can get the heck out of my way. Then I tiptoe into the abyss.
When I get to the bottom step, Margaret whispers in my ear, “Do you hear that?”
At the far end of the basement, behind several stacks of cartons and old chairs, I hear what sounds like a chair being dragged across the floor, followed by a few sharp raps, as if someone is hammering on something metal. And now—he’s whistling. (“Beethoven,” Margaret whispers.) Still, we creep forward, flashlights clicked off. Our view of the area is obstructed, but as we get closer, the glow from a candle or a small lantern throws a flickering shadow of what looks like some horribly deformed gianton the back wall. In fact, the room itself seems to be alive as Margaret, with one hand on the small of my back, pushes me gently but persistently. “Just a little closer. We’re—”
CRASH!
Just behind us, a stack of metal chairs falls over. Margaret’s fingernails dig into my arm as the noise goes on and on, seems to pause for a breath, and then continues for a few more seconds, till
—poof
!—the light is gone, along with our giant.
I exhale.
Gone where? I wonder as my breathing and heartbeat resume.
“There’s no way he slipped past us to go up the stairs. Either there’s another way out, or he’s still down here,” Margaret says, blazing a trail with her flashlight. “Hel-lo! Is anybody there?”
I squelch the urge to shush her—a person who breaks in and upgrades just doesn’t seem that scary (just weird). We go to the workbench, covered with paint cans and old rollers and brushes, some of which are still wet after being rinsed out.
“Boy, is Sister Bernadette gonna be ticked off,” I say.
“Which means we’re going to be in for it. We have to catch this guy.” Margaret walks toward the back corner of the room, shining her light on the wall, the ceiling, the floor. Stopping next to the shelves where I stepped in the paint, she kneels down to get a close look at the floor.
“What?” I ask.
“Somebody cleaned up that spilled paint, even yourfootprints. But see these marks on the floor? These shelves have been moved. Here, give me a hand.”
Despite its size, the shelf unit is surprisingly easy to move when we put our shoulders into it and pivot the thing on one corner. I shine my light at the wall behind it, and—voilà!—one mystery is solved. At about waist height is a metal door about two feet square. I recognize it because Margaret’s dad, who is the super in their apartment building, once showed us an identical door in his basement office. It is an old coal chute, from the days when the school had a coal furnace. Margaret grasps the handle and gives it a twist, and—a blast of fresh air hits us in the face, and we realize we are looking out into the alley behind the school. From my vantage point, I can see the back of the school, the church, the convent, Elizabeth Harriman’s house, a row of four more townhouses, and the building where Perkatory and Chernofsky’s Violins are located.
“What’s this for?” I ask, tugging on a rope tied to a metal strap that is screwed into the back of the shelf unit.
Margaret nods with admiration. “Oh, he’s a clever one, isn’t he? After he climbs out, he reaches back in and pulls on this so that the shelves cover up the door.”
“But where did he go?”
“It looks like the only way out of the alley without going through another building is that narrow space between Mr. Chernofsky’s and that townhouse with the nice garden.” She pulls the door shut, and then we pushthe shelf unit back into place. “There. You can’t even tell we found the door.”
“Unless he’s hiding somewhere out there, watching us right now,” I say, creeping myself out. “We need to get out of here—first bell is in a few minutes,” I warn.
Margaret grunts in agreement. “Well, we may not know who or why, but at least we know how he’s doing it.”
Personally, I’m in favor of telling Sister
When I get to the bottom step, Margaret whispers in my ear, “Do you hear that?”
At the far end of the basement, behind several stacks of cartons and old chairs, I hear what sounds like a chair being dragged across the floor, followed by a few sharp raps, as if someone is hammering on something metal. And now—he’s whistling. (“Beethoven,” Margaret whispers.) Still, we creep forward, flashlights clicked off. Our view of the area is obstructed, but as we get closer, the glow from a candle or a small lantern throws a flickering shadow of what looks like some horribly deformed gianton the back wall. In fact, the room itself seems to be alive as Margaret, with one hand on the small of my back, pushes me gently but persistently. “Just a little closer. We’re—”
CRASH!
Just behind us, a stack of metal chairs falls over. Margaret’s fingernails dig into my arm as the noise goes on and on, seems to pause for a breath, and then continues for a few more seconds, till
—poof
!—the light is gone, along with our giant.
I exhale.
Gone where? I wonder as my breathing and heartbeat resume.
“There’s no way he slipped past us to go up the stairs. Either there’s another way out, or he’s still down here,” Margaret says, blazing a trail with her flashlight. “Hel-lo! Is anybody there?”
I squelch the urge to shush her—a person who breaks in and upgrades just doesn’t seem that scary (just weird). We go to the workbench, covered with paint cans and old rollers and brushes, some of which are still wet after being rinsed out.
“Boy, is Sister Bernadette gonna be ticked off,” I say.
“Which means we’re going to be in for it. We have to catch this guy.” Margaret walks toward the back corner of the room, shining her light on the wall, the ceiling, the floor. Stopping next to the shelves where I stepped in the paint, she kneels down to get a close look at the floor.
“What?” I ask.
“Somebody cleaned up that spilled paint, even yourfootprints. But see these marks on the floor? These shelves have been moved. Here, give me a hand.”
Despite its size, the shelf unit is surprisingly easy to move when we put our shoulders into it and pivot the thing on one corner. I shine my light at the wall behind it, and—voilà!—one mystery is solved. At about waist height is a metal door about two feet square. I recognize it because Margaret’s dad, who is the super in their apartment building, once showed us an identical door in his basement office. It is an old coal chute, from the days when the school had a coal furnace. Margaret grasps the handle and gives it a twist, and—a blast of fresh air hits us in the face, and we realize we are looking out into the alley behind the school. From my vantage point, I can see the back of the school, the church, the convent, Elizabeth Harriman’s house, a row of four more townhouses, and the building where Perkatory and Chernofsky’s Violins are located.
“What’s this for?” I ask, tugging on a rope tied to a metal strap that is screwed into the back of the shelf unit.
Margaret nods with admiration. “Oh, he’s a clever one, isn’t he? After he climbs out, he reaches back in and pulls on this so that the shelves cover up the door.”
“But where did he go?”
“It looks like the only way out of the alley without going through another building is that narrow space between Mr. Chernofsky’s and that townhouse with the nice garden.” She pulls the door shut, and then we pushthe shelf unit back into place. “There. You can’t even tell we found the door.”
“Unless he’s hiding somewhere out there, watching us right now,” I say, creeping myself out. “We need to get out of here—first bell is in a few minutes,” I warn.
Margaret grunts in agreement. “Well, we may not know who or why, but at least we know how he’s doing it.”
Personally, I’m in favor of telling Sister
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