Phantoms

bodies?” Frank asked.
    “Maybe we’re dealing with some sort of cultists,” Jake Johnson said. “Maybe they wanted the bodies for some weird ritual.”
    “If there was any ritual,” Frank said, “it looks to me like it was conducted right here.”
    Gordy Brogan bolted for the lavatory, stumbling and weaving, a big gangling kid who seemed to be composed solely of long legs and long arms and elbows and knees. Retching sounds came through the door that he had slammed behind himself.
    Stu Wargle laughed and said, “Jesus, what a ninny.”
    Bryce turned on him and scowled. “What in God’s name do you find so funny, Wargle? People are dead here. Seems to me that Gordy’s reaction is a lot more natural than any of ours.”
    Wargle’s pig-eyed, heavy-jowled face clouded with anger. He didn’t have the wit to be embarrassed.
    God, I despise that man, Bryce thought.
    When Gordy came back from the bathroom, he looked sheepish. “Sorry, Sheriff.”
    “No reason to be, Gordy.”
    They trooped through the kitchen, across the sales room, out onto the sidewalk.
    Bryce went immediately to the wooden gate between the bakery and the shop next door. He stared over the top of the gate, into the lightless, covered passageway. Dr. Paige moved to his side, and he said, “Is this where you thought something was in the rafters?”
    “Well, Lisa thought it was crouched along the wall.”
    “But it was this serviceway?”
    “Yes.”
    The tunnel was utterly black.
    He took Tal’s long-handled flashlight, opened the creaking gate, drew his revolver, and stepped into the passage. A vague, dank odor clung to the place. The squeal of the rusty gate hinges and then the sound of his own footsteps echoed down the tunnel ahead of him.
    The beam of the flash was powerful; it carried over half the length of the passageway. However, he focused it close at hand, swept it back and forth over the immediate area, studying the concrete walls, then looking up at the ceiling, which was eight or ten feet overhead. In this part of the serviceway, at least, the rafters were deserted.
    With each step, Bryce grew increasingly certain that drawing his revolver had been unnecessary—until he was almost halfway through the tunnel. Then he suddenly felt… something odd… a tingle, a cold augural quiver along the spine. He sensed that he wasn’t alone any longer.
    He was a man who trusted his hunches, and he didn’t discount this one. He stopped advancing, brought the revolver up, listened more closely than before to the silence, moved the flashlight rapidly over the walls and ceiling, squinted with special care at the rafters, looked ahead into the gloom almost as far as the mouth of the alleyway, and even glanced back to see if something had crept magically around behind him. Nothing waited in the darkness. Yet he continued to feel that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes.
    He started forward again, and his light caught something. Covered by a metal grille, a foot-square drain opening was set in the floor of the serviceway. Inside the drain, something indefinable glistened, reflecting the flashlight beam; it moved .
    Cautiously, Bryce stepped closer and directed the light straight down into the drain. Whatever had glistened was gone now.
    He squatted beside the drain and peered between the ribs of the grille. The light revealed only the walls of a pipe. It was a storm drain, about eighteen inches in diameter, and it was dry, which meant he had not merely seen water.
    A rat? Snowfield was a resort that catered to a relatively affluent crowd; therefore, the town took unusually stringent measures to keep itself free of all manner of pests. Of course, in spite of Snowfield’s diligence in such matters, the existence of a rat or two certainly wasn’t impossible. It could have been a rat. But Bryce didn’t believe that it had been.
    He walked all the way to the alley, then retraced his steps to the gate where Tal and the others waited.
    “See anything?” Tal asked.
    “Not much,” Bryce said, stepping onto the sidewalk and closing the gate behind him. He told them about his feeling of being watched and about the movement in the drain.
    “The Liebermanns were killed by people,” Frank Autry said. “Not by something small enough to crawl through a drain.”
    “That certainly would seem to be the case,” Bryce agreed.
    “But you did feel it in there?” Lisa asked anxiously.
    “I felt something,” Bryce told the girl. “It apparently