Winter Moon

anyone even when he ventured into town on errands, he might have become

a minor enigma about whom townspeople were curious. The thought of it

made him cringe.

"How many years since you've had horses?" Potter asked.

"Eight. Since Mr. Quartermass died."

He realized how odd it was--not having spoken with Yeats in eight

years, then showing up six years after he died, as if only a week had

gone by.

They stood in silence a moment. The June night around them was filled

with cricket songs.

"Well," Potter said, "where are these animals?"

"Animals?"

"You said you had some animals for Dr. Yeats to look at."

"Oh. Yeah."

"He was a good vet, but I assure you I'm his equal."

"I'm sure you are, Dr. Potter. But these are dead animals."

"Dead animals?"

"Raccoons."

"Dead raccoons?"

"Three of them."

"Three dead raccoons?"

Eduardo realized that if he did have a reputation as a local eccentric,

he was only adding to it now. He was so out of practice at

conversation that he couldn't get to the point.

He took a deep breath and said what was necessary without going into

the story of the doorway and other oddities: "They were acting funny,

out in broad daylight, running in circles. Then one by one they

dropped over." He succinctly described their death throes, the blood

in their nostrils and ears.

"What I wondered was'ould they be rabid?"

"You're up against those foothills," Potter said. "There's always a

little rabies working its way through the wild populations. That's

natural. But we haven't seen evidence of it around here for a while.

Blood in the ears? Not a rabies symptom. Were they foaming at the

mouth?"

"Not that I saw."

"Running in a straight line?"

"Circles."

A pickup truck drove by on the highway, country music so loud on its

radio that the tune carried all the way to the back of Potter's

property. Loud or not, it was a mournful song.

"Where are they?" Potter asked.

"Got them bagged in plastic in the Cherokee here."

"You get bitten?"

"No," Eduardo said.

"Scratched?"

"No."

"Any contact with them whatsoever?"

Eduardo explained about the precautions he'd taken: the shovel,

bandanna, rubber gloves.

Cocking his head, looking puzzled, Travis Potter said, "You telling me

everything?"

"Well, I think so," he lied. "I mean, their behavior was pretty

strange, but I've told you everything important, no other symptoms I

noticed."

Potter's gaze was forthright and penetrating, and for a moment Eduardo

considered opening up and revealing the whole bizarre story.

Instead, he said, "If it isn't rabies, does it sound like maybe it

could be plague?"

Potter frowned. "Doubtful. Bleeding from the ears? That's an

uncommon symptom.

You get any flea bites being around them?"

"I'm not itchy."

The warm breeze pumped itself into a gust of wind, rattling the larches

and startling a night bird out of the branches. It flew low over their

heads with a shriek that startled them.

Potter said, "Well, why don't you leave these raccoons with me, and I'll

have a look."

They removed the three green plastic bags from the Cherokee and carried

them inside. The waiting room was deserted, Potter had evidently been

doing paperwork in his office. They went through a door and down a

short hallway to the white-tiled surgery, where they put the bags on

the floor beside a stainless-steel examination table.

The room felt cool and looked cold. Harsh white light fell on the

enamel, steel, and glass surfaces. Everything gleamed like snow and

ice.

"What'll you do with them?" Eduardo asked.

"I don't have the means to test for rabies here. I'll take tissue

samples, send them up to the state lab, and we'll have the results in a

few days."

"That's all?"

"What do you mean?"

Poking one of the bags with the toe of his boot, Eduardo said, "You

going to dissect one of them?"

"I'll store them in one of my cold lockers and wait for the state lab's

report. If they're negative for rabies, then, yeah, I'll perform an

autopsy on one of them."

"Let me know what you find?"

Potter gave him that penetrating stare again. "You sure you weren't

bitten or scratched? Because if you were, and if there's any reason at

all to suspect rabies, you should get to a doctor now and start the

vaccine right away, tonight--"

"I'm no fool," Eduardo said. "I'd tell

you if there was any chance I'd been infected."

Potter continued to stare at him.

Looking around the surgery, Eduardo said, "You really modernized the

place from the way it was."

"Come on," the veterinarian said, turning to the door. "I have

something I want to give you."

Eduardo followed him into the hall and through another door into

Potter's private office. The vet rummaged in the drawers of a white,

enameled-metal storage cabinet and handed him a pair of pamphlets-- one

on rabies, one on bubonic plague.

"Read up on the symptoms for both," Potter said. "You notice anything

similar in yourself, even similar, get to your doctor."

"Don't like doctors much."

"That's not the point. You have a doctor?"

"Never need one."

"Then you call me, and I'll get a doctor to you, one way or the

other.

Understand?"

"All right."

"You'll do it?"

"Sure will."