AT FIRST when I woke up I thought there was a slow-moving clock somewhere in the house: tock-tock–tock. But no, it was coming from outside. I got up and went to the window. The floodlights were out; must’ve been after nine. From the street a faint light smudged the hockey-playing end of the lake. I could see a dark figure, near the practice board: tock–tock. Then I knew: El Grosso. One of his weird habits. When something is bothering him, he goes to the lake and shoots his puck into the board. Probably still trying to figure out how to get Jennifer Wade.
Then, suddenly, fear hit me, like a hot puck into my stomach. I was scared of being in this old, dark, cold house by myself, and just as scared of what was going to happen when I got home. I headed for the door, felt my way along the hallway, down the narrow, creaky stairs, pitch-black now, like the House of Horrors at the shore. I expected a green ghoul or headless mummy to come popping out at me any second. I made it to the kitchen. Silence, inside and out: the tock–tock had stopped. I swore I felt ghoul’s breath on the back of my neck. I bumped into the table, found the door, I fumbled around, yanked, pulled, but I couldn’t open it. I went out the way I came in, through the window. I was in such a hurry I snagged my foot and fell to the ground on my head.
Just as I got up and started to run I heard a voice—from the lake—Grosso—calling for help! In a couple seconds I was on the ice. I stopped, listened: silence. I called his name. “Over here! Over here!” His voice was coming from the middle of the lake, the thin ice!
I started running, slipped, slid all the way into the fence. I kicked it down, stepped over it, stopped. Now I could hear: splitting ice, splashing…
“Greg?”
“Here! Here!”
I was there. He was a dark thrashing shape that the blacker darkness was trying to swallow. I could hear more than see: gasping, wheezing, like his lungs were rusty springs, grunting, blubbing, smacking water, smacking ice, ice snapping. Your brother is drowning. I reached out. “Stop!” he yelled. “No!” Ice collapsed, he disappeared. He came back up, farther away, glubbing, his breath singing. Your brother is dying. I tore off my coat, got on my knees, held the coat by one cuff, tossed it into the black water. “Here! Grab!”
He thrashed his way over. “No! Here!” he gasped. For the first time, I noticed he was holding something; it looked like a hockey stick. “Back!” he gasped. “Back! Back!” I crawled back. “Sit!” I sat. “Dig! Heels in!” I dug my heels in as well as I could. He shoved the stick at me. It was a hockey stick, and as soon as I grabbed it I knew exactly which one it was. The stick between us seemed a mile long. At the other end I could barely see his eyes. They were scared. I took a deep breath and pulled.