Phantoms

county pretty well don't you?”

“I was born and raised in Pineville.”

“That's what I thought. I've been looking at the county map, and so far as I can see, there are only two passable routes into Snowfield. First, there's the highway, which we've already blockaded.” He swiveled on his chair and stared at the huge, framed map on the wall.

“Then there's an old fire trail that leads about two-thirds of the way up the other side of the mountain. Where the fire trail leaves off, an established wilderness trail seems to pick up. It's just a footpath from that point, but from the way it looks on the map, it comes out smack-dab at the top of the longest ski-run on this side of the mountain, up here above Snowfield.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “I've backpacked through that neck of the woods. It's officially the Old Mount Greentree Wilderness Trail. Or as we locals used to call it — the Muscle Liniment Highway.”

“We'll have to station a couple of men at the bottom of the fire trail and turn back anyone who tries to come in that way.”

“It would take one hell of a determined reporter to try it.”

“We can't take chances. Are you aware of any other route that isn't on the map?”

“Nope,” Charlie said, “Otherwise, you'd have to come into Snowfield straight overland, making your own trail every dammed step of the way. That is wilderness out there; it's not just a playground for weekend campers, by God. No experienced backpacker would try to come overland. That'd be plain stupid.”

“All right. Something else I need is a phone number from the files. Remember that law enforcement seminar I went to in Chicago… oh… about sixteen months ago. One of the speakers was an army man. Copperfield, I think. General Copperfield.”

“Sure,” Charlie said, “The Army Medical Corps' CBW Division.”

“That's it.”

“I think they call Copperfield's office the Civilian Defense Unit. Hold on.” Charlie was off the line less than a minute.

He came back with the number, read it to Bryce. “That's out in Dugway, Utah. Jesus, do you think this could be something that'd bring those boys running? that's scary.”

“Real scary,” Bryce agreed, “A couple of other things. I want you to put a name on the teletype. Timothy Flyte.” Bryce spelled it, “No description. No known address. Find out if he's wanted anywhere. Check with the FBI, too. Then find out all you can about a Mr. and Mrs. Harold Ordnay of San Francisco.” He gave Charlie the address that had been in the Candle glow Inn's guest register. “One more thing. When those new men come up here, have them bring some plastic body bags from the county morgue.”

“How many?”

“To start with… two hundred.”

“Uh… two… hundred?”

“We might need a great many more than that before we're through. We might have to borrow from other counties. Better check into that. A lot of people seem just to've disappeared, but their bodies may still turn up. There were about five hundred people living here. We could possibly need that many body bags.”

And maybe even more than five hundred, Bryce thought. Because we might need a few bags for ourselves, too.

Although Charlie had listened attentively when Bryce told him that the entire town had been wiped out, and although there was no doubt that he believed Bryce, he obviously hadn't frilly, emotionally comprehended the awful dimensions of the disaster until he'd heard the request for two hundred body bags. An image of all those corpses, sealed in opaque plastic, stacked atop one another in Snowfield's streets — that was what had finally pierced him.

“Holy Mother of God,” Charlie Mercer said.

While Bryce Hammond was on the telephone with Charlie Mercer, Frank and Stu started to dismantle the hulking, police-band radio that stood against the back wall of the room. Bryce had told them to find out what was wrong with the set, for there weren't any visible signs of damage.

The front plate was fastened down by ten tightened screws. Frank worked them loose one at a time.

As usual, Stu wasn't much help. He kept glancing around at Dr. Paige, who was at the other end of the room, working with Tal Whitman on another project.

“She's sure a sweet piece of meat,” Stu said, casing a covetous look at the doctor and picking his nose at the same time.

Frank said nothing.

Stu looked at what he'd pried out of his nose, inspecting it as if it were a pearl found in an oyster. He glanced back at the doctor again. “Look at the way she fills out them jeans. Christ, I'd love to dip my wick in that.”

Frank stared at the three screws he'd removed from the radio and counted to ten, resisting the urge to drive one of the screws straight into Stu's thick skull. “You aren't stupid enough to make a pass at her, I hope.”

“Why not? That's a hot number if ever I did see one.”

“You try it, and the sheriff'll kick your ass.”

“He don’t’t spook me.”

“You amaze me, Stu. How can you be thinking about sex right now? Hasn't it occurred to you that we all might die here, tonight, maybe even in the next minute or two?”

“All the more reason to make a play for her if I get a chance,” Wargle said. “I mean, shit, if we're livin' on borrowed time, who cares? Who wants to die limp? Right? Even the other one's nice.”

“The other what?”

“The girl. The kid.” Stu said.

“She's only fourteen.”

“Sweet stuff.”

“She's a child, Wargle.”

“She's plenty old enough.”

“That's sick.”

“Wouldn't you like to have her firm little legs wrapped around you, Frank?” The screwdriver slipped out of the notch on the head of the screw and skidded across the metal cover plate with a stuttering screech.

In a voice which was nearly inaudible but which nevertheless froze Wargle's grin, Frank said, “If I ever hear of you laying one filthy finger on that girl or on any other young girl, anywhere, any time, I won't just help press charges against you; I'll come after you. I know how to go after a man, Wargle. I wasn't just a desk jockey in Nam. I was in the field. And I still know how to handle myself. I know how to handle you. You hear me? You believe me?”

For a moment Wargle was unable to speak. He just stared into Frank's eyes.

Conversations drifted over from other parts of the big room, but none of the words were clear. Still, it was obvious that no one realized what was happening at the radio.

Wargle finally blinked and licked his lips and looked down at his shoes and then looked up and put on an aw-shucks grin. “Hey, gee, Frank, don't get sore. Don't get so riled up. I didn't mean it.”

“You believe me?” Frank insisted.

“Sure, sure. But I tell you I didn't mean nothin'. I was just shootin' off at the mouth. Locker room talk. You know how it is. You know I didn't mean it. Am I some kind of pervert, for God's sake? Hey, come on, Frank, lighten up. Okay?”

Frank stared at him a moment longer, then said, “Let's get this radio dismantled.”

Tal Whitman opened the tall metal gun locker.

Jenny Paige said, “Good heavens, it's a regular arsenal.”

He passed the weapons to her, and she lined them up on a nearby work table.

The locker seemed to contain an excessive amount of firepower for a town like Snowfield. Two high-powered rifles with sniper scopes. Two semiautomatic shotguns. Two nonlethal riot guns, which were specially modified shotguns that fired only soft plastic pellets. Two flare guns. Two rifles that fired tear gas grenades. Three handguns: a pair of.38s and a big Smith & Wesson.357 Magnum.