The Cold Moon

empty tanks lose them. That’s been the rule of warfare for one hundred years.
    Then one day her lieutenant came to her and told her two things. One, she was being promoted from corporal to sergeant. Two, she was being sent to school to learn Arabic.
    Bob returned to the States and Lucy lugged her gear to a C130 and flew off to the land of bitter fog.
    Be careful what you ask for. . . .
    Lucy Richter had gone from America—a country with a changed landscape—to a place with none. Her life became desert vistas, searing heat from a hovering sun and a dozen different kinds of sand—some of it abrasive grit that scarred your skin, some fine as talcum that worked its way into every square inch of existence. Her job took on a new gravity. If a truck runs out of fuel on a trip from Berlin to Cologne, you ring up a supply vehicle. If it happens in a combat zone, people die.
    And she made sure it never happened.
    Hours and hours of juggling tankers and ammunition trucks and the occasionaloddity—like playing cowgirl to wrangle sheep into transport trucks, part of an impromptu, voluntary mission to get food to a small village that had been without supplies for weeks.
    Sheep . . . What a hoot!
    And now she was back in a land with a skyline, no livestock outside of delis or Food Emporium counters, no sand, no burning sun . . . no bitter fog.
    Very different from her life overseas.
    Lucy Richter, though, was hardly a woman at peace. Which is why she was now staring south, looking for answers in the Great Emptiness of the changed landscape.
    Yes or no . . .
    The phone rang. She jumped at the sound. She’d been doing this a lot lately—at every sudden noise. Phone, slamming door, backfire.
    Chill . . . She picked up the handset. “Hello?”
    “Hey, girl.” It was a good friend of hers from the neighborhood.
    “Claire.”
    “What’s happening?”
    “Just chilling.”
    “Hey, what time zone’re you in?”
    “God only knows.”
    “Bob home?”
    “Nope. Working late.”
    “Good, meet me for cheesecake.”
    “ Only cheesecake?” Lucy asked pointedly.
    “White Russians?”
    “You’re in the ballpark. Let’s do it.”
    They picked a late-night restaurant nearby and hung up.
    With a last look at the black empty southern sky, Lucy rose, pulled on sweats, a ski jacket and hat and left the co-op. She clopped down the dim stairway to the first floor.
    She stopped, blinking in surprise as a figure startled her.
    “Hey, Lucy,” the man said. Smelling of camphor and cigarettes, the superintendent—he’d been old when she grew up here—was carrying bound newspapers out to the sidewalk. Outweighing him by thirty pounds and six inches taller, Lucy grabbed two of the bundles from him.
    “No,” he protested.
    “Mr. Giradello, I have to stay in shape.”
    “Ah, in shape? You’re stronger than my son.”
    Outside, the cold stung her nose and mouth. She loved the sensation.
    “I saw you in your uniform tonight. You get that award?”
    “This Thursday. It was just the rehearsal today. And it’s not an award. A commendation.”
    “’S the difference?”
    “Good question. I don’t really know. I think you win an award. A commendation they give you instead of a pay hike.” She piled the trash at the curb.
    “Your parents’re proud.” A statement, not a question.
    “They sure are.”
    “Say hi for me.”
    “I will. Okay, I’m freezing, Mr. Giradello. Gotta go. You take care.”
    “Night.”
    Lucy started up the sidewalk. She noticed a dark blue Buick parked across the street. Two men were inside. The one in the passenger seat glanced at her and then down. He lifted and drank a soda thirstily. Lucy thought: Who’d be having a cold drink in weather like this? She herself was looking forward to an Irish coffee, boiling hot and with a double dose of Bushmills. Whipped cream too, of course.
    She then glanced down at the sidewalk, stopped suddenly and changed course. Amused, Lucy Richter reflected that patches of slick ice were probably the only danger she hadn’t been exposed to in the past eighteen months.

Chapter 21
    Kathryn Dance was alone with Rhyme in his town house. Well, Jackson, the Havanese, was present too. Dance was holding the dog.
    “That was wonderful,” she told Thom. The three of them had just finished a dinner of the aide’s beef bourguignon, rice, salad and a Caymus Cabernet. “I’d ask for the recipe but I’d never do it justice.”
    “Ah, an appreciative audience,”