Free Silent Witness by Collin Wilcox Page A

treasure, no guns. But there were tools, and strangely shaped pieces of metal, all rusty.
    And then he’d found the knife: a big old sheath knife, in its leather sheath.
    His knife, now, kept in the chest.
    His secret. His weapon.
    He could still remember the feeling in his stomach when he’d pulled the blade of the knife from its sheath. He’d felt like he’d become another person. In that instant, he’d known how it must feel to be a man.
    Cowboys carried knives on the same belt with their guns. The real cowboys, the ones in the books his mother read him, they always carried knives. Just in case.
    Brushing cobwebs aside, he went to the small window. He climbed up on a chest, and looked out. He was careful to keep his head back, so no one could see him from the ground. He scanned the clearing far below, and the line of trees that bordered the clearing. Nothing stirred. Not even a squirrel, or a jackrabbit.
    He stepped down, opened the chest he’d been standing on, took out the knife. He’d found an old oil can on the shelf, with some thick, gummy oil in it. He’d oiled the blade of the knife, and with some steel wool he’d gotten from Al, he’d worked on the oiled blade until it shone. There’d been a whetstone on the shelf, too, and he’d tried to sharpen the knife, the way he’d seen Al do it.
    Closing the lid of the chest, holding the sheathed knife, he sat down with his back to the wall, his bare shoulders resting against the rough wood.
    The time, he knew, must be almost six o’clock. Yesterday he’d lost his watch, somewhere in his room, he thought. It was because he was so messy, his father had said, that he’d lost his watch. And Maria, their cook, had agreed: “You make a mess, you lie in it,” Maria had said, “like a pig.” And she’d frowned: a dark, hard frown. Sometimes, when she talked, Maria spat. When he’d asked Al why Maria spat, Al had smiled. “It’s because she has false teeth,” Al had said. “And they don’t fit very well.” Maria was Mexican. After Maria had lived with them for a while, cooking and cleaning, he’d decided he didn’t like Mexicans.
    He held the sheath with his left hand, and drew out the knife with his right. The handle of the knife was wood and felt smooth and powerful to his hand. He knew he would always have this knife.
    From overhead, he heard the sound of a jet airplane: a faint, woolly, rolling sound, like thunder faraway.
    How long had it been, that he and his father had gone to the airport, and made their way through the crowds in the terminal, and walked through that last long tunnel to the door of the airplane, and sat strapped into their seats, waiting for the airplane to take off? He’d never before been in an airplane, never heard the engine screaming, never felt himself pressed back in his seat as the airplane hurtled down the runway, then lifted into the clear blue sky. He’d gone to Santa Barbara many times with his mother, but always by car.
    His Aunt Janice had met them at the airport in Santa Barbara. When she met him, she’d smiled: a small, sad smile. Then she’d hugged him, hard. While she held him, he’d felt her sob.
    That night, the night before the funeral, when his aunt tucked him into bed and then kissed him on the forehead, he’d felt her sob again. She’d whispered to him, very softly: “You’ll always have me, John. Always.”
    Then she’d said good night, and left him in the dark room with the door half open. From the hallway, on its wooden floor, he heard two pairs of footsteps, going toward the stairs. His father had been out there in the hallway, listening.
    He’d lain in the darkness a long time, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. He’d never known when his eyes had closed, and he’d finally fallen asleep.
    He couldn’t remember.
    But he would never forget.
    Because somehow, as he’d lain in his bed, in his room, the room in his aunt’s house meant only for him, with his toys, and his clothes, and