across open fields to the south. At eleven in the morning, the day was
sunny, the temperature near fifty, with a receding armada of high white
clouds to the north. He wore khakis and a flannel shirt, and was so
warmed by exertion that he rolled up his sleeves. On the return trip
he visited the three graves that lay west of the stables.
Until recently, the State of Montana had been liberal about allowing
the establishment of family cemeteries on private property. Soon after
acquiring the ranch, Stanley Quartermass had decided he wanted to spend
eternity there, and he had obtained a permit for as many as twelve
burial plots.
The graveyard was on a small knoll near the higher woods. That
hallowed ground was defined only by a foot-high fieldstone wall and by
a pair of four-foot-high columns at the entrance. Quartermass had not
wanted to obstruct the panoramic view of the valley and mountains--as
if he thought his spirit would sit upon his grave and enjoy the scenery
like a ghost in that old, lighthearted movie Topper.
Only three granite headstones occupied a space designed to accommodate
twelve.
Quartermass. Tommy. Margaret.
pecified by the producer's will, the inscription on the first monument
read: 'Here lies Stanley Quartermass / dead before his time / because
he had to work / with so damned many / actors and writers'-followed by
the dates of his birth and death. He had been sixty-six when his plane
crashed. However, if he'd been five hundred years old, he still would
have felt that his span had been too short, for he had been a man who
embraced life with great energy and passion.
Tommy's and Margarite's stones bore no humorous epitaphs--just 'beloved
son' and 'beloved wife.' Eduardo missed them.
The hardest blow had been the death of his son, who had been killed in
the line of duty only a little more than a year ago, at the age of
thirty-two. At least Eduardo and Margaret had enjoyed a long life
together.
It was a terrible thing for a man to outlive his own child.
He wished they were with him again. That was a wish frequently made,
and the fact that it could never be fulfilled usually reduced him to a
melancholy mood which he found difficult to shake. At best, longing to
see his wife and son again, he drifted into nostalgic mists, reliving
favorite days of years gone by.
This time, however, the familiar wish had no sooner - flickered through
his mind than he was inexplicably overcome by dread. A chill wind
seemed to whistle through his spine as if it were hollow end to end.
Turning, he wouldn't have been surprised to find someone looming behind
him.
He was alone.
The sky was entirely blue, the last of the clouds having slipped across
the northern horizon, and the air was warmer than it had been at any
time since last autumn. Nonetheless, the chill persisted. He rolled
down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs.
When he looked at the headstones again, Eduardo's imagination was
