EDITOR'S NOTE: This concludes our serialization of Lee Thomas's DAMAGE. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have, and I thank Lee for allowing us to run it. All previous chapters are archived for a limited time only. Please visit the author at http://www.leethomasauthor

38

The snow fell, and the children stood at the windows watching the feathery flakes drop from the sky, all hoping that the next day of school would be canceled. Frank tapped the top of the music stand with his baton to get his students' attention, but it was a half-assed attempt at best. He smiled, rested the baton on the lip of the stand and joined the kids at the window.

He looked out at the stables, the corrals and the sporting fields all quiet and peaceful beneath a canopy of gray sky and salted with fresh snow. Rebecca slid close to his side; she moved her violin into her left hand so she could take Frank's hand in her right palm.

When the bell rang, all of the students, including Rebecca rushed away from the window, chattering about snow days and the best hills in town for sledding while they carefully packed their musical instruments in cases. Frank remained, stared off to the south to see a band of black cutting the horizon.

In the teacher's lounge, where he had returned to grab his coat and gather up a folder of music, he found the faculty gathered beneath blue streamers and Mylar balloons. They were celebrating Frank's birthday. He was forty-six.

This would be his second birthday since the dark season; the second he'd spent wondering what had happened to his brother.

Doug's body had never been found.

He accepted a plastic cup of diet cola, which was liberally spiked with rum and said, "Well, what the hell is all of this?" He chuckled and toasted his colleagues and took a healthy slug of the cocktail.

Rebecca would be waiting for him by her locker once she finished sharing her excitement over the possibility of a snow day with her friends, so he couldn't stay long or drink much, but his colleagues' gesture warmed him, and Frank chatted gregariously with them while Marta Blanc, the history professor, cut into the chocolate birthday cake.

At home, Lisa would greet him with a hug as she always did, and then, they were all going out to celebrate at the River Cafw. With any luck, he wouldn't run into Clay.

After the drama and the healing and once life had returned to a modicum of normalcy, Clay had reverted back to his fearful closet. Frank understood. Clay's brother was dead, and his father had nearly died - having suffered cardiac arrest upon finding Tyke Marshall's body - so the lawyer had kept up appearances to save his family any undue grief. Frank had allowed the charade for nearly a year, but ultimately, he'd ended things. Clay had taken it badly, but Frank wasn't going to spare any more life for such an uncomfortable and ultimately impossible relationship.

Fortunately, Lisa and Rebecca were in his life. They all moved into a large ranch style place on the east side of the city a year and a half ago. Their next-door neighbors, the Bettencourts, still had the best parties in town.

These days, Lisa dated a man named Darren who owned a sporting goods shop on Main Street. He was a good guy, but Lisa kept him at arm's length.

Part of her still waited for Doug, Frank knew. Part of Frank waited too.

Most days during his recovery from the attack that had left both his legs and his right arm scarred, he'd stared through the window of his living room, towards the lake and the wooded park beyond, hoping the phone would ring or a knock on the door would produce some information about his brother. Days had passed and no word, not from the authorities and not from Doug. He imagined his brother was dead, perhaps carried miles away by floodwater, or buried under the rubble of one of the many destroyed homes in town.

He didn't know. That was the worst part. He just didn't know.

Frank put down his cup and excused himself for a moment. With wet eyes, he entered the men's room and leaned on the sink before going to the window for some cold, reviving air. The snow was coming down harder. It was beautiful, despite the gray cast of the day.

He looked out over the fields to the south and breathed in the fresh, chilled air. A man stood at the far edge of the soccer field, where the frosted grass met the treeline. From this distance and through the static of snowflakes, Frank could make nothing out of the man but his basic shape and even this Frank questioned because the figure may have been nothing but filtered light and shadow. Frank told himself that it was a man out there; he even thought the guy might be waving at him.

More and more, Frank believed that it was just a trick of the distance, the weather and his eyes.

Still, Frank waved. Even if a man did stand out there, he was too far away to see the gesture. But it didn??(TM)t matter, because the man wasn't there. Even the illusion of a man was gone, and the snow fell on an empty field.

Frank smiled, shook his head and returned to the party.

--THE END--