"I take it that means no," Robin said. "You know it's dangerous and stupid. I don't have to tell you that. Right?"

"Right," Jenny agreed. "Incredibly stupid."

"I thought you were Lydia," Robin said as they turned onto Mansfield Terrace.

"Really?" Jenny looked over at Robin, pleased, then saw the concern on Robin's face. She wasn't out of trouble yet. "Don't tell my mother,"

Jenny begged. "Please."

They'd pulled into Robin's driveway and they both looked over at the Altero house, all the windows were dark, as if everyone were safely asleep in bed.

"Since your mother's not talking to me, I can't tell her anything, can I?" Robin said. "Just don't let me catch you doing this again."

"I won't,"Jenny said.

L She hugged Robin, then opened the door and jumped out. She ran all the way home, and by the time she climbed in her window she was giddy with her own success. Already, Jenny couldn't remember how afraid she had been to pa.s.s by the cemetery, or why she had begun to run home in the first place. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt very grown-up, her cheeks were pink with excitement. The moon was just outside her window, as though it had followed her home. She lay down on her bed and tried her best to stay awake until Lydia came home, but by midnight she was fast asleep, still wearing her sister's white sweater, which, she had already decided, she wouldn't be returning anytime soon.

Where he came from, October was the time of frost. Twilight arrived earlier and was a deeper blue, ice crystals formed on the surface of the shallow ponds in the morning, owls called at odd hours. It was a bad time to be a wolf: men came into the woods, and they weren't there to see the sky change color or to watch the ice form. They weren't there to listen to the owls in the trees.

Trappers moved quietly and they knew what they were looking for, but in October the hunters came, ready to shoot at almost anything. They would take down deer or moose, beavers or wood ducks, occasionally, they would shoot each other. Once, Stephen found a man before anyone else could get to him. The man's friends, the ones who had shot him accidentally, were convinced they had gotten a bear, which they intended to let bleed to death before they followed its trail. So the hunter died by himself in a clearing, and Stephen watched, shivering, as he did. After the hunter had stopped breathing, Stephen slowly approached, he crouched down beside him, even though he knew he should run. He had never seen anything like this close up before, not since he'd come here, and he had a knotted feeling inside his stomach. The face seemed too much like the one he saw when he had knelt down to drink from the clear pool. He backed away from the man, he refused to be like this thing. He didn't care what he saw. He didn't care if he needed to run on two legs,because when he went flat-out and felt the wind against him he might just as well have been running on all fours.

He had difficulty catching his breath in that clearing, there was the acrid smell of gunpowder and human flesh. It made perfect sense to avoid men, they all knew what could happen if you didn't. One October, when Stephen wasn't more than eleven or twelve, they had failed. The pack was big then, fifteen, including yearlings and that spring's pups.

It was a good season for deer, and they may have been lazier than usual, the afternoons were still warm enough to lie in the sun, especially if your belly was full. The men came against the wind, but that was only one reason they were at an advantage. These hunters carried rifles with telescopic sights, expensive things they had bought in Detroit, with enough scope and power to get a hit before their scent was picked up.

The oldest wolf was shot first. He was ancient, nearly eighteen, for several years he'd had to eat the meat regurgitated for pups.

Three of his toes had been chewed offby a steel trap, two of his ribs had been badly broken, years before, during an encounter with a moose.

They could hear the instant of his death, and it took just another instant to know what they had to do. Before the old wolfhad collapsed to the ground, the rest of them were running. They ran as one creature with a single mind, except for two reckless pups who panicked and headed for the open field and were shot straightaway. The others took offthrough the woods, where it was harder to be tracked and, if they got far enough away, nearly impossible for a man to see through the trees.

More of them fell before they reached the deepest part of the woods, and those who were left ran so hard and fast they barely touched the earth.

One minute Stephen was with them completely, blood pounding in his ears, skin torn by brambles and low branches, and the next he could no longer see even the most awkward yearling's tail. They had disappeared right in front of him. There were no paw prints, no trail, just the trees that grew on top of each other, blocking out the light from above. The men were still coming, he knew that, and because he could not escape by running, Stephen had no choice but to go upward.

This was a skill that amazed his brothers, they often ringed a tree when he climbed it, barking or making confused little yelps. Now, he threw himself at the tallest pine and hauled himself into the branches.

He scrambled higher and higher, quickly, tearing the skin off his palms as he grabbed at the wood. He went farther than he'd ever been before, up where the owls nested, and he didn't stop until he had reached the sky.

They came so close that he could hear their voices: ugly, rough sounds that made him feel sick. He could smell their sweat and their smoke, they were clumsy as they navigated through the thick growth of trees, and the earth shuddered beneath their feet.

Stephen was not nearly as foolish as the pups had been. He did what he'd been taught to do: he didn't move a muscle, not even when his arms and legs were riddled with cramps from hanging on to the tree. He slowed his heartbeat until it was quiet as a mouse's. Had the men thought to look up, they would have believed he was a piece of wood, a twisted branch set perilously high.

Long after the hunters had gone, Stephen stayed where he'd found safety, he was there all through the night. He could see every star from where he was perched, the moon was so close he might have been able to touchit, had he been willing to let go of the branch he had wrapped himself around, even for an instant. At dawn he heard the wolves calling for him, and when he answered, the sound of his own voice sent a chill through his body. It seemed to him that a single voice was the saddest sound on earth, far worse than the thud the old wolf's body had made when it collapsed to the ground.

By the first light they had found him, they circled the tree, and because they had run hard they left a ring of b.l.o.o.d.y paw prints.

Counting Stephen, there were only eight of them left, the bodies of the rest had been tied up and dragged through the woods, back to the men's camp, all except for the old wolf, who hadn't seemed much of a trophy once the men examined him. From the arms of the tree where Stephen had hidden all night, the ground seemed much too far away. He was afraid to come down, as if all his terror had been released now that the danger was past. From somewhere inside him he remembered pictures in a book: a longtailed animal had chased a sparrow into a tree but then was too frightened to come back down. Men in a big red truck had to come to the rescue.

Ding, ding went their bell. Clack, clack went their ladders.

The wolves started calling to him from down below, with such clear, strong voices that he found he had more courage than he had believed.

He climbed down slowly, carefully, in a hail of pine needles that smelled incredibly sweet. When he reached the ground, the wolves who were left rushed him, they b.u.mped against him, and took his hands in their mouths, making sure the scent of the men was off before they went any farther into the woods.

By the time he came face to face with the dead man, he was a man himself. That is, he had reached his full height and weight and was as fast as he would ever be. If he couldn't quite keep up with his brothers, he could do a good job trying, so that he almost never lost sight of them. He traveled with his three brothers, the ones he had raised when the big dog died. They had broken away from the other wolves because they were an efficient team, especially now that Stephen used a sharpened rock to make up for his inferior claws and teeth.

Each of them knew exactly what the others thought and felt, the biggest of them was the leader, but it was a mild leadership, since there were few disputes or conflicts. Of all his brothers, this big silver wolf was the one Stephen loved best. They slept close together on cold nights, and in the summer they pulled brown ticks out of each other's skin. Sometimes they went hunting alone, just the two of them, and they never had to exchange signals. Each knew what the other wanted, completely, as if they shared one mind.

Sitting in the clearing with the dead man, Stephen felt much too far from his brothers. It wasn't just loneliness, it was more than that: the sight of the dead man had somehow removed him from who and what he was. He couldn't take his eyes off the dead man's rifle, he reached for it, but as soon as he touched it he had to drop it again. It had burned right through his flesh. He might still have been crouched beside the body when the hunter's friends finally tracked down their counterfeit bear, if the silver wolf hadn't come for him. Stephen knew he was there before he saw him, and when he looked up, his brother was there on the edge of the clearing. His winter coat was coming in and he seemed huge, though he couldn't have been more than u.

ninety pounds. Still, Stephen was unable to move, he rocked back and forth on his heels, grieving for something he had never seen or had orbeen.

The silver wolf came into the clearing then, slowly, because of the gunpowder stench. He stood beside Stephen, and although he could smell the scent of men, he began to sing. Stephen closed his eyes and leaned his head back, he heard his own voice join with his brother's. All that day, Stephen's brother kept close to him, and by evening Stephen was no longer thinking about the man he had found, although from then on, whenever he bent beside still water to drink, he closed his eyes so that he could not see what he was.

Sometimes, now, when he dressed Richard Aaron, or when he bathed him, Stephen realized that the old man was about ninety pounds, the same weight as a full-grown wolf. But Old d.i.c.k was six feet tall and so gaunt his bones poked through his skin. When he was lifted from his bed, he seemed to fold up, like a piece of paper.

Ninety pounds of muscle and heart could be unstoppable, but all that was left of Old d.i.c.k was the heart, wrapped inside a miserable bundle of flesh. Touch him with one finger and he'd bruise. Leave the window open, just the slightest bit, on a cool October night, and he'd cough for days afterward. As the twilight came earlier, Stephen spent more time sitting beside the old man, but there was no longer much of a reason to read to him, and often they didn't even speak. There were times when Stephen felt certain that Old d.i.c.k was sleeping, but no, his eyes were open, he was calmly watching the shadows on the wall.

"Looks like a giraffe, doesn't it?" Old d.i.c.k said once, in such a strong, pleasant voice that Stephen was completely confused until he saw the shape the lamp cast on the other side of the room.

One afternoon, when the light was cool and bright, Stephen went into the kitchen to fix their lunch, and when he returned he found Old d.i.c.k crying. All at once Stephen realized what had been happening during those hours when they didn't speak: he had been learning how to tell what it was Old d.i.c.k wanted just by looking at him. That he should ever know a man as well as he knew one of his brothers was disturbing, but it was also a simple fact.

Stephen put their plates of soup down on the night table, then bundled Old d.i.c.k in a blanket, the heaviest one he could find, and carried him downstairs. It was nothing to carry him. Stephen felt he could have gone on forever, but he stopped in the center of the lawn, where a pile of scarlet leaves was scattered on the gra.s.s. This was all Old d.i.c.k wanted, to see the sky, not through gla.s.s but as it truly was, a blue dome so brilliant it could bring tears to a man's eyes.

TE DOCTOR pa.s.sed right by his son one windy day and didn't even recognize him. He truly didn't know him, his one and only boy, not until Roy reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

"What's wrong with you?" the Doctor said.

"Me?" Roy said. "You're the one walking around in a daze."

"The h.e.l.l I am," the Doctor said.

e was hopping mad, and the wind didn't sit right with him, it was a foul sort of wind, with a yellow edge to it. Before evening the thin branches of young crab apple and peach trees would begin to snap off with sulfurous pops. Just the sort of thing earwigs and beetles would search out in the spring, and once they found their way into a fruit tree the damage couldn't be reversed."Did you take my advice? Did you even try to get her back?" The Doctor had to shout against the wind, the collar of his coat flapped against his neck.

Roy grinned and cupped one hand over his ear. "What?" he said.

The Doctor eased up and smiled in spite of himself. He clapped Roy on the back. "Idiot," he said.

They decided to go over to Fred's for coffee, even though Roy was on duty and the Doctor had been set to go home and put up his storm windows.

"You warned me," Roy said, once they were settled in a booth. "I got married too young."

"Yeah, well, you're getting divorced too young, too," the Doctor said.

Then he ordered a plate of hash and a black coffee.

"I'll have a Poland Spring water," Roy told the waitress. "So?" he said, when he saw the Doctor's look of contempt. "I'm more health-conscious now than I used to be."

"Next thing you'll tell me is that you're a vegetarian." The Doctor laughed. "No," he said when Roy looked away, embarra.s.sed.

"Not you. Robin drove you crazy with all that brown rice."

"Maybe she was right," Roy said. "Maybe I was a total f.u.c.king blockhead."

"Now there you go," the Doctor said, appraising his hash as it was set in front of him. "That's something we can agree on." He began to eat, far more pleased than he'd expected to be. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Roy laughed out loud. His father was a great guy, but there were some things he just didn't get. He was what George Tenney called a black-or-white man: Right or wrong. Do it or shut up about it.

Not a single shade of gray. Those sorts of clear-cut choices weren't so easy for Roy, not now. He had kept on seeingJulie Wynn for a while after Robin threw him out. Why shouldn't he? Julie was pretty, and a good, easy f.u.c.k, never asking for anything like a commitment. The only problem was that as soon as he could have another woman he didn't want her. Just knowing that, that he'd been playing some kind of game with himself, unnerved him.

Everything seemed suspect, including his own feelings. He hadn't even realized that he was in love with Robin until Stephen reminded him that she was no longer his wife. Then he remembered why he'd wanted her in the first place, and why he wanted her still.

"I'm not doing anything about it," Roy finally said to his father.

"Pretty much what you expected."

The Doctor put down his fork and pushed his plate away. "You know what every father tells his son eventually?" He placed his hands flat on the table. "I wish you'd listened to me. Just once."

The Doctor looked so serious that Roy felt like reaching out for his father's hand. Instead, he poured himself more Poland Spring."That hash is going to harden your arteries, and then you won't remember whether I took your advice or not."

"Here comes your just reward," the Doctor said. "Sooner or later he'll put you through the wringer. Then you'll understand me."

The Doctor nodded out the window and Roy turned to see Lydia and Connor walking toward the diner, their arms around each other.

Roy knew all about this. Mich.e.l.le had called him a while ago, nearly hysterical, demanding that he do something, and quick.

"What do you want me to do?" he'd said. "Give them a term in federal prison for kissing in the school hallways?"

Mich.e.l.le had then accused him of being a neglectful father and a Casanova and a few other things, too. He'd tried his best to calm her down and promised to have a talk with Connor, but whenever he and Connor got together, he didn't know what to say.

"I hear you've got a girlfriend."

That was his brilliant lead-in, one night when they'd met at McDonald's for a quick dinner.

"Yeah," Connor said warily.

"Pretty," Roy had said.

"Excuse me?" Connor had been unwrapping his hamburger, and maybe he hadn't heard over the crinkling paper, or maybe he couldn't imagine Lydia's being reduced to one trivial word.

"Lydia. She turned out to be pretty."

"Oh, yeah," Connor had said, desperate to drop the subject.

"Really." What Roy had wanted to say, and didn't, wasn't anything that would have pleased Mich.e.l.le. Don'tget hurt. That was it. Don't let yourselfget hurt by this.

In the past few months Roy had been floored by just how dangerous life was. Amazing that he had never noticed it before, since he was often the one who arrived on the scene first when there was a car accident or when a fisherman's boat washed up on the beach, empty except for some netting and bait. He could have blood on his hands and still calmly write out his reports. It was possible to do this by compartmentalizing everything into puzzle pieces: the skids on the road, the height of the tides, the human beings who happened to be in the way. Once someone started to think, he was in big trouble, and that's what had happened to Roy. Maybe it had begun when he started living alone and had too much free time, but whatever it was, it was getting worse.

Last Tuesday, he and George had had to go down to Poorman's Point on a miserable mission. A group of boys playing King of the Mountain had stumbled upon a ma.s.s grave filled with animal carca.s.ses. Two of the kids were hysterical, the others appeared to be in shock. None of them was any older than nine, and they all seemed to feel responsible, the way people did sometimes when they were unfortunate enough to be the first to discover something unspeakable.

Roy gave all the boys lollipops to settle their stomachs, and after George threw a tarp over the grave, they drove the children home, thenspoke with their parents, warning them about the nightmares most of the boys might be having that night. They drove back to the Point in silence, got some shovels out of the storage shed, then set to work lifting the carca.s.ses onto the tarp so they could be taken to the animal hospital and destroyed properly. Some of the animals had been there for months and were nothing more than skeletons, others were not yet decomposed. Most were cats, but there was one that seemed to have been a large dog, some were birds that could now be identified only by the piles of feathers that were left. The birds had been strangled, everything else had had its throat slit. At the top of the pile were three baby racc.o.o.ns set in a row, their paws looked so human that Roy went over behind the shed and threw up. When he came back, George offered him a piece of gum.

"The work of a sick mind," George said grimly.

"How do people get this way?" Roy wondered.

George shook his head, not understanding that Roy really wanted an answer. Roy had been pacing, but now he stood directly in front of George. He was so wound up he felt as if he might explode.

"How the h.e.l.l do they get this way?" he demanded.

"Jesus, Roy, I don't know," George said. "Take it easy."

"Yeah," Roy agreed. "You're right."

They took the whole mess over to the animal hospital, knowing as they did that they'd probably never find out who had done this.

Roy wrote up the report, and that was the end of it. Except he kept thinking about those racc.o.o.ns and the way their hands were closed up tight. They reminded him of Connor, when Connor was a baby he would grab on to Roy's finger and hold on with all his might. Roy and Robin used to laugh about it and call him Superbaby. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many ways a boy could get hurt.

Looking out the window of the diner, seeing his son out there with Lydia, Roy felt a moment of relief. Connor, he saw, was truly happy, at least for today, standing in the wind, grinning as he listened to everything the girl he loved had to say.

"They call it puppy love," Roy said to his father as they fought over the bill, which Roy finally managed to get hold of.

"You were just about the same age when you started going with Robin,"

the Doctor reminded him after they got up to leave. "I'd say that turned out to be pretty serious."

Connor opened the door for Lydia, without noticing that his father and grandfather were approaching. Today, for the first time, he and Lydia had talked about their future--not just tomorrow and the next day, but their whole lives. They'd been tentative at first, both afraid to admit what they hoped for until they knew the other hoped for exactly the same thing. They would spend their lives together, they had vowed that on the corner of the town green, and kissed each other twenty times, and then found themselves too shy to speak. Lydia finally suggested they celebrate, and they'd come to Fred's for c.o.kes and French fries and a warm place to hold hands under the table. Connor T U R E had turned to look for a booth in the back, when Lydia nudged him.

"Relative alert," she whispered."Hey there, buddy," Roy said as he came up to them. "Hey, Lydia."

Connor mumbled something no one could hear, but Lydia smiled brightly at Roy, then turned to the Doctor.

"I'll bet this wind is murder on any saplings you put in this summer,"

she said.

"Precisely." The Doctor was impressed. "Hold on to this one," he suggested to Connor. He elbowed Roy. "Come on. They don't want old farts like us around."

"Speak for yourself," Roy shot back.

Roy could see that Connor couldn't take his eyes offthis girl.

When she laughed and headed for a rear booth, Connor began to follow as if she were a magnet. The boy had it so bad Roy would have laughed out loud if he hadn't remembered exactly how it felt. And maybe that was why Roy grabbed Connor's arm, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to say what he wanted to. The best he could do was pull his son close as he handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

"My treat," Roy told Connor. He was glad that his own father was out of hearing, because he would have really enjoyed this one.

"Just don't run offand get married," Roy advised his son.