Читать книгу Time - Roger Reid - Страница 9

I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe a black cat running out in front of you is bad luck. You can spill salt while breaking a mirror on Friday the 13th, and it’s not bad luck. Walking under a ladder is not bad luck; it’s bad judgment. While I was packing for my trip, though, I couldn’t help wondering about my nylon olive green pants with zip-off legs, sandy-colored nylon shirt, synthetic wool hiking socks, and waterproof leather boots. These were the same clothes I had worn back in April and back in June. I hadn’t worn them since, and as I had them laid out on the bed about to roll them up and stuff them in my duffel bag, I sort-of wondered if they were bad luck. The pants had a tear in the knee and the shirt had a tear in both elbows: signs of my last two trips to Alabama.

“Afraid you won’t look good for your girlfriend?” said a squeaky little voice from behind me.

It startled me. I turned around to see Phoebe, my little sister, standing in the doorway to my bedroom.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

“Then why are you so worried about what you’re going to wear?” she said.

“Mind your own business,” I said.

“Phoebe, stop hassling your brother,” said my mom from somewhere down the hall.

“Mom,” said Phoebe, “Why does Jason get to go to all of these places and not me?”

Mom came up and stood behind Phoebe in the doorway. “Jason was invited by his friend,” said Mom.

“I guess I never thought of it that way,” said Phoebe. “Jason has to go hundreds of miles away to find a friend. I have lots of friends right here at home.”

I would have argued with her if it would have done any good. Ever since she turned twelve back in July, she thought she knew everything. “You can come along next time we go some place that has alligators,” I said. “We can always use some gator bait.”

“Mom,” Phoebe whined. “Jason wants to feed me to the alligators.”

“Nobody’s going to feed you to the alligators,” Mom said.

“You’re mean,” said Phoebe. “No wonder you have to go hundreds of miles away to find friends.” And with that she spun around and disappeared down the hall.

I turned back to my packing. I held up my pants to fold them so I could roll them up when my mom said, “You know, you’ve grown almost an inch this summer. Those pants might not fit you anymore.”

I held the pants at my waist. They did seem a little shorter than they used to.

“And they’ve got a hole in the knee,” said Mom. “Maybe we need to see about getting you another pair.”

When she said that I had this weird feeling. I had been wearing these pants when I was shot at in the longleaf forest. I had been wearing them when I was shot at on Monte Sano Mountain. Both times I lived to tell about it. Maybe these were my lucky pants.

“These will be okay,” I said. I rolled them up and put them in my duffel bag.

“Rachel,” my dad spoke Mom’s name from down the hall. There was a serious, matter-of-fact tone to his voice when he said it.

Mom turned as Dad walked past her into my room. He pushed my duffel bag to one side and sat on the bed. He looked me in the eye and then turned to my mother. His face had that matter-of-fact seriousness.

He turned back to me and said, “I just got off the phone with Deputy Pickens.”

Deputy Pickens was Leah’s father. He was going to be driving her to Birmingham, picking me up at the airport, and then taking us to stay with our hosts from the Alabama Paleontological Society. No big deal that he would be calling my dad—except for that tone in Dad’s voice and the look on his face.

Dad took a deep breath and let it out as he said, “Carl Morris has escaped from prison.”

Carl Morris has escaped from prison.

The words hung in the air like the Sword of Damocles.

According to the Greek legend, a man named Damocles wanted to know what it was like to be king, so the king prepared a big banquet for him. During the banquet, Damocles looked up to see a sword hanging over his head. The sword was held by a single horsehair. The king explained that this is what it’s like to have riches and power: it’s like having a sword hanging over your head. Damocles went running from the room.

We studied the legend of the Sword of Damocles a couple of years ago when I was in the seventh grade. I never thought it would have any meaning for me until I heard the words Carl Morris has escaped from prison. Carl Morris did his best to hunt me down and kill me back in April. I felt pretty good about him being in jail. Now that he was loose . . . it was like a sword hanging over my head. Unlike Damocles, I could not run from the room.