Phantoms

gateposts, onto a brick walk that led to a one-story English cottage set on a deep lot. Warm light radiated through leaded glass windows with diamond-shaped panes.
    Tom and Karen Oxley lived in the deceptively small-looking cottage, which actually had seven rooms and two baths. Tom was the accountant for most of the lodges and motels in town. Karen ran a charming French cafe during the season. Both were amateur radio operators, and they owned a shortwave set, which was why Jenny had come here.
    “If someone sabotaged the radio at the sheriff’s office,” Lisa said, “what makes you think they didn’t get this one, too?”
    “Maybe they didn’t know about it. It’s worth taking a look.”
    She rang the bell, and when them was no response, she tried the door. It was locked.
    They went around to the rear of the property, where brandy-hued light flowed out through the windows. Jenny looked warily at the rear lawn, which was left moonless by the shadows. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floor of the back porch. She tried the kitchen door and found it was locked, too.
    At the nearest window, the curtains were drawn aside. Jenny looked in and saw only an ordinary kitchen: green counters, cream-colored walls, oak cabinets, gleaming appliances, no signs of violence.
    Other casement windows faced onto the porch, and one of these, Jenny knew, was a den window. Lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Jenny rapped on the glass, but no one responded. She tested the window, found that it was latched. Gripping the revolver by the barrel, she smashed a diamond-shaped pane adjacent to the center post. The sound of shattering glass was jarringly loud. Although this was an emergency, she felt like a thief. She reached through the broken pane, threw open the latch, pulled the halves of the window apart, and went over the sill, into the house. She fumbled through the drapes, then drew them aside, so that Lisa could enter more easily.
    Two bodies were in the small den. Tom and Karen Oxley.
    Karen was lying on the floor, on her side, legs drawn up toward her belly, shoulders curled forward, arms crossed over her breasts—a fetal position. She was bruised and swollen. Her bulging eyes stared in horror. Her mouth hung open, frozen forever in a scream.
    “Their faces are the worst thing,” Lisa said.
    “I can’t understand why the facial muscles didn’t relax upon death. I don’t see how they can remain taut like that.”
    “What did they see ?” Lisa wondered.
    Tom Oxley was sitting in front of the shortwave radio. He was slumped over the radio, his head turned to one side. He was sheathed in bruises and swollen hideously, just as Karen was. His right hand was clenched around a table-model microphone, as if he had perished while refusing to relinquish it. Evidently, however, he had not managed a call for help. If he had gotten a message out of Snowfield, the police would have arrived by now.
    The radio was dead.
    Jenny had figured as much as soon as she had seen the bodies.
    However, neither the condition of the radio nor the condition of the corpses was as interesting as the barricade. The den door was closed and, presumably, locked. Karen and Tom had dragged a heavy cabinet in front of it. They had pushed a pair of easy chairs hard against the cabinet, then had wedged a television set against the chairs.
    “They were determined to keep something from getting in here,” Lisa said.
    “But it got in anyway.”
    “How?”
    They both looked at the window through which they’d come.
    “It was locked from the inside,” Jenny said.
    The room had only one other window.
    They went to it and pulled back the drapes.
    It was also latched securely on the inside.
    Jenny stared out at the night, until she felt that something hidden in the darkness was staring back at her, getting a good look at her as she stood unprotected in the lighted window. She quickly closed the drapes.
    “A locked room,” Lisa said.
    Jenny turned slowly around and studied the den. There was a small outlet from a heating duct, covered with a metal vent plate full of narrow slots, and there was perhaps a half-inch of air space under the barricaded door. But there was no way anyone could have gained access to the room.
    She said, “As far as I can see, only bacteria or toxic gas or some kind of radiation could’ve gotten in here to kill them.”
    “But none of those things killed the Liebermanns.”
    Jenny nodded. “Besides, you