Trevor peered between the boards, he saw a flashlight beam dancing in the darkness, still distant but coming closer. Then another sound froze all three boys with fear. It was the bark of a good-sized dog.
“Quiet, Butch! Get back here.” The man’s voice had a gravelly tone, as if he might be old. “Who’s there?” he called. “I’ve got a gun, and I know how to use it. Come on out with your hands up—now.”
Skip and Cody grabbed their bikes. “I know a back way out of here,” Skip whispered. “Come on, let’s go!”
Dropping the beer cans, they leaped onto their bikes, shot out the door and, still hidden from the stranger’s view, disappeared into the night—leaving Trevor alone in the barn.
“Come on out! I know you’re in there!” The man was still outside but getting closer. Trevor could hear the dog growling and chuffing. Maybe he should do what the man said—come out of the barn with his hands up. But no. The man had a gun, and he had the right to shoot an intruder on his property. All he’d have to do was pull the trigger, or sic the dog on him and let it tear him to pieces.
He could even be crazy, like the villains in horror movies—the kind of villains who kidnapped kids and tortured them to death, or held them for ransom.
Even if the man were to just call the police—or Trevor’s dad—this story was bound to have an ugly ending.
With terror pumping adrenaline through his body, Trevor made a wild dash for the canvas-covered object in the corner of the barn, lifted the edge of the tarp, and dived underneath.
Maybe, if he kept still enough, the man would shine his light on the beer cans and bike tracks and think that all the intruders had gone. Hopefully, he would stop looking and leave before coming into the barn.
But what about the dog?
The space under the canvas was pitch dark, the ground smelling of earth and moldy straw. Thinking that the hidden object might be a car, Trevor groped for tires to hide behind, but he found none—just concrete blocks where the wheels should be.
Why hadn’t he run when his friends left on their bikes? But they weren’t his friends and never had been. He understood that now. They had used him, and when danger had shown up, they’d left him to face it alone.
The man had come into the barn. Trevor could hear him talking to the dog. “What do you think, Butch? Are the little bastards gone?” He kicked one of the beer cans. “I’ll wager they were up to no good. Take a good sniff around to make sure. If you don’t find anybody, then we’ll go back to the house and have some ice cream.”
The dog was nearing Trevor’s hiding place. Trevor could hear the big animal sniffing the ground. He shrank between the concrete blocks, expecting to be found and attacked any second.
The dog yipped, scratching at the edge of the tarpaulin. “Good boy,” the man said. “Come on back now. I can take it from here.” He raised his voice, speaking to Trevor. “Better come out now, before I shoot this tarp full of holes and you with it.”
Trevor lay still. The man was probably bluffing. But what if he wasn’t?
“I’ll give you to the count of three—one . . . two . . . three!” He grabbed a corner of the tarpaulin and yanked it away. The flashlight beam caught Trevor in the eyes, but he could make out an old-looking man with white whiskers, a pistol in his hand, and a huge, shaggy dog at his side. The dog looked a lot like the monster that trailed little Maggie around. Maybe the two animals were related.
The man lowered his gun. “Come on out, you damn fool kid. I won’t hurt you, and neither will Butch, here.”
Trevor crawled into the light, scrambled to his feet, and stood there, shaking.
“Well, I’ll be swanned,” the man said. “You’re the kid I saw in Buckaroo’s the other day with your dad and that Miss Graver. You’d better have a damned good story to tell, especially about these beer cans.”
Trevor knew he was in big trouble now. “Please,” he begged. “I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t call my dad.”
He turned away to hide a surge of tears. That was when he saw it—the flashlight beam shining on the object that had been under the canvas.
He’d assumed it was a car. But it wasn’t a car at all. Except for the missing runners, it was an honest-to-goodness Santa Claus–stylesleigh.
Trevor hadn’t believed in Santa since he was in first grade. But he was so stunned by the sight of that sleigh that for a moment he almost forgot he was in trouble.
“What are you staring at, boy? I told you to come with me.”
