prosperity as being in a well-heated and cozy room while the windows
revealed a world in the frigid grip of winter.
'Beautiful,' she said, enchanted by the breaking storm. 'Wow,' Toby
said. 'Snow.
It's really, really snow.' They were a family. Wife, husband, child,
and dog.
Together and safe. Hereafter, she was going to think only Mcgarvey
thoughts, never Beckerman thoughts. She was going to embrace a
positive outlook and shun the negativism that was both her family
legacy and a poisonous residue of life in the big city. She felt free
at last. Life was good.
After dinner, Heather decided to relax with a hot bath, and Toby
settled in the living room with Falstaff to watch a video of
Beethoven.
Jack went directly to the study to review the gun available to them.
In addition to the weapons they'd brought from Los Angeles--a
collection Heather had substantially increased after the shootout at
Arkadian's service station-- a corner case was stocked with hunting
rifles, a shotgun, a .22 pistol, a .45 Colt revolver, and ammunition.
He preferred to select three pieces from their own armory: a
beautifully made Korth .38, a pistol-grip, pump-action Mossberg
twelve-gauge, and a Micro Uzi like the one Anson Oliver had used,
although this particular weapon had been converted to full automatic
status. The Uzi had been acquired on the black market. It was odd
that a cop's wife should feel the need to purchase an illegal
gun--odder still that it had been so easy for her to do so.
He closed the study door and stood at the desk, working quickly to
ready the three firearms while he still had privacy. He didn't want to
take such precautions with Heather's knowledge, because he would have
to explain why he felt the need for protection. She was happier than
she'd been in a long time, and he could see no point in spoiling her
mood until--and unless--it became necessary.
The incident in the graveyard had been frightening, however, although
he'd felt threatened, no blow had actually been struck, no harm. He'd
been afraid more for Toby than for himself, the boy was back, no worse
for what had happened. And what had happened? He didn't relish having
to explain what he had sensed rather than seen: a presence lrl and
enigmatic and no more solid than the wind.
Hour by hour, the encounter seemed less like something he had actually
experienced and more like a dream. He loaded the .38 and put it to one
side of the desk. He could tell her about the raccoons, of course,
although he himself had never seen them and although they had done no
harm to anyone. He could tell her about the shotgun Eduardo Fernandez
had been clutching fiercely when he'd died. But the old man hadn't
been brought down by an enemy vulnerable to buck shot, a heart attack
had felled him. A massive cardiac infarction was as scary as hell,
yes, but it wasn't a killer that could be deterred with firearms.
He fully loaded the Mossberg, pumped a shell into the breech, and then
inserted one additional shell in the magazine tube. A bonus round.
