There was a lot of yellow snow around the door, as if the resident couldn't be bothered to break a trail to the outhouse. He peered into the window cut into the wall next to it. It was covered with a blanket of some kind. He looked in the window on the other side of the door. Same thing.

The door opened out, naturally. He would have traded warm feet for the portable ram in his Cruiser back in Tok.

He paused for a moment of procedural reflection. Was he in hot pursuit? Did he have to knock and identify, or not? More importantly, if he knocked, was whoever lived there standing on the other side with a shotgun?

Snow was collecting inside the tops of his boots and the sweat was freezing on his spine. The hell with it. He thumped on the door. "Hello? Anybody home? This is Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin. Open the door, please."

There was no reply, and no movement from within.

The silence of an Arctic winter day in the Bush, when no breeze stirred the air and the sun beat down coldly over all, that was a silence to be reckoned with. It was a silence with unfriendly eyes that glared out at you for disturbing it. When a magpie yelled at him from a nearby tree, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Annoyed, he thumped on the door again. "Police! Open up!"

There was loud, wild Wraaaaaoooowl right next to his head. He jumped back to the edge of the porch and slipped off the top step. His arms windmilled wildly and he fell heavily on his back. "Son of a bitch!"

There was another inhuman howl, and a black house cat jumped down from a timber just below the roof of the porch. Her hair standing straight out from her body, she looked like a big black porcupine. Her eyes were wild and her fur was stained red. She hit the porch once, bounced off it and landed on his chest, leaving red paw prints on his dark blue jacket, bounced off again and landed on the trail, skimming over the snow as if it wasn't there and vanishing into the trees at a dead run.

"Oh shit," he said, remembering Dina and Ruthe's cat for the first time. They had called her Galadriel, after Ruthe's favorite wood witch, and over the years the name had naturally been shortened to Gal. She was a longtime member of the family and, what was even more important, a legendary greeter of Camp Teddy's summer guests. Gal had purred from the laps of the rich and powerful for a decade. If Ruthe survived, Gal would be the first person Ruthe would want to see. He wallowed around until he managed to get to his feet. "Gal! Here, kitty! Come on, Gal, you know me! Come on back now!"

From inside the cabin came a faint sound—a whimper, perhaps a moan? He whipped around, discovered his hand was empty, and had to go rooting for his weapon. He found it, then had to clear the muzzle and the trigger guard of snow. He hoped the damn thing didn't explode in his hand if he had to fire it.