Free Death's Door by Betsy Byars

frantic, “Herculeah, where are you?”
    And she would tell the truth. “Mom, I am at Death’s Door.”
    Her smile broadened.
    She picked up the phone and held it against her chest for a moment, overcome with relief and with the thought of her mother’s strength—and her father‘s! Her dad was bound to be in on this too. He would be as frantic as her mother, though he wouldn’t show it.
    And her father would act. He would have a squad car here in minutes, policemen running up to the store, guns drawn. She would tell the police about Uncle Neiman and where he was parked. She would have to.
    But she would not tell them about the kidnapping. Somehow she had begun to feel affection for Uncle Neiman in that brave, blind drive across the city.
    She lifted her head. She noticed that her hair was beginning to frizzle.
    Why is that, she wondered, when rescue was just a phone call away. She smiled. The phone company could use something that comforting in their ads.
    She picked up the phone, punched in her number and lifted the phone to her ear.
    She heard no sound of a phone ringing.
    She held the phone up to what light there was. Sometimes you had to click a phone. She found that button and clicked.
    She heard no dial tone.
    The line was dead.
    And with that thought came others that were even worse.
    Somebody has cut the wire.
    And whoever did it is out there.

20
    THE MAN/THE CRIMINAL
    A squad car came around the corner.
    Uncle Neiman’s eyes weren’t good enough to see that it was a police car, but he ducked out of sight anyway. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone.
    Also, ever since Herculeah had mentioned the fact that every policeman in the city was after them, he had realized that he could not be taken by the police. It was as Herculeah had said. That girl was no dummy. He was a criminal. He had turned himself into a criminal. He cringed at the thought.
    It had happened against his will. He loved crime and criminals on paper, but in real life he was a gentle, law-abiding man. Used to be, anyway. Not anymore.
    He had stolen a car—it was a friend’s car, but he’d taken it without asking, and if he had asked, his friend would have refused and insisted on driving him wherever he wanted to go.
    He’d kidnapped a girl—that was far worse than car theft.
    He tried to think of the number of years a kidnapper spent in prison, but despite all his knowledge of crime and mystery and murder, he didn’t know that.
    He lifted his head. The car had passed and was out of sight.
    Uncle Neiman lifted the rain hat, wiped the sweat from his brow and quickly put it back on again.
    Maybe it had been a mistake to send the girl in there. Maybe he should just have ...
    Have what? He couldn’t think of one single thing. Of course, he would have had a better chance in the shop. He was used to it—and to the dark. He ran his fingers over his watch, feeling the numbers. Seven forty-five.
    Shouldn’t she be back by now? It couldn’t take that long to open the safe.
    For lack of anything constructive to do, he decided to back up the car and park directly in front of the entrance to the alley. That way he could see Herculeah when she came out. Well, he might not be able to see her, but he could still see motion, and he was fairly sure she would be in motion.
    He reached for the ignition. “Where is it? Where is it? Oh, there.”
    In a fog of his own, he turned the key and felt a bump as the car backed slowly off the curb. He stopped at the alley.
    Uncle Neiman waited. He didn’t turn off the ignition this time. He had the feeling that he might have to get out of here in a hurry.
    His head snapped up with a sudden unpleasant thought. He peered forward, but he was unable to distinguish one dashboard instrument from another.
    Still he added one more thing to his pitiful list of hopes, a list that seemed to be growing by the minute:
    1. He hoped Herculeah would come