Winter Moon

but he didn't bite down, didn't really hurt, just held on and rolled

his eyes at Toby, as if what he would have said, if he could speak, was

something like, No, you can't open this door, it's nuts, forget it, no

way. "What're you doing?" Toby whispered. "Let go." Falstaff would

not let go. "You're drooling on me," Toby said as a rivulet of thick

saliva trickled down his wrist and under the sleeve of his pajama

tops.

The retriever worked his teeth slightly, still not hurting his master

but making it clear that he could cause a little pain anytime he

wanted. "What, is Mom paying you?" Toby let go of the doorknob with

his right hand. The dog rolled his eyes, relaxed his jaws, but didn't

entirely let go of the left wrist until Toby released the thumb-turn on

the lock and lowered his hand to his side. Falstaff dropped away from

the wall, onto all fours again.

Toby stared at the door, wondering if he would be able to move quickly

enough to open it before the dog could leap up and seize his wrist

again. The retriever watched him closely. Then he wondered why

Falstaff didn't want him to go outside. Dogs could sense danger.

Maybe a bear was prowling around outside, one of the bears that Dad

said lived in the woods. A bear could gut you and bite your head off

so quick you wouldn't have a chance to scream, crunch your skull up

like hard candy, pick its teeth with your armbone, and all they'd find

in the morning was a bloody scrap of pajamas and maybe a toe that the

bear had overlooked. He was scaring himself.

He checked the crack between the door and the jamb to be sure the

deadbolt was actually in place. He could see the dull brass shine of

it in there. Good. Safe.

Of course, Falstaff had been afraid of the door above too, curious but

afraid.

He hadn't wanted to open it. Hadn't wanted to come down here,

really.

But nobody had been waiting for them on the steps. No bear, for

sure.

Maybe this was just a dog who spooked easy. "My dad's a hero," Toby

whispered. Falstaff cocked his head. "He's a hero cop. He's not

afraid of nothin', and I'm not afraid of nothin', either." The dog

stared at him as if to say, Yeah? So what next? Toby looked again at

the door in front of him. He could just open it a crack. Take a quick

look. If a bear was on the porch, slam the door fast. "If I wanted to

go out there and pet a bear, I would." Falstaff waited. "But it's

late. I'm tired.

If there's a bear out there, he'll just have to wait till tomorrow."

Together, he and Falstaff climbed back to his room.

Dirt was scattered on the stairs. He'd felt it under his bare feet on

the way down, now he felt it going up. On the high landing, he stood

on his right leg and brushed the bottom of his left foot, stood on his

left foot and ushed off his right. Crossed the threshold. Closed the

-door. Locked it. Switched off the stair light. Falstaff was at the

window, gazing out at the backyard, and Toby joined him.

The snow was coming down so hard there would probably be nine feet of

it by morning, maybe sixteen. The porch roof below was white. The

ground was white everywhere, as far as he could see, but he couldn't

see all that far because the snow was really coming down. He couldn't

even see the woods. The caretaker's house was swallowed by whipping

white clouds of snow. Incredible. The dog dropped to the floor and

trotted away, but Toby watched the snow awhile longer.

When he began to get sleepy, he turned and saw that Falstaff was

sitting - in the bed, waiting for him. Toby slipped under the

blankets, keeping the retriever on top of them. Letting the dog under

the blankets was going one step too far. Infallible eight-year-old-boy

instinct told him as much. If Mom or Dad found them like that--boy

head on one pillow, dog head on the other pillow, covers pulled up to

their chins--there would be big trouble.

He reached for the draw cord to shut the drapes, so he and Falstaff

could go to sleep on a train, crossing Alaska in the dead of winter to

get to the gold rush country and stake a claim, after which they'd

change Falstaffs name to White Fang. But as soon as the drapes began

to close, the dog sprang to its feet on the mattress, ready to leap to

the floor. "Okay, all right, pleez," Toby said, and he pulled the

drapes wide open. The retriever settled beside him again, lying so he

was facing the door at the head of the back stairs. "Dumb dog," Toby

muttered from the edge of sleep. "Bears don't have door keys."

In the darkness, when Heather slid against him, smelling faintly of

soap from her hot bath, Jack knew he'd have to disappoint her. He

wanted her, needed her, God knew, but he remained obsessed with his

experience in the cemetery. As the memory grew rapidly less vivid, as

it became increasingly difficult to recall the precise nature and

intensity of the emotions that had been part of the encounter, he

turned it over and over more desperately in his mind, examining it

repeatedly from every angle, trying to squeeze sudden enlightenment

from it before it became, like all memories, a dry and faded husk of