road for Mom and Dave. The worst thing you can do is come home while the burglars are in your house. That's how people get killed."
"She's gone now," I told him. "I saw her leave."
Ignoring me, Michael pushed through the woods, still carrying the salamanders. "It's almost three o'clock," he said. "They should be coming along any minute."
We plunged through trailing vines of honeysuckle and stumbled out into the sunlight by the side of the road. Without saying a word to each other, we sat down in the shade and watched for the van.
After a half hour or so, I heard the sound of a motor. Jumping to my feet, I saw the van bouncing toward us: Dave at the wheel, Heather beside him, and Mom sitting in the back. He braked quickly when he saw Michael and me, kicking up a cloud of white dust.
"What is it? Is something wrong?" Mom struggled to open the side door as Michael and I jostled each other, anxious to get inside.
"Somebody broke into the house!" Michael gasped. "We heard them when we came home from the swamp."
"Are you sure?" Dave craned around from the front seat, frowning as if he thought Michael was lying.
"Of course I'm sure!" Michael leaned toward Dave, his face flushed. "They were making a lot of noise. I think they've wrecked the house."
Mom put her arm around me, holding me close, her face buried in my hair. "Thank goodness you didn't go inside," she murmured.
Dave put the van into gear and drove toward the church. "If they're still inside, I'll keep on driving into Holwell and call the police," he said.
"Don't worry, they're gone," I said, glancing at Heather as I spoke. She was looking out the window, her face turned away from Dave, smiling past her reflection at the green trees.
Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway we saw no sign of anyone. The little church sat silent and deserted in the shade of the maples.
"It looks all right to me," Dave said. "This better not be your idea of a joke, Michael."
Michael stiffened beside me, a scowl on his face, but he didn't say anything. Silently he followed Dave up the steps and into the kitchen, with the rest of us close behind.
"It's freezing cold in here," Mom said, folding her arms across her chest and shivering.
Again I glanced at Heather, who had pushed her way to Dave's side. Catching my eye, she smiled. "I told you so, Molly," she whispered, never letting go of Dave's hand.
Dave led us down the hall. Everything seemed to be in order until we reached Michael's room. When Dave opened the door, we stepped back as cold air rushed out to meet us. Hesitating on the threshold, we stared at the room in horror. Everything that Michael cherished lay in a heap of rubble in the middle of the floor. His books, his specimen cases, his fossils and rocks, his microscope, his aquarium—all were smashed and broken, ruined. His bureau lay on its side—its drawers emptied, its mirror shattered. Not even his bed had been spared. The blankets and sheets had been hurled across the room, and the mattress leaned against a wall, his clock radio in fragments beside it.
"Oh, Michael!" Mom put her arms around him and let him cry great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.
"My insects, my butterflies, everything's ruined," he wailed. "Everything."
Dave rested a hand awkwardly on Michael's shoulder. "The police will get to the bottom of this. Whoever is responsible will pay, believe me he will."
Then he turned to me. "We'd better take a look at your and Heather's room," he said.
But Heather was there ahead of us, sitting on her bed, still smiling. Her side of the room was untouched, but mine was destroyed. My books, my diaries and journals, my teddy bears had been ripped to bits. Like Michael's, my bed had been torn apart, my clothes scattered about, my china and glass unicorns shattered.
"They must have heard you and Michael," Dave said. "You scared them off, I guess, before they wrecked the entire house."
But I wasn't listening. Instead I was staring at a scrawled
"She's gone now," I told him. "I saw her leave."
Ignoring me, Michael pushed through the woods, still carrying the salamanders. "It's almost three o'clock," he said. "They should be coming along any minute."
We plunged through trailing vines of honeysuckle and stumbled out into the sunlight by the side of the road. Without saying a word to each other, we sat down in the shade and watched for the van.
After a half hour or so, I heard the sound of a motor. Jumping to my feet, I saw the van bouncing toward us: Dave at the wheel, Heather beside him, and Mom sitting in the back. He braked quickly when he saw Michael and me, kicking up a cloud of white dust.
"What is it? Is something wrong?" Mom struggled to open the side door as Michael and I jostled each other, anxious to get inside.
"Somebody broke into the house!" Michael gasped. "We heard them when we came home from the swamp."
"Are you sure?" Dave craned around from the front seat, frowning as if he thought Michael was lying.
"Of course I'm sure!" Michael leaned toward Dave, his face flushed. "They were making a lot of noise. I think they've wrecked the house."
Mom put her arm around me, holding me close, her face buried in my hair. "Thank goodness you didn't go inside," she murmured.
Dave put the van into gear and drove toward the church. "If they're still inside, I'll keep on driving into Holwell and call the police," he said.
"Don't worry, they're gone," I said, glancing at Heather as I spoke. She was looking out the window, her face turned away from Dave, smiling past her reflection at the green trees.
Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway we saw no sign of anyone. The little church sat silent and deserted in the shade of the maples.
"It looks all right to me," Dave said. "This better not be your idea of a joke, Michael."
Michael stiffened beside me, a scowl on his face, but he didn't say anything. Silently he followed Dave up the steps and into the kitchen, with the rest of us close behind.
"It's freezing cold in here," Mom said, folding her arms across her chest and shivering.
Again I glanced at Heather, who had pushed her way to Dave's side. Catching my eye, she smiled. "I told you so, Molly," she whispered, never letting go of Dave's hand.
Dave led us down the hall. Everything seemed to be in order until we reached Michael's room. When Dave opened the door, we stepped back as cold air rushed out to meet us. Hesitating on the threshold, we stared at the room in horror. Everything that Michael cherished lay in a heap of rubble in the middle of the floor. His books, his specimen cases, his fossils and rocks, his microscope, his aquarium—all were smashed and broken, ruined. His bureau lay on its side—its drawers emptied, its mirror shattered. Not even his bed had been spared. The blankets and sheets had been hurled across the room, and the mattress leaned against a wall, his clock radio in fragments beside it.
"Oh, Michael!" Mom put her arms around him and let him cry great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.
"My insects, my butterflies, everything's ruined," he wailed. "Everything."
Dave rested a hand awkwardly on Michael's shoulder. "The police will get to the bottom of this. Whoever is responsible will pay, believe me he will."
Then he turned to me. "We'd better take a look at your and Heather's room," he said.
But Heather was there ahead of us, sitting on her bed, still smiling. Her side of the room was untouched, but mine was destroyed. My books, my diaries and journals, my teddy bears had been ripped to bits. Like Michael's, my bed had been torn apart, my clothes scattered about, my china and glass unicorns shattered.
"They must have heard you and Michael," Dave said. "You scared them off, I guess, before they wrecked the entire house."
But I wasn't listening. Instead I was staring at a scrawled
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