Dead Letter by Betsy Byars

attack—sweaty and scared and—
    â€œIt’s us again,” a voice said.
    Meat turned and faced Cobby and Sam. He almost crumbled to the ground with relief.
    â€œYeah, we never did know when to leave well enough alone.”
    â€œThank you,” Meat gasped. It was the most inadequate phrase in the English language. “I mean really thank you.” That still wasn’t good enough.
    â€œSam here was mentioning that he noticed some loose boards on the back of the building when he was walking around. He got the idea we could pry one off.”
    â€œYeah, the building’s going to be torn down in a week or two anyway.”
    â€œWe get one board off, we can look in. If we don’t see your friend, we nail it back on.”
    â€œWhat if we do see her?” Meat asked.
    â€œWe’ll worry about it then, okay? Let’s get going, kid.”
    Meat followed the construction workers around to the back of the stable. To Meat, construction workers were the heroes of the world. If he could have chosen any profession for his missing father, it would have been construction. These weren’t big men, but they had a certain power in their movements that he admired.
    At the back of the stable Sam and Cobby made quick work of the loose boards. But all they could see was the terrible snarling face of Brute that filled the opening.
    â€œGet out of the way, you,” Cobby said, punching the dog with the handle of his hammer.
    In a movement so quick it took them all by surprise, the Doberman turned his head sideways, snapped at the handle, and pulled the hammer through the hole.
    â€œHey, that’s my hammer,” Cobby said.
    â€œMan, that dog’ll even attack a hammer.”
    The dog dropped the hammer, and his face appeared almost instantly in the opening, but in the second it had taken him to drop the hammer, Meat had seen the pale face of Herculeah against the far wall.
    â€œI see you, Herculeah,” he cried. “We’re going to help you.”
    Cobby said, “Sam, you keep the dog occupied.”
    â€œWith what? He’s already got my hammer.”
    â€œWith sticks, anything. What’d you say the girl’s name was?”
    â€œHerculeah.”
    â€œHey, Here,” Sam called into the opening.
    Meat knew that Herculeah did not allow anyone to call her that, but he thought she might make an exception for construction workers.
    â€œWe’re going to keep the dog occupied, hon. You slip on around the wall if you can. Just inch around, real slow. Get right by the door. We’ll give you a count and then we’ll open the door just enough for you to slip through. Don’t try to answer me. Just try to do it.”
    â€œGet me some sticks, kid—big ones.”
    Glad for something to do, Meat ran around gathering up the biggest sticks he could find and bringing them to where Sam stood at the back of the stable.
    â€œI hope this works.”
    Sam shoved one of the sticks into the hole and instantly it was yanked out of his hand. The dog’s snarling face appeared in the hole, his teeth bared, saliva and foam dripping from his mouth.
    â€œMan, he is tough on sticks,” Sam said, feeding him another.
    â€œCan you see my friend?” Meat asked anxiously.
    â€œI can’t see much of anything but dog,” Sam said. “Ugly dog.”
    He fed him another stick.
    Sam said to Meat, “This is like a machine my wife ordered that crunches up sticks to make mulch. Man, this dog can make mulch. Look at that.”
    â€œYou got the dog occupied?” Cobby called from the front of the stable.
    â€œAs long as my sticks hold out.”
    â€œCan you see my friend?” Meat tried to peer around the dog.
    â€œYeah, she’s making her way toward the door. More sticks! More sticks!”
    Herculeah inched slowly toward the door. Her heart pounded. Her legs were like rubber, too weak to support her. She was aware that at any