equally quick goodbye to Toby. He dared not linger, for he might
decide at any second not to leave, after all. Ponderosa Pines was the
only hope they had. Not going was tantamount to admitting they were
doomed. Yet leaving his wife and son alone in that house was the
hardest thing he had ever done-- harder than seeing Tommy Fernandez and
Luther Bryson cut down at his side, harder than facing Anson Oliver in
front of that burning service station, harder by far than recovering
from a spinal injury. He told himself that going required as much
courage on his part as staying required of them, not because of the
ordeal the storm would pose and not because something unspeakable might
be waiting for him out there, but because, if they died and he lived,
his grief and guilt and selfloathing would make life darker than
death.
He wound the scarf around his face, from the chin to just below his
eyes.
Although it went around twice, the weave was loose enough to allow him
to breathe. He pulled up the hood and tied it under his chin to hold
the scarf in place. He felt like a knight girding for battle. Toby
watched, nervously chewing his lower lip. Tears shimmered in his eyes,
but he strove not to spill them.
Being the little hero, so the boy's tears would be less visible to him
and, therefore, less corrosive of his will to leave.
He pulled on his gloves and picked up the Mossberg shotgun. The Colt
.45 was holstered at his right hip. The moment had come. Heather
appeared stricken. He could hardly bear to look at her. She opened
the door. Wailing wind drove snow all the way across the porch and
over the threshold. Jack stepped out of the house and reluctantly
turned away from everything he loved. He kicked through the powdery
snow on the porch. He heard her speak to him one last time--'I love
you'--the words distorted by the wind but the meaning unmistakable. At
the head of the porch steps he hesitated, turned to her, saw that she
had taken one step out of the house, said, 'I love you, Heather,' then
walked down and out into the storm, not sure if she had heard him, not
knowing if he would ever speak to her again, ever hold her in his arms,
ever see the love in her eyes or the smile that was, to him, worth more
than a place in heaven and the salvation of his soul.
The snow in the front yard was knee-deep. He bulled through it. He
dared not look back again. Leaving them, he knew, was essential. It
was courageous. It was wise, prudent, their best hope of survival.
However, it didn't feel like any of those things. It felt like
abandonment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.
Wind hissed at the windows as if it possessed consciousness and was
keeping watch on them, thumped and rattled the kitchen door as if
testing the lock, shrieked and snuffled along the sides of the house in
search of a weakness in their defenses.
Reluctant to put the Uzi down in spite of its weight, Heather stood
watch for a while at the north window of the kitchen, then at the west
window above the sink. She cocked her head now and then to listen
