Free Silent Witness by Collin Wilcox

disappearing, returning to the sky while other birds swooped in through the gaps where boards were missing. Many gaps, many birds. Barn swallows, Al had called them.
    Down below, he saw the rusted farm machinery, all tumbled together along the wall to make room for the truck. Except for the loft and the secret room behind it, the truck was his favorite place to play. Sitting on the split-open black leather seat with its springs showing through, gripping the big wood-rimmed steering wheel, just touching the pedals with his feet, he could almost hear the roar of the engine, feel the wheels thumping on the road as he traveled far, far away.
    But now, so late, he had only time enough to check the secret room, make sure nothing had been disturbed.
    Three paces took him to the wall of the secret room. The door to the room was padlocked: a huge, rusted lock that would never be opened. A narrow flight of stairs led up from the sagging wooden loading platform below the door of the secret room. But the stairs were rotted. No one would ever climb those stairs again. For as long as the world went on, no one would ever climb those stairs. So only he could enter the secret room. John Price, Explorer. John Price, Special Agent.
    Yes, Special Agent …
    Everyone—the good guys and the bad guys—they’d all searched for this place, all tried to find out what was inside. Because long ago, enemy agents had been here, planning how to blow up the whole country, one big mushroom cloud, everything turned to cinders. But they’d been killed by the FBI, somewhere else. So nobody knew what they’d hidden here, the plans to blow up the whole world.
    Nobody but him.
    So it was all up to him.
    Only he could save the country. As if the spies had somehow returned, not really dead at all, he thought he heard a noise—a scurrying, a scuffling. Holding his breath, he stood perfectly still. Was someone down there, down below? If they were, they’d never see him, not as long as he stayed behind the great mound of hay, higher than his head. He could stand up, even, and no one could see him.
    As he listened, he realized his mouth was open.
    “Your mouth is open, John,” his mother sometimes said, smiling, teasing him. “Do you know you open your mouth, when you listen very hard?” Smiling. Still smiling.
    With the memory of his mother, everything changed: a shifting of sight and sound as the possibility of danger from below faded.
    Then, as it always did, the memory of his mother faded.
    Leaving him alone.
    Once more, alone.
    Aware that his legs had grown heavy, his arms listless, he moved to the secret board, known only to him. The board was loose at the bottom. When he’d discovered it was loose, nails rusty in the rotting wood, he’d found an old piece of rusted iron, and pried the board free at the top. With the board laid aside, he’d been able to squeeze through the opening, to find himself in the secret room. The room had once been used to hang bridles and harnesses, for horses. There were racks for saddles, and bits of broken equipment. There was even a saddle hanging on one of the racks, with only the stirrups missing.
    With a rock, he’d been able to bend the nails that held the board so that he could always remove the board, as he was doing now. Allowing him to squeeze through, as he was doing now. When he left, he would replace the board so that the bent nails held it firmly in place, the secret entrance to his secret place.
    The floor was littered with cans and bottles and buckles and bits of metal the first time he’d come. But he’d found a broom in one corner, and he’d used the broom to clean up, especially the cobwebs. There’d been boxes, too: three large boxes, with hinged tops and rope handles. How clearly he remembered the moment he’d pried the hasp free on one of the boxes, and lifted the lid. Would he find a treasure: sparkling jewels and bags of golden coins? And guns, maybe. Like Treasure Island?
    There’d been no