Winter Moon

sort, as if he was a local eccentric.
        He supposed that might, in fact, be the case. Inheriting his spread from his rich employer, living alone, a recluse with seldom a word for anyone even when he ventured into town on errands, he might have become a minor enigma about whom townspeople were curious. The thought of it made him cringe.
        "How many years since you've had horses?" Potter asked.
        "Eight. Since Mr. Quartermass died."
        He realized how odd it was-not having spoken with Yeats in eight years, then showing up six years after he died, as if only a week had gone by.
        They stood in silence a moment. The June night around them was filled with cricket songs.
        "Well," Potter said, "where are these animals?"
        "Animals?"
        "You said you had some animals for Dr. Yeats to look at."
        "Oh. Yeah."
        "He was a good vet, but I assure you I'm his equal."
        "I'm sure you are, Dr. Potter. But these are dead animals."
        "Dead animals?"
        "Raccoons."
        "Dead raccoons?"
        "Three of them."
        "Three dead raccoons?"
        Eduardo realized that if he did have a reputation as a local eccentric,.he was only adding to it now. He was so out of practice at conversation that he couldn't get to the point.
        He took a deep breath and said what was necessary without going into the story of the doorway and other oddities: "They were acting funny, out in broad daylight, running in circles. Then one by one they dropped over." He succinctly described their death throes, the blood in their nostrils and ears.
        "What I wondered was'ould they be rabid?"
        "You're up against those foothills," Potter said. "There's always a little rabies working its way through the wild populations. That's natural. But we haven't seen evidence of it around here for a while.
        Blood in the ears? Not a rabies symptom. Were they foaming at the mouth?"
        "Not that I saw."
        "Running in a straight line?"
        "Circles."
        A pickup truck drove by on the highway, country music so loud on its radio that the tune carried all the way to the back of Potter's property. Loud or not, it was a mournful song.
        "Where are they?" Potter asked.
        "Got them bagged in plastic in the Cherokee here."
        "You get bitten?"
        "No," Eduardo said.
        "Scratched?"
        "No."
        "Any contact with them whatsoever?"
        Eduardo explained about the precautions he'd taken: the shovel, bandanna, rubber gloves.
        Cocking his head, looking puzzled, Travis Potter said, "You telling me everything?"
        "Well, I think so," he lied. "I mean, their behavior was pretty strange, but I've told you everything important, no other symptoms I noticed."
        Potter's gaze was forthright and penetrating, and for a moment Eduardo considered opening up and revealing the whole bizarre story.
        Instead, he said, "If it isn't rabies, does it sound like maybe it could be plague?".Potter frowned. "Doubtful. Bleeding from the ears? That's an uncommon symptom.
        You get any flea bites being around them?"
        "I'm not itchy."
        The warm breeze pumped itself into a gust of wind, rattling the larches and startling a night bird out of the branches. It flew low over their heads with a shriek that startled them.
        Potter said, "Well, why don't you leave these raccoons with me, and I'll have a look."
        They removed the three green plastic bags from the Cherokee and carried them inside. The waiting room was deserted, Potter had evidently been doing paperwork in his office. They went through a door and down a short hallway to the white-tiled surgery, where they put the bags on the floor beside a stainless-steel examination table.
        The room felt cool and looked cold. Harsh white light fell on the enamel, steel, and glass surfaces. Everything gleamed like snow and ice.
        "What'll you do with them?" Eduardo asked.
        "I don't have the means to test for rabies here. I'll take tissue samples, send them up to the state lab, and we'll have the results in a few days."
        "That's all?"
        "What do you mean?"
        Poking one of the bags with the toe of his boot, Eduardo said, "You going to dissect one of them?"
        "I'll store them in one of my cold lockers and wait for the state lab's report. If they're negative for rabies, then,