More than anyone I ever knew, my brother Billy felt the rapid wings of summer, how it darted like a bird through the trees of Maine, skittered along streams and ponds, then soared away, bright and gleaming, leaving us behind, shivering in coats and scarves. It was on one of those fleeting summer days that he saved Jenny Grover's life. He'd built a wooden raft out of planks discarded by a local sawmill, packed the space between the boards with rags and mud, then asked me to help him carry it to the spot where Fox Creek widened and deepened, its current growing turbulent again just beyond the bend, where it made its headlong rush toward Linder Falls. "I'm going to make it all the way across," he declared. He was twelve years old, shirtless, barefoot, dressed only in a pair of cut-off trousers. "It's going to sink, Billy," I warned him. "Believe me, it's going to sink like a stone." He laughed. "If it sinks, we'll swim." "We? I'm not going out on that thing." "Oh, come on, Cal." "No," I said. "Look at me." Unlike Billy, I was fully dressed, having made no compromise with summer beyond a pair of sandals. "Okay then," he said. "You can go back home." "No, I'll wait." "Why?" "Because someone has to pull you out of the water," I told him. "That's why I came along. To save your life." This was not entirely a joke. Five years older, I had long ago assumed the part of the vigilant, protective brother, certain that throughout our lives I would be there to protect him. I'd already caught him as he tumbled from chairs and staircases, tugged him away from blazing hearths, snatched his fingers from closing doors. Once I'd even managed to drag him off a rearing pony, lower him safely to the ground. My mother had scolded me for that. "He can't avoid getting hurt, Cal," she said. "Next time let him fall." It was the sort of statement I'd come to expect from my mother, the great value she put on experience, especially painful experience. It was not the sort of advice I cared to take, however. Nor, following it, did I in the least intend to let my brother sink into Fox Pond. "Be careful, Billy," I cautioned as he stepped onto the raft, plunged his wooden paddle into the water, and pushed out into the current. "It's white water just around the bend." His eyes sparkled. "You'll be sorry you didn't come with me." "No, I won't." "You miss all the good stuff, Cal." I pointed to the trickle of water already seeping into his raft. "Like drowning?" His smile was a light aimed at the world. "Like almost drowning," he replied. "See you on the other side, Cal." With that, he shoved the handle against the rocky bottom again, this time with all his might, so that the raft shot forward with such force, it left a rippling wake behind it. I watched as he floated out into the stream, then sprinted for the rickety wooden bridge that spanned it. Billy had already made it a third of the way across the water by the time I reached the bridge. He was paddling furiously now, trying to reach the opposite bank before his inadequate make-shift raft sank beneath him. At midstream he grinned and waved to me. "Will it make it?" I called, growing anxious now. "Sure," he returned breathlessly, the raft still afloat but riding low in the water. I bounded off the bridge, then along the edge of the water. Billy was two thirds across by then, grinning, triumphant that the raft was still afloat. "Land ho," I yelled. He laughed for an instant, then stopped, his eyes suddenly concentrated on some point in the distance. It was at that moment that Jenny Grover swept out from under the bridge, clinging, terror-stricken, to a black rubber tube. She was moving swiftly on currents that had not yet tamed, and which would inevitably propel her across the still-turbulent surface that lay between the bridge and the lethal, churning waters that waited just beyond the bend, water that would, within minutes, carry her over Linder Falls. The horrible truth hit me instantly. Jenny Grover, five years old, was going to die. It was an irrefutable fact. I might dive into the water, try to intercept her, but she would have long swept past any point I might reach along her path. There was nothing between Jenny and the falls, nothing that might grasp the rubber tube or direct it toward shore. Nothing, that is, but my brother. I spun around and saw that he stood in place, the paddle motionless in his hands, the raft sinking beneath him, his gaze fixed on Jenny Grover. Instantly, I knew what he was thinking. Excerpted from Places in the Dark by Thomas H. Cook All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
