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silvered the snowy mountains. As I thought about the events of the past few hours, my stomach knotted.
     
     
At some point in the evening the tortuous road between Elk Park and Aspen Meadow had been plowed. Still, we skirted the banked curves with great care. My mind wandered back to that upturned sled in the snow.
     
     
To the look of horror on Keith Andrews' young face. I shook my head and focused on the driving.
     
     
Gripping the steering wheel hard, I accelerated up a slight incline. I hoped Arch was okay. The rock thrown through one of our windows was worrisome. Halloween was coming up, and pranksters had to be expected. I should have told Schulz about the rock, though. I'd forgotten.
     
     
Schulz was going to call us. He would tell us what had happened to Keith, wouldn't he? I had plodded through the headmaster's snowy yard, found the lifeless form, touched the icy extension cord. It was like a personal affront. I had to know what had happened. Like it or not, I was involved.. Resolutely, I veered off this thought pattern and reflected on Schulz. Somehow, his behavior this evening indicated a sea change in our relationship, from a growing intimacy back to the distance of business. I turned the steering wheel slowly while negotiating a switchback. For one breathtaking moment on this curve, all that was visible out the window was air.
     
     
Tom Schulz. We had been dating off and on, mostly I off, for the past year. Recently, however, we had been more frequently and more seriously on. This summer had brought a rapprochement, a French word for getting back together that Arch now dropped into conversation the way he sprinkled sugar on his Rice Krispies.
     
     
Schulz and I had not really become a couple. But he and I, along with Julian and Arch, had become a unit: the four of us hiked, we fished, we cooked out, we took turns choosing movies. Schulz's light caseload lately had consisted mostly of investigating mail thefts and forgeries. giving him time to spend with us.
     
     
Insulated by the presence of the two boys, my postdivorce ambivalence toward relationships had begun to melt. I had found myself thinking of reasons to call Tom Schulz, inventing occasions to get together, looking for- ward to talking and laughing about all the daily details of life.
     
     
And then there had been the issue of the name change. What had started out as a small problem had developed into a symbolic issue between Schulz and me. Over the summer I'd learned of the existence of a catering outfit in Denver with the unfortunate name Three Bears Catering. They had threatened me with a suit over trademark infringement. On one of our jovial moments, Tom had suddenly asked if I would like to change my last name to Schulz. With all that that implied, I had immediately demurred. But you know what they say about par- ties: It was awfully nice to be asked.
     
     
Only now we had a catastrophe out at Elk Park Prep. Involving me, involving Julian, involving homicide. Something told me the future of my relationship with Tom Schulz was once again a question mark.
     
     
The brake lights of the Range Rover sparked like rectangular rubies as Julian and I continued the steep descent into town. We rounded the flat black surface of Aspen Meadow Lake, where one patch of shining ripples reflected elusive moonlight. Part of me wanted Schulz to say, Come back to my place. But another, saner, inner voice said this desire came from knowing it was impossible. A homicide investigation was when Schulz was the busiest. Mortality and the need for relationship loomed large since I had looked into the dead face of young Keith Andrews.
     
     
My tires crunched down Aspen Meadow's Main Street. The only cars were those parked at wide angles along the curb by the Grizzly Saloon, where music and flashing lights announced it was still Saturday night. Witnessing partygoing after what I'd just seen at Elk Park Prep brought light-headedness. I rolled down the window;