Winter Moon

have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills

Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the

Famous Flames. Loved James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought

disgusting images to mind.

Well, he wasn't hip and didn't try to be. They probably didn't even

use the word "hip" any more. In fact, he was sure they didn't. He

hadn't a clue as to what word meant "hip" these days.

Older than the sands of Egypt.

He listened to the music for another minute, then switched it off and

removed the headphones.

Wormheart was exactly what he needed.

By the last day of April, the winter shroud had melted except for

deeper drifts that enjoyed the protection of shadows during a large

part of the day, although even they were dwindling steadily. The

ground was damp but not muddy any longer. Dead brown grass, crushed

and matted from the weight of the vanished snow, covered hills and

fields, within a week, however, a carpet of tender green shoots would

brighten every corner of the now dreary land.

Eduardo's daily walk took him past the east end of the stables and

across open fields to the south. At eleven in the morning, the day was

sunny, the temperature near fifty, with a receding armada of high white

clouds to the north. He wore khakis and a flannel shirt, and was so

warmed by exertion that he rolled up his sleeves. On the return trip

he visited the three graves that lay west of the stables.

Until recently, the State of Montana had been liberal about allowing

the establishment of family cemeteries on private property. Soon after

acquiring the ranch, Stanley Quartermass had decided he wanted to spend

eternity there, and he had obtained a permit for as many as twelve

burial plots.

The graveyard was on a small knoll near the higher woods. That

hallowed ground was defined only by a foot-high fieldstone wall and by

a pair of four-foot-high columns at the entrance. Quartermass had not

wanted to obstruct the panoramic view of the valley and mountains--as

if he thought his spirit would sit upon his grave and enjoy the scenery

like a ghost in that old, lighthearted movie Topper.

Only three granite headstones occupied a space designed to accommodate

twelve.

Quartermass. Tommy. Margaret.

pecified by the producer's will, the inscription on the first monument

read: "Here lies Stanley Quartermass / dead before his time / because

he had to work / with so damned many / actors and writers"-followed by

the dates of his birth and death. He had been sixty-six when his plane

crashed. However, if he'd been five hundred years old, he still would

have felt that his span had been too short, for he had been a man who

embraced life with great energy and passion.

Tommy's and Margarite's stones bore no humorous epitaphs--just "beloved

son" and "beloved wife." Eduardo missed them.

The hardest blow had been the death of his son, who had been killed in

the line of duty only a little more than a year ago, at the age of

thirty-two. At least Eduardo and Margaret had enjoyed a long life

together.

It was a terrible thing for a man to outlive his own child.

He wished they were with him again. That was a wish frequently made,

and the fact that it could never be fulfilled usually reduced him to a

melancholy mood which he found difficult to shake. At best, longing to

see his wife and son again, he drifted into nostalgic mists, reliving

favorite days of years gone by.

This time, however, the familiar wish had no sooner - flickered through

his mind than he was inexplicably overcome by dread. A chill wind

seemed to whistle through his spine as if it were hollow end to end.

Turning, he wouldn't have been surprised to find someone looming behind

him.

He was alone.

The sky was entirely blue, the last of the clouds having slipped across

the northern horizon, and the air was warmer than it had been at any

time since last autumn. Nonetheless, the chill persisted. He rolled

down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs.

When he looked at the headstones again, Eduardo's imagination was

suddenly crowded with unwanted images of Tommy and Margaret, not as

they had been in life but as they might be in their coffins: decaying,

worm-riddled, eye sockets empty, lips shriveled back from

yellow-toothed grins. Trembling uncontrollably, he was gripped by an

absolute conviction that the earth in front of the granite markers was

going to shift and cave inward, that the corrupted hands of their

corpses were going to appear in the crumbling soil, digging fiercely

and then their faces, their eyeless faces, as they pulled themselves

out of the ground.

He backed away from the graves a few steps but refused to flee. He was

too old to believe in the living dead or in ghosts.

The dead brown grass and spring-thawed earth did not move. After a

while he stopped expecting it to move.

When he was in full control of himself again, he walked between the low

stone columns and out of the graveyard. All the way to the house, he

wanted to spin around and look back. He didn't do it.

He entered the house through the back door and locked it behind him.