Winter Moon

Cursing himself, he headed for the meadow again. Reached it. The

trees were behind him. He was safe.

Then, dear sweet Jesus, the fear again, worse than ever, the absolute

dead certainty that it was coming-- what?--that it was for sure gaining

on him, that it would drag him down, that it was bent upon committing

an act infinitely worse than murder, that it had an inhuman purpose and

unknown uses for him so strange they were beyond both his understanding

and conception.

This time he was in the grip of a terror so black and profound, so

mindless, that he could not summon the courage to turn and confront the

empty day behind him--if, indeed, it proved to be empty this time. He

raced toward the house, which appeared far more distant than a hundred

yards, a citadel beyond his reach. He kicked through shallow snow,

blundered into deeper drifts, ran and churned and staggered and flailed

uphill, making wordless sounds of blind panic--"Uh, uh, uhhhhh, uh,

uh"--all intellect repressed by instinct, until he found himself at the

porch steps, up which he scrambled, at the top of which he turned, at

last, to scream--"No!"--at the clear, crisp, blue Montana day.

The pristine mantle of snow across the broad field was marred only by

his own trail to and from the woods.

He went inside.

He bolted the door.

In the big kitchen he stood for a long time in front of the brick

fireplace, still dressed for the outdoors, basking in the heat that

poured across the hearth--yet unable to get warm.

Old. He was an old man. Seventy. An old man who had lived alone too

long, who sorely missed his wife. If senility had crept up on him, who

was around to notice? An old, lonely man with cabin fever, imagining

things.

"Bullshit," he said after a while.

He was lonely, all right, but he wasn't senile.

After stripping out of his hat, coat, gloves, and boots, he got the

hunting rifles and shotguns out of the locked cabinet in the study. He

loaded all of them.

Mae Hong, who lived across the street, came over to take care of

Toby.

Her husband was a cop too, though not in the same division as Jack.

Because the Hongs had no children of their own yet, Mae was free to

stay as late as necessary, in the event Heather needed to put in a long

vigil at the hospital.

While Louie Silverman and Mae remained in the kitchen, Heather lowered

the sound on the television and told Toby what had happened. She sat

on the foot-stool, and after tossing the blankets aside, he perched on

the edge of the chair. She held his small hands in hers.

She didn't share the grimmest details with him, in part because she

didn't know all of them herself but also because an eight-year-old

could handle only so much. On the other hand, she couldn't gloss over

the situation, either, because they were a police family.

They lived with the repressed expectation of JUSt such a disaster as

had struck that morning, and even a child had the need and the right to

know when his father had been seriously wounded.

"Can I go to the hospital with you?" Toby asked, holding more tightly

to her hands than he probably realized.

"It's best for you to stay here right now, honey."

"I'm not sick any more."

"Yes, you are."

"I feel good."

"You don't want to give your germs to your dad."

"He'll be all right, won't he?"

She could give him only one answer even if she couldn't be certain it

would prove to be correct. "Yes, baby, he's going to be all right."

His gaze was direct. He wanted the truth. Right at that moment he

seemed to be far older than eight. Maybe cops' kids grew up faster

than others, faster than they should.

"You're sure?" he said.

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Where was he shot?"

"In the leg."

Not a lie. It was one of the places he was shot. In the leg and two

hits in the torso, Crawford had said. Two hits in the torso. Jesus.

What did that mean? Take out a lung? Gutshot? The heart? At least

he hadn't sustained head wounds. Tommy Fernandez had been shot in the

head, no chance.

She felt a sob of anguish rising in her, and she strained to force it

down, didn't dare give voice to it, not in front of Toby.

"That's not so bad, in the leg," Toby said, but his lower lip was

trembling.

"What about the bad guy?"

"He's dead."

"Daddy got him?"

"Yes, he got him."

"Good," Toby said solemnly.

"Daddy did what was right, and now we have to do what's right too, we

have to be strong. Okay?"

"Yeah."

He was so small. It wasn't fair to put such a weight on a boy so

small.

She said, "Daddy needs to know we're okay, that we're strong, so he

doesn't have to worry about us and can concentrate on getting well."

"Sure."

"That's my boy." She squeezed his hands. "I'm real proud of you, do

you know that?"

Suddenly shy, he looked at the floor. "Well ... I'm ... I'm proud of

Daddy."

"You should be, Toby. Your dad's a hero."

He nodded but couldn't speak. His face was screwed up as he strained

to avoid tears.

"You be good for Mae."

"Yeah."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"When?"

"As soon as I can."

He sprang off the chair, into her arms, so fast and with such force he

almost knocked her off the stool. She hugged him fiercely. He was