Free Places in the Dark by Thomas H. Cook Page A

current mood or some problem that had arisen in our lives, one for which we were seeking a solution. In continuing the activity after my mother deserted him, my father no doubt hoped that it would encourage my brother and me to discuss our deepest hopes and fears with him. Four Lines had not achieved that end, but he’d continued to believe that one day it might.
    We went in order of seniority that afternoon, as always. I don’t remember what my father recited, but he was inclined toward aphorisms, particularly when neatly housed in heroic couplets, so it was more than likely something from Pope or Dryden. For my part, I’d quickly thumbed through
Bartlett’s Quotations
an hour or so before and located a few lines about the law. I recited them without enthusiasm, then nodded to Billy for the last recitation of the day.
    “Your turn,” I said.
    My father drew in a somewhat impatient breath, already suspecting that he would not much care for Billy’s choice. “Your brother had rather cut grass with a mustache trimmer than read anything other than that romantic drivel his mother pushes on him,” he’d grumbled years before as the two of us sat in his study, gravely pondering Euripides, while Billy frolicked in the yard, tumbling madly, hand over hand. It was a judgment he’d never changed, although I think my mother’s departure had greatly challenged it, suggested that he might have learned something from the poets she’d cherished, their ardent songs of love.
    “So, William, what do you have for us?” he asked now.
    The rhythmic motion of my brother’s feet stopped suddenly. He smiled softly, fiddled unnecessarily with the right cuff of his shirt, then rose, his eyes quite still, his voice very nearly solemn as he recited.
    The desire of the moth for the star.
Of the day for the morrow.
The yearning for something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.
    When he finished, he sat down and fixed his gaze on the hearth. A soft golden light danced in his face, an effectthat gave him an exposed and vulnerable look, something I’d never seen before.
    “Who’s the poet?” my father asked.
    “Shelley.”
    “Your mother’s favorite,” my father said. “No wonder. She was always looking for something afar.”
    Billy nodded. “Still is, I suppose,” he said softly.
    I looked at him intently. “Are you?” I asked.
    His eyes drifted over to me. “Maybe,” he said with a quiet, strangely somber smile.
    Two weeks would pass before I put it together, the quotation he’d chosen, the pensive mood with which he’d offered it. Two weeks before I learned that in fact he had found that afar thing he’d spoken of that afternoon.
    And that her name was Dora March.

Part Two

Chapter Seven
    I n the days immediately following my brother’s murder, Sheriff T. R. Pritchart made every effort to find Dora March. He traced every lead, talked to everyone who might have known anything about where she’d gone. From me he learned that the ring we’d found beside Billy’s body was my mother’s. From Betty Gaines he discovered that a car had been parked on the road behind Dora’s house not long before Billy’s death. She’d also heard a voice coming from Dora’s house, a male voice, Betty insisted, though she could not be sure it was Billy’s. Rushing through the rain, skirting along the edge of the lawn, she’d been able to make out only a little of what she’d heard.
    Four lines:
    I don’t believe it.
It’s not true.
It can’t be true.
It’s you!
    As to Dora’s whereabouts, Henry Mason, an employee at the
Sentinel
, turned out to be the best witness. He’dseen Dora that day walking on the road that led to Royston, he told T.R. She’d been carrying a suitcase and headed toward the concrete pillar that marked the stopping place of the Portland bus. It had been raining, he said, and so he’d stopped, picked her up, and driven her to the bus station in Port Alma. She’d looked very tense, according to Henry, but