Shadowfires

shadow of one of them rippled across the log
structure.
    Holding the twelve-gauge in one hand and the Combat Magnum in the
other-Rachael had taken only the thirty-two-he climbed the steps to
the porch, wondering if Eric was watching him.
    Ben had told Rachael that Eric had left, gone to some other hiding
place. Perhaps that was true. Indeed, the odds were high that it was
true. But a chance remained, however slim, that the dead man was
still here, perhaps observing from some lookout in the forest.
    Reeeeee, reeeeee…
    He tucked the revolver into his belt, at his back, and entered the
cabin cautiously by the front door, the shotgun ready. He went
through the rooms again, looking for something that might tell him
where Eric had established another hidey-hole comparable to the
cabin.
    He had not lied to Rachael; it really was necessary to conduct
such a search, but he did not require an hour to do it, as he'd claimed. If he did not find anything useful in fifteen minutes, he would leave the cabin and prowl the perimeter of the lawn for some sign of a place where Eric had entered the woods-trampled brush, footprints in soft soil. If he found what he was looking for, he would pursue his quarry into the forest.
    He had not told Rachael about that part of his plan because, if he
had, she would never have gone to Vegas. But he could not enter those
woods and track down his man with Rachael at his side. He had
realized as much on the way up through the forest, on their first
approach to the cabin. She was not as sure of herself in the wilds as
Ben was, not as quick. If she went with him, he would worry about
her, be distracted by her, which would give the advantage to Eric if
the dead man was, in fact, out there somewhere.
    Earlier, he had told Rachael that the odd sounds they had heard in
the woods were caused by animals. Maybe. But when they had found the
cabin abandoned, he had let those forest noises sound again in his
memory, and he had begun to feel that he had been too quick to
dismiss the possibility that Eric had been stalking them through the
shadows, trees, and brush.
All the way down the narrow lane, from gravel
to blacktop, until she reached the state route that rounded Lake
Arrowhead, Rachael was more than half convinced that Eric was going
to rush the car from the surrounding woods and fling himself at the
door. With superhuman strength born of a demonic rage, he might even
be able to put a fist through the closed window. But he did not
appear.
    On the state route, circling the lake, she worried less about Eric
and more about police and federal agents.
    Every vehicle she encountered looked, at first sight, like a
patrol car.
    Las Vegas seemed a thousand miles away.
    And she felt as if she had deserted Benny.
When Peake and Sharp had arrived at the Palm
Springs airport, directly from their meeting with The Stone, they had
discovered that the helicopter, a Bell Jet Ranger, had developed
engine trouble. The deputy director, full of pent-up anger that he
had been unable to vent on The Stone, nearly took off the chopper
pilot's head, as if the poor man not only flew the craft but was also responsible for its design, construction, and maintenance.
    Peake winked at the pilot behind Sharp's back.
    No other helicopter had been for hire, and the two choppers
belonging to the county
sheriff's substation had been engaged and unavailable for quick reassignment. Reluctantly Sharp had decided they had no choice but to drive from Palm Springs to Lake Arrowhead. The dark green government sedan came with a red emergency beacon that was usually kept in the trunk but which could be mounted to the roof beading with a thumbscrew clamp in less than a minute. They had a siren, too. They had used both the flashing beacon and the siren to clear traffic out of their way, hurtling north on Highway 111, then virtually flying west on I-10 toward the Redland exit. They had topped ninety miles an hour nearly all the way, the Chevy's
engine roaring, the frame shimmying under them. Jerry Peake, behind
the wheel, had worried about a blowout because if a tire blew at that
speed they were dead men.
    Sharp seemed unconcerned about a blowout, but he complained about
the lack of air-conditioning and about the warm wind blowing into his
face through the open windows. It was as if, certain of his destiny,
he were incapable of imagining himself dying now, here, in a rolling
car; as if he believed he was