Flexing the muscles in her back, she went to the window to see if
flurries had begun to fall ahead of schedule.
The November sky was low, a uniform shade of lead gray, like an immense
plastic panel behind which glowed arrays of dull fluorescent tubes.
She fancied that she would have recognized it as a snow sky even if she
hadn't heard the forecast. It looked as cold as ice. In that bleak
light, the higher woods appeared to be more gray than green.
The backyard and, to the south, the brown fields seemed barren rather
than merely dormant in anticipation of the spring.
Although the landscape was nearly as monochromatic as a charcoal
drawing, it was beautiful. A different beauty from that which it
offered under the warm caress of the sun. Stark, somber, broodingly
majestic. She saw a small spot of color to the south, on the cemetery
knoll not far from the perimeter of the western rest. Bright red. It
was Toby in his new ski suit.
He was standing inside the foot-high fieldstone wall. I should have
told him to stay away from there, Heather thought with a twinge of
apprehension. Then she wondered at her uneasiness. Why should the
cemetery seem any more dangerous to her than the yard immediately
outside its boundaries? She didn't believe in ghosts or haunted
places.
The boy stood at the grave markers, utterly still. She watched him for
a minute, a minute and a half, but he didn't move. For an
eight-year-old, who usually had more energy than a nuclear plant, that
was an extraordinary period of inactivity. The gray sky settled lower
while she watched. The land darkened subtly. Toby stood unmoving.
The arctic air didn't bother Jack--invigorated him, in fact--except
that it penetrated especially deeply into the thighbones and scar
tissue of his left leg. He did not have to limp, however, as he
ascended the hill to the private graveyard. He passed between the
four-foot-high stone posts that, gateless, marked the entrance to the
burial ground. His breath puffed from his mouth in frosty plumes.
Toby was standing at the foot of the fourth grave in the line of
four.
His arms hung straight at his sides, his head was bent, and his eyes
were fixed on the headstone. The Frisbee was on the ground beside
him.
He breathed so shallowly that he produced only a faint mustache of
steam that repeatedly evaporated as each brief exhalation became a soft
inhalation.
'What's up?' Jack asked.
The boy did not respond.
The nearest headstone, at which Toby stared, was engraved with the name
THOMAS FERNANDEZ and the dates of birth and death. Jack didn't need
the marker to remind him of the date of death, it was carved on his own
memory far deeper than the numbers were cut into the granite before
him.
Since they'd arrived Tuesday morning, after staying the night with Paul
and Carolyn Youngblood, Jack had been too busy to inspect the private
cemetery.
