The One Safe Place Read Free

pointed at the dog. "Keep us in mind if you want a romp."
    He'd meant the breed was illegal, Marshall decided. "Thanks," he called over his shoulder.
    He was settling into a rapid stride homeward when the dog crashed after him through the undergrowth. It seemed content to keep bounding across his path and back to its master, until a shout of "Shemp," more distant than Marshall would have expected, took it away for good. By now Marshall was almost home. He rounded the last pond and clambered up the bank which separated it from the canal by the lake. Someone had removed the log which bridged the canal.
    It didn't matter, he could jump. He'd told himself he would one day, and this was it. He wavered at the top of the nine-foot slope, telling himself he mustn't close his eyes, just count to three, no, ten. His foot slipped, and he was slithering toward the canal, and a heavy branch flew past him and smashed into the opposite bank. "Should've been his head," Max said. "Your throw, Vic."
    They and George S. had sneaked out of the trees above the pond and were standing at the top of the slope. Marshall's left foot plunged into the canal. The sun pierced his eyes, turning Vic into a silhouette which swung at him an arm several times the length it ought to be. He staggered aside barely in time for the thick branch to miss his scalp and scythe past his ear with a low whoop. Then Vic lost his grip on the weapon, which thumped down the slope and stood on end before falling across the water. The current pivoted its far end toward Marshall, who sloshed into the canal and trod on the branch as it reached him and sprang onto the opposite bank. His fingertips scrabbled at the hard earth as he began to slide downward, scraping his knees, and George S. said,"Time to stop playing. This is a gun, Marsh. Get your ass over here."
    Marshall had often heard shots fired in the woods, and once he'd found bullet cases beside a path. He knew that George S.'s father had taught him how to use a gun, but would he let the boy take one out with him? Maybe he didn't know George S. had. Marshall peered over his shoulder, pain jabbing his neck, and saw a dark gun-shaped object glinting in George S.'s hand.
    Even if it was a gun he wouldn't dare shoot it at him, Marshall tried to think. They wanted to prevent him from reaching the safe ground in sight of the houses, and if he let them head him off... The prospect sent him scrambling up the bank.
    Sunlight fastened on his back. Earth dug under his fingernails and stung the quick. The strap of one sandal slid down over his heel, and he thought he'd lost the sandal. He flung up his hands as if he was surrendering, though only to seize the ridge, and missed, and skidded down the bank. "I warned you," George S. called. "You take one more step..."
    Marshall pressed the raw palms of his hands against the earth and hitched himself upward, and straightened his legs as the toes of his sandals dug into footholds so shallow he was afraid to look down, and then his head was above the ridge, insight of the lake and the rear of his house at the far end of it. He rammed his chin into the stubbly earth, and heaved himself up until his forearms were over the ridge. He levered himself onto his knees and rolled down the far side of the bank.
    He was lurching to his feet when he heard two thuds behind him, followed by a splash and a curse as Max failed to achieve the leap. Marshall only had to run, because he was within a hundred yards of the nearest house. Although there was nobody to be seen, he only had to shout for help if he needed to, assuming that the roar which the latest plane was draping over the suburb didn't blot out his voice. He sprinted through the thick grass toward the end of the fences, on the lakeward side of which someone had abandoned a length of hosepipe whose random curves gleamed black. He heard his pursuers thudding up the bank, and glanced painfully back to see George S. storm into view, brandishing the piece