The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (10 page)

Even though Ambrose and Melinda were not due back that night, I planned to leave well before dark. Ambrose had his lights on an automatic timer, and his immediate neighbors would be coming home from work before too long. If one of them knew Ambrose was away and spotted me moving around, it could mean trouble.

But I had to stick around until my clothes were dry—that's when my natural curiosity came in. On previous visits I had figured out that Ambrose has a little trouble sleeping. I knew he had a sleeping mask that was designed to blot out any excess light and relax your tired facial muscles at the same time. He also had a special relaxation
CD
that was supposed to lull you to sleep with the peaceful sounds of a babbling brook and chirping birds.

I ended up sitting back in Ambrose's recliner, wearing his sleeping mask and listening to his relaxation
CD
. I could feel my stress melting away faster than a pat of butter on a hot piece of toast.

The
CD
was playing and the clothes dryer was humming, and it was so soothing that I drifted off into the best sleep I'd had in quite a while.

I guess that's why I never heard the key turning in the lock. By the time I heard the door swing open, it was too late to escape. In a funny way, it was a relief that I couldn't see anything through Ambrose's sleeping mask.

Of course, even though there was still a lot of humming going on, I could hear the
thunk
of a dropped suitcase and a man's shocked voice. “What are you doing in my bathrobe?” it sputtered. “In my chair! Wearing my sleeping mask!”

I could tell the man was very upset. Mind you, I was a little agitated myself. On the other hand, I figured it was best to stay calm. I turned off the chair's massager and then pushed myself forward so that I was sitting upright. I took off the sleeping mask, even though I already knew who was there. He looked just like the guy in all the photos. Only way more stunned. “Careful, Ambrose,” I said. “Remember your blood pressure.”

Ambrose was listening to the sound of my clothes spinning in his dryer like he'd just heard some very disturbing news on the radio. Hoping to relax him, I asked, “Would you like a cookie? They're fresh out of your oven.”

A shocked Ambrose picked up a cookie and took a bite, probably because he didn't know what else to do.

“I guess Melinda's still at camp, huh?” I said.

Ambrose swallowed his bite of cookie before he spoke, which I thought was very polite under the circumstances. “Excuse me?” he inquired in a very squeaky voice. “But do I know you?”

“Not exactly. But I know you,” I said. “Sort of.” That's when I decided to explain my situation. Fortunately, Ambrose was quite fascinated by my story. Especially the part where I added money to his fund for Melinda's graduation present.

“That's a relief,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I thought I was going a little batty.”

I apologized for making Ambrose question his mental state. He took it very graciously. In fact, Ambrose was so interested in what I had to say that he drank three glasses of milk and ate five cookies while I talked. I could tell that he was warming up to me, in spite of the fact that I had broken into his residence and made myself right at home.

Ambrose was even kind enough to point out that I had not made a professional mistake by misreading his calendar. “I was able to come home early from my business trip,” he told me. “If I had stuck to my regular schedule, we would never have met.”

Things were going so well that I thought there was a chance Ambrose might let me go. But as it turned out, he was a big believer in following the rules. I briefly considered shoving Ambrose out of the way and taking off in his electric-blue bathrobe, but it's very hard to shove somebody after you've had milk and cookies together. Especially when the person you are thinking of shoving is wearing a milk mustache and asking you to recommend a better hiding place for his spare key. “But I'm the one breaking into your home,” I pointed out. “I'm not supposed to know where your key is.”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Ambrose. “Thanks, Henry.”

In the end, I let Ambrose call the authorities. Partly because I thought I'd end up in jail anyway if I wandered the streets in his bathrobe, but mostly because I didn't want to put Ambrose through any more stress. He was very nice when the police arrived—shaking my hand, wishing me luck and asking if my clothes were dry enough. He even sounded a little guilty when he told me that calling the police was for my own good.

This may sound weird, but I was actually relieved to get in the back of the police car. The arresting officer was very nice when he put the handcuffs on me, explaining that it was nothing personal and he was only following regulations. Now that it was true, at least I didn't have to dream it anymore.

I calmed myself down by closing my eyes and imagining that I was picking the lock on the handcuffs. I could probably have done it too, if I'd had enough time and exactly the right tools. But what would be the point? Not even the smartest thief can get out of a locked police car.

With my background, I figured I was going to get a one-way ticket to some sort of prison/foster home. On the other hand, I wouldn't have to lie to Uncle Andy or Cookie about living at the Hendersons anymore. And I would get regular meals and access to a bathroom. But while there are a number of things a person could think about while they are in the back of a police car, all I could think about was how much I was going to miss my imaginary family.

I suppose that sounds a little strange, since we are talking about the kind of family that never existed in the first place. But I had gotten attached to them anyway—or at least the idea of them. And I knew for sure that—wherever I was going—it would not be at all like the picture of domestic bliss I created with the Hendersons.

At least, I thought I knew some things for sure. But it turned out I didn't know anything for sure at all.

After I was arrested, I stayed in a temporary foster home for a while. I had to experience everything I don't like about temporary foster homes. Strange people, strange food and a series of even stranger people from Social Services asking me personal questions. The less said, the better. I was planning my escape when something unexpected happened.

I was sent to hang out for a few days with an elderly gentleman named Judge Horatio Barnaby. I mean, I moved right into his house for a few days so that he could “observe” me. All I took with me was my usual small backpack of essentials, including my lock-picking tools and the Holloway hotline cell phone, both hidden in a special secret compartment that I had constructed myself by cutting into the lining and sealing it over with some Velcro.

Judge Barnaby had a very nice place, not like prison at all—unless you counted the fact that I wasn't allowed to leave. Mind you, since the locks at Judge Barnaby's were extremely pickable, there was what you might call ample opportunity for escape. On the other hand, I was very curious about why I was staying with Judge Barnaby. I also appreciated that the bed in his guest room provided an excellent opportunity to hone my sleeping skills.

Judge Barnaby was retired, with all sorts of diplomas displayed on the walls of his home office. He wouldn't tell me much about what was going on at first, but he asked me all sorts of strange questions. For example, he played bits of music from various opera
CD
s and asked me to identify the operas. I did quite well, thanks to mom's insistence on cultural enrichment.

Also, Judge Barnaby asked me if I could play anything on the grand piano that sat in his living room. Fortunately, Uncle Andy had insisted that I take piano lessons on those rare occasions when he could afford it, so I managed to fake my way through one of my mother's favorite songs—“Brush Up Your Shakespeare” by Mr. Cole Porter. I even knew the lyrics, which are very humorous and made Judge Barnaby laugh quite a bit.

In my experience, people rarely lie to you when they are happy. That's why it's always a good idea to ask someone an important question while they are in a jovial mood. With this in mind, after I finished the song I looked at Judge Barnaby and asked, “Am I going to jail?”

“Jail?” Judge Barnaby laughed, as if the question were ridiculous. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, if I'm not going to jail, where am I going?” I asked.

“You're going to a town called Snowflake Falls,” said Judge Barnaby.

“What if I don't want to go?” I asked.

Judge Barnaby was very accommodating when it came to clarifying my options. “The choice is yours,” he said. “It's either Snowflake Falls or some form of correctional facility that I fear will clash with your unique personality.”

He pulled out my surprisingly thick file. “I don't know how you managed to fall through the cracks with so much documentation on you,” he said. “It's really quite a tribute to your exceptional avoidance skills.”

Judge Barnaby turned his attention to my file, the one that got me temporarily sent to the dreaded Monroe Academy. “The report states that you're one of the brightest subjects tested in recent years,” said Judge Barnaby. “It also states that you have a problem with following rules and schedules you don't agree with.”

“I don't like being told what to do,” I admitted. “Or when to do it.”

He nodded. “Quite so,” he said. “I also have a rather extensive report from the headmaster at the Monroe Academy. He says you climbed out of a third-floor window using the rope normally reserved for Tug-of-War.”

“That was after they took away my crochet hook.”

The judge laughed again. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The crochet hook incident.”

“How come you're so interested in me?” I asked. “I'm just your average underage thief.”

“You may be a thief and you may be underage,” said Judge Barnaby, “but there's nothing average about you.” He pulled out a single sheet of paper from the file. “A few days ago, I received this from Mr. Ambrose Worton. It's a very persuasive letter pleading that we be lenient with you.”

“That's very considerate of Ambrose,” I said.

“I think it's more than considerate,” commented the judge. “What interests me is why a man you have robbed repeatedly would speak up so earnestly on your behalf.”

“We bonded over milk and cookies,” I explained.

“Mr. Worton mentions that you actually added some of your own money to a sum of cash found in his drawer?”

“Most of it was money I stole from other places,” I confessed. “I wasn't returning it or anything. I was just sort of recycling it.”

“You know, for someone so schooled in dishonesty, you can be refreshingly straightforward.” Judge Barnaby laughed again. When I asked what was so funny, he apologized. “It's just that you're so perfect for the program,” he said.

“The program? What program?”

“I run a unique program that's had some success with, well, people like you.” The judge cleared his throat before continuing. “It's called Second Chances. We give certain special cases an opportunity to turn their lives around by moving them to less urban communities and placing them in the care of appropriate families.”

“It sounds like Witness Protection,” I said. “You know, like I'm running away from the Mafia or something.”

“Nothing as glamorous as all that,” he replied. “What we really want you to do is experience an ordinary domestic life for a change.”

“What about my Uncle Andy?”

“We can arrange for limited, supervised visits once your uncle finishes his sentence. Both of you would have to put in a formal request.” The judge looked at me very seriously. “This is just my opinion, Henry. But I think it would do you a lot of good to be apart from your uncle for a while.”

“How long will I have to live in Snowflake Falls?” I asked.

“Anywhere from four to six months,” he answered. “It could be a shorter stay, if you violate your probation in any way.”

“That means I'll be there until Christmas at least!” I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. “What will happen to me after my time in Snowflake Falls is over?”

“A committee decides what to do with you based on your performance in the program,” explained the judge. “It's unlikely you'll be going back to your uncle. At least for the foreseeable future.”

“But where will I go?” I asked.

“That's up to you,” said Judge Barnaby. “The committee may suggest placing you in a more restrictive environment.”

“You mean like one of those jails for underage offenders?”

“A youth detention facility is an option, Henry.” The judge smiled encouragingly. “Of course, my hope is that we'll be able to place you in long-term foster care after your time in Snowflake Falls. At least until we can take a close look at your uncle's ability to make some serious changes in his lifestyle.”

“But isn't your program just another way of sticking me in a foster home?”

“Second Chances operates a bit differently. I know the people you'll be staying with,” said the judge. “The Wingates are just what you need.”

“But you're paying them to look after me, right?”

Judge Barnaby nodded.

“How bad do they need the money?” I asked.

“They're not doing this just for the money, Henry,” he replied. “Of course, things are a little slow in town at the moment.”

“How slow?” I asked, thinking I might be able to catch up on my sleep.

“Don't worry, Henry,” said the judge. “We'll find plenty for you to do. In fact, we've worked out an entire schedule of activities for you.”

“Why are you sending me to this place?”

“Think of it as a necessary shift in perspective,” said the judge.

“But I don't want to shift my perspective,” I said.