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 she had seen plenty of cars in town and at the supermarket.
Even there, however, pickup trucks and four-wheel-drive truck-style wagons outnumbered automobiles… She went down the steps and crossed the yard to the driveway to greet the visitor, wishing she'd paused to put on a jacket. The bitter air pierced even her comfortably thick flannel shirt.
The man who climbed out of the wagon was about thirty, with an unruly mop of brown hair, craggy features, and light-brown eyes kinder than his rugged looks.
Closing the driver's door behind him, he smiled and said, "Howdy. You must be Mrs. Mcgarvey."
"That's right," she said, shaking the hand he offered. "Travis Potter.
Pleased to meet you. I'm the vet in Eagle's Roost. One of the vets.
A man could go to the ends of the earth, there'd still be competition."
A big golden retriever stood in the back of the wagon. Its bushy tail wagged nonstop, and it grinned at them through the side window. Seeing the direction of Heather's gaze, Potter said, "Beautiful, isn't he?"
"They're such gorgeous dogs.
Is he a purebred?"
"Pure as they come."
Jack and Toby rounded the corner of the house. White clouds of breath steamed from them, they had evidently run from the hillside west of the stable, where they'd been playing. Heather introduced them to the vet.
Jack dropped the Frisbee and shook hands. But Toby was so enchanted by the sight of the dog that he forgot his manners and went directly to the wagon to stare delightedly through the window at the occupant of the cargo space.
Shivering, Heather said, "Dr. Potter-"
"Travis, please."
"Travis, can you come in for some coffee?"
"Yeah, come on in and visit a spell," Jack said, as if he had been a country boy all his life. "Stay to dinner if you can."
"Sorry, can't," Travis said. "But thanks for the invitation. I'll take a rain check, if you don't mind. Right now, I've got calls to make-a couple of sick horses that need tending to, a cow with an infected hoof. With this storm coming, I want to get home early as I can." He checked his watch.
"Almost four o'clock already." Ten-inch snowfall, we hear," said Jack… "You haven't heard the latest. First storm's built strength, and the second's no longer a day behind it, more like a couple hours. Maybe two feet accumulation before it's all done."
Heather was glad they had gone shopping that morning and that their shelves were well stocked. "Anyway," Travis said, indicating the dog,
"this was the real reason I stopped by." He joined Toby at the side of the wagon. Jack put an arm around Heather to help her keep — warm, and they stepped behind Toby. Travis pressed two fingers against the window, and the dog licked the other side of the glass enthusiastically, whined, and wagged his tail more furiously than ever.
"He's a sweet-tempered fella. Aren't you, Falstaff. His name's Falstaff."
"Really?" Heather said. "Hardly seems fair, does it? But he's two years old and used to it now. I hear from Paul Youngblood you're in the market for just such an animal as Falstaff here." Toby gasped. He gaped at Travis. "Hold your mouth open that wide," Travis warned him,
"and some critter is going to run in there and build a nest."
He smiled at Heather and Jack. "Was this what you had in mind?"
"Just about exactly," Jack said. Heather said, "Except, we thought a puppy "
"With Falstaff, you get all the joy of a good dog and none of that puppy mess. He's two years old, mature, housebroken, well behaved.
Won't spot the carpet or chew up the furniture. But he's still a young dog, lots of years ahead of him.