Phantoms

swung around a bend, and directly ahead of him was a police blockade, one county cruiser angled across the road. Two deputies started getting out of the car.
    He remembered hearing about a quarantine zone encircling Snowfield, but he’d thought it was in effect only on the other side of the mountain. He hit the brakes, wishing that, for once, he’d paid more attention to the news.
    There was an APB circulating with his photograph. These men would recognize him, and within an hour he’d be back in jail.
    Surprise was his only hope. They wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Maintaining a quarantine checkpoint would be easy, lulling duty.
    The HK91 rifle was on the seat beside Kale, covered with a blanket. He grabbed the gun, got out of the Jeep, and opened fire on the cops. The semiautomatic weapon chattered, and the deputies did a brief, erratic dance of death, spectral figures in the fog.
    He rolled the bodies into a ditch, pulled the patrol car out of the way, and drove the Jeep past the checkpoint. Then he went back and repositioned the car, so that it would appear that the deputies’ killer hadn’t continued up the mountain.
    He drove three miles up the rugged fire lane, until he came to an even more rugged, overgrown track. A mile later, at the end of that trail, he parked the Jeep in a tunnel of brush and climbed out.
    In addition to the HK91, he had a sackful of other guns from Johnson’s closet, plus the $63,440, which was distributed through the seven zippered pockets in the hunting jacket he wore. The only other thing he carried was a flashlight, and that was really all he needed because the limestone caves would be well stocked with other supplies.
    The last quarter of a mile had to be covered on foot, and he had intended to finish the journey right away, but he had quickly found that even with the flashlight the forest was confusing at night, in the fog. Getting lost was almost a certainty. Once lost in this wilderness, you could wander in circles, within yards of your destination, never discovering how close you were to salvation. After only a few paces, Kale had turned back to the Jeep to wait for daylight.
    Even if the two dead deputies at the blockade were discovered before morning, and even if the cops figured the killer had come onto the mountain, they wouldn’t launch a manhunt until first light. By the time the posse reached here tomorrow, Kale would be snug in the caves.
    He had slept on the front seat of the Jeep. It wasn’t the Plaza Hotel, but it was more comfortable than jail.
    Now, standing beside the Jeep in the wan tight of early morning, he listened for the sounds of a search party. He heard nothing. He hadn’t really expected to hear anything. It wasn’t his destiny to rot in prison. His future was golden. He was sure of that.
    He yawned, stretched, then pissed against the trunk of a big pine.
    Thirty minutes later, when there was more light, he followed the foot-path he hadn’t been able to find last night. And he saw something that hadn’t been obvious in the dark: The brush was extensively trampled. People had been through here recently.
    He proceeded with caution, cradling the HK91 in his right arm, ready to blow away anyone who might try to rush him.
    In less than half an hour, he came out of the trees, into the clearing around the log cabin—and saw why the footpath had been trampled. Eight motorcycles were lined up alongside the cabin, big Harleys, all emblazoned with the name DEMON CHROME.
    Gene Terr’s bunch of misfits. Not all of them. About half the gang, by the looks of it.
    Kale crouched against an outcropping of limestone and studied the mist-wrapped cabin. No one was in sight. He quietly fished in the laundry bag, located a fresh magazine for the HK91, rammed it in place.
    How had Terr and his vicious playmates gotten here? A two-wheel trip up the mountain would have been difficult, wildly dangerous, a nerve-twisting bit of motocross. Of course, those crazy bastards thrived on danger.
    But what the devil were the doing here? How had they found the cabin, and why had they come?
    As he listened for a voice, for some indication of where the cyclists were and what they were up to, Kale realized there weren’t even any animal or insect sounds. No birds. Absolutely nothing. Spooky.
    Then, behind him, a rustle in the brush. A soft sound. In the preternatural silence, it might as well have been a cannon shot.
    Kale had been kneeling on the ground. With catlike quickness,