“STOP!” I said.
“What is it?” Tom was panting heavily.
“Shh! Listen.” Frozen in the twilight, we stood holding Martin.
“I think it’s just the truck burning,” Gwyneth said. “But keep moving before I drop him.”
The truck was still crackling, hissing, and sputtering, out of sight and around the corner. But I could have sworn I heard another sound. A sound like a…motor….
SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.
Three car doors closed in the distance—from somewhere behind the house. “Quick, Tom,” I whispered, “they’re back. Let’s get him to the bushes, before they see us.”
The thought of facing Rake motivated Tom and Gwyneth like nothing else could. We adjusted our grips on Martin and trudged for the brush. I wasn’t worried about the noise—I only wanted to get Martin to safety. Ten feet beyond the treeline, we set Martin down. He was still out cold, but he was alive.
From our hiding spot we could hear Rake screaming. Bits and pieces of his rage drifted toward us in the air: “…find you…son of a…kill you and…Nazi…DEAD!” The words were a garbled mess, but we got the message—loud and clear.
“We gotta get out of here,” Tom said, wiping the sweat off his face with his wrist.
Gwyneth nodded. “He’s insane. He really is.”
“But we can’t just leave Martin,” I said. “He’ll die.”
“Yeah, but if we stay here,” Tom said, “Rake’ll find us and we’ll all die.”
He was right. Even now, as we peered through the bushes, we could see Rake, Brent, and Vance fanning out to search the property. It wouldn’t take long for them to find us. And the bushes were too thick to move Martin any deeper.
But there had to be something we could do.
“Warren!” Gwyneth grabbed my arm. “Look, Peterson’s coming this way.”
I watched in horror as Vance moved toward us. He was over a hundred metres away, but he was walking straight for us. And he wasn’t even looking around. It was like he knew where we were.
At least he can’t shoot us, I thought. He wasn’t carrying the shotgun or the rifle.
That was it: the guns!
I looked past Vance, for either Brent or Rake. I couldn’t see Rake, but Brent was just leaving one of the concrete silos. He was unarmed too.
In an instant I made my decision.
“You guys stay here, no matter what happens to me,” I said. “If I don’t come back, sneak down to the gully and fetch help.” Before they could argue I was gone.
I tore through the bushes like a rabbit and sprinted for the house. Vance gave a shout of alarm, but I ignored him and ran for the back door. In less than eight seconds I was inside.
I had to find the guns fast, because Vance would come crashing in after me in about ten seconds.
Ten…
The kitchen was in shambles—bottles…copper tubing…but no guns…
Eight…
In the living room now…garbage everywhere. Looking left—tables…a couch. Looking right—a hallway. Still, no rifle and no shotgun.
Six…
I fired a glance out the living room window. Rake was flying across the yard toward me. His face was twisted with anger. But he was focused on the porch, not the house.
Four…
I looked down through the window at the steps, and saw the guns. They were leaning on the railing five feet from the door.
Two…
One!
I sprang to the right and kicked open the screen door that led to the porch. At the same time, Peterson stormed the kitchen from behind me. I dove for the shotgun as Rake reached the steps. He was too late.
“Stay where you are!” I said panting. “If you come any closer, I’ll shoot you.”
A wicked scowl spread across Rake’s face. “I don’t think you have the guts, Rabbit.” He moved a step toward the stairs. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”
“Oh, you don’t think so?” I said. “You shot at me, you attacked me, and you locked me up to die. But you don’t think I would shoot you? You’re either incredibly optimistic or just plain stupid.”
Rake’s eyes twitched with anger and uncertainty.
“You better think twice, butt-face,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”
Vance hadn’t come out of the house yet, and that made me nervous. Was he getting another gun? Had he snuck out the back again? Brent kept walking toward the house from behind Rake. He seemed resigned to this new turn of events.
But where was Vance?
“Get your butt out here, Peterson!” I shouted.
Rake sensed I was nervous about his missing goon. He laughed at my threat and said, “Or what? Why don’t you go in and get him? Brent and I will wait right here, Webb. We promise.”
The house was quiet. Where was he?
Terrified of being trapped, I picked up the rifle and hopped over the railing—never taking the shotgun off Rake. I backed up slowly, so I could see the whole house, Rake, and Brent.
“Get out here NOW!” I yelled.
Rake and Brent stood at the steps and continued to mock me. “Maybe he’s taking a nap?” Rake said. “Do you want me to go in and wake him?”
“Shut up!” I said, trying to think. I had to get all three of them together, or else I’d be in trouble. And it was getting darker out too. Soon I wouldn’t even be able to see them.
Then I had an idea.
“Hey, Vance?” I screamed. “If you don’t get out here by the time I count to ten, I’m going to blast your old man’s car with this shotgun. I hear he’s a mean drunk, so it should be pretty funny when he sees what you’ve done to his Dodge.”
A look of worry slid across Rake’s face. Brent stopped laughing. They knew Mr. Peterson, and I think they knew my threat would lure Vance out.
I began my countdown, and just as I said “four,” the screen door opened. Vance emerged from the house and stepped onto the deck. He hung his head low, too embarrassed to look at his leader.
“Get over there with Rake,” I said, moving in a wide arc around the three. “Now, walk over to the shed and get inside. If any of you tries anything, you’ll be missing a leg tomorrow morning.”
Brent and Vance headed for the shed without a fuss. But Rake glared at me for several seconds, with a face of stone. I suppose my own expression helped him make up his mind, because he followed his henchmen. I don’t know what he saw, but it must have convinced him I’d shoot him.
Maybe I would have, too.
When they were well inside the shed, I moved toward the door, closed it, and slammed the latch down. Now they were the prisoners.
I threw both guns on the porch, and ran back to Martin.
As I neared the trees, Tom said, “What happened? Where are they?”
“I locked them up,” I said.
Gwyneth smiled. “Good work, Warren.”
“All of them?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Now, let’s get Martin out of here.”
“I think he’s too heavy,” Tom said.
“I’m sorry,” Gwyneth said, “Tom’s right. I don’t think I can carry him much more either.”
I thought for a minute. “Then we’ll take Peterson’s car. They don’t need it.”
Tom looked over at the Dodge. “You think you can drive it?”
I nodded. “It should be pretty much like Dad’s truck. And he’s let me drive that around the farm.” I wasn’t old enough to have a license, but like most kids who grew up in the country, I knew how to operate tractors and other farm equipment.
Together, the three of us carried Martin to the car, carefully setting him down in the back seat. He groaned and rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
When I double-checked th
e lock on the shed door, Rake shouted, “You better let me outta here right now, Webb, or I swear I’m gonna kill you!”
I ignored him, started Peterson’s car, and drove home.
Chapter 15
“Oh, my goodness!” Mom said. She took one look at Martin’s head injury and threw her hand up to her mouth. I stood beside her, next to the car, and held open the back door.
Dad already had an arm under Martin, and was gently extracting him from the truck. He didn’t ask a lot of questions—those would come later—he just took charge. “Grab his legs, boys. Let’s get him in the house. Vera, please call Mrs. Agostino and see if she can come over. If she doesn’t have a ride, tell her I’ll fetch her in ten minutes.”
After an evening of making life-or-death decisions, I was glad to have Dad in control. We carried Martin into the bedroom and set him down on my bed.
From the kitchen I could hear Mom cutting in on a telephone conversation. “Sorry, Anne,” I heard her say. “This is an emergency. I need to use the phone. Yes…yes…sorry. Okay, thank you.” We had a party line—several homes in our neighbourhood shared one phone line—and there was always someone yakking.
After Dad left the room, Gwyneth whispered, “Why’s your mom calling Mrs. Agostino? Martin needs a doctor.”
“Mrs. Agostino’s a nurse,” I said. “She’ll know what to do.”
I suspected Dad didn’t call the hospital for a real doctor, because a real doctor might recommend (or insist) that Martin be treated at the Ripples P.O.W. camp. And I’m pretty sure Martin’s presence in a hospital bed would make a lot of patients, and doctors, and nurses uncomfortable. So why not treat him here on the farm, right? I didn’t want to explain all that to Gwyneth, but that’s what I was thinking.
I put a pillow under Martin’s head and then touched his cheek with the back of my hand. It was cold and clammy.
Dad called the three of us out into the living room and demanded I tell him what had happened. “I want to know exactly what’s going on,” he said. “Everything, Warren.”
So I told him.
I started off by describing the fight down at Tilley Creek. Then, I told him about the grave marker Rake had stuck in the ground beside the hole we were digging. At that point, my dad made a bunch of noises of disgust. When he finally stopped grumbling, I told him how Rake had shot at us. And I ended the crazy story by summarizing that day’s attack.
Dad never interrupted (well, except for the grunting). He let me get it all out before he asked any questions. When I told him how I got Tom and Gwyneth’s attention by lighting Rake’s truck on fire, he smiled and nodded.
When I was done talking, he put his hand on my shoulder and stood up. “You kids did the right thing,” he said, leaving the room.
I shook my head, because that obviously wasn’t entirely true. We did the right thing eventually. Imagine what my dad would say if he knew how many times I’d tried to whack Martin?
Dad got on the telephone and called the police in Gagetown. Tom and Gwyneth and I listened in fascination as he retold what had happened. It was strange to hear Dad use words like “assault,” “kidnapping,” “attempted murder,” and “bootlegging” to describe my evening.
“The police will be at the Semenko farm within the hour,” Dad explained when he got off the phone.
The headlights of a car suddenly swept across the room, and we all went to the door to see who it was. Mrs. Agostino jumped from the vehicle before her husband had even rolled to a stop. With a doctor-type bag tucked under one arm, she bounced up the steps, eager to see her patient.
“What’ve we got?” she asked, getting right down to business.
“Deep head wound,” Dad answered. “Plenty of blood loss.”
“Well, enough chatter then, Arnold. Show me the way.” Mrs. Agostino pushed by Dad before he could even open the door for her. She barged through the house, searching for the bedroom that held her case.
Mom was wiping Martin’s face with a cloth, but stepped aside when we came into the room. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I hope you can help.”
Mrs. Agostino had worked at St. Anthony’s Hospital for over thirty years, and had probably seen more patients than the doctors that worked there. Mom once told me that half the kids at school were delivered by her, not a doctor.
I prayed she was as good as everyone said.
She never asked what happened, or who Martin was. She just got down to work. “Hmm…” she said, cutting away my blood-soaked bandage. “Yes…a nasty gash. Stitches for sure.”
Mrs. Agostino opened her bag and spent ten minutes carefully cleaning the wound with alcohol and cotton wipes. Then, with a needle and thread, she began sewing up the side of Martin’s head. He groaned once, but otherwise seemed oblivious to the needle going in and out of his skin.
I felt sick and had to look away.
It got to Tom and Gwyneth too, so the three of us left the room to get some fresh air. Dad followed us outside and asked Mr. Agostino if he could drive my friends home. He said he’d be happy to. I think he was glad to have something to do.
Dad and I were now alone on the deck. We stood in awkward silence listening to the distant hum of insects in the gully. I wasn’t sure exactly what to say, but there was one thing I needed to say.
“Dad?”
He stood leaning on the rail, one foot up on an apple crate. “Yeah, son? What’s on your mind?” Dad always seemed to know when there was something on my mind.
“I made Martin a promise,” I said, “but I just don’t see how I can keep it. Not now, anyway.”
Dad kept staring into the night. “Promises are important. If you made him a promise, you gotta keep your word. A man’s not worth much if you can’t take him at his word.”
I hadn’t been planning on telling him about my promise, but now I felt I had to. “I promised Martin I’d run in the Games. I promised I’d run no matter what.” I felt my eyes begin to tear, but fought it off. “How can I run now…with him—with him lying there dying? I just don’t know if I can.”
Dad nodded. “There’s nothing you can do for him here, Warren. If you stay put he won’t get better any faster. Martin knows that too. He’d want you to run, not sit around here with a sour face.”
I knew all that was true, but it just didn’t seem right. How could I go to the Summer Games in Moncton knowing Martin was lying in bed dying? It was like I was abandoning him when he needed me the most. And that was one thing Martin had never done—abandon me. I could always count on him to protect me.
But I did make him a promise, a solemn promise.
“Will you still take me tomorrow?” I asked.
“Sure.” I glanced over and thought I saw a smile on Dad’s face. “We can leave late in the day, and still make it to Uncle Stuart’s by dark. Mom can stay and take care of Martin. How’s that sound to you?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Now go put some ice on that shiner. How do you expect to see the track if your eye’s swollen shut?”
In spite of everything that had happened that night, the thought of running in the Games still got me excited. I’d run that hundred metres, and I’d win it for Martin.
I don’t think I slept at all that night.
By the time Mrs. Agostino left, it was after eleven o’clock and we had all gone to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in my bed holding my breath, listening carefully for the sound of Martin breathing. At one point, late in the night, I was sure he was dead and I began to cry. Then a soft snore came from his side of the room, and I said a prayer of thanks.
When I finally did drift off to sleep, my dreams were as messed up as my real life. For the past two weeks Martin had told me to visualize the race each night. He’d said, “You must run the hundred metres over and over in your mind. The more you imagine winning the race, the easier it will be for you to
run the real race.”
Except now I dreamt of a million different ways of losing the race. First, my feet got stuck in the blocks, and the race was over before I had moved an inch. Then, I got out of the blocks cleanly, only to trip over my laces.
But the dreams that terrified me—and even woke me—were those with Rake in them. At the sound of the starter’s gun, he began chasing me. And he never stopped. Round and round the track I’d run, with him at my heels laughing and shouting that he’d kill me.
When I finally opened my eyes, I was relieved to see the eastern sky turning pink.
Dear Pete, Thanks for all your help and advice. I don’t think Martin and I would be here if it wasn’t for you.
P. S. Keep your fingers crossed for me today.
Dear Warren, You did it all on your own. I just watched.
P. S. If you think it’ll help you win the race, pretend I’m chasing you and am going to give you the biggest rabbit punch in the world if I catch you.
I smiled. The night was over.
Sliding out of my bed, I crept to Martin and put my ear next to his mouth. Deep inside his once-strong body, his lungs and heart were still at work. But he didn’t look any better than last night. Would he ever recover?
I slipped back into my own bed and tried to sleep.
Seconds later—well, it seemed like seconds—I opened my eyes again. The sun was now high in the morning sky. It was at least nine o’clock. I listened for other house sounds, but heard nothing. Mom and Dad were either outside, or keeping extra quiet so Martin could rest.
I stayed in bed and stared at the walls. My Johnny Canuck poster, and the other army recruiting posters, suddenly seemed stupid. As quietly as I could, I pulled the thumbtacks from the corners and took them down. It was as I was sliding them under my bed that I noticed Martin watching me.
He smiled weakly and I sat down next to his bed. “How do you feel?” I whispered. I didn’t want Mom and Dad to think I had woken him.
Martin ignored the question. “You do not need to take your pictures down because of me.”
“I didn’t think you should have to see my soldier posters anymore,” I said. “Especially when you’re sick.”
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