The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls

  JOHN LEKICH

  THE PRISONER

  OF SNOWFLAKE

  FALLS

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2012 John Lekich

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Lekich, John

  The prisoner of Snowflake Falls [electronic resource] / John Lekich.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-979-7 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-55469-980-3 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8573.E498P75 2012 JC813’.6 C2011-907572-5

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011942581

  Summary: Teenage burglar Henry Holloway is sent to a small community that tests his criminal resolve.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photo by Perry Danforth

  Author photo by Alex Waterhouse-Hayward

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada CUSTER, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  For Jesper

  Contents

  PART ONE: MY LIFE IN CRIME

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  PART TWO: WELCOME SNOWFLAKE FALLS

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  I am writing the story of my life in a notebook I stole from a drugstore. Come to think of it, I stole the pen too. Given this information, there is no particular reason for you to believe that I’m especially honest. But I figure writing things down might be a good start in the trust department. I’m hoping that when you know a few things about me, you might begin to understand how I ended up where I did.

  I’ve decided to try a little experiment. While writing my story, I’m going to be one-hundred-percent honest. You never know. I might even get to like it.

  With this in mind, I think it’s only fair to let you know my real name right off the bat. It is Henry Thelonius Holloway. Feel free to call me Henry anytime you like. You may think, what’s the big deal? Everyone has a name. Actually, in my case, I have a bunch of different names. I have a student ID card that says my name is Horace Latimer. I have a library card that claims I am Marvin O’Hara. And I have a driver’s license that swears I am a legally bonafide driver named Antonio Pastorelli.

  I first came across the late Mr. Pastorelli’s license while making an unauthorized visit to his former home. With the addition of a few borrowed tools, including an X-Acto knife, a laminating kit and a small picture of yours truly, I was able to make some handy changes to Antonio’s former id. By the time I was finished, the Motor Vehicle Department version of Mr. Pastorelli went from being a seventy-seven-year-old senior citizen to someone who happened to look just like me.

  It’s not that I’m some big-time forger or anything like that. But with a little knowhow and determination, I was able to alter the original license so that it looks close to genuine if you are casually inspecting it in a reasonably dark place.

  Even though I may look a few years older than my age, I am only fifteen. That’s one of the good things about being the new and improved Antonio Pastorelli. Thanks to my handiwork, it is a documented fact that Antonio has just turned seventeen and can operate a motor vehicle all the livelong day.

  By now you’re probably wondering why I have so many different names. Let’s just say that it’s to my advantage to have as many different names as possible. You should also be aware that I steal a lot more than stationery supplies. In fact, I have stolen everything from a stick of gum to a 1957 Thunderbird convertible. For some reason, I always think better while I’m chewing gum. And driving.

  Mind you, I returned the convertible to its original parking space after a couple of hours of driving around and organizing my thoughts. I even ran it through the car wash and tuned up the engine a bit, since I noticed it was running a little rough. I didn’t return the gum. But show me someone who wants their used gum back and I’ll show you someone whose company you should definitely avoid.

  You know how some people are good at playing sports or solving math equations? Well, I’m good at picking locks and hot-wiring cars. I’ve also been told that I have a natural ability as a pickpocket. Although, the one and only time I liberated someone’s wallet, I felt so guilty that I had to put it right back into the side pocket of the sports jacket in question. I don’t mean to brag. But the man on the bus who happened to be wearing the sports jacket at the time never even knew that his wallet was gone.

  I wanted to get the fact that I’m a thief out of the way as soon as possible. When people find out I’m a thief, they usually react in one of two ways. They are either totally disgusted or they figure my life is like one of those movies where burglars crawl under laser beams to steal valuable paintings or jewels.

  I would like to say right here and now that I’ve never crawled under a laser beam in my life. Also, I do not steal anything that someone has taken the trouble to hang on a wall. In fact, I am currently restricting myself to stealing only the basics. Given my current predicament, I tend to focus on taking money and food. One thing about living in a tree house? There isn’t a lot of room for storing excess merchandise. Plus, it’s very easy to draw the attention of law enforcement when you’re walking down the street carrying a flat-screen tv.

  Lately I’ve been thinking about concentrating on smaller items. You know, wedding rings, wristwatches or the occasional engraved cigarette box. But it turns out I have a problem taking things that people are sentimentally attached to. I have even tried specializing in digital cameras. But then I’ll start scrolling through the pictures of some happy family on vacation in Hawaii or Disneyland, and I’ll end up leaving the camera right where I found it. I guess that’s one of my rules. No matter how hungry you are, nobody has a right to steal someone else’s memories.

  Not that I’m making excuses or anything. After all, plenty of people are sentimentally attached to their own personal collection of money. And I take cash just about every time I can find any lying around. Also, I came very close to cutting and eating a slice of an untouched birthday cake once, which is about the lowest thing you can do just before someone else’s birthday. Especially when you’ve just broken into their house.

  The only thing that stopped me from cutting into the cake? I couldn’t figure out how to slice it without ruining all the pink roses on top. According to the fancy lettering, somebody named Angela was just about to turn nine. Anyway, I didn’t want to ruin Angela’s
ninth birthday. So I never took anything that day. Not even a sliver of cake.

  The candles were already stuck in the frosting and everything. It reminded me of when I was about to turn nine, which was just after my mother died. My Uncle Andy ended up buying me an extra big cake that year. But nobody felt much like eating it. I hope Angela’s birthday was better than that.

  If it makes any difference, I try my best to be a very neat and orderly thief. One of the fringe benefits of being a burglar is that I’ve developed a genuine appreciation for the hectic nature of modern life. Sometimes I’ll enter a house and it will be so messy you’d think it had already been burglarized. If I like the feeling of a particular home, I’ll straighten up the place before I leave. You know, make the beds, load the dishwasher. That sort of thing.

  In fact, I always try to remember that I’m a guest in whatever home I’m burglarizing. An uninvited guest, mind you, but a guest just the same. If it weren’t for the unsuspecting hospitality of the people I burglarize, I’d probably be stuck in some foster home right now.

  Remember what I said about being honest? Well, here’s one of the most important things you should know: my privacy and independence are very important to me. My biggest fear is that I’ll end up eating foster-home oatmeal with a bunch of strangers.

  Whatever happens, I want to make my freedom last as long as I can. That’s why I’m currently spending the summer in an abandoned tree house. Like the big house next to it, the tree house belongs to the widow of Mr. Pastorelli, the man whose driver’s license I now carry. Her name is Evelyn, and she has no idea that I’ve secretly taken up residence on her property. Since Evelyn gets around with one of those aluminum walkers and doesn’t venture outdoors much, I consider her the perfect landlady for my particular situation. There have been a couple of times when I’ve had to stay very still while the maintenance man serviced her outdoor swimming pool. But that’s not so bad when you consider that I get free rent for as long as I can remain under the radar.

  I have discovered that Evelyn has a lot of pictures in her house. She is a grandmother a few times over, but her children and grandchildren never come to use the pool. This fact gives me a very melancholy feeling. So even though Evelyn never fails to leave a spare key under the mat—that’s about as convenient as it gets in my line of work—I make it a point never to steal from her unless it’s absolutely necessary.

  I’ve used the pool a couple of times late at night. I like swimming alone in the dark. It’s one of those feelings that’s peaceful and not lonely at all. Of course, I try not to abuse my midnight swimming privileges. The worst thing someone in my position can do is get emotionally attached to a place you may have to vacate at any moment.

  It’s not that I’m complaining or anything. As a rule, I always try to be grateful for at least one thing every day. For instance, today I’m very grateful that it’s summer; it makes my current domestic situation a lot easier and automatically eliminates the whole “Why aren’t you in school?” question. I tend to stay very active during the warm weather, which tends to keep me from worrying too much. Let me explain.

  For most people, summer is a time of fun and relaxation. They go to neighborhood barbecues, catch an air-conditioned movie or take a vacation to the south of France. But, apart from Christmas, summer is the busiest season of the year for a burglar. In summer, homeowners and apartment dwellers get distracted by the heat. They leave their doors and windows open in order to get a nice cross-breeze going. Or better yet, they leave a ground floor window open while they make a trip to the store to get lemonade or bug spray. While I can pick a wide variety of basic locks, an open window on the ground floor is a gift that I can never resist.

  Of course, the beauty of a summer burglary is that most of your potential problems are likely to be outdoors, frolicking in the backyard. I am often envious of such carefree behavior. During the summer, I’m too busy going through open windows to enjoy a backyard barbecue even if I were invited to one. Which I never am. Sometimes the wind shifts and I can smell the drifting smoke from the burning coals in some nearby barbecuer’s yard all the way up in my tree house. Man, does that ever make me hungry.

  I can hear everyone laughing and having a good time, the way they do at barbecues. It makes me want to drop by unannounced and say, “Hi, there. I’m you’re new neighbor from the oak tree just down the street. How about setting out another paper plate?” There are even times when I entertain thoughts of liberating a steak from right off the grill. Or maybe even waiting until dark to liberate the entire barbecue set.

  Of course, barbecued steak is a little out of my league these days. Most times I have to content myself with whatever leftovers I can find in a stranger’s fridge. I have a couple of cans of chili stored in Evelyn’s tree house. But if there’s anything that brings on that pesky lonely feeling, it’s eating your second-to-last serving of cold chili out of a can.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t help getting hungry on a regular basis. That’s how I came up with the idea of the Henry Holloway Emergency Fund. The charity that keeps on giving—to me.

  In fact, if it weren’t for the generosity of my benefactors, I’d probably starve. I should point out that I prefer to think of the people I steal from as my benefactors and patrons. Each and every one of them are making unaware—and totally unselfish—contributions to my emergency fund. I often think that it’s too bad I can’t leave them an official receipt for tax purposes. I guess they’ll just have to settle for my unofficial gratitude.

  Some of the cash portion of the Henry Holloway Emergency Fund goes toward the continuing demands of personal hygiene. Thanks to recent events, I’m facing various challenges in the cleanliness department. There are many times when I have to be especially resourceful where my personal grooming is concerned. If I run out of coins for the neighborhood laundromat, I can sometimes grab a fresh T-shirt off the outdoor clothesline from a nearby backyard. I always try to return the garment folded and freshly laundered. But I have to make sure nobody’s watching. It would be genuinely humiliating to get caught returning something I stole in the first place.

  Of course, some of my basic daily needs are quite easily addressed. Thankfully, there are a few public washrooms within walking distance. It’s especially fortunate that there’s a condominium complex less than a block away from Evelyn’s. The complex has an outdoor pool with an attached bathroom and shower. The shower facilities are locked up at night. But there are no security guards or cameras. So it’s usually very easy to hop the low fence, pick the simple lock and clean myself up.

  The problem? The condo dwellers are starting to have these summer pool parties that can run until after midnight. It’s not a good idea for me to be out on the streets after dark, since that can attract the attention of law enforcement. So lately I have been a little negligent in the soap-and-water department.

  You might think this is a tough way to get by. But believe it or not, there are many things I like about living in a tree. Most of the time, if I’m not feeling too hungry, I’ll just lie back on my stolen sleeping bag and chill. I like the fact that you get a much better look at the sky from a tree house. Probably because you’re a lot closer to it.

  I enjoy looking up at the roof of my current residence and watching the little slivers of blue that peek through the cracks in the planks. I guess some people would complain about having a few gaps in their roof. But I always try to keep in mind that I don’t pay rent. Which is very reasonable when you consider that I also have the after-hours use of a regulation pool.

  I get my accommodating side from my mother. I never knew my dad, who took off before I was born and could have been quite impetuous for all I know. About the only solid information I have on him is from my mother, who said, “He played the saxophone.” When I asked if I should know anything else, she added, “He played the saxophone quite badly.”

  Thanks to the care and attention of my mother’s brother, Andy, I have never been all that curious about m
y dad. I don’t know how my dad would feel about my current lifestyle. But I can definitely tell you that my mother wouldn’t be too pleased. When I think about how disappointed she would be, I really miss the days when I didn’t have to climb a tree to enter my front door.

  The place I am currently calling home is one of those tree houses that’s a miniature version of the grown-up house on the same property. There’s a peaked roof and glass windows with curtains. But I think I like the view best of all. It makes everything look far away and beautiful. Like nothing bad can ever touch me.

  Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Evelyn Pastorelli in her kitchen window, shuffling along with her aluminum walker, I feel guilty. She’s getting a bit forgetful, and I can tell it’s starting to worry her.

  I must confess that, once in a while, I check on Evelyn using a pair of very expensive binoculars that I liberated back in the days when I was concentrating on procuring valuable merchandise. Mostly, this is just to make sure she hasn’t fallen and injured herself. I try my best not to invade her privacy. But sometimes I can’t help seeing things that make me feel a little guilty.

  Yesterday I watched as Evelyn opened her fridge and stuck her head inside for a long time. I could tell that she was trying to find the grapefruit that was there before I decided to eat it. And when she realized it was gone, there was this scared expression on her face. Like she was thinking, Maybe my daughter is right and I should move to one of those retirement homes where I will never have to keep track of grapefruit again.

  I try to make it up to Evelyn by doing little chores around the house when she’s out running errands. For instance, I found an old oilcan in the basement and fixed one of her squeaky kitchen cupboards. After she got back, I watched her open the cupboard door and look a little sad. I mean, it was almost as if she wanted the old, familiar squeak to still be there. I guess you can never tell what a person will miss when they get to feeling lonely.