Germ

It was the first smile he'd seen crease his brother's face that night. He pointed at Freckles. 'That one's a cop.'

'What?'

'Had a deputy sheriff's badge.'

Silence.

'I don't think he was here as a cop, though,' Stephen said. 'He tried to shoot me without saying a word, and this is no cop car.'

Allen swore.

'Get in the car. I'll be right there.' Stephen took a step toward the woods and hurled the keys deep into them.

'What was that?'

'The car keys.'

'What? Why?' Allen asked. 'We should take their car. It's a lot nicer than yours. Look at it.'

Stephen thought about it. 'Too late now.'

'What are those?' Allen asked, pointing.

'A satellite phone and some other gadget.'

'Well, don't throw those away. Maybe we can use them.'

'How?'

'I don't know, but we need to find some advantages here, right? You never know. What would it hurt?'

'Whoever these guys were communicating with can probably track the signal,' Stephen said.

'Then turn it off. We'll turn it on to use it now and then when we're moving, so they can't pinpoint us.'

Stephen was doubtful.

'Come on, man. We need something.''

'All right, here.' He handed the equipment to Allen. 'Now get in the car.'

He jumped over the porch steps and clomped into the cabin. A minute later, he came out carrying a paper sack. He switched off the cabin's overhead light and shut the door.

When he climbed into the Vega's driver's seat, Allen asked, 'Where are their guns?'

'I chucked them.'

Allen threw up his hands in exasperation.

'What would you do with guns?' Stephen asked and cranked the ignition. After some coughing and sputtering, the engine backfired once and settled into a fitful rhythm. He moved the stick shift into first gear and eased the Vega out from between the two buildings.

Allen threw his hand in front of Stephen's face, pointing. 'Look!' he said.

The mustachioed cop was leaning into the car, pulling at something behind the seats.

'What's he doing?' Allen asked.

'Can't be good.' He popped the clutch and pointed the lurching Vega at the road.

The man ducked out from within the car and stood, a weapon in his hands. It looked like the kind of thing Arnold Schwarzenegger favored, like it could blast holes in mountains. The man scowled at Stephen and Allen.

'Go! Go! Go!' Allen screamed.

The car fishtailed, moved closer to the drive.

'He's cocking it or whatever—!'

They came off the gravel, onto the dirt road, sliding between the first trees.

Metallic thunder filled the air. Trees exploded around them. Gas pedal jammed, Stephen glanced at Allen and saw only impossibly huge eyes.

Clouds covered the moon, drawing darkness over the road. For a moment Stephen had the wild idea that it was symbolic, God's way of portending their deaths. The car jolted sideways as a barrage caught the rear panel behind Stephen's seat. A jagged hole opened up on both sides of the car. Then Stephen swerved around the first bend, knowing they were invisible to the assailant now. All the same, he drove like the devil was on their heels.

After several miles, they crossed an ancient wood bridge over Chickamauga Creek.

'Where's the road?' Allen asked, as though he thought the assailants had taken it. 'The paved road?'

'I'm not going to take any paved roads if I can help it. We're going deeper into the woods until we can figure out what to do next.'

Allen began putting on Stephen's extra clothes for the second time that night.

Stephen looked over, shook his head.

'I wasn't about to tear through the woods naked again,' Allen said.

'No, looked like you were crawling to me.'

Allen said nothing.

'Look, Allen—'

The car went across a particularly deep rut. Their heads banged the roof.

'Look, whatever our differences are, we're in this together now. Whatever this is. You gotta let me know what's going on.'

Allen nodded. 'Get us someplace safe, and I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much.'

thirty-one

Julia saw an instant of sheer horror on the police officers' faces before their cars collided. The headlight beams merged, growing intense between the two cars before bursting; hoods crumpled; windshields spiderwebbed, then shattered. The collision was deafening, two mountains crashing together.

Julia vaulted forward. Her seat belt locked, catching her so rigidly she felt a rib crack. Her air bag erupted like a kernel of giant popcorn, smashing her back. The assailant's arm tore from her neck. She sensed his body crumpling against the seat back before starting to flip over it, hip and leg first. A moment later, her seat belt kachinked open, her door popped wide, and she tumbled out. Trying to stand, she stumbled, stood, weaved.

Metal clanged to the ground somewhere, glass tinkled, radiators hissed, liquid dripped, one of the police officers screamed in pain or rage or both. She turned to the cruiser. The cop in the passenger's seat was pushing down an exploded air bag.

His door swung open and he stepped out, clutching the window frame for support. He had the crusty face of a lifelong beat cop, over-weight, near retirement. He looked utterly stunned. A ruptured cigarette was smashed against his cheek, strands of tobacco flaking away as he moved. He spotted her, and his face hardened.

She held up her palm. 'Federal agent!' she yelled, her voice hoarse but clear. 'FBI!' She could explain the difference later. She staggered toward the policeman, pointing at the twisted metal of her car. 'There's an armed man in my car. He tried to kill—'

'Are you insane?' he snapped.

'I've got an armed gunman situation here!' She couldn't believe she was having to do this. She stepped closer, instinctively picking the cop's name off the patch on his shirt. 'Officer Gilbert, my name is Julia Math—'

'Hold it right there!' He put a hand on his gun but left it in its holster. 'Show me some tin, lady, or you can spread-eagle on the ground right now!' He slapped the cigarette off his face.

She glanced over at the wreckage of her car, saw no sign of the killer. She removed her identification wallet from her front pants pocket, then held it up. The cop—Gilbert—signaled her to step closer. A red crease split open across his forehead as a bullet grazed him, and he fell back. Julia turned toward her car. Through jetting steam and wafting smoke, made nearly opaque by one still-blazing headlamp, she saw the killer behind the glassless windshield frame of her car. He was leaning on the center of the dashboard, his right arm draped over it as if he were chatting it up at a neighborhood tavern. One side of his face glistened with blood. In his left hand he held a bulky semi-

automatic pistol, surely a .45. Already big, the addition of a long sound suppresser made it look more like a small machine gun. He turned it toward her. A point of red light flashed in her eyes.

She dropped straight down, hearing the thunk! of the shot, followed by the tinny sound of the spent cartridge clattering against the crumpled hood. Before she realized it, her pistol was in her