The Secret Manuscript by Edward Mullen Page B

paint. Even though he was just fourteen years old, he
had a deep appreciation for American muscle cars. He walked the
length of the car with the cover still in hand. With each step, a
little more of the car was revealed. Once he reached the end, he
tossed the cover onto the dusty floor. He was now staring at a
mint-condition, 1967 Ford Mustang convertible. He had never seen
Wibley drive it nor had he ever heard him talk about it. For a
brief moment, Ben actually had a little respect for his foster
father.
    The car had
momentarily hypnotized Ben, causing a distortion in his moral
judgement. Placing one hand on the front seat, and the other on the
windshield, he jumped inside the vehicle — muddy boots and all. He
slid into the vintage leather seat and immediately gripped the
steering wheel. The ’67 Mustang was one of Ben’s favourite cars. He
had never sat in such a nice car before, and doubted whether he
would ever get the chance again. He took full advantage of the
opportunity. After cranking the steering wheel a few times and
playing with the knobs, the excitement of pretending to drive was
fast wearing off.
    He inspected
every square inch of the car’s interior, running his fingers along
the smooth leather and vinyl surfaces. He opened the glove box and
even looked under the seat. When he flipped open the sun visor, a
set of keys fell into his lap. He stared at the keys for a moment
before picking them up. Much like he had done with the rest of the
car, he carefully studied the details on them. It was at that point
that a little devil appeared on his shoulder, whispering terrible
ideas into his impressionable ear. With a more mature individual,
the suggestion would probably have been dismissed as foolish.
However, this restraint mechanism had not yet fully developed in
Ben’s adolescent mind. Ben’s impulses were in control and he had no
choice but to act upon them. Without wasting any time, he inserted
the key into the ignition and fired the car up.
    The massive
engine came to life with a ferocious roar. Nothing in the world
gave Ben more joy than being in control of all the harnessed power
that the car possessed. With one foot on the gas pedal, and the
other foot on the clutch, he gave two pumps with his right foot.
The car growled like a caged beast, echoing throughout the tiny
garage. Kyle heard the sounds and knew there was about to be
trouble.
    The next thing
Ben saw was the massive garage door swing open and Bob Wibley
standing in the entrance with an angry look on his face, almost as
if he were about to explode. Ben panicked and released his foot
from the clutch, while keeping his right foot still on the gas. A
deafening symphony of raw power consumed the small space as the
needle on the RPM gauge shot up to 6000. The thick tires spun in
place until they became warm and found traction. The car jolted
forward, spitting up all kinds of dust. Mr. Wibley had to dive out
of the way to avoid being hit as the Mustang charged out of its
stable like a reckless stampede.
    The car
accelerated in tandem with Ben’s adrenaline, forcing his mind to
think quickly and try to keep up. He immediately gripped the shift
knob and forced it downward, engaging the second gear. The meaty
throttle drowned out any screams coming from Wibley. With the wheel
cranked and the gas pedal near the floor, the car threw up a large
cloud of dirt. Ben knew he would be in heaps of trouble already, so
he decided to make the most of it. Before the dust could settle,
Ben was gone. Ben sped down the single-lane dirt road and headed
toward the city.
    By the time
the police found him, it was night time. They hauled him back to
the farm where he would undoubtedly be on the receiving end of some
old-fashion justice.
    Just as he had
expected, he was properly dealt with. Wibley had a way of striking
the worst fear inside his heart. Ben was so afraid that he began
crying before the lashes even began, yet he did not say a word.
Kyle listened in agony from