Winter Moon

and dangerous than anything else he'd done.

Amid the inferno, which became more panoramic by the second as the

gasoline streamed across the blacktop, the killer was nowhere to be

seen. Maybe he'd regained at least some of his senses and fled on

foot.

More likely, he was in the two-bay garage, coming at them by that route

rather than making a bold approach through the shattered front

entrance. Less than fifteen feet from Jack, a painted metal door

connected the garage to the office. It was closed.

Leaning against the counter, he gripped his revolver in both hands and

aimed at the door, arms extended rigidly in front of him, ready to blow

the perp to hell at the first opportunity. His hands were shaking. So

cold. He strained to hold the gun steady, which helped, but he

couldn't entirely repress the tremors.

The darkness at the edges of his vision had retreated. Now it began to

encroach again. He blinked furiously, trying to wash away the

frightening peripheral blindness as he might have tried to expel a

speck of dust, but to no avail.

The air smelled of gasoline and hot tar. Shifting wind blew smoke into

the room--not much, just enough to make him want to cough. He clenched

his teeth, making only a low choking sound in his throat, because the

killer might be on the far side of the door, hesitating and

listening.

Still directing the revolver squarely at the entrance from the garage,

he glanced outside into whirlwinds of tempestuous fire and churning

shrouds of black smoke, afraid he was wrong. The gunman might erupt,

after all, from that conflagration, like a demon out of perdition.

The metal door again. Painted the palest blue. Like deep clear water

seen through a layer of crystalline ice.

The color made him cold. Everything made him cold--the hollow

iron-hard thunk-thunk of his laboring heart, the whisper-soft weeping

of the woman huddled on the floor behind him, the glittering debris of

broken glass. Even the roar and crackle of the fire chilled him.

Outside, seething flames had traveled the length of the portico and

reached the front of the service station. The roof must be ablaze by

now.

The pale-blue door.

Open it, you crazy sonofabitch. Come on, come on, come on.

Another explosion.

He had to turn his head completely away from the door to the garage and

look directly at the front of the station to see what had happened,

because he had lost nearly all of his peripheral vision.

The fuel tank of the Lexus. The vehicle was engulfed, reduced to just

the black skeleton of a car enwrapped by greedy tongues of fire that

stripped it of its lustrous emerald paint, fine leather upholstery, and

other plush appointments.

The blue door remained closed.

The revolver seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. His arms ached. He

couldn't hold the weapon steady. Could barely hold it at all.

He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. Sleep a little. Dream a

little dream green pastures, wildflowers, a blue sky, the city long

forgotten.

When he looked down at his leg, he discovered he was standing in a pool

of blood. An artery must have been nicked, maybe torn, and he was

going fast, dizzy just from looking down, nausea swelling anew, a

trembling in his gut.

Fire on the roof. He could hear it overhead, distinctly different from

the crackle and roar of the blaze in front of the station, shingles

popping, rafters creaking as construction joints were tortured by the

fierce, dry heat.

They might have only seconds before the ceiling exploded into flames or

caved in on them.

He didn't understand how he could be getting colder by the moment when

fire was all around them. The sweat streaming down his face was like

ice water.

Even if the roof didn't cave in for a couple of minutes, he might be

dead or too weak to pull the trigger when at last the killer rushed

them. He couldn't wait any longer.

He had to give up the two-hand grip on the gun. He needed his left

hand to brace himself against the For mica top of the counter as he

circled the end of it, keeping all weight off his left leg.

But when he reached the end of the counter, he was too dizzy to hop the

ten or twelve feet to the blue door. He had to use the toe of his left

foot as a balance point, applying the minimum pressure required to stay

erect as he hitched across the office.

Surprisingly, the pain was bearable. Then he realized it was tolerable

only because his leg was going numb. A cool tingle coursed through the

limb from hip to ankle. Even the wound itself was no longer hot, not

even warm.

The door. His left hand on the knob looked so far away, as if he were

peering at it through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.

Revolver in the right hand. Hanging down at his side. Like a massive

dumbbell.

The effort required to raise the weapon caused his stomach to keel over

on itself repeatedly.

The killer might be waiting on the other side, watching the knob, so

Jack pushed the door open and went through it fast, the revolver thrust

out in front of him. He stumbled, almost fell, and stepped past the

door, swinging the gun right and left, heart pounding so hard it jolted