He kneeled closer to it, fascinated in spite of himself, brushing back a little more snow until he uncovered the thin, ratty tail. This was the first animal he had seen since they arrived; there had been no birds, no mice, not even any tracks.

There were no marks on it anywhere, and he wondered what had happened. If this had been a family pet, had it been left behind? He dug a trench around it, taking off his glove and digging with his bare fingers. They brushed the fur, and the coldness of it filled him with disgust. Yet he continued to dig, unable to stop himself.

Up near the head on the side of the neck he uncovered a large, misshapen lump. It looked like a mutated gland, bulging out from under the animal’s chin.

The conversation with Dan Flint, all but forgotten in the wake of Jessica’s collapse, came flooding back to him. He grasped the animal firmly with both hands and yanked. It came free from the crust with a harsh ripping sound. He stood for a moment, sickened by the feel of the thing in his hands and unsure of what he planned to do. Then he found himself walking towards the porch, holding it out in front of him and hoping nobody had chosen that moment to watch for him out the window. Look, there goes Daddy…

He crouched and placed the animal behind a porch support post, scooping some snow over to hide it. He couldn’t bring it inside, but his fascination and feeling of dread would not leave him. He wanted it analyzed, he wanted to know how the animal had died.

Do you really want to know?

He wasn’t quite sure, but he knew he couldn’t let it rest.

He threw one backward glance at the trees behind him; they remained silent and still, and shrouded in shadows. He decided to double lock the doors tonight. And maybe shove a chair under the handle.

Outside, a slight puff of wind rustled through the needles of the trees, moving branches and giving the dark and brooding woods the suggestion of life. It was deeply black with the coming night; the orange and red sunset had left the western sky and the stars exposed themselves to the world, one by one. The breeze spent itself on the solid and immovable tree trunks and died, and the needles once again swept down like a curtain, covering the figure in the shadows settling in to begin his long nightly vigil.

PART TWO

THE COMING STORM

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Now she was more than a little worried, Dr. Seigel admitted to herself; she was pissed off, and—yes—a bit frightened.