The Servants of Twilight

For the first time in his life, Charlie Harrison was glad that he had served in Vietnam. Fifteen years had passed, but battlefield cunning had not entirely deserted him. He felt the hearttwisting terror of both the hunter and the hunted, the battle stress that was like no other kind of stress, but he still knew how to use that tension, how to take advantage of that stress to keep himself alert and sharp.

The others remained very still, burrowing into the snow, hugging the Jeep and the snowmobiles. Charlie could hear them shouting to one another, but none of them dared move again.

He knew they would remain pinned down for five or ten minutes, and maybe he should get up now, head back to the cabin, use that lead time. But there was a chance that if he outwaited them he would get another clear shot the next time they regained a little confidence. For the moment, anyway, there was no danger of losing any advantage by staying put, so he remained at the perimeter of the woods. He reloaded again. He stared down at them, exhilarated by his marksmanship but wishing he wasn't

so proud of it, savagely delighted that he had brought down three of them but also ashamed of that delight.

The sky looked hard, metallic. Light snow flurries were falling.

No wind yet. Good. Wind would interfere with his shooting.

Below, Spivey's people had stopped talking. Preternatural silence returned to the mountain.

Time ticked by.

They were scared of him down there.

He dared to hope.

56

At the cabin, Christine found Joey standing in the living room. His face was ashen. He had heard the shooting. He knew." It's her."

"Honey, get your ski suit on, your boots. We're going out soon."

"Isn't it?" he said softly.

"We've got to be ready to leave as soon as Charlie comes."

"Isn't it her? "

"Yes," Christine said. Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and she held him." It'll be okay. Charlie will take care of us."

She was looking into his eyes, but he was not looking into hers. He was looking through her, into a world other than this one, a place of his own, and the emptiness in his eyes sent a chill up her spine.

She had hoped that he could dress himself while she stuffed things into her backpack, but he was on the verge of catatonia, just standing there, face slack, arms slack. She grabbed his ski suit and dressed him, pulling it on over the sweater and jeans he already wore. She pulled two pair of thick socks onto his small feet, put his boots on for him, laced them up. She put his gloves and ski mask on the floor by the door, so she wouldn't forget them when it was time to leave.

As she went into the kitchen and began choosing food and other items for the backpack, Joey came with her, stood beside

her. Abruptly he shook off his trance, and his face contorted with fear, and he said, "Brandy? Where's Brandy?"

"You mean Chewbacca, honey."

"Brandy. I mean Brandy!"

Shocked, Christine stopped packing, stooped beside him, put a hand to his face." Honey… don't do this… don't worry your mommy like this. You remember. I know you do. You remember… Brandy's dead."

"No." "The witch-"

"No! "

"— killed him."

He shook his head violently." No. No! Brandy!" He called desperately for his dead dog." Brandy! Braaannndeeeee!"

She held him. He struggled." Honey, please, please. "

At that moment Chewbacca padded into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about, and the boy wrenched free of Christine, seized the dog joyfully, hugged the furry head.

"Brandy! See? It's Brandy. He's still here. You lied. Brandy's not hurt. Brandy's okay. Nothin' wrong with good old Brandy."

For a moment Christine couldn't breathe or move because pain immobilized her, not physical pain but emotional pain, deep and bitter. Joey was slipping away. She thought he had accepted Brandy's death, that all of this had been settled when she'd forced him to name the dog Chewbacca instead of Brandy Two. But now. When she spoke his name, he didn't respond or look at her, just murmured and cooed to the dog, stroked it, hugged it.

She shouted his name; still he didn't respond.

She should never have let him keep this look-alike. She should have made him take it back to the pound, should have made him choose another mutt, anything but a golden retriever.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was nothing she could have done to save his sanity. No six-year-old could be expected to hold himself together when his whole world was crumbling around him. Many adults would have cracked sooner. Although she had tried to pretend otherwise, the boy's emotional and mental problems had been inevitable.

A good psychiatrist would be able to help him. That's what she told herself. His retreat from reality wasn't permanent. She had to believe that was true. She had to believe. Or there was no point in going on from here.

She lived for Joey. He was her world, her meaning. Without him…