Winter Moon

experience he'd just had with Toby, his darkest thoughts seemed too fanciful to explain why only one grave of four appeared long undisturbed, however, he told himself that the explanation, when he learned it, would be perfectly logical and not in the least creepy.
        Fragments of the conversation he'd had with Toby echoed in his memory, out of order: What are they doing down there? What is dead? What is life? Nothing lasts forever. Everything lasts. Nothing. Everything becomes. Becomes what? Me.
        Everything becomes me. Jack sensed that he had enough pieces to put together at least part of the puzzle. He just couldn't see how they interlocked. Or wouldn't see. Perhaps he refused to put them together because even the few pieces he possessed would reveal a nightmare face, something better not encountered. He wanted to know, or thought he did, but his subconscious overruled him.
        As he raised his eyes from the mauled earth to the three stones, his attention was caught by a fluttering object on Tommy's marker. It was stuck in a narrow crack between the horizontal base and the vertical slab of granite: a black feather, three inches long, stirred by the breeze. Jack tilted his head back and squinted uneasily into the wintry vault directly overhead.
        The heavens hung gray and dead. Like ashes. A crematorium sky.
        However, nothing moved above except great masses of clouds. Big storm coming. He turned toward the sole break in the low stone, walked to the posts, and looked downhill toward Toby had almost reached that long rectangular buildg. He skidded to a halt, glanced back at his laggardly father, and waved. He tossed the Frisbee straight into the air. On edge, the disc knifed high, then curved toward the zenith and.caught a current of wind. Like a spacecraft from another world, it whirled across the somber sky. Much higher than the greatest altitude reached by the frisbee, under the pendulous clouds, a lone bird circled above the boy, like a hawk maintaining surveillance of potential prey, though it was likely a crow rather than a hawk. Circling and circling.
        A puzzle piece in the shape Of a black crow. Gliding on rising thermals. Silent as a talker in a dream, patient and mysterious.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
        
        After sending Jack to discover what Toby was doing among the gravestones, Heather returned to the spare bedroom where she had been working with her computers.
        She watched from the window as Jack climbed the hill to the cemetery.
        He stood with the boy for a minute, then knelt beside him. From a distance, everything seemed all right, no sign of trouble. Evidently, she'd been worried for no good reason. A lot of that going around lately. She sat in her office chair, sighed at her excessive maternal concern, and turned her attention to the computers.
        For a while she searched the hard disc of each machine, ran tests, and made sure the programs were in place and that nothing had crashed during the move.
        Later, she grew thirsty, and before going to the kitchen to get a Pepsi, she stepped to the window to check on Jack and Toby. They were almost out of her line of view, near the stables, tossing the Frisbee back and forth. Judging by the heavy sky and by how icy cold the window was when she touched it, snow would begin to fall soon. She was eager for it.
        Maybe the change of weather would bring a change in her mood, as well, and help her finally shed the city jitters that plagued her. It ought to be hard to cling to all the old paranoia-soaked expectations of life in Los Angeles when they were living in a white wonderland, trkling and pristine, like a sequined scene on a Christmas card.
        In the kitchen, as she opened a can of Pepsi and poured it into a glass, she heard a heavy engine approaching. Thinking it might be Paul Youngblood paying an unexpected visit, she took the tablet from the top of the refrigerator and put it on the counter, so she would be less likely to forget to give it to him before he went home. - By the time she went down the hall, opened the door, and stepped onto the front porch, the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the garage doors.
        It wasn't Paul's white Bronco, it was a similar, metallic-blue wagon, as large as the Bronco, larger than their own Explorer, but of yet another model, with which she wasn't familiar. She wondered if anyone in those parts ever drove cars. But of course