Strangers

face to the windows.
        

        
        Eventually, Jack turned the pickup east and finally connected with the county road to Thunder at a point approximately one mile north of the place where Ned should have already crossed the same lane in the Cherokee. He turned right and headed up toward the Depository, the route that Dom and Ernie had covered this morning.
        He had never seen a storm this bad back East. The higher he went into the mountains, the harder and faster the snow came down. It was as dense as a heavy rainfall.
        "The entrance to the Depository is about a mile ahead," Dom said.
        Jack cut the headlights and proceeded at a slower pace. Until his eyes adjusted to the loss of light, the world seemed composed only of whirling white specks and darkness.
        He could not always tell if he was in his own lane. He expected another vehicle to hurtle out of the night and ram him head-on.
        Evidently Ginger had the same thought, for she shrank down in her seat as if for protection in a crash. She nervously bit her lower lip.
        "Those lights ahead," Dom said. "The entrance to the Depository."
        Two mercury-vapor lamps blazed on poles flanking the electric gate. A warmer amber glow shone in the two narrow windows of the guardhouse.
        Even with those lights, Jack could see only a vague outline of the small building on the far side of the fence, for the falling snow masked all details. He felt confident that, with no headlights, the pickup would be invisible to any guard who might happen to look out a window as the truck drifted past on the county lane. Their engine noise would be swallowed by the wind.
        They rolled slowly up the steep slope, deeper into the night and mountains. The windshield wipers were doing a poorer job by the moment, for snow had clogged the blades and turned to ice.
        When they had gone a mile past the entrance to Thunder Hill, Ginger said, "Maybe we could turn the lights on now."
        Hunching over the wheel, squinting into the gloom ahead, Jack said, "No. We'll go in darkness all the way."
        

        
        In the motel office, Leland Falkirk and Lieutenant Horner unfolded the county map on the check-in counter. They were still studying it when the men who had gone after the escaping witnesses returned in defeat, only minutes after departing. The search party had followed the tire tracks a couple of hundred yards through a glen running north into the hills, at which point the snow and wind erased the trail. However, there was some evidence that at least one vehicle had turned into another hollow leading east, and since there seemed no reason for the witnesses to split up, it was assumed both the Servers' pickup and the Cherokee were now headed in that general direction.
        Returning his attention to the map, Leland said, "It makes sense. They wouldn't go west. Nothing's out there until Battle Mountain, forty miles away, then Winnemucca over fifty miles farther. Neither town's big enough to hide in for long. And neither's exactly a transportation hub; aren't many ways out. So they'll go east, into Elko."
        Lieutenant Horner put a cigar-sized finger on the map. "Here's the road that runs past the motel and up to Thunder Hill. They'll have crossed that by now and still be heading east."
        "What's the next southbound road they'll come to?"
        Lieutenant Horner bent down to read the small print on the map. "Vista Valley. Looks to be about six miles east of the road to Thunder Hill."
        

        
        A knock sounded, and Miles Bennell said, "Come in."
        General Robert Alvarado, CO of Thunder Hill, opened the door and entered the dark office in a swath of silvery light that came with him from The Hub and coated a portion of the room in an imitation of frost. He said, "Sitting alone in the dark, huh? Just imagine how suspicious that would seem to Colonel Falkirk."
        "He's a madman, Bob."
        "Not long ago," Bob Alvarado said, "I'd have argued that he was a fairly good officer, though a bit too by-the-book and much too gung-ho. But tonight, I have to agree with you. The man's only got one oar in the water. Maybe no oars. I just got a request from him a few minutes ago, by telephone. Supposed to be a request, but it was phrased like an order. He wants the entire staff, all military men and all civilians, to report to their quarters and stay there until