Winter Moon

shootout, Heather had seen all three films. Oliver had made excellent

use of the camera and had had a powerful narrative style. Some of his

scenes were dazzling. He might even have been a genius and, in time,

might have been honored with Oscars and other awards. But there was a

disquieting moral arrogance in his work, a smugness and bullying, that

now appeared to have been an early sign of much deeper problems

exacerbated by too many drugs.

ASSASSIN .

She wished that Toby didn't have to see his father labeled a

murderer.

Well, he'd seen it before. Twice before, all over his own house. He

had heard it at school, as well, and had been in two fights because of

it. He was a little guy, but he had guts. Though he'd lost both of

the fights, he would no doubt disregard her advice to turn the other

cheek and would wade into more battles.

In the morning, after she drove him to school, she would paint over the

graffiti. As before, some of the neighbors would probably help.

Multiple coats were required over the affected areas because their

house was a pale yellow-beige.

Even so, it was a temporary repair, because the spray paint had a

chemical composition that ate through the house paint. Over a few

weeks, each defacement gradually reappeared like spirit writing on a

medium's tablet at a seance, messages from souls in hell.

In spite of the mess on her house, her anger faded. She didn't have

the energy to sustain it. These last few months had worn her down.

She was tired, so very tired.

Limping, she reentered the house by the back garage door and locked up

after herself. She also locked the connecting door between the garage

and the kitchen, and punched in the activating code to arm the alarm

system again.

SECURE.

Not really. Not ever.

She went upstairs to check on Toby. He was still sound asleep.

Standing in the doorway of her son's room, listening to him snore, she

understood why Anson Oliver's mother and father had been unable to

accept that their son had been capable of mass murder. He had been

their baby, their little boy, their fine young man, the embodiment of

the best of their own qualities, a source of pride and hope, heart of

their heart. She sympathized with them, pitied them, prayed that she

would never have to experience a pain like theirs--but she wished they

would shut up and go away.

Oliver's parents had conducted an effective media campaign to portray

their son as a kind, talented man incapable of what he was said to have

done. They claimed the Uzi found at the scene had not belonged to

him.

No record existed to prove he had purchased or registered such a

weapon. But the fully automatic Micro Uzi was an illegal gun these

days, and Oliver no doubt paid cash for it on the black market. No

mystery about the lack of a receipt or registration.

Heather left Toby's room and returned to her own. She sat on the edge

of the bed and switched on the lamp.

She put down the revolver and occupied herself with the contents of the

three wallets. From their driver's licenses, she learned that one of

the boys was sixteen years old and two were seventeen. They did,

indeed, live in Beverly Hills.

In one wallet, among snapshots of a cute high school-age blonde and a

grinning Irish setter, Heather found a two-inch-diameter decal at which

she stared in disbelief for a moment before she fished it out of the

plastic window. It was the kind of thing often sold on novelty racks

in stationery stores, pharmacies, record shops, and bookstores, kids

decorated school notebooks and countless other items with them. A

paper backing could be peeled off to reveal an adhesive surface. This

one was glossy black with embossed silver-foil letters: ANSON OLIVER

LIVES.

Someone was already merchandising his death. Sick. Sick and

strange.

What unnerved Heather most was that, apparently, a market existed for

Anson Oliver as legendary figure, perhaps even as martyr.

Maybe she should have seen it coming. Oliver's parents weren't the

only people assiduously polishing his image since the shootout.

The director's fiancee, pregnant with his child, claimed he didn't use

drugs any more. He'd been arrested twice for driving under the

influence of narcotics, however, those slips from the pedestal were

said to have been a thing of the past. The fiancee was an actress, not

merely beautiful but with a fey and vulnerable quality that ensured

plenty of TV-news time, her large, lovely eyes always seemed on the

verge of filling with tears.

Various film-community associates of the director had taken out

full-page ads in The Hollywood Reporter and Daily Variety, mourning the

loss of such a creative talent, making the observation that his

controversial films had angered a lot of people in positions of power,

and suggesting that he had lived and died for his art.

The implications of all this were that the Uzi had been planted on him,

as had the cocaine and PCP. Because everyone up and down the street

from Arkadian's station had dived for cover at the sound of all that

gunfire, no one had witnessed Anson Oliver with a gun in his hands