“Like you looked into it the last time?”

“I didn’t find anything the last time.”

“That’s because you take so damn long gettin’ here!”

“What’s the problem?” said Lincoln.

Vern turned to him. “That you, Chief Kelly? Then you tell this-this boy here that I’m not about to hand over my only protection.”

“I’m not asking you to hand it over,” said a weary-sounding Pete. “I just want you to stop waving it around. Go inside and put the gun away, so nobody gets hurt.”

“I think that’s a good idea;’ said Lincoln. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so you go in and lock the door, Vern. Stay close to the phone, just in case we need you to call for backup.”

“Backup?” Vern gave a grunt. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll do that.”

The two cops waited for the old man to stomp into the house and shut the door.

Then Pete said, “He’s blind as a bat. Wish we could get that shotgun away from him. Every time I come out here, I half expect to get my head blown off.”

“What’s the problem, anyway?”

“Aw, it’s the third time he’s called nine-one-one. I’m so busy runnin’ my tail off with all these other calls, it takes me a while to get here. He always has the same complaint about some wild animal stalking his sheep. Probably just seeing his own shadow, that’s what.”

“Why does he call us?”

“Cause Fish and Game takes even longer to respond. I been here twice this week, didn’t find anything. Not even a coyote print. Today’s the first time I seen Vern this riled up. Thought I’d better get you out, just in case he decided to shoot me ‘stead of some wild animal.”

Lincoln glanced at the house, and saw the old man’s face silhouetted in the window. “He’s watching. Might as well check the property, just to keep him happy”

“Says he saw the animal over by the barn.”

Pete turned on his flashlight, and they started across the yard, toward the sound of bleating sheep. Lincoln felt the old man’s gaze every step of the way.

Let’s just humor him, he thought. Even if it is a waste of our time.

He was startled when Pete suddenly halted, his flashlight beam trained on the barn door.

It hung open.

Something wasn’t right. It was after dark, and the door should have been latched to protect the animals.

He turned on his flashlight as well. They approached more slowly now, their jerky beams guiding the way. At the entrance to the barn they paused. Even through the earthy melange of farmyard odors, they could smell it: the scent of blood.

They stepped into the barn. At once the bleating intensified, the sound as disturbing as the cries of panicked children. Pete swung his flashlight in a wide arc, and they caught glimpses of pitchforks and fluttering chickens and sheep fearfully bunched together in a pen.

Lying on the sawdust floor was the source of that foul odor. Pete stumbled out of the building first, and retched into the weeds, one hand propped up against the barn wall. “Jesus. Jesus.”

“It’s just a dead sheep,” said Lincoln.

“I never seen a coyote do that. Lay out the offal.

Lincoln aimed his beam at the ground, quickly scanning the area around the barn door. All he saw was a jumble of boot prints, his and Pete’s and Vern Fuller’s.

No tracks. How could an animal leave no tracks?

A twig snapped behind him, and he whirled around to see Vern, still clutching the shotgun.

“It’s a bear,” said the old man. “That’s what I seen, a bear.”

“A bear wouldn’t do this.”

“I know what I saw. Whyn’t you believe me?”

Because everyone knows you’re half blind.

“It went that way, into the woods,” said Vern, pointing to the forested edge of his property “I followed it over there, just before dark. Then I lost it.”

Lincoln saw that the boot tracks did indeed head toward the forest, but Vern had retraced his steps several times, obscuring any animal footprints.

He followed the trail over to the woods. There he stood for a moment, peering into the blackness. The trees were so thick they seemed to form an impenetrable wall that even his flashlight beam could not pierce.

By now Pete had recovered, and was standing by his side. “We should wait till daylight,” Pete whispered. “Don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“I know it’s not a bear.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not scared of bears. But if it’s something else.

Pete drew his weapon. “Rumor has it a cougar was spotted up at Jordan Falls last week.”

Now Lincoln drew his weapon as well as he moved slowly into the woods. He took half a dozen steps, the crack of breaking twigs under his boot as loud as gunfire. All at once he froze, staring at that wall of trees. The forest seemed to close in. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

There’s something out there. It’s watching us.

Every instinct screamed at him to retreat. He backed away, his heart racing, his boots setting off explosions of noise. Only when he and Pete had emerged completely from the woods did that feeling of imminent danger fade away.

They stood once again in front of Vern Fuller’s barn, and the sheep were still bleating. He looked down at the boot prints. Suddenly his head came up.

“What lies beyond those woods?” he asked.

“Goes back a ways,” said Vern. “Other side’s Barnstown Road. Bunch of houses.”

Houses, thought Lincoln.

Families.

Noah was watching TV when Claire got home. As she hung up her coat in the hallway, she recognized the theme music from The Simpsons cartoon playing in the other room, and she heard Homer Simpson’s loud burp and Lisa Simpson’s mutter of disgust. Then she heard her son laugh, and she thought: I’m so glad my son still laughs at cartoons.

She went into the front parlor and saw Noah flopped back against the couch cushions, his face briefly lit up with laughter. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

She sat down beside him and propped her feet up on the coffee table, next to his. Big feet, little feet, she thought with quiet amusement. Noah’s feet had grown so huge, they almost looked like a clown’s beside hers.

On the TV, an enormously fat Homer was bouncing around in a flowery muumuu, and shoveling food into his mouth.

Noah laughed again, and so did Claire. This was exactly the way she wanted to spend the rest of the evening. They would watch TV together, and eat popcorn for dinner. She leaned toward him, and they affectionately bumped heads together.

“I’m sorry Mom,” he said.

“It’s okay, Honey. I’m sorry I was late picking you up?’

“Grandma Elliot called. A little while ago?’

“Oh? Does she want me to call her back?”

“I guess.” He watched the TV for a while, his silence stretching through the string of commercials. Then he said, “Grandma wanted to make sure we were okay tonight?’

Claire gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”

“It’s Dad’s birthday.”

On the TV, Homer Simpson in his flowered muumuu had hijacked an ice cream truck and was driving it at breakneck speed, gobbling ice cream the whole way. Claire watched in stunned silence. Today was your birthday, she thought. You’ve been dead only two years, and already we’re losing bits and pieces of your memory.

“Oh god, Noah,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. I completely forgot.”

She felt his head droop heavily against her shoulder, And he said, with quiet shame, “So did I.”

Sitting in her bedroom, Claire returned Margaret Elliot’s call. Claire had always liked her mother-in-law, and through the years, their affection had grown to the point that she felt far closer to Margaret than she ever had to her own coldly aloof parents. Sometimes it seemed to Claire that everything she knew about love, about passion, had been taught to her by the Elliot family.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me,” said Claire.

“Sixty-two degrees and sunny in Baltimore today,” Margaret replied, and Claire had to laugh. Ever since she’d moved to Tranquility this had been the running joke between them, their comparison of weather reports. Margaret had not wanted her to leave Baltimore. “You have no idea what real cold is,” she’d told Claire, “and I’m going to keep reminding you of what you’ve left behind.”