Sandy risked a quick pat on his arm in congratulation.
The rear tarpaulin was lifted.
“Get out,” Cal said.
Barrack backed out first, his gun always ready, and stood guard while the boys lowered themselves to the ground. The moment they left the protection of the truck a bitter wind hit them. They were back on the pier again. Ken and Sandy were prodded up the ladder which led to the deck of the barge they had hurriedly left not long ago.
But this time the little cabin of the barge, when they were thrust into it, lacked the cozy air they had envied earlier. Nothing had been changed. Cal’s coffeepot still stood on the stove. But now, somehow, the cramped little room seemed to smell of danger.
Cal retied their hands again immediately, and as tightly as he had the first time. Then he bound their feet together, crossing their ankles first so that bone pressed against bone and the boys were as helpless as trussed chickens. And finally, with cruel pleasure, he added a large patch of adhesive plaster over their mouths.
Then Sandy was thrown into the lower bunk, and Barrack and Cal picked Ken up and tossed him into the upper one.
“You know what to do?” Grace asked Cal.
“I know, all right.” Cal began to turn down the lamp. “And they’ll be perfectly safe here until I take the truck back.”
Three pairs of footsteps moved toward the door. It was opened and shut, and the boys could hear it being locked from the outside.