Free Winter Moon by Dean Koontz Page A

eyes had closed.
        She kept smoothing his hair. His hands were still concealed by the sleeves of the restraining jacket, and she wanted desperately to keep touching him.
        Suddenly his eyes popped open, and he said, "Luther's dead?"
        She hesitated. "Yes."
        "I thought so, but… I hoped…"
        "You saved the woman, Mrs. Arkadian."
        "That's something."
        His eyelids fluttered again, drooped heavily, and she said, "You better rest, babe."
        "You seen Alma?" That was Alma Bryson, Luther's wife. "Not yet, babe.
        I've been sort of tied up here, you know."
        "Go see her," he whispered. "I will."
        "Now. I'm okay. She's the one… needs you."
        "All right."
        "So tired," he said, and slipped into sleep again.
        The support group in the I.C.U lounge numbered three when Heather left Jack for the evening-two uniformed officers whose names she didn't know and Gina Tendero, the wife of another officer. They were elated when she reported that Jack had come around, and she knew they would put the word on the department grapevine. Unlike the doctors, they understood when she refused to focus gloomily on the paralysis and the treatment required to overcome it.
        "I need someone to take me home," Heather said, "so I can get my car.
        I want to go see Alma Bryson."
        "I'll take you there and then home," Gina said. "I want to see Alma myself."
        Gina Tendero was the most colorful spouse in the division and perhaps in the entire Los Angeles Police Department. She was twenty-three years old but looked fourteen. Tonight she was wearing five-inch heels, tight black leather pants, red sweater, black leather jacket, an.enormous silver medallion with a brightly colored enamel portrait of Elvis in the center, and large multiple-hoop earrings so complex they might have been variations of those puzzles that were supposed to relax harried businessmen if they concentrated totally on disassembling them.
        Her fingernails were painted neon purple, a shade reflected slightly more subtly in her eye shadow. Her jet-black hair was a mass of curls that spilled over her shoulders, it looked as much like a wig as any Dolly Parton had ever worn, but it was all her own.
        Though she was only five three without shoes and weighed maybe a hundred and five pounds dripping wet, Gina always seemed bigger than anyone around her. As she walked along the hospital corridors with Heather, her footsteps were louder than those of a man twice her size, and nurses turned to frown disapprovingly at the tock-tock-tock of her high heels on the tile floors.
        "You okay, Heth?" Gina asked as they headed for the four-story parking garage attached to the hospital.
        "Yeah."
        "I mean really."
        "I'll make it."
        At the end of a corridor they went through a green metal door into the parking garage. It was bare gray concrete, chilly, with low ceilings.
        A third of the fluorescent lights were broken in spite of the wire cages that protected them, and the shadows among the cars offered countless places of concealment.
        Gina fished a small aerosol can from her purse, holding it with her index finger on the trigger, and Heather said,"What's that?"
        "Red-pepper Mace. You don't carry?"
        "No."
        "Where you think you're living, girl - Disneyland?"
        As they walked up a concrete ramp with cars parked on both sides, Heather said, "Maybe I should buy some."
        "Can't. The bastard politicians made it illegal. Wouldn't want to give some poor misguided rapist a skin rash, would you? Ask Jack or one of the guys-they can still get it for you."
        Gina was driving an inexpensive blue Ford compact, but it had an alarm system, which she disengaged from a distance with a remote-control device on her key ring. The headlights flashed, the alarm beeped once, and the doors