Page 22 of The Pact

The beams of our flashlights shift to the second-story window above us. Against a backdrop of black smoke, two boys hang out the window, waving their arms.

“Here!” one of them shouts. “Help us! Please! Fire!” The words are punctuated by coughing.

“We’ll get you out!” I tell them. “Stay calm.”

“It’s smoky!” one of the boys screams. Panic and terror resonate in his voice.

“Close the door to the hall,” Tomasetti instructs. “You’re going to have to come out the window!”

“It’s too far down!” comes a high-pitched voice.

“We’ll catch you,” Tomasetti calls back.

I recall from their physical descriptions that the boys don’t weigh much. Even so, eighty pounds of frightened boy falling from a height of fifteen feet is going to deliver a wallop to the person below. But there’s no time to wait for the fire department.

Tomasetti and I position ourselves beneath the window. The fire roars like a beast. Smoke pours from the window. The wood siding next to me is hot to the touch.

“One at a time,” Tomasetti calls out. “Jump!”

“Come on!” I say. “You can do it!”

Glass breaks somewhere nearby. I hear the sound of wood splintering. The roar intensifies.

“We don’t have much time,” Tomasetti mutters beneath his breath.

If the door to the bedroom becomes engulfed, or if the floor beneath the boys collapses, this will go from a rescue to a recovery operation.

“Chief!”

I glance over my shoulder to see the cone of Glock’s flashlight as he emerges from the woods. Relief shudders through me as he charges toward us. A former Marine and war veteran, he’s physically fit, courageous, and strong.

“They going to jump?” Glock asks as he approaches.

“Only way out,” I tell him. “First floor is engulfed.”

The three of us reposition ourselves directly beneath the window. Facing each other, Tomasetti and Glock join hands.

“Come on!” Tomasetti shouts.

I look up at the boys. The drop is only about fifteen feet, but with the fire raging and darkness all around, it must feel as if they’re about to jump into a bottomless pit.

Remembering one of the boys is Amish, I try to appeal to his faith. “Gott zayl net fiahra du vo Sei gnawdi zayl halda!” God won’t lead you where His grace can’t keep you!

A crash shakes the house. The wall to my right shudders.

I hear a yelp. A small figure plummets. Tomasetti and Glock lunge left and catch the boy. I rush forward, grasp his arm, pull him to a safe distance. He’s shaking, coughing, and sobbing.

“Hi there.” I put my arm around him, hold him tight against me. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“Aaron!” he cries, looking over his shoulder. “Help him!”

“We’ll get him down.” I maintain a soft grip on his shoulders, and we turn to watch. In the glow of the flames I see the second boy step over the sill and plunge. Again, Glock and Tomasetti catch him.

Taking Kevin’s hand, I start toward them. Midway there, the boy breaks from my grip. I let him go. Glock, Tomasetti, and I watch as the two friends fling themselves into each other’s arms. Both boys are coughing, tears streaming, doing their best to pretend they’re not overcome.

In the distance, sirens wail. The burning house is an ethereal scene with the glow of flames against the night sky, the billowing black smoke, and the sleet slanting down.

I’ve just pulled out my cell to contact the families when Tomasetti comes up beside me. “I’m usually not a sucker for a happy ending,” he says.