Strange Highways

that Tommy would succumb to disease or accident - but, although she'd bought a gun for protection, she had not given much thought to the possibility that her boy might fall victim to foul play. Foul play. That sounded so melodramatic, ridiculous. After all, this was the country, uninfected by the violence that had been such a part of life in New York City.
     But something had shaken the usually boisterous Labrador, a breed prized for gameness and courage. If not an intruder - what?
     She stepped into the front hall and peered up the dark stairs. She flicked a wall switch, turning on the second-floor lights.
     Her own courage was draining away. She had stormed through the first-floor rooms, driven by fear for Tommy's welfare, giving no consideration to her safety. Now she began to wonder what she would do if she actually encountered an intruder.
     No sound descended from the second floor. She could hear only the keening and susurrant wind. Yet she was overcome by a prescient feeling that she should not venture into the upper rooms.
     Perhaps the wisest course would be to return with Tommy to the station wagon and drive to the nearest neighbors, who lived more than a quarter mile north on Black Oak. From there she could call the sheriff's office and ask them to check out the house from attic to basement.
     On the other hand, in a rapidly escalating blizzard, travel could be hazardous even in a four-wheel-drive jeep.
     Surely if an intruder was upstairs, Doofus would be barking furiously. The dog was somewhat clumsy, but he was no coward.
     Maybe his behavior had not been indicative of fear. Maybe she had misinterpreted his symptoms. His tucked tail, hung head, and trembling flanks could have been signs of illness.
     "Don't be such a wimp," she said angrily, and she hurriedly climbed the stairs.
     The second-floor hall was deserted.
     She went to her room and took the 12-gauge, piston-grip, short-barreled Mossberg shotgun from under the bed. It was an ideal weapon for home protection: compact yet plenty powerful enough to deter an assailant. To use it, she didn't have to be a marksman, for the spread pattern of the pellets guaranteed a hit if only she aimed in the general direction of an attacker. Furthermore, by using lightly loaded shells, she could deter an aggressor without having to destroy him. She didn't want to kill anyone.
     In fact, hating guns, she might never have acquired the Mossberg if she'd not had Tommy to worry about.
     She checked her son's room. No one there.
     The two bedrooms at the back of the house had been connected with a wide archway to make one studio. Her drawing board, easels, and white-enameled art-supply cabinets were as she had left them.
     No one lurked in either of the bathrooms.
     Jim's office, the last place she searched, was deserted too. Evidently she had misinterpreted the Labrador's behavior, and she felt a bit sheepish about her overreaction.
     She lowered the shotgun and stood in Jim's office, composing herself. After his death, Meg had left the room untouched, so she could use his computer to write letters and do bookkeeping. In fact, she also had sentimental reasons for leaving his things undisturbed. The room helped her to recall how happy Jim had been with a novel under way. He'd had a charmingly boyish aspect that was never more visible than when he was excited about a story, elaborating on a kernel of an idea, Since his funeral, she sometimes came to this room to sit and remember him.
     Often she felt trapped by Jim's death, as if a door had slammed shut and locked after him when he had stepped out of her life, as if she were now in a tiny room behind that door, with no key to free herself, with no window by which she could escape.
How could she build a new life, find happiness, after losing a man
she had loved so deeply? What she'd had with Jim had been perfection. t
Could any future relationship equal it?
     She sighed, turned off the light, and closed the door on her way out. She returned the shotgun to her own room.
     In the hall, as she approached the head of the stairs, she had the peculiar feeling that someone was watching her. This uncanny awareness of being under observation was so powerful that she turned to look back up the hall.
     Empty.
     Besides, she had searched everywhere. She was