Winter Moon

than a place in heaven and the salvation of his soul.

The snow in the front yard was knee-deep. He bulled through it. He

dared not look back again. Leaving them, he knew, was essential. It

was courageous. It was wise, prudent, their best hope of survival.

However, it didn't feel like any of those things. It felt like

abandonment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Wind hissed at the windows as if it possessed consciousness and was

keeping watch on them, thumped and rattled the kitchen door as if

testing the lock, shrieked and snuffled along the sides of the house in

search of a weakness in their defenses.

Reluctant to put the Uzi down in spite of its weight, Heather stood

watch for a while at the north window of the kitchen, then at the west

window above the sink. She cocked her head now and then to listen

closely to those noises that seemed too purposeful to be just voices of

the storm.

At the table, Toby was wearing earphones and playing with a Game Boy.

His body language was different from that which he usually exhibited

when involved in an electronic game--no twitching, leaning, rocking

from side to side, bouncing in his seat. He was playing only to fill

the time.

Falstaff lay in the corner farthest from any window, the warmest spot

in the room. Occasionally he lifted his noble head, sniffing the air

or listening, but mostly he lay on his side, staring across the room at

floor level, yawning.

Time passed slowly. Heather repeatedly checked the wall clock, certain

that at least ten minutes had gone by, only to discover that a mere two

minutes had elapsed since she'd last looked. The two-mile walk to

Ponderosa Pines would take maybe twenty-five minutes in fair weather.

Jack might require an hour or even an hour and a half in the storm,

allowing for the hard slogging through knee-deep snow, detours around

the deeper drifts, and the incessant resistance of the gale-force

wind.

Once there, he should need half an hour to explain the situation and

marshal a rescue team. Less than fifteen minutes would be required for

the return trip even if they had to plow open some snowbound stretches

of road and driveway. At most he ought to be back in two hours and

fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour sooner than that.

The dog yawned. Toby was so still he might have been asleep sitting

up. They had turned the thermostat down so they could wear their ski

suits and be ready to desert the house without delay if necessary, yet

the place was still warm. Her hands and face were cool, but sweat

trickled along her spine and down her sides from her underarms. She

unzipped her jacket, though it interfered with the hip holster when it

hung loose.

When fifteen minutes had passed uneventfully, she began to think their

unpredictable adversary would make no move against them. Either it

didn't realize they were currently more vulnerable without Jack or it

didn't care.

From what Toby had said, it was the very definition of arrogance--never

afraid--and might operate always according to its own rhythms, plans,

and desires.

Her confidence was beginning to rise--when Toby spoke quietly and not

to her.

"No, I don't think so."

Heather stepped away from the window.

He murmured, "Well ... maybe."

"Toby?" she said.

As if unaware of her, he stared at the Game Boy screen. His fingers

weren't moving on the controls. No game was under way: shapes and bold

colors swarmed across the miniature monitor, similar to those she had

seen twice before.

"Why?" he asked.

She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe," he said to the swirling colors on the screen. Always before,

responding to this entity, he had said "no." The "maybe" alarmed

Heather.

"Could be, maybe," he said.

She took the earphones off him, and he finally looked up at her.

"What're you doing, Toby?"

"Talking," he said in a half-drugged voice.

"What were you saying "maybe" to?"

"To the Giver," he explained.

She remembered that name from her dream, the hateful thing's attempt to

portray itself as the source of great relief, peace, and pleasure.

"It's not a giver. That's a lie. It's a taker. You keep saying "no"

to it."

Toby stared up at her.

She was shaking. "You understand me, honey?"

He nodded.

She was still not sure he was listening to her. "You keep saying "no,"

nothing but "no.""

"All right."

She threw the Game Boy in the waste can. After a hesitation, she took

it out, placed it on the floor, and stomped it under her boot, once,

twice. She rammed her heel down on it a third time, although the

device was well crunched after two stomps, then once more for good

measure, then again just for the hell of it, until she realized she was

out of control, taking excess measures against the Game Boy because she

couldn't get at the Giver, which was the thing she really wanted to

stomp.

For a few seconds she stood there, breathing hard, staring at the

plastic debris. She started to stoop to gather up the pieces, then

decided to hell with it. She kicked the larger chunks against the

wall.

Falstaff had become interested enough to get to his feet. When Heather

returned to the window at the sink, the retriever regarded her