- 4 -

Day 13, Saturday, October 22

Clyde had gotten up before daybreak and had all his men sitting around the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating cereal, waiting for the sausage sizzling in the frying pan. Hank had told him that Ace and Deuce had watched the girl's house and that she and Miller had stayed in all night.

Clyde didn't have much of a plan, but he knew that a good leader had to appear to be in deep thought much of the time. While he was stalling, his stomach screamed for food.

He opened the refrigerator, looking for leftovers, and found a piece of something fried.

"Who shot the rabbit?" he asked, picking up the last piece, a rear leg. He bit into it, tore off a big chunk, pushed it into his mouth with his finger and started chewing.

"I did," Sue said, proudly. "There wasn't anything in this damned house to eat."

"Hey, I like that. She can cook and hunt, too, huh… Hell, I just might keep you for a while."

"At least you brought something home to eat last night. I thought I was gonna have to start living off the woods like some fucking pioneer," she said distastefully. Her expression showed concern and a touch of humility, but the arrogant conceit in his words, keep you for a while, echoed in her mind. Being taken for granted wasn't part of Sue's agenda. She'd not tolerate it for long. Watching Clyde eating his own cat helped offset her temporary animosity. She kept quiet and enjoyed the moment.

Clyde took another big bite and started chewing and talking at the same time. "Hank, I want you and Cutter in the van with Ace and Deuce. Have Skip and Chuck keep the pickup and watch the alley."

"What if Miller leaves by himself?"

"You follow him. If you need to, drop Deuce off on his thumper to help. Skip and Chuck stays with the girl, no matter what. And call me immediately!"

Hank got up from the table and added, "The CB in the pickup is still on the fritz. They'll need one of the walkie-talkies."

"Yeah, go ahead. I'll keep the other one. If you get out of range, phone here first chance you get. Somebody will be here to take a message. And Hank, goddamnit, stick with them. It's Saturday and something's got to happen. Jenkins will show up or they'll lead you to him. And don't forget—I want him alive."

"If we get him, whadda you want us to do with the girl and Miller?" Hank asked.

"When you get Jenkins—kill them." Clyde stared at him. Recognizing a dismissal stare, Hank slipped away, thinking about the girl and what he might get her to do to prolong her miserable life.

"You mean I hafta stay here alone again today," Sue complained.

"You're gonna stay here, but if you're good you won't be alone."

She sensuously licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and promised to be very good.

"Stay on the radio with the boys," Clyde said to Guido, "and let me know when something happens." He slapped Sue on the butt and nodded toward the bedroom. She started scooping the sausage out of the pan. He temporarily forgot the bedroom.

______________________

Old Gus ritually drove into town early on Saturday morning. The barber always had coffee and donuts and the oldtimers liked to sit around and gossip and reminisce. Some of them even got a hair cut. Gus didn't have much hair left to cut, but he liked to have someone else shave him. Since his wife had died, he really missed that. She used to shave him every morning, always considering that a wife's duty. She did everything that a wife was supposed to do, and she loved doing it. No other woman has ever looked at him like his wife used to. Why do the good ones have to go first and leave us reprobates behind, he wondered.

When Gus rounded the curve in the road and saw the Silis' pickup, he automatically stopped to see if they needed any help. He was always a good hearted old man. When he looked in the truck he realized that Josh Silas wasn't going to be his usual jovial self this morning. And his three grandsons weren't going to be getting any more haircuts.

______________________

Tom didn't hear Deuce start the van, nor hear it driving away to meet Hank. He had no way of knowing that two more men had gotten into it and had driven back to a new position down the street from the house. The pickup's arrival in the alley behind Sherri's house went unnoticed, also.

But his erection didn't. It woke him, throbbing, searching, slightly sore and wanting more. He spent the next hour bringing Sherri from a deep sleep to screaming orgasms. Or very close to screamers. In the heat of the moment, he imagined what he wanted.

Totally, and thankfully only temporarily, satiated, he got up and put the coffee on while Sherri hopped in the shower. Not wanting to leave her alone ruled out his morning jog to get the newspaper, so he tuned on the radio. While the coffee was brewing, he figured that he'd go in and wash the parts of Sherri that she couldn't reach. And maybe join her.

While he was musing, the discovery of the three bodies came over the radio. They said that three men had been found shot to death in their pickup while parked on the side of the road. The men were not robbed and they'd been unarmed. The police had no clues except that they thought the men were actually shot sometime Thursday night and that it was probably drug related. Lately, anything that the police couldn't explain was probably drug related.

Sherri turned off the shower, ruining his plans of washing those special places for her. However, he walked into the bathroom and helped her dry those joyous areas, then jumped into the shower himself. She wouldn't leave him alone. He eventually had to dry her all over again.

It was nine o'clock before they finally got the car loaded. Tom casually walked out front and checked the street, while Sherri did a last minute check and locked the house. Apparently it hadn't rained any more last night. The sky was surprisingly crystal clear. It looked like the beginning of a beautiful, cool, Autumn day. The river would probably be muddy and up a couple feet because of the heavy rain Thursday night, but they weren't going into the water, anyway.

He saw the van, along with several other cars parked along the street. It didn't trigger any alarms. Half the kids in town either owned an old van or a pickup. He walked back into the garage, meeting Sherri at the door to the house. He wondered why she'd strapped on his 9mm.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"It looks good on you. What're we gonna do, momma, rob a liquor store on the way?"

"Look again," she said, slightly twisting her gun hip toward him.

He took a step closer, slightly amused. What had she done? Polished it? It looked brand new. He was about to compliment her handiwork, then stopped, bewildered. "Hey! That's not my holster."

"And…" she said teasingly.

Tom pulled the gun from the holster. "And this isn't my gun!"

"Right, Sherlock. It's my gun," she said proudly.

He turned it in every conceivable direction, minutely inspecting it. "When did you get it?"

"I filled out the papers Monday morning and picked it up yesterday, after we had lunch," she said. "I wanted to surprise you."

"But why did you get it?"

"Better to make you do what I want, my dear."

"You musta misunderstood me, my dear. I said I liked to be pussy-whipped, not pistol-whipped. Big, big difference, you know." He slipped the gun back into her holster. "Seriously now, why'd you get it?"

She fumbled with her thoughts. "I started to just say that I thought it would be a good idea to have a handgun around the house. You know, my being single with no man around to protect me and all that rot." She smiled weakly. "I didn't want you to think that I was paranoid or making something out of nothing, so I really didn't want to say anything unless you brought it up first." She paused, her green eyes searching for a response.

Tom was hanging on her every word, listening intently. He nodded his head, go on.

"Well… haven't you been listening to the news? And what about Dan?"

He looked at her suspiciously, then nodded again, expectantly.

She continued, "We know that he's got the meteorite, and that somebody's trying to find him, and that they think we might lead them to him. And then his boat turning up empty. He might be… Maybe those guys found him and…" She stopped, not for distress or grief and not close to tears, but more as if searching for the right words to gently break the bad news.

Tom hugged her to him for a long moment, then said. "I know that Dan's not dead. At least, I know that he wasn't dead when they found his boat."

"How do you know?"

"First, let's get out of here. We can talk on the way."

______________________

Ed Bailes balls were being squeezed in a vice and hot pins were being stuck in his eyeballs. The banging in his head wouldn't go away. That's how he felt as he gradually surfaced from the world of the dead. The pain in his balls didn't go away when he opened his eyes. The banging continued. It took him a moment to realize that the banging was more than just the throbbing pain in his head.

Then he remembered what had happened last night. After he'd finally told the cops the truth and had successfully convinced them how valuable he could be, they had democratically discussed whether to make him a partner or kill him. Joe had started the discussion in favor of a quick kill. The Chief had made a weak argument to spare him, believing Ed's promise of making them very rich men. Marie favored Joe's idea, but much slower. Her idea appealed to both men, but since she didn't get a vote, and with Cliff's mind getting back to business, he sent her upstairs. The court readjourned.

"But how do we know that we can trust him?" was Joe's final argument.

Ed had pitched his value again and swore over and over how he could be trusted.

Joe had relented, but when they realized that they couldn't lock him up and risk one of the other night cops getting inquisitive, a new argument ensued over whether they could trust him out of their sight. After pleading his heart out and properly reacting to the threat that they'd track him down, no matter where he went or how long it took, they voted again. Joe had balked. Ed's hopes had sunk to zero, then the Chief took Joe aside and apparently convinced him that Ed was all right.

In actuality, Cliff explained to Joe how difficult it would be to keep it a secret from the other cops if they tried to keep him a prisoner. And how having him cooperate was the only way, short of disposing of him right now. And if they did that, how would they go about making money with the rocks, if they did find more of them. Joe reluctantly agreed to take a chance, but vowed that at the slightest sign of trouble he'd blow the skinny creep away.

The vote now unanimous, they took Ed to a motel, rented a back room, hustled him inside unseen and warned him not to even open the door until they came back.

The banging became more violent.

He tried to get out of bed. Every part of his body screamed in agony.

"Just a second," came out choked, unintelligible. He coughed to clear his throat. "Yeah, I'm coming," he managed to say. Slowly rolling to the edge of the bed, he let his feet slide to the floor. The banging on the door started again.

He unlocked the door. It sprung open, slamming into his shoulder, staggering him backwards.

Cliff stormed into the room,, with Joe trailing like a Bull-Terrier puppy.

"Goddamn, you gonna sleep all day. We got shit to do," Cliff said, scrutinizing the room as careful, paranoid cops always do.

Ed sat back down on the bed and put his head in his hands, already hating his new partners.

"We'll be across the street at the diner," Cliff barked. "Take a quick shower or shit or whatever you gotta do and get over there." He was already ushering Joe out the door.

The tension in Ed's head relaxed the second the door clicked shut, but the throbbing pain persisted. He looked around, wondering how he'd gotten himself into such a fix. He imagined grabbing Cliff's gun, jerking it out of his holster and splattering both of their brains against the wall. The pain in his face spoiled the moment. Slowly, shakily, he stood up and shuffled into the bathroom.

______________________

Dan was becoming more and more possessive of Joyce, and the Rakers were becoming jealous and cantankerous. They were bored and restless, and resented Dan for monopolizing her favors.

Tired of having to stand guard over his two most prized possessions, Dan decided to move Joyce and the rock back into the second cavern. It would be his territory; come in it and you die.

Their appetites were increasing every day. The last of the two fishermen had barely made a decent breakfast. The Rakers had gone out to hunt for something good to eat, and since being spoiled, they weren't hunting for rabbits.

Joyce had become a perfect mate. She tagged along behind him, was ready and willing to do anything he wanted, anytime, any place. She'd even torn the choicest pieces of meat off the fishermen's bodies and fed him like a baby, or more accurately, like a king.

Dan knew that it was time to get rid of Sol and Jed. He had to protect his things.

He picked up the rock, held it over his right shoulder with one hand and motioned to Joyce with his left, never thinking about the fact that when they'd brought the rock into the cave, Sol was the only one that could pick it up by himself. Dan had just picked it up as if it was made out of styrofoam.

He started toward the rear of the tunnel with Joyce happily tagging behind. He didn't even think about getting a lantern. Both of the lanterns that were lit yesterday had run out of fuel during the night and none of them even noticed it when they woke up. He went into the second cavern, walked over to the water and set the rock on the ground.

Three large fish were lazily swimming around in the pool. Dan jumped down on the ledge and watched, almost spellbound. He never realized that there were fish in that water. One of the fish swam close to the side. With reflexes quicker than a cat's, Dan grabbed the fish and flipped it up onto the ground. It flopped around like a chicken with its head cut off. Joyce pounced on it and hit it in the head. The fish stopped flopping. Dan jumped out of the hole. Joyce looked at him and started laughing. They ripped meat off the fish and ate like starving dogs on a fresh road kill.

After eating, Dan picked up the rock and tossed it out into the water. They watched it sink deeper and deeper. The rock became slightly luminous as it sank. Dan stood for a moment wondering, not why it emitted light, but whether he should hide it better. But nobody would ever come back here again, he reasoned. And the soft glowing light it emitted made it seem more special, almost as if it were alive, talking to him, giving him strength, telling him what to do. It would stay where he could look at it whenever he wanted to. He needed it.

He grabbed Joyce's hand and started back to the front cavern to gather more supplies for their new home.

______________________

The shower had cleared Ed's head, but his ribs ached and his balls still throbbed and his face felt mangled and swollen. The mirror lied to him. It showed him a face with a skinned nose, a few scattered, small scratches, and a small bruise on its forehead. He touched the bruise and winced. He didn't care how the mirror saw it. What in the hell did the mirror know? There was a walnut-sized lump on his head and it hurt like hell. He was a little amazed, though, that he wasn't in worse shape considering the beating he had taken.

Dressing and walking across the street was a monumental task, but the smell of food leaking from the cafe perked up his sagging spirits, took the edge off the pain and lightened his step. His stomach was screaming for something to eat.

He walked into the diner and looked in the direction of some godawful obnoxious bellowing. Not surprisingly, it was the cops. He was disgusted at the thought of having them as partners. He was smarter than them. They were pigs with the brains of worms. Unable to stoop so low, he vowed that when he got his hands on a gun, he'd do more than just smash their balls.

Cliff had a young, bedraggled waitress on his lap, his left hand under her short pink skirt. She didn't seem to mind. Joe had a leer on his face as only a cop in love could have. Ed knew that he'd made a mistake. It wasn't too late. They hadn't seen him. He turned to leave.

Cliff spotted him and hollered, "Over here, kid," waving a commanding gesture with his free hand.

Kid? he fumed. That ignorant pig called me a kid! He walked despondently toward the table, his eyes on Cliff's holster.

"Sit down, kid." Cliff gestured to the seat next to Joe. "There's some breakfast for you. Eat quick cause we gotta go."

Ed sat down and looked at the plate in front of him. There were two hard fried eggs, two thin sausage patties, and a pile of mushy hash-browns. It all looked like it was floating in grease. He sullenly poked at the rubbery eggs and slid them around a bit. They really were floating in grease. As hungry as he was, it just wasn't what he wanted. He wanted a steak, or prime rib, something juicy and rare and huge. Dejectedly, his stomach forced him to try a bite.

"Hey, all this shit's cold," he said disgustedly.

"Eat it or go hungry, kid. We're pulling out in five minutes," Cliff said, pushing the waitress from his lap and pointing at his coffee cup.

"Pulling out? Where to?"

"You'll find out," Joe said, grinning at Cliff.

Ed resented the condescending tone, but he was too hungry to care. He began shoveling the cold, slimy food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow.

"What's that shit on your hands?" Joe asked

Ed shrugged his shoulders and kept eating. "I don't know. Some kind of rash, I guess."

Joe started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

Joe stopped laughing and shook his head. "You wouldn't want to know."

"Well, I want to know," Cliff said. "What's so fucking funny?"

"I was just thinking…" Joe looked at Ed and laughed again. "Maybe our friend here is allergic to being kicked in the balls."

Ed jumped out of the booth, but before he could make what would surely be a fatal mistake, Cliff jumped up and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Breakfast is over, boys. Let's get out of here."

Ed almost reached for Cliff's gun, which was dangling in his holster within easy reach, but he knew that even if he was able to get it from the holster, one of them would get him before he could shoot both of them. He relaxed, turned toward the door and walked outside. The cops followed without even looking at the woman standing behind the cash register. She started to say something, glanced at her boss, who subtly shook his head.

Cliff opened the back door on the passenger side and pushed Ed inside. He slammed the door and got in the front seat. Cliff liked to have Joe drive. It had something to do with his superior rank, or the fact that he wasn't a very good driver, or just plain laziness. Joe had never considered the first reason.

"Where are we going?" Ed asked.

Cliff answered, much too quickly to be reassuring. "We're going down to the river and take a boat ride."

Joe turned his head and smiled at Ed, much too mockingly.

"What do you mean, a boat ride?" Visions of cement boots flashed through Ed's mind.

"Relax, Joe won't kill you as long as you do what we say," Cliff said in a fatherly way, the effect emphasized by the leer on Joe's face.

"Hey, wait a minute," Ed squeaked, "I thought we were partners."

Cliff nodded. "We are. You don't screw us—we don't screw you."

"But…" Ed looked warily at the back of Joe's head.

"Don't worry about him." the chief patted Joe's shoulder. "Actually, he likes you."

Ed caught Joe's eyes looking at him in the rearview mirror. The eyes didn't say, like, if anything, they said, I'd like you dead.

"Then, what's this about a boat ride?"

"Strictly business. You see…" Cliff tore the cellophane off a cigar, cracked the window and poked the paper through, then wallowed the cigar around in his mouth. After getting the end soaked, he took it out and licked the length of it until it glistened, admired his handiwork and continued.

"We found out that Jenkins went on a float trip with a guy named Tom Miller and his girl Sherri Blake. She inherited a cabin from her father, about thirty miles upriver. I wasn't a friend of his, but I know where the cabin is located. I figure that they found something on her property or on the float back to town. If they found something while they were floating, they must have seen something that aroused their curiosity. I figure that we've got a pretty good chance of finding something, too."

Ed wasn't very optimistic about their chances, but he kept that thought to himself.

"Two days later he took a sample to you to be assayed. The same day, he called his uncle's garage and told them that he wanted a winch installed on his truck. The next day he was arrested and we found two rocks in his pocket."

Cliff stopped and made an elaborate production of setting fire to the cigar. After generating a sufficiently thick and obnoxious cloud of foul smelling smoke he continued.

"Well, this Jenkins got the winch installed the next day, after he got out of jail, which was a Thursday. Then sometime between the time the garage closed Thursday night and when they opened Friday morning, he picked up his boat, which he kept in their storage yard. Then the following Monday he killed two people in the hardware store in Olympia."

"How do you know that it was him?" Ed asked.

"Left his fingerprints all over the place. Then on Tuesday his boat was found drifting down the river with nobody in it. I figure that he wants us to think he drowned," Cliff said, proud of his deductive abilities.

"That's not right," Ed said. "He called me Tuesday and asked if I had the results of the assay."

"You sure it was Tuesday?"

"Of course I'm sure. And he was really pissed off when I told him that I didn't have the results yet."

"I'll be goddamned…." That blew a hole in his faked death theory.

"Hey," Joe said, "Marie said that Ollie Matson called yesterday about the old couple found murdered on that farm north of Olympia. Their farm is close to the river and they'd been killed sometimes Tuesday. He said that they found Jenkins' prints in the house and the old people shot on the front porch. She musta forgot to tell you."

"I'll be goddamned," Cliff said again at this second bit of news. "That means that the prick is still out there somewhere, laughing at us." Cliff sat for a minute looking out the side window at the cars and buildings and birds or whatever, not really seeing anything. Then he shook his head, "You know, that bitch Marie ain't good for nothing but screwing."

______________________

Sue and Clyde were laying in bed smoking a joint when Guido rushed in.

"They're on the move," he said to Sue's pussy.

Clyde, appearing not to notice, handed the joint to Sue and reached for his pants. "Which way are they going?"

"I don't know, yet," he said, barely flicking his eyes toward Clyde and then back to Sue's crotch. "Hank just said that they pulled out of her garage in her Viper, and… and they're tailing them."

"Good. Bout time we got a break. Tell em to stick with em. I gotta know where they go. And goddamnit, tell em not to fuck up this time."

Guido started to leave, but then he noticed something, "What's that shit on your leg?"

Clyde rubbed it and said, "I don't know, but it itches like hell. Probably the creeping crud one of you guys gave Sue."

"What creeping crud?" Sue squealed, bolting out of bed to see what they were talking about. "Jeez, that's a hell of a rash. What'd you do? Spill something on your leg?"

"Fuck, I don't know. We don't have time to worry about it now. Get dressed. And Guido, get back on the radio and tell Hank what I told you."

Clyde slipped on his pants and felt the rock rubbing against the rash. It seemed to tingle and hurt at the same time. He transferred it to the other pocket, put on his boots, grabbed his shirt and went into the living room.

Guido was giving the men their instructions over the radio.

______________________

Ed was shocked when he saw six cops standing around two squad cars at the dock.

"What are all of the cops for?" he asked Cliff, his suspicions rekindled.

"Don't want to take any chances. The guy's a killer. Four people that we know of, and who knows if he has help or not."

"You mean we have to split with all of those guys," Ed whined. "Shit, that's no good."

"Hell no. We don't split with nobody. They only know that we're looking for a killer, and that we're bringing you along cause you used to go camping with him and you might be able to help us find him. You just keep your mouth shut," Clyde emphasized, "and I'll do all the talking."

"Sure, partner," Ed said sarcastically.

Joe snapped around menacingly toward Ed. "You got a problem—"

"Cut the shit," Cliff interrupted, "and park this thing."

Joe gritted his teeth, and Ed shut his mouth after seeing the look in Joe's eyes. Joe parked behind one of the squad cars and he and the chief got out. Ed reached for the door handle and found that there wasn't one. He knocked on the window and Cliff said to sit tight.

"Sit tight?" Ed shouted. Cliff ignored him and walked toward the cops. Ed couldn't make out what they were saying, but when he was done talking, two cops went down to the boat, and two cops got in each of the squad cars. Cliff walked back and opened the door for Ed.

"What in the hell is going on? Why're you treating me like a common fucking prisoner?" Ed demanded.

"Cause that's what I told them you are. That means you try to get away, one of them is gonna kill you. I told them that since you're cooperating with us, I took your cuffs off, but to watch you close."

"What kind of fucking partnership is this?"

"One where I don't get double-crossed is what kinda partnership it is."

"What's to keep you from double-crossing me?" Ed realized what a stupid question it was and wished he hadn't asked it.

"Trust me. I'm a cop," Cliff said with a smile. "Now let's get in the boat."

Ed followed him to the boat, with Joe trailing behind. Ed's eyes were on Cliff's gun, the word trust ringing in his ears.

______________________

Bob Quint arrived at Fort Mitchell at ten till eight aboard a military plane. A jeep with two Marine MP's whisked him into a hangar at the end of the runway. There he was met by a Marine Second Lieutenant and ushered into an office overlooking the runway, given a cup of coffee and told that someone would be meeting him shortly. He was used to covert operations, and always followed orders without objection, but this time he had reason to wonder if those in authority hadn't partaken of the forbidden fruit.

He drank the coffee and waited patiently, the morning still young, his curiosity building. So far, all he'd been able to learn was that Fort Mitchell was thirty miles south of Big Bend. Why here? The meteorite was gone. And apparently the man that had taken it was a fugitive. It was a matter for the police. If it was an FBI operation, he'd know all the details and have several men with him. Being alone and ignorant of the objective just wasn't normal protocol.

The two MP's that had awakened him at his home at five AM had told him they were under orders from Colonel Rainer, and suggested that he pack an overnight bag. It had seemed highly irregular, but since he'd been assigned to NSA and was under military command, he quickly got dressed and grabbed his emergency suitcase, which he always kept packed for a two-day stay. In his line of work, it was an unholy requirement that never worked out right. Invariably, he'd either be back the same day and not need the bag, or he'd end up on a case for a week and be rumpled and scroungy most of the time.

Then they'd delivered him to the Glenview Naval Air Station north of Chicago, practically guided him up the stairs into the waiting plane, and stood at the bottom of the stairs until the door shut, as if they were waiting for him to try to escape.

Hearing the roaring wail of an approaching jet, Bob looked out the window and was surprised to see a fighter jet pull up in front of the hangar and the canopy pop up. He was even more surprised to see John Hoskins climb out dressed in a Fifth Avenue suit and carrying his stockbroker attaché case. A baby-blue Mercury Marquis pulled alongside the jet and the same Marine Lieutenant jumped out and greeted John, said a few words, took the offered case and placed it in the front seat, then walked away as John walked toward the hangar, The jet noise went up a notch and it taxied away.

Bob met John at the door. "God, I've always dreamed of riding in one of those things. You should've seen the clunker this humble public servant had to ride in."

John winked slyly. "I didn't want to keep you waiting and have to put up with a grouchy partner all day."

"If being jerked out of bed in the middle of the night and being spirited away in a cold cargo plane and eating cold flight rations doesn't make me grouchy, curling up on that couch and catching a snooze while you dawdle wouldn't hurt my feelings a bit."

"Dawdle? You won't get any snoozing today, I'll guarantee you that. Where'd you get the coffee?" John spun around and spotted the coffee maker, filled a paper cup and said, "Better fill your cup for the road. We've got to get moving." Trying to sip while walking, he headed for the car and got in the back seat.

Taking his cue, Bob got behind the wheel. "Why the back seat?"

"Got a map to spread out." John popped open the attaché case, took out several folded maps and searched through them. He found the one he wanted and spread it out on the seat. "I've got detailed topographical maps of the adjacent area along the river all of the way from Big Bend to Lake Constance."

"Don't you already have them in your computer?"

John smiled. "You'd think so, but no, I don't. They are preparing a file that has all of the maps and latest satellite pictures of the area for downloading later this morning. But in a case like this, I still like to have paper maps. I can't put this computer in my pocket."

He took an instrument from the case and pushed a switch. It shot out a thin beam of bright, white light. He turned it off and looked at Bob, who was watching him intently. "I've been trying to figure out what we've overlooked." Responding to Bob's blank stare, he added, "Head toward town and I'll tell you all I know, which won't take long."

Bob started the car, a knowing grin on his face. He was never told more than what was deemed absolutely necessary. In this case, he knew next to nothing and it was comforting to hear John use a compadre approach, rather than the usual attitude used by superiors; the I know everything, but you are such a peon that I can only tell you so much, you poor, stupid underling.

Bob spotted a sign across the road, BIG BEND 28 and an arrow pointing to the left. He turned onto the highway, brought the car up to speed, then said, "Do you realize that since I was awakened this morning, nobody even mentioned that we were anywhere near Big Bend. I didn't find that out until after arriving here. I've learned to be patient, and I knew that eventually someone would tell me why I'm here, and I can guess, but—"

"You haven't been briefed at all?"

"Nada." Bob twisted around and gave John a pleasant look of humble disgust.

"Well, to start with… this is not a Bureau operation. It's strictly NSA. We have been assigned to Mathew Rainer for the duration."

Bob nodded, thankful that John wasn't one of the usual deluded, egomaniacal agents so common in the field, who would, when talking to a subordinate, always use the singular "I" instead of the joint "we". His admiration for Hoskins was on the upswing.

John continued, "After the preliminary examination of the samples, they've classified the material as being an Unclassified Class Two Substance. You know, something not yet classified, not known to be dangerous, and therefore, not known to be safe."

"In other words, they don't know what it is."

John smiled briefly, "Precisely. Except that by using the pictures and the sample fragments they have estimated the meteorite to be a darkish, nondescript, two to four hundred pound rock. And we're supposed to find it posthaste, creating as little attention as possible."

"That figures," Bob said, used to being asked to do the impossible, as quickly as possible. "Where do we start?" Bob made eye contact in the rearview mirror. John's steel-gray eyes momentarily, pensively stared through him.

"That's what I've been trying to decide. I think that maybe I've been looking at this all wrong. As a matter of fact, it should be quite simple."

Bob had heard that before—things seem simple until one actually delves into the problem. He masked his doubt and held his tongue.

"To start with, we know the meteorite is somewhere along the river. If Jenkins was going to take it anywhere else, he'd have simply put it in his truck, tossed something over it and drove off. Now we wonder—where along the river? The site is halfway between Big Bend and Sherri Blake's cabin from where we know Jenkins launched the boat. Now, Tom Miller said that all Jenkins had was a ten horse motor. The boat would only run about fifteen max, and the current on the river is about five."

Bob noticed that John was looking at a small notepad.

"Now, if Jenkins was going to take the meteorite anywhere towards town, why wouldn't he just launch the boat from town instead of at the cabin? Even going against the current, it would have been quicker. And if he didn't want anyone to see him launch it, there are several secluded places near town that he could have used. Why drive all the way to the cabin and then go downstream for fifteen miles to the site?"

Bob shook his head, actually in agreement.

"I've thoroughly checked the topographical maps along the river between the site and the cabin. He had a four-wheel drive Bronco, but he took it away in a boat. That means it's somewhere that only a boat can go."

"Maybe in the river?"

"In a way, I hope so. They're doing some tests right now and putting together some equipment to detect it if it's underwater, but they said that they're having some kind of problem, and that they will have a crew here as soon as they get it working. Meanwhile, we're expected to do a Sherlock Holmes number." John paused and slipped the notepad into the briefcase. "Where do you suggest we start?"

Bob thought a minute, then told him what he'd found out from the sheriff about Jenkins, and about the lack of cooperation from the Big Bend Police.

"You really think that something is wrong at the police station?" John asked incredulously.

"Let's just say that I've got a gut feeling," Bob said, pausing in thought.

John watched the stocky, time-weathered veteran think. A gut feeling from an experienced agent wasn't to be taken lightly. More often than not, the truth was near.

"I called three times yesterday," Bob continued, "and the woman that answered the phone said that she was the dispatcher, but she sounded too indifferent to be a cop, even for a small town. Each time, she said that the chief—by the way, his name's Cliff Marlow—anyway, each time I called, she said that he was unavailable and could she take a message. When I insisted that she get a message to him by radio, she said that it was impossible. I didn't want to mention the Bureau to her until after talking to him, so I left an urgent message for him to call me, and gave her an unlisted, private number. He never called."

"You know how small towns are. Maybe he took a few days off and went fishing," John offered.

"Maybe, but I think that's where we should start. Sound all right to you?"

"Sounds like as good a place as any."

Bob looked in the mirror. "Are we still geologists?"

"Since we already let the deputies know that you're FBI, and the way gossip spreads out here in the sticks, we're going to let you be yourself," John smiled. "Think you can handle it?"

"If you're not too particular, I think I can pull it off."

"I'm going to use my cover as a geologist unless I absolutely have to blow it."

Bob nodded, "Just like always. We're not to tell the truth unless everything else fails." He thought for a minute, then added, "This ought to be a job for a politician. We have to lie to people to get something from them without letting them know what it is we want and what we want if for."

"Yeah, and even if I find it necessary to tell somebody, I'm supposed to downplay the meteorite to a mere scientific interest."

"Then they really should've sent a couple of politicians," Bob said with a chuckle.

They drove along in silence for a couple minutes and then John said, "You act like you know where the police station is. How come? You ever been there?"

"In these small towns the police station is always downtown on the main drag, just like in the western movies. I think they built the jails first and then built the town around it. Probably in the old days they couldn't get anybody to settle down unless there was a jail to put the rowdy cowpokes in"

"You've got it all figured out, huh?"

"Not quite. I still don't know what came first, the jail or the sheriff."

John smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. Bob sensed it and drove in silence.

"I haven't told you the good part yet," John said. "We've only got two days to find the meteorite before they send in a Section Six crew. You know what that means?"

Bob nodded his head knowingly. "Yeah, I know…" He didn't have to say anymore. They were both familiar with how Six operated. Six's only rule was to get results. They operated with the gusto of the Gestapo and with the conscience of the old KGB. They were commanded by someone with more authority than bureau chiefs. No one seemed to know who this mysterious power was. Some thought it was the Secretary of Defense, others thought that they worked directly for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, still others were sure that they answered only to the President. Officially, no one even admitted that they existed.

Bob broke the moment of meditation, "Do you think Miller and the girl might be lying?"

"I was suspicious of them at first," John said, "but they appear to be on the level. Being followed, her cabin being broken into, and the fact that he gave his right name and phone number when he called Professor Steintz at UI, when he could just as easily given a fictitious name, has pretty well convinced me that they're telling the truth. What do you think"

"That's the way I see it, too, unless something happened since we saw them on Thursday. Who knows. Maybe this Jenkins fellow got in touch with them since then. He was supposed to have been a lifelong friend, is the way I understand it."

"It's like they've always said, everybody's a suspect until proven otherwise."

"Yeah," Bob added, noticing John starting to get that faraway look in his eyes again, "guilty until proven innocent."

John said, more to the approaching town than to Bob, "I still can't believe that the National Security Agency would call in the FBI and the CIA to investigate all recent reports of meteorite sightings. Nobody in either of our departments know why. We must have half of our men out looking for rocks. If I had wanted to be a prospector I would have gotten a pick and a shovel or one of those pans that you swirl around."

Bob was mildly amused by John's last remark. To him, a stolen meteorite ranked well above some of the seemingly mundane assignments he generally drew. He couldn't help being slightly envious of John.

Then John made him feel better by saying, "But there is an interesting aspect to this case."

Bob looked at him expectantly.

"We're the only agents who've found the type of meteorite that they're looking for, and to make it more interesting, it's been stolen."

______________________

Tom and Sherri had talked nonstop for almost an hour and they were still ten miles from the cabin. Their stops at the gas station, the liquor store, and the hamburger stand had all been lengthy, each bringing up something they'd heard, tossing around ideas, marveling at the other's awareness and excited that they were finally discussing and taking the situation seriously. At one point they'd almost decided against going to the cabin altogether, and instead, driving into Olympia and talking to the sheriff, but still being undecided as they passed the road to the Capitol, they continued on toward the cabin.

"I can't believe you burned a man's motorcycle and didn't even tell me." Sherri said, this time more amused than shocked as she had been when he'd first told her. She'd actually drifted onto the shoulder of the road before catching herself and gently nursing the car back onto the pavement. The second time she'd brought it up, it was with an amazed air of a newfound respect for Tom. However, she didn't fail to point out how unwise—not stupid, to Tom's relief—she thought he'd been. This time she was grinning, almost ready to laugh.

He knew that someday he'd find it gut-wrenchingly hilarious, but right now, the thought of the biker out there somewhere wanting revenge, wasn't a bit funny.

Worry lines creased her forehead and a frown froze on her face as she glanced back and forth between the road and the mirror. "Tom, do you think somebody might have followed us?"

He spun his head around and looked out the rear window expecting to see a dozen motorcycles racing toward them. There was only a pickup coming around a curve about a quarter mile back. Nothing unusual there. Three out of four vehicles in this part of the country were trucks of some kind. It looked totally ordinary. It didn't appear to be gaining on them. For Sherri's benefit he said, "I doubt it. Why?" His words did little to comfort either of them.

"Just wondered. You know how I keep an eye on the rearview mirror. Even before this happened, I'm always watching out for a cop."

He smiled, his eyes locked intently to the rear. "The way you drive, you need at least four eyes, a radar detector, and a couple Valiums."

"Yeah, well… I'm usually in a hurry. Anyway, that pickup has been keeping roughly the same distance between us since we left town. I lost it for a while when I passed a truck on a short stretch a ways back, and didn't give it another thought, but a couple minutes ago it popped up again and has been hanging back about the same distance."

Tom glanced at the speedometer. Eighty. Slow for Sherri. "Kick it on up to a hundred and we'll see what it does."

The twinkle in her eyes softened the concern showing on her lovely face.

______________________

Hank was fuming. He'd been following Skip, who was following the Viper, when he caught a red light. He would've run the light but a cop had been waiting at the intersection and turned right, getting between him and the pickup. By the time the light had changed, Skip was on the highway heading north. The cop had poked along until he got to the city limits and then turned around in the Blue Bull parking lot. Hank had tried to make up the time he'd lost, but he'd come upon a semi and every time he thought he had a chance to pass, someone would pop around a curve or come up over a hill toward him. He cussed the two-lane road for causing him to be at least five minutes behind the pickup.

Finally, about four miles out of town, there was a short straight-away and no oncoming traffic. Hank punched the van and passed the truck. He kept the gas-pedal on the floor, knowing that he'd really have to fly to catch Skip.

______________________

Lance Speers of the Crawford County Sheriff's Department liked to sit at the cross roads of Little Creek Road and the highway and catch speeders. He didn't even bother clocking them. If they went past the junction faster than he thought they should, he'd chase them down and give them a ticket. He knew it was his word against theirs and that the judge would always believe him. Everybody knew that all speeders claim they weren't. Who would believe a criminal over an Officer of the Law? He knew that a Crawford County Judge wouldn't.

He turned onto Little Creek Road, drove around a curve to his well-worn turn-around spot and drove back toward the highway. It was a perfect place to catch speeders coming from the left. There was a high bank on the side of the road that completely hid his squad car. He pulled onto the left hand shoulder, poured a cup of coffee from his thermos and settled back to wait.

He loved to see the shocked looks on the driver's faces when they saw him. He didn't know that while he'd been turning around, a red Viper had gone by the intersection at well over ninety with a cute little blonde girl at the wheel, and an old pickup had rattled by about a quarter mile behind. Fate, with a bit of extra affection from his wife, had made him a minute late for an entirely different future.

Hank had the old van up to a hundred when he passed Little Creek Road. Lance almost spilled his thermos-cap of coffee. He wasn't going to just give this one a ticket. He felt that people that fudged a little on their speed were nice, decent folks just trying to do something to help pay his salary. But serious violators were like a slap in the face. That kind of driver went to jail, and if Lance was lucky, they'd recently had something to drink.

He flipped on the flashing lights, turned on the siren, and took off in pursuit.

______________________

"Shit! I've got a pig on my tail! You guys get down," Hank said grabbing the mike. As he gradually slowed down, he told Guido what was happening. He pulled onto the shoulder, stopped and watched the cop stop behind him.

He turned to Cutter and said, "I'm going to try to talk myself out of this. If he tries to give me any trouble, you guys take him out." Cutter grinned, quit cleaning his nails with his switch blade, snapped it shut and pulled out his .45 automatic. The rest of the men checked their weapons as Hank got out of the van.

As Hank walked toward the car, he could see the cop talking into a microphone. When he got to the side of the car, he heard the cop giving the description of the van. He hoped that he hadn't already given his license plate number.

The cop released the transmit button and told Hank to step to the front of the car.

"What'd I do, Officer?" Hank asked politely.

"I said, step to the front of the car."

Hank turned towards the front of the car, then turned back and reached behind him as if going for his billfold.

"Keep your hands in front of you!" Lance warned, the dirty old van and the unruly hoodlum-looking man setting off his internal alarms.

"Okay, officer. No problem," Hank said, raising his left hand apologetically and turning toward the front of the car.

Satisfied that the man was doing as told, Lance hit the transmit button.

Hank's right hand came around pointing a snub-nosed .38 revolver at the cops face, and immediately fired. The bullet split the cop's upper lip and drove his front teeth into his throat. He fell across the seat, his head hit the door and tilted obscenely toward the dash, his neck having been broken by the hollow-point bullet. Hank shot him in the head twice more for good measure, proud of how easily he had overcome the inept cop.

He ran back to the van and tried to make up for the lost time.

______________________

Beth, the dispatcher in Olympia received the call from Lance in car twelve. He said he was one mile north of Little Creek Road and that he'd stopped a green van with the license number R26-342. Beth punched the number into the computer and was about to tell him to wait a moment, when she heard him key his radio again. There was a sound like a shot and then nothing. She tried to call him back, but there was no answer. She ran into the sheriff's office.

He was on the phone and by the look on his face, she could tell that he was talking to his wife. She frantically waved her hand back and forth and whispered, "Sheriff, it's important."

He took the phone from his ear and put his hand over the mouth piece, without saying anything to his wife.

"What is it, Beth?"

"Lance just called in and reported that he had stopped a speeder. He gave me the description of the vehicle and the license number, then I heard a loud noise that sounded like a shot," she said, practically hysterical. "I've tried calling him back but he doesn't answer!"

"Calm down, Beth. You know all of the problems we have with these damned radios."

"Yeah, but it really did sound like a gunshot."

"Do we have a car nearby?"

"The closest car is thirty miles away and he's bringing in a prisoner."

"Okay. I'll take a run over there." He quietly hung up the phone. "Run a make on that license number and radio me." He put on his jacket, and started for the door, thinking false alarm. His mind's-eye seeing Lance bitching at the radio, not picturing the biker bragging and laughing with his men in the dirty, green van.

______________________

"I think you're right, Sher, they're staying right with us, but it's obvious that they don't want us to know we're being followed, or they'd be much closer. Let's try the same trick that Bob used on the biker."

"Should I do it in the same place?"

"Yeah, do it the same, but don't wait for me to take any pictures. And don't poke around getting us back to your road."

"You can bet on it, cowboy," Sherri said with a confident, almost thrilled look.

They were rounding a curve to the left. Ahead was a mile long straightaway, Sherri's road on the left, and then the sharp right hand curve.

"Punch it up to about a hundred and forty down this straight," Tom told her, "I want them to think that they're going to lose us and really be flying around the curve."

Telling a crazy lady in a turbo-charged snake with an attitude to "punch it" is like telling a holy-roller that God is coming to dinner. Tom was fascinated at how fast the truck behind them shrank.

About a hundred yards before the curve, Sherri hit the brakes and down-shifted two gears into fourth. Right before the curve she down-shifted again and let off on the brakes. She wanted the truck driver to think that she was going to accelerate out of the curve. As soon as they were out of sight of the truck she hit the brakes and slid onto the shoulder.

"Okay, big guy, you've got plenty of time to get out your camera, if you've changed your mind about that picture." she said jokingly.

"I ought to get out the shotgun," Tom said, very seriously.

Sherri rolled down her window. They could hear the truck approaching the curve.

______________________

"Godammed cheap fucking walkie-talkies. Hank's coming in loud and clear but he can't hear me," Skip screamed at Chuck as loud as he'd been hollering into the radio. He realized it, threw the radio on the seat and muttered under his breath.

"We've got one of the cheap ones that,s only good for a few miles," Chuck said.

"I know, but Hank shouldn't be very far behind us. Hell, that van can outrun this old truck any day."

"Maybe it broke down."

"Maybe," Skip said, rounding a curve to the left and seeing the Viper streak away from them. "Look at that thing go!

"I hope she's just blowing out the cobwebs." Chuck said. "If not, they've made us."

Skip mashed the pedal to the floor. "That curve up ahead is where they ditched Hank when he tried to follow them. You get ready, just in case."

"Chuck already had his pistol out. "This time they don't have any help with them, and Clyde said to take them if we had to."

Skip leered. "I hope we have to. I really wanna get the sonovabitch for torchin' my bike. I'm gonna make him pay, and pay, and pay…"

"Don't forget," Chuck cautioned, "we're supposed to find out where they're headed."

"Don't you worry none. I ain't forgotten. But I'd rather make them tell us where they were going than to screw around and follow them. You know the old saying, no pain, no fun."

Skip slowed down to sixty and downshifted. The engine sounded like they were doing a hundred, but he was ready to stop if he got lucky and they were sitting around the corner.

______________________

The way Tom saw it, Sherri was nervously humming a tune and he was calmly biting his nails when the truck came around the corner.

"Here they come," Sherri said.

"Put your head in my lap so they won't be suspicious," Tom said with a wink, hoping to allay her obvious fears, or at least, relieve the tension.

She cracked a forced smile, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror as she said, "Put your own head in your lap, cowboy, mine's busy."

Tom appreciated her attempt at being cool under pressure. If only she had let him drive…

Squealing tires and shuddering rattles replaced the roaring truck engine as it slid by and onto the shoulder in front of the Viper.

"Hey! That's the guy whose bike I burned. And he's—"

It was the pistol the passenger was sticking out the window that Tom started to mention when his head slammed against the dash. Sherri had put the car in reverse and had all of the V-10'^s 425 turbo-charged horsepower screaming at its red-line of what sounded like about a million RPM's to Tom. The posi-traction rear-end spun both wheels sixty MPH, the left one smoking and squalling on the asphalt shoulder, the right one digging up gravel and dirt along the edge of the shoulder until it also hit the pavement. Two men jumped from the truck and started shooting at the car, which was already a hundred yards away.

"Hang on," Tom heard, as Sherri executed a perfect 180 degree spin to the right, the engine roaring and the tires smoking as they accelerated into the curve. Tom heard two thumps as bullets ripped into the car and Sherri hollering. "Get down!"

He reached between the seats to get a pistol to return fire. An arm caught him behind the neck and smashed his face against the center arm rest. "And stay there, goddamnit!"

He twisted his head and saw Sherri scrunched down in the seat, her eyes at dash level peering through the steering wheel like a little kid driving a bumper car.

Suddenly the car braked violently, the four-wheel anti-lock brakes silently maximizing the tire's bite on the pavement. The pressure lifted from Tom's neck. He popped up as the car turned onto Sherri's road. The truck was nowhere in sight. Both sides of the road were grown up with brush higher than the car and the road curved to the right, so that in a few seconds they couldn't be seen from the road.

"What were you trying to do, break my nose?" he said, tenderly kneading it as if remolding it back into shape..

"I saw what you were going to do."

"I was going to—"

"Stick your fool head out the window and get that pretty face blown off is what you were gonna do." She patted his cheek affectionately.

"Hey! How come you're not screaming and crying and babbling like…"

The tenderness in her face instantly turned to something bordering on anger and hate and hurt. She looked away.

Tom knew that he'd said something wrong and quickly slid into a lighthearted act.

"You know Babe, I just got a new respect for Burt Reynolds. I used to think that the things he did in the movies couldn't be done, but you just did it. Damn, if you were just a man you could be a movie star."

"What in the hell are you talking about? Did you bang your head on the dash or what?" Her eyes flicked from the road to the rear-view mirror, her momentary lapse forgotten. To her relief she saw that the road was still damp enough from recent rain to avoid leaving the usual telltale cloud of dust. She relaxed and looked at Tom, sadness on her face. Tom didn't expect what she said.

"My car got shot, didn't it?"

Tom really didn't know how to respond. He figured that she might be ready to break down so he tried to teasingly keep it upbeat. "Yeah, I think so, but your boyfriend didn't, and—"

"But my beautiful car…" She exaggerated her despondent expression.

"…and you'll live to enjoy another moment of ecstasy with this wonderful, gorgeous, sensuous, brave, erotic—"

"Does excitement always effect you this way?"

"No. Sometimes I forget how lucky you really are to have me always ready and willing and…"

She smiled at his ridiculous attempt to look enthralled with himself. "Actually, you turned out to be a pretty good date after all. If I'm patient and tolerant, who knows, I might even respect you in the morning."

Tom didn't know what to say. She seemed okay. She'd handled the situation with the cool precision of a movie spy. She looked calm and collected, unlike Tom whose right ankle had a case of the jitters. He clamped his hand on his knee and tried to hide it. He glanced down at Sherri's long, slim, delectable legs. They looked completely at ease. How could they be, he wondered. Didn't she realize the gravity of their situation. Was she in outer space and thinking this was just a game?

She looked at him and smiled, confusing him even further. He put his hand on her knee. Steady as a rock. He started to say something as they pulled up in front of the cabin.

"Hey!" Sherri said, a revelation written on her face. "I'm not so damned smart! Why in the hell did I come to the cabin? Now we're stuck back here and the phone in the cabin isn't even turned on."

Tom quickly looked out the rear window, the seriousness of their situation suddenly becoming apparent.

Sherri looked back also, and continued, "Surely they came after us and when they hit that long straightaway and find that we're already out of sight, even a moron would realize that we turned off somewhere. They'll probably start checking out all the roads. Since this is the first road, they'll probably check it first."

Tom reached back, grabbed his 9mm and popped in a clip. "Your right. It's too late to turn back now. Maybe if we hide the car they'll think the cabin is empty and move on."

Sherri mulled it over. "I know! We can drive down the old river road for a ways and hide the car in the woods. They'd never think to look back there."

______________________

"Goddamnit, Chuck that bitch is on some kinda wacko drug," Skip screamed, not believing what he'd just seen. "Get in the damned truck."

Chuck ran to the truck, hopped in and watched Skip try to take off like the Viper had done. It didn't turn out quite as impressive. The old truck barely chirped its tires on the pavement, even after getting up a good head of steam on the loose, gravel shoulder. By the time they got around the curve, there was no car in sight.

Chuck had to scream to be heard above the roar of the truck's engine, the ear-blasting wind whistling past the broken passenger side window, and the rattles and clanks the old truck made as it shimmied down the road. "Think they're already down around that curve?"

In disgust, Skip spat, "That thing she's driving gotta run a hundred and eighty. They could be halfway back to town by now."

They flew down the straightaway as fast as the truck could go, which wasn't much over ninety. The road turned to the right, and then there were a series of short straights and curves. Some curves had a yellow sign with the recommended safe speed on them. Forty, forty-five, meant seventy, seventy-five to Skip. His thirst for revenge clouded his mind. He should have realized that there was no reason to drive fast. If the girl was driving back to town, she'd be there in time to take a shower, brush her teeth, and call in the Marines before he could get their rickety old truck anywhere near her house. Of course, he didn't have that high of a mentality, so he pushed the rattling, roaring truck down the road with a singular objective on his mind. Catch 'em and kill 'em.

Skip had always liked hassling people, but lately, he especially enjoyed thinking about it. Every time a car approached, he wished that he could steer right into the front of them and watch the people in the oncoming car scream, hit them head-on and see them smash their heads into the dash, or fly out through the windshield and be crumpled to pulp on the highway. Of course, he wanted to be invincible so that he could repeatedly enjoy watching their pain and destruction without suffering any discomfort to himself.

Chuck interrupted his reverie, "Hey! There's the van!"

Skip was already jumping on the brakes. The old truck shuddered and bounced to a sliding stop onto the shoulder. The van roared by with Hank's arm motioning out the window for them to follow.

"What the fuck's wrong with him?" Chuck asked.

Skip didn't bother to answer. He spun the truck around and followed. About a quarter mile down the road, Hank slowed and turned to the right onto a gravel road and drove about a hundred yards until the road turned enough to hide him from the highway. Then he stopped, jumped out of the van, and ran back to the pickup. Skip was just getting out when Hank angrily kicked the door back against Skip's leg.

"Where in the hell is the girl?" Hank demanded.

"Hey! Don't pull your shit on me!" Skip screamed, shoving the door against Hank, his gun in his hand, hidden by the door and pointed at Hank's chest. "I want that son of a bitch more than anybody. Remember my fuckin' bike!" Skip shook with anger, his twitching hand barely able to keep from pulling the trigger.

"Yeah, okay, take it easy," Hank's voice dropped a decibel. "Anyway, what happened to her?" he asked more civilly.

Skip lowered the gun from its target. "They tried to pull that same trick on the curve that they pulled on you. We were ready for it and tried to take them, but that crazy bitch drives like a maniac. I know we hit the car a few times, but she got away heading back this way. Didn't you see her?"

"Hell no. She didn't come by us," Hank said astonished and slightly disgusted.

Skip continued, "We're only a couple of miles from where she doubled back. They must have turned off on one of these side roads."

"We know that she has a cabin somewhere on the river," Hank said, then turned and ran back to the van to give some orders to his men. Skip and Chuck followed.

Hank took an Uzi out of the van and handed it to Cutter, along with his walkie-talkie. "Here, take this and my radio and run back to the road and watch for them. If they come by, put some holes in her goddamned car and call Skip." Cutter took off running toward the highway.

Then Hank remembered something and turned to Skip, "Why didn't you answer when I called you? You're radio broke?"

"We tried to, but you must've been out of range."

Hank pointed. "Chuck, run over and get the radio and try to call Cutter."

Chuck was talking to Cutter on the radio as he ran back to join them. "Works great."

"You want me to ditch the van?" Ace hollered at Hank.

Skip blurted, "Ditch the—"

Hank interrupted. "Give me that Uzi first and put the extra clips in the pickup."

"But why the fuck you ditching the van?" Skip insisted.

"Got caught in traffic, then a cop got on me for speeding. I couldn't outrun him in this piece of shit, so I had to stop and burn him. He was on the radio when I did it. He probably already gave them a description of the van, so I couldn't take a chance on him making us wait for backup, not with the stuff we've got in the van."

Hank turned to Skip. "We've only got three dirt bikes with us so I'll leave Cutter here to watch the road to let us know if she tries to get out this way, or if the cops are doing anything."

As Deuce walked by with the spare clips, Hank grabbed one and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Deuce tossed the rest of them in the front seat of the pickup.

After unloading all the bikes, Hank watched Ace drive the van down the road to a break in the brush and disappear into the woods.

"Skip, you take Chuck in the pickup and Deuce on his bike and get back to the first road this side of where you lost them. Stay within sight of the highway. Have Deuce check out the road and everywhere that they could hide a car, the barns and garages and sheds and whatever. If you don't find them, keep moving up to the next road coming back this way. I'll start here and work toward you. But be sure to keep an eye on the highway. I don't want them getting away heading north."

Skip and Chuck hopped in the truck, turned it around, and roared off after Deuce, who was supposed to be following them.

Hank shook his head and wondered if they'd figure it out.

"Ace, the first thing we're gonna do is find some nice folks and use their phone."

______________________

Sherri had driven down to the river and turned upstream along a trail of bedrock. Within a hundred yards or so they were on a semi-barren strip of ground winding picturesquely through the woods, appearing to purposefully follow the highest ground while staying in close proximity with the river. Tom was puzzled.

"I never thought about it before, but how come there's this road out here? And why isn't it grown up in grass and weeds and brush like all the rest of this place?"

"It's a long story… How about I tell you some other time," she said glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah… sure." Now his curiosity was aroused. "How far back does it go?"

"About three miles. Then the bluff curves down to the river's edge. The only way past the bluff is by boat, unless you're part monkey and part mountain goat and want to climb it."

"We'd better hide the car in the woods in case they find this road and decide to check it out."

Just then the car engine started missing.

"Shit!" Sherri said, looking gravely at the fuel gauge and frantically pumping the gas pedal. "We're out of gas! I don't know how that could be. I filled it up yesterday on the way to work."

"Those assholes must have hit the gas tank."

"You mean we could have blown up!"

"Not really. That only happens in the movies. You could shoot a hundred holes in a gas tank and it wouldn't blow up. Bullets are made out of lead, usually with a thin copper plating on them. They don't make any sparks when they hit something." He paused a second, a thought occurring to him. "But… then's there's the metal that the bullet rips… It might, ah… There's a slight chance that it could've caused a spark and…"

"And?"

Tom shrugged.

"What in the hell's that mean?" Sherri exaggeratedly shrugged back. "And what…?"

"Well, there would be this gigantic BOOM," he clapped his hands together, "and no more silly questions."

Sherri flinched, then jumped out of the car and looked at it skeptically. "That's great to know Mister Wizard. Now maybe you can figure out how to run this thing without any gas."

Tom walked around to the back and looked under the car.

"Sure enough. One bullet hit the corner of the tank and ripped…" He looked sheepishly at Sherri. "Well anyway, we're lucky that they hit the tank and not the back of our heads."

Sherri patted the back of his head. "I'm only half consoled." Then she frowned and pointed. "Just look at those two holes in the back of my nice new car."

______________________

Guido watched Clyde gnaw the end off an already picked clean chicken leg, his other hand scratching viscously at his own leg. Even Ox had given up, having gotten his share of the eighteen-piece bucket. Guido winced as Clyde crunched the bone in half while a low growl came from deep within. He turned back to the radio.

Clyde looked up and mumbled, "Why in the hell haven't they called back?"

Guido shook his head. "I think they're out of range."

"It's been a half hour since Hank said that they were being stopped by a cop. You think they've been popped?" Clyde shifted blood-shot eyes from Guido to Ox.

"Nah, they were almost out of range then, but we would've heard them trying to call us if there was any trouble," Guido suggested.

As if on cue, the telephone rang. Clyde grabbed it anxiously. "Yeah."

"Clyde, this is Hank. We got problems."

"What kinda problems?"

"I had to burn a cop."

"Good. I hate fuckin' cops. Now what's the problem?"

Hank felt like he was talking to a tree, but he continued, "The girl gave Skip the slip, but we know they gotta be down one of these roads around here. They can't get out, but we'll have to search all these roads until we find them."

"We're on our way. How'll we find you?"

"We're about thirty miles north on 19. Somebody'll be on the road waiting for you."

"We'll be there in less than an hour."

Guido and Ox were already going out the door.

______________________

Hank stepped around the bodies of the couple and their two small children as he made his way to the front door.

Ace stood guard with his sawed-off shotgun, a big smile on his face as he pointed the gun around at imaginary targets.

There were other houses down this road and they needed checking out. He hoped that the people in the next house slammed the door in his face as these fools had done. He would've liked to have seen the look on their faces when the buckshot blasted through the door and ripped into their guts.

He had to laugh. People are so stupid. They think that a flimsy door can stop a real man.

"Look at these tracks," Tom said, pointing to a clear dirt patch in the road. "They look like the same ones that we saw back at the hole."

"You think they're Dan's?" Sherri asked, bending down for a closer look.

"Sure look the same."

They followed the tracks down the road and saw where they turned into the woods to the right and disappeared on the gentle slope of hard, rocky ground. The forest, thick and spotted with head-high clumps of brush, was a maze of hiding places.

"Spread out," Tom suggested.

Sherri went to the right, weaving and threading through the brush, giving a wide berth to anything with stickers. A gleam caught her eye. She trudged toward it—thinking beer can—keeping a sharp lookout for snakes. That's all I need, she thought. Get bit by a copperhead two miles from the road, her car out of gas, and some lunatics trying to kill them. Skirting a thick briar patch brought her into an opening. Thirty feet away the front of a black pickup peeked from the brush. "There it is!"

Tom came running. "Where?" His question answered by her pointing finger. He never broke stride, ran up to the truck and stood looking at it as if he'd just found the world's largest mushroom.

Sherri ran up behind him, a bundle of questions. Only one spilled forth. "What's it doing here?"

"I don't know, Sher." He thought a moment. "He must want people to think that he's hiding somewhere around here."

"You don't think he's back at the cabin?"

Tom shook his head. "I doubt it. If he killed those people and stole their truck only a couple of miles from here, he'd be as far from here as he could get."

Tom peered inside, checked the bed, then tried the door. It was locked. He went around to the front bumper and groped underneath. Smiling, he held up a small black box.

"He always keeps a Hide-A-Key here." He slid the lid open and dumped a shiny brass key onto his palm. "Let's hope this thing still runs." He got in the truck, started the motor and revved it up a couple times. Sherri ran around to the passenger door. Tom unlocked it and as she got in, he shut off the motor.

Surprised, Sherri blurted, "Why'd you do that? Shouldn't we get out of here?"

Tom shook his head. "I'm sure that the only reason they're following us is because they think we'll lead them to Dan. Surely they know his truck."

"What now?"

"We'd better get back to the car and get our guns, then maybe tonight we take the truck and make a run for the Sheriff's office in Olympia."

______________________

Seeing his best friend lying across the front seat of the squad car with his head blown apart was one of the most dispiriting things Ollie Matson had ever seen. As a soldier, a deputy, and then Sheriff, he'd seen many people killed grotesquely, but this was different. This was a special friend. Had been for over thirty years. Lance had always been there for him, and he for Lance. They were like brothers, which neither had.

"Oh God! Why? Why?" was all he could say as he raised up and lay his head on his arms on top of the car.

He couldn't believe it. They lived in a nice quiet part of the country. Nobody killed cops here. He'd been a cop for thirty years and none of his friends had ever been killed. Times were changing. Retirement looked better every day. He'd had enough. It was somebody else's turn. Someone numb and idealistic enough to scrape a friend off the front seat of a car and go on about the business of catching the slime that did it.

A wave of nausea almost overcame him. He raised his fist and slammed it down on the car roof, then again and again. He felt no pain in his hand, the pain was in his heart, his soul, in his whole miserable life.

Waves of feelings began sweeping through him. Total frustration, then boiling anger and hatred all seemed to melt down to one feeling. Revenge. He stood up straight and spun toward his cruiser. Revenge. He patted his holster, took a deep breath and started walking.

As he approached his car, his eye was drawn to a sign nailed to a telephone pole. It said, Re-elect Ollie Matson for Sheriff.

The words Integrity and Honesty and Justice leaped out at him.

He grabbed the mike, a new surge of purpose sweeping through him, washing away his defeated feeling. The word Justice flashing in his mind's eye and throbbing in his body.

Revenge would be his justice. He'd always hated the term sweet revenge, but he now understood it, embraced it, longed for it.

______________________

"Chief, Sheriff Matson said he wants a roadblock set up at the junction of highway 19 and 322," Marie said into the microphone as John and Bob walked in.

Booming from the speaker, "I don't care what he wants. We're too damned busy. Tell him if he wants roadblocks to set them up himself."

"Okay, Chief," Marie said with a smile, pushing the mike away and reaching for a cigarette.

Bob stopped at the counter while John ambled around the lobby, casually looking at the wanted posters, and the plaques and the few small trophies setting on a high shelf on the far wall.

"Obviously, the Chief isn't in," Bob said smiling at Marie. "Who's next in command?"

Marie lit her cigarette, ignoring him until she'd created a cloud of smoke around her head. Then blowing a stream at the counter, she asked, "Who wants to know?"

Bob pulled out his badge holder and flipped it open. "Bob Quint, FBI."

Marie looked at the badge and ID for a moment and then said, "Joe."

"Joe?"

"Yeah, Joe. He's second-in-command," she said with obvious disdain.

"Would you tell him I'm here and would like to speak to him?"

"He's not here. He's with the Chief."

"Well then," he said becoming annoyed, "who's in charge of the police station at the moment?"

"I dunno. I guess me," she countered.

Bob glanced at the corporal's stripes on her shirt sleeve. "When will the Chief be back?"

"Who knows? He's out on a case. Might be gone all day," she said unconcerned.

"It's very important. Would you mind calling him on the radio and telling him I'm here," Bob said, trying to be polite.

"I can't do that. The radio is for police business only."

"That's what I want to talk to him about. Police business!"

John walked up to the counter, knowing that Bob had reached the end of his patience.

"Sorry," she said with finality. "You'll just have to leave a message with me and I'll give—"

"Miss, I'm only going to tell you—"

John nudged Bob in the back. An eye signal told him to forget it.

"Tell me what?"

"Never mind. I'll call him later." He turned and walked out the door. John nodded politely and followed him out.

He didn't see Marie giving him the finger.

At the car, Bob stopped and looked back at the station. "That sounds like the same idiot I talked to on the phone. One thing we know for sure, the chief is not fishing."

"I think we should talk to the sheriff, but first, let's drop in on Sherri. I'd like to talk to her alone."

"I guess I didn't tell you, but Tom said that they were going to the cabin this weekend."

"Well, my second choice is to talk to both of them. And a ride in the country won't hurt me either."

______________________

"Well, that's that," Sherri said, handing Tom three full 9mm clips, then she slipped three clips into the pouches on her gun belt. "This belt sure is handy."

Tom liked the look of the 9mm automatic strapped on Sherri. It made her look cute and sexy, more like a model of sporting clothes, the gun merely a garnish for effect, a prop, a convincing fake, something to tease, not kill.

"And this is for you." He handed her the shotgun and two boxes of double-aught magnums, changing her from debonair Sherri the model to Viper Sher the Commando. He was pleased that she was holding up so well and, at the same time, angered at himself for allowing her to be in this situation. It was his fault. He should have spilled his guts to the sheriff instead of being so coy. A simple trace on the bike or a little detective work would have surely turned up a gang of misfits. After all, this wasn't Chicago; this was peaceful, rural, bible-thumping, good ole mid-America. A couple busts for the inevitable outstanding warrants or drug possession or assault with ugliness or something and they probably would've crawled back into their septic tank until groundhog's day.

Sherri slipped a shell into the gun, jacked the pump, chambering a shell, checked the safety, then slid two more into the chamber.

"I've got the plug out, Sher. It'll hold three more."

She looked pleased as she popped them into the gun.

Tom put the two extra five-shot clips along with two boxes of 220 grain hollow soft-points for the 30/06 in his jacket pocket, then reached into the car and grabbed the rifle.

"Do you think we've got enough firepower?" Sherri asked, almost teasingly.

"Not really. For that bunch, I'd like to have a tank." He started to shut the door then decided to bring along the Ruger Mini-14 .223, also. He preferred the power of the 30/06 but he had three thirty-shot clips for the smaller rifle. It also had a shoulder strap, and luckily, he still had two shoulders. He swung it over his right one, then picked up the two extra clips and handed one to Sherri. "This might help a little." They each loaded one, then he put them in his pockets. As an afterthought he stuffed another box of .223's into the emptiest of his already bulging pockets.

Sherri gathered up the empty ammo boxes, tossed them in the car and took her keys from the ignition. Suddenly realizing that the bright orange shirt she was wearing would make her stand out like a peacock in a chicken coup, she put on her jacket, which was, fortunately, a light tan color. It blended in perfectly with the Autumn colors of the forest.

Tom sheepishly nodded approval. Wondering why he hadn't thought of it himself. He was glad that he was wearing a green and brown plaid shirt. It wasn't perfect, but at least it wasn't orange.

They walked down the road a piece, then cut into the woods and crept to the edge of the clearing by the cabin. They waited a few minutes, listening and watching. The cabin looked deserted.

Tom leaned both rifles against a tree, drew his automatic, and had Sherri cover him while he ran a crouched, zig-zag pattern to the cabin. Sherri had the shotgun aimed at the front door. He knocked on the door, then stepped to the far side of the door from Sherri to make sure that if someone came out, both he and Sherri would have a clear shot.

Then it dawned on him. He should have told her to use the .223 instead of the shotgun. He shuddered to think what would happen to him if somebody came out of the cabin with a gun in their hand and Sherri shot at him. A shotgun with a twenty inch, open-choke barrel, at sixty feet, would scatter the fifteen lead balls in about a six-foot diameter circle. He could almost feel one of them ripping into his chest, shattering a rib, and instantly deforming itself into a high speed blender-blade, before ripping into his heart.

He backed further from the door and motioned for Sherri to come forward. As she was running toward him, he pointed for her to take a position opposite the door from him.

Luckily, nobody had answered the door. He reached over and knocked on it again. They waited another minute.

Sherri smiled and pointed, "I don't think there's anybody home, Rambo."

Tom held his hand up and whispered, "Don't get so cocky, Sher. You never know."

She laughed loudly and pointed. "Look at the cobwebs on the upper right-hand corner of the door."

Tom looked at the webs and smiled sheepishly. Then he heard a tinkling noise. He looked around. Sherri was jingling a set of keys.

"I was going to run over here anyway, before you kicked my door in and shot my furniture all to hell."

"I knew that. Besides, if you had shot that shotgun at that distance, I'd have been mincemeat."

A mock look of horror came over her face then she cracked a coy smile. "You didn't have anything to worry about. If someone had come out that door, I was going to run like hell, anyway."

Tom's face ran the gambit from shocked to disbelief to concern before Sherri brought it back to normal. "Just kidding, big guy. I'd have shot a hair to the left, missing you completely while still getting four or five slugs into our anticipated assailant." She looked convincingly serious. Tom was relieved and pleasantly surprised that she'd been aware of the problem until she added, "Or not."

She quickly planted a firm kiss on his lower lip and bit it teasingly, then backed up and held out the keys.

"Oh, no." He offered his hand toward the door. "You go first so I can keep an eye on you."

There were faint smudges of dark, fingerprint powder on door knobs, drawer handles, and other smooth surfaces that a burglar likely touched, and the bedroom window was boarded up. Other than that, everything seemed as it should be.

Sherri was checking the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen and Tom was looking out the window in the living room when he heard an engine noise.

"Listen! That sounds like a motorcycle. Get behind the counter." He drew his automatic and crouched behind the couch that sat in front of the fireplace.

The motorcycle rumbled up and stopped. The silence was eerie. Tom held his breath, listening. Sherri had crouched behind the counter directly across the room from him, the door on his right. She raised her head and watched the door. Tom motioned for her to get down. She motioned back for him to get down. Neither moved.

There was an extremely long, agonizing moment of silence. Then a loud knock rattled the door. They waited breathlessly for the man to go away. Suddenly the door jamb splintered with a loud crash and the door burst open. Tom instinctively ducked his head, realized his mistake and quickly raised it to look out. The man stepped into the room and stood silhouetted in the frame of brightness from outside, lazily pointing a pistol into the room, expecting the cabin to be empty, and waiting for his eyes to adjust.

Suddenly he spotted Tom's movement, snapped the pistol toward him and pulled the trigger. A deafening explosion shook the room. The gun appeared to kick violently, driving itself back against his chest. His hand disappeared into the shredded front of his jacket while something jerked him backwards out the door.

Before he could fall over, his head exploded with another thunderous roar. A headless corpse tumbled out into the dirt.

Tom spun toward a mechanical clatter to his left. Sherri was holding the shotgun, already pumped, ready to shoot again.

He gawked at her with disbelief and awe.

She remained motionless, the shotgun pointed at the door. "Move over to the window and see if there are any more of them out there," she said, working sideways around the counter.

Still crouched, he duck-waddled over to the window and peeked between the curtains, then stood up and said, "Nothing but a motorcycle."

Sherri lowered the shotgun to hip level, still pointing toward the door, walked outside and looked around, Tom on her heels. Then she stepped beside the biker and looked at him for a few seconds, her face totally emotionless.

Tom put his arm on her shoulder and pulled her to him. "Remind me to stay on your good side," he said squeezing her shoulder tenderly, waiting for her to crack, waiting for her emotions to overtake her, waiting to be there when she burst into tears. Ready to hold and comfort her.

"You mean one side of me is better than the other," she pouted, reaching down and pinching his butt, hard. Then she calmly walked over to the bike.

Tom was truly speechless. For a girl that had just killed a man, he'd have expected, at the very least, some mild hysterics. Then the enormity of the sequence fully dawned on him. She had shot the man twice! Not one frantic, panic-stricken reflex in a moment of terror, but twice, in the blink of an eye. And was ready to shoot him again!

He reminded himself that, at a more appropriate time, he'd ask her what she'd done before he'd met her. Right now he was just thankful. If she'd been one second slower, it would be his blood puddling underneath him.

"Let's get this piece of shit out of sight," Tom said. Then looking at the body, he added, "Did you have to be so messy?"

"He should have had better manners," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

Tom went into the kitchen, got a plastic trash bag and slid it over the top of the near headless corpse. Then they dragged the body into the cabin and went back out front, cleaned up the carnage, throwing the larger pieces of the man's head into the brush and kicking dirt over the rest.

"Let's take his bike and get the hell out of here," Tom said walking to the bike. He kicked up the stand, turned the bike around and got on. Sherri noticed him looking down at the bike, obviously trying to figure out how to start it.

She walked up and handed him the shotgun. "You ride shotgun, big guy, and leave the driving to me."

He hesitated, looking at the serious expression on her face, then slid back on the seat, thinking that it would be better for him to have the shotgun and his hands free to shoot, if it came to that.

Sherri checked the strap on her holster then jumped on. She stood up on the kick-starter and using all of her weight managed to push the pedal down to the bottom of its stroke. The big 500cc thumper came to life with a roar. She slipped it into gear and yelled, "Hang on."

Hanging on to the shotgun with his right arm, he wrapped his left around her waist and held his breath. The front of the bike left the ground. It didn't come down until she shifted into second gear.

______________________

"It's been ten minutes since we heard those shots," Chuck said. "I wonder what's taking him so long?"

"You know Deuce," Skip said seriously. "He's probably prying out somebody's gold fillings."

"I don't like it. And I'm sure that all those shots didn't come from no damned pistol."

"Aw, hell, man. Quit worrying. Sounds get all screwed up out here in the sticks."

"Hey! That sounds like him coming now."

The sound of the motorcycle grew louder, approaching fast.

It charged around the curve heading toward them.

"Hey, man! That's not Deuce," Chuck yelled needlessly.

Skip had already pulled his revolver and gotten off two shots while Chuck was drawing his .45 automatic.

"Hang on!" They heard a girl's scream over the roar of the bike as it turned into the woods to their right.

Skip's gun barked four more times. Chuck got off five prayer shots as the bike cut through the woods heading back the other way, then he heard Skip hollering to get in the truck. He squeezed off another shot then jumped in.

While Skip dodged trees, Chuck tried to get a shot at the fleeing glimpses of the bike as it zig-zagged through the trees. It was hopeless. The motorcycle maneuvered through the trees like a jackrabbit, until suddenly its luck changed. It broke into a large patch of brush and had to slow, trying desperately to squeeze between the bushes, their sapling sized trunks large enough to scuttle the bike. The truck broke into the brush not over a hundred feet behind the struggling bike, and mowed through it easily, rapidly closing the distance.

Chuck reached out and popped of his remaining two shots. One went low and wide, the other hit the rear of the seat, almost dislodging the passenger, who bounced up a foot, standing on the rear pegs, leaning precariously on the girl.

Fear and panic and Sherri screaming, "Shoot the bastards, goddamnit, you're gonna wreck us!" gave Tom the courage to reach around and squeeze off a shot. The shotgun roared and jumped from his hand.

The truck's windshield exploded just as the bike plunged into a stand of small trees.

Skip, fighting off the sting of glass and shocked by the concussion, momentarily lost control and hit a small tree, shearing it off, the truck's bumper bending on impact, the grill mashing the radiator against the fan, screeching and tearing. Whistling steam spewed from under the hood. Fighting the wheel, he regained control, more determined than ever.

The bike broke out of the woods into a clearing of knee-high weeds and grass bordered on the right by large rocks, interwoven with thickets of briars. On the left, dense brush and saplings formed an impenetrable barrier.

Accelerating, the truck broke into the clearing, wailing and snorting steam.

Sherri urged the machine on at what seemed like breathtaking speed through the weeds, her eyes frantically searching for any hidden obstacles, boulders or logs.

Tom jerked on her waist and hollered, "Stop! There's a gully!"

All in one second she let off the throttle, glanced back at the charging truck, looked forward and twisted the throttle wide open, and for the fourth time in as many minutes screamed, "Hold on!"

Tom was almost squeezing the breath out of her as she aimed the roaring machine toward the gully, picking the highest point on the small knoll on this side.

The motorcycle hit the slope at forty-five and sailed up into empty air. Fifty might have made it. The front wheel hit the other side two feet below the edge and crunched beneath them. Tom flew up and over Sherri, who was momentarily caught by the handlebars and Tom's weight, until the bike was completely vertical, then freed from the bike she sailed through the air behind him. They landed and tumbled dummy-like, end over end, through the grass and leaves on the other side.

Skip saw the gully too late. Frantically trying to stop, the shuddering truck slid over the edge and nose-dived against the far wall at the bottom of the ten foot gully. The motorcycle fell on top of the cab. When the noise subsided and the dust settled, Both Skip and Chuck were relatively uninjured.

They crawled out of the truck and Skip hollered, "Go after them. I'll call Hank and get help." Chuck picked up his gun and started climbing up the side of the gully. Skip started looking for the walkie-talkie.

______________________

Jed wasn't looking for rabbits. He was walking down the river path looking for another boat with real meat in it. Sol was waiting at his favorite fishing spot, his eyes and ears searching. He didn't have a fishing pole. All he had was a rumbling stomach that lusted to gorge on the sweet juices of the things that came from the water.

He was used to hearing noises in the distance. Somewhere back in the recesses of his mind he knew about cars and planes, but they were always in the distance, almost unreal. Hearing one coming closer aroused an animal instinct that began preparing him for conflict. He had absolutely no feelings of flight. His only feeling was to attack and fight. When the noise stopped in what he considered his territory, he began creeping closer, ready to challenge, ready to kill those that threatened his space.

The two loud noises shocked him. He knew what they were, but how could it be. He'd left the gun in the cave. Who had it? He ducked into the brush toward the river and froze, listening, his senses amplifying all sounds and vibrations. Time had no meaning. He was like a frog that could sit motionless for hours waiting for a bug to come near.

When he heard the noise start again and move away, he quickly forgot it, turning his attention back to the river.

The few popping noises after that didn't warrant much attention. They quit before they entered his space, and held no interest to his stomach, which controlled most of his mental activity.

______________________

After calling both Tom and Sherri just to make sure they weren't at home, John made a note of the mileage then they headed north.

Bob pulled onto the shoulder at the site and John jotted down the mileage, then drew a rough map of the immediate area with an "X" marking the spot where the meteorite had landed.

"I'll have the sheriff find out who owns this property. Hell, it might be one of Jenkin's cousins for all we know," John said. Bob smiled, then realized that he wasn't joking. John was about to tell Bob to head for the cabin, when an electronic beep wailed from his briefcase. He opened it and saw the steady red battery low indicator light. A flashing light meant what it said, but a steady light meant that the call was scrambled and for his ears only. John punched the code number for the day, six-three-eight-two, into the keypad to switch the unit to scramble, then picked up the handset.

"Hoskins," he answered.

"This is Colonel Rainer. What's your status?"

"I'm with Bob Quint in a rental car parked along the highway by the site. We're secure, Matt," meaning alone and safe to converse.

The colonel hated it when civilians or subordinates called him anything other than "Colonel Rainer." He tolerated it from John only because John was a close, personal friend of his immediate superior, Lieutenant General "Jake" Fulmer.

"How close are you to the actual impact crater?"

"It's about three hundred yards due west."

"Good. Hold on." There was a full minute of silence then the colonel came back on. "Just checking your triangulation. At the present, I have nothing to tell you that Bob can't hear, so turn on the speaker."

"Done," John said, pushing the speaker button.

"Good. Now, to fill Bob in, I'm going back to what I told you this morning. When we got the samples a little over thirty-six hours ago, we started a series of tests. Obviously the first test was a radiation check and we did discover that the sample was emitting a very low-power gamma-ray type radiation. Unique only in the fact of its extreme high frequency. Still no cause for alarm. It was of such low power that it was offhandedly dismissed as harmless. We are exposed to ten times as much radiation from the latest, best designed color TV sets.

"And as of this morning, the only effect the radiation appeared to have on living tissue was a slight stimulation of cellular activity. That's not unusual. You wouldn't believe how many common, everyday substances we are exposed to that have the same effect. Everything from sugar to nutmeg can affect cellular activity. So at that point in time, we were quite pleased. However…" He paused a second, just long enough for two sets of anxious, suspicious eyes to make a furtive contact across the briefcase.

Then he continued, "This morning we started seeing something that may pose a problem. It doesn't appear to be serious, but it does indicate that continuous exposure of more than thirty hours may cause some undesirable side effects."

John looked at Bob and shook his head disgustedly, then barked into the speaker, "You mean like hair falling out and skin rotting away?" He knew what to expect from the colonel. Nothing. Soft-soap. Or outright lies. Colonels and Generals routinely sent men out to die for the general good of somebody or some ideal or for any number of reasons, real or imaginary. He knew the colonel was holding out. But he also realized that the man was in an unenviable position. It might be days or weeks or even months before meaningful results were obtained.

"Goddamnit, Hoskins, I'm leveling with you on this one. We just don't know yet. But to play it safe, just try to locate it and clear the area. Then call me immediately. We will have security personnel at the site of impact within two hours to cordon off the area. A technical crew will arrive this afternoon. Hopefully, they'll be able to deal with anything still at the site and also deal with anything you find."

"Hold on a second," John said. "You know that we won't be able to find this thing without getting close to it. What about some equipment to detect it? Geiger counters or something."

"We don't have any portable equipment that will detect radiation of this low power in this frequency range unless it's in a vacuum. We're talking ten to the minus fifteenth meters. It's almost immeasurable even in the lab. It's a problem we're trying to solve right now." He paused, waiting for a response. Getting none, he continued, "But, we do have an idea that might be useful for you."

"What's that, Matt?"

"Whoever has it obviously thinks that it's worth something, but would an average person know who to sell it to, or know its value? Only an assayer or geologist would be able to determine its intrinsic value, and they would say that it's unusual, but worthless, except to a collector. An average person wouldn't know where to find a collector, or what a fair price might be. They are going to have to ask around."

"I guess there aren't too many people that deal in meteorites."

"Precisely. As soon as I get a list of all of the people within a couple hundred mile radius that are qualified to evaluate it or that might deal in meteorites, I'll call you. Until then, you can check with the county assayer in Olympia. But whatever you do, don't mention the word radiation to anyone. Just say that someone has found a meteorite that is toxic and can cause sores it it's touched. Say that if they don't touch it there's no problem. That may help you get some cooperation from someone reluctant to get involved. We're preparing a news story to that effect, but we don't even want to go that far unless we absolutely have to.

"As far as you, John, stick to your cover unless I tell you otherwise. Bob's FBI credentials should give you all the legal authority you'll need. If you have any problem with anyone in authority, and I mean anyone, call me and I'll have them shining your shoes and wiping your ass for you." The colonel paused.

John looked at Bob, then back at the briefcase, expecting more. Neither of them gave more than a casual glance at the two motorcycles and a trike roaring by.

"You got that, Hoskins?" the colonel demanded.

"Yes sir. I've got it."

The speaker popped and the battery indicator light went out. A very faint hiss came from the case.

John pushed the speaker button. The hissing stopped. Then he folded the map he'd drawn and put it in his pocket. "Looks like the colonel is his typical jovial self."

Bob had been quiet until now. "I guess I underestimated this assignment. Sounds like we're not your everyday rock hounds after all."

John crinkled his brow. "What I don't understand is how did they know to send agents out looking for meteorites if they are practically undetectable in the first place."

Bob mulled it over and came up with nothing. He shook his head and asked, "Should we go to Olympia?"

"First, let's go to the cabin. The assayer's office will surely be closed on a Saturday, so we'll have to get somebody to locate him," John answered, that faraway look returning to his eyes. "Miller and the girl, and possibly the owner of this property, are the best leads we've got. "

______________________

General Jake Fulmer sat staring at his white phone. The rows of buttons seemed to intrigue him. His mind, too busy to deal with any external stimuli, kept his eyes locked on the phone, the perfect object to keep his conscious mind occupied while he thought. It wasn't going anywhere. And it wasn't going to ring. After talking to Colonel Rainer at the lab, he'd given explicit instructions not to be disturbed. He needed time to think. Had he made the right decision? Should he have been more insistent? He'd already been accused of overreacting. Will they still think so?

It was Sunday before last when he'd been awakened and informed that a small cluster of meteoroids had almost taken out the Watchdog; the latest, most sophisticated military satellite yet devised. It monitored everything; saw everything; listened for any signal, any power transmission, any band of visible and invisible light, monitored radiation, cosmic rays, gamma rays, temperature, solar flares, gravitational pulls, and much more, much of which he didn't understand. Some even kidded that it had a direct line to the various highway patrols and radioed in the description of every speeding vehicle in the world. Some said that it could see every pot plant. That usually brought a good chuckle, but the truth was that it really could spot a small patch of marijuana by using ultraviolet light and infrared sensors. They said that the technology had been around for several years but never used, except for demonstrations to get more funding. It would eliminate too many jobs.

One piece had hit the Watchdog, possibly damaging the radiation detector. Its equipment continuously reported that it was picking up a wavering gamma ray signal of a higher frequency than had ever been detected before. Wavelengths of from .00016 to .00024 picometers. Unheard of. The general consensus was that the equipment was malfunctioning. It was a repair job for the space shuttle.

Mark Shulman, one of the electronic engineers on the project, didn't agree. He argued, and displayed graphs received from the satellite to substantiate his claim that the satellite had picked up the radiation seconds before impact. The others tried to convince him that he was wrong. They used the argument that since the satellite transmitted its readings in time-delayed blocks of information every twelve seconds, obviously, the impact, which had occurred between transmissions, has caused some malfunction of the onboard computer.

The computer systems analysts, unable to duplicate the reading error in the lab finally had to agree that Mark might be right. But if Mark was right, then that meant that the meteors, which had created quite a meteor shower that night, might be a scientific bonanza. What if the radiation, which the satellite kept reporting as sweeping within specific parameters, had been created by intelligent beings?

NSA was abuzz, speculation running rampant. The doors were locked; the lid sealed tightly. There would be no talk, no speculation, no leaks. It was Top Secret until one of the meteorites was found. By the book, standard military procedure. Too important to be handled by the scientists. Agents would be used; a meteorite would be found; tests would begin; its military value determined; the results downplayed if there was a leak, then twenty years from now the story would be declassified, as usual.

Everything had gone like clockwork. Four meteorites were found and none exhibited any unusual radiation. Other tests were underway, but so far, everything appeared normal.

Then the colonel's call, his report reduced to layman's terms twofold. Once for himself, and then a step further for the General, who knew howitzers and tanks and troop deployment strategy and covert operations and a million other things about the military, but knew diddly about radiation, other that it killed when used properly.

The colonel put it so simply even a child could understand. The radiation caused no immediate adverse effects on living tissue. But it had an effect on the cell's DNA structure, the magnitude of which was still undetermined. What they did know was that the next generation cell was slightly different. It sucked up nutrients like a sponge and grew faster than normal. The ramifications were immense. He couldn't speculate beyond that. And yes, a full report would be ready for the special Security Council meeting in two hours.

The General blinked rapidly, rubbed his dry, gritty eyes, then looked at his watch. Where had the time gone? It had been almost thirty minutes since he'd given the colonel his orders. He reached for the phone. There was much to do.

______________________

Clyde was on his big Harley with Sue leaning against the sissy bar. Guido rode on his right with Ox following on the trike. Behind Ox, a padded cargo area doubled as a seat, complete with padded back and armrests, and inside was enough explosives and weapons to start a small revolution.

Clyde smiled when he saw the police lights up ahead, and the people in the road, evidence of Hank's handiwork. Confident that they wouldn't be looking for anybody going toward the scene of the crime, he slowed and watched the commotion.

People were everywhere. There was a paramedic rescue vehicle, an ambulance, three Highway Patrol cars, and several other vehicles that appeared to belong to passers-by that had stopped to help or simply be nosy and get in the way. An officer, standing in the road, impatiently waved traffic through the area. When he saw Clyde and his men, he gave them a distasteful look, while urging them on. Clyde mimicked the cops look, but was offered no resistance as he drove by.

______________________

Tom tried to open his eyes, then realized that they were already open. Close, blurred images slowly focused into dirt and grass and twigs, but his eyes wouldn't move. His face was mashed into the dirt. He tried to raise his head off the ground. It made no attempt to move. His neck muscles didn't even try. Push off the ground was his first real, conscious, forceful command. Nothing moved. It was then that he realized that he couldn't feel anything. Not even in his face. Was he breathing was his next thought. He couldn't tell. He couldn't even feel a heartbeat. No pulsing in his ears. Nothing. He struggled with his mind, willing it to move something. He felt as though he had no body. Or it wasn't connected!

A distant tingling started in what he imagined to be his toes. If he had toes. The tingling spread as if it were somewhere else, not really connected, but as it spread, he could feel the shape of it. An image of a body, face-down flashed in his mind. The tingling spread on the surface of what he knew to be a foot. Then two feet simultaneously. Inside the feet, prickly pains seemed to bounce around to every section, every bone and joint, every ligament and tendon. A thought flashed in his mind. A staggering reality. The surface tingles were checking for skin ruptures and the pinpoint pricks were checking for internal damage. He stopped trying to get up; he relaxed and observed the phenomenon.

The tingling moved up his legs, seemed to linger in his knees, then moved into his hips and spread through his internal organs. He could feel his mind checking off the items. It was doing its job, totally engrossed. It was as if his mind had let him have a slight insight as to what was going on, but wouldn't tolerate any interruptions from him or outside the body.

Suddenly, his ears turned on. No click. No warning. Just the sweet sounds of the forest. He heard Sherri moan. Then it sounded like she was slowly getting up. Perhaps having gone through a similar checkup, he wondered. The tingling ran down his arms and his face and head. He expected a massive explosion of feelings to enter his brain, a climax of all the tingles racing into and through the brain, but nothing happened. The tingles turned off.

A thought popped into his head that his mind had simultaneously check itself by checking the body, thereby eliminating a duplication of effort.

New thoughts popped into his head. Danger was imminent. Speed was necessary. The job was done. The checkup completed. All systems go. He recognized that all systems go was a term that he'd used in the past—from somewhere. Wondering where, he felt the mental activity start full force. With that realization, his body popped into being. All his feelings and sensations returned. He heard one of the men shout to the other one to go after them. Without thinking, he brought his hands beside his shoulders and jumped up as if none of this had happened and said to the world, as if the whole world was watching and listening, "What a trip!"

He turned toward Sherri. She had a sheepish, curious look on her face.

He asked, "Are you all right, Sher?"

"I'm fine. Sorry about not making that jump. I never tried anything like that riding double."

More serious question burned inside him that would have to wait. What in the hell did she mean, she had never tried anything like that riding double? You mean she did that riding single! He couldn't grasp the possibility.

He gently, but quickly helped her up. "One of them is coming after us. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Where's the shotgun?" she asked, looking around.

"Who knows." Damn, he felt like an idiot, getting off only one shot and then dropping the gun. "Let's get in the trees."

She swore that she was all right, but he put his arm around her and started helping her until he couldn't keep up anymore.

Chuck climbed out of the gully just in time to catch a glimpse of them running through the woods. He started shooting.

Tom pushed Sherri to the ground behind a huge tree stump. She had her gun resting on the stump before Tom could draw his. They each had 14 shells in their 9mm automatics, which they started shooting as fast as they could pull the triggers.

Chuck hadn't expected them to even have a gun having seen the man drop the shotgun. When the bullets started whistling by his head, hitting around his feet and ricocheting past him, he panicked and dove backward to the ground, landing at the edge of the gully. Frantically clawing the air, he slid over the edge and tumbled down the sloping side of the gully, bounced on top of the truck cab and rolled into the bed.

"What in the hell's going on up there?" Skip hollered.

"Goddamnit, I about got my fuckin' head blown off. I thought we were after a girl and her sissy boyfriend," Chuck said, standing up and brushing the dirt off himself. "Get some fuckin' help in here."

Skip started to laugh, but it wasn't funny to Chuck. "Let's get back to the road. Clyde will be here in a few minutes. We'll get the bastards."

______________________

As the Driegeoes accelerated away from the scene, Bob pulled up beside the cop and stopped.

"Move along, buddy," the cop said, sweeping his arm as if throwing a ball in the direction that he wanted Bob to go.

Bob flipped open his badge holder and asked, "Who's in charge?"

The cop scrutinized the badge and ID and stepped back with trained due respect and pointed. "Sheriff Matson."

Bob pulled the car in behind a parked cruiser. They got out and walked over to the sheriff.

"Bob Quint, FBI," he said, flipping open his badge holder. "I talked to you on the phone Thursday. This is John Hoskins of the Federal Geological Agency."

The sheriff looked at the badge and ID for a few seconds. "So what are you two high-powered people doing out here in the sticks?"

John spoke up, "We're looking for Dan Jenkins."

"Aren't we all?"

"What do you mean?" Bob asked.

"I take it you haven't heard. Wednesday night we found a farmer and his wife killed on the porch of their house a couple miles north of Blake's cabin. His prints were all over the place, and all of the evidence indicates that he was alone."

As the criminal arm of the duo, Bob asked, "Any idea where he's gone?"

"We haven't a clue. He stole the pickup and since the coroner estimated the time of death as sometime Tuesday morning, he had over a full day head start on us."

The sheriff paused and relit his cigar, then noticeably realized something. "If it's not for the murders, then what do you want him for?"

The lying part was John's forte; a necessary tool in his line of work. He explained, "From what we've learned, he found a meteorite and we have reason to believe that it may not be safe to handle."

"I haven't heard of any meteorite falling around here."

"It landed along the river about five miles back," John said, indicating with his head back toward Big Bend. He pulled the map from his pocket and handed it to the sheriff. "It landed right here on the X. Do you know who owns that property?"

Ollie looked at the map, while John pointed and explained the landmarks. Goose Creek was all Ollie needed to know. He knew exactly where it was. "I know who used to own that property," he offered, "but it was sold a few months back to some out of state development company. Supposed to build some cabins along the river, I think. I can find out for you as soon as I'm through here."

"That pretty well rules out the possibility that the owner found the meteorite and took it. Apparently, Jenkins has taken it somewhere."

"Jenkins?" Ollie was confused.

"I guess that you didn't know that Jenkins went on a float trip with Miller and Sherri Blake weekend before last. That was when they saw the meteorite land by the river. I assume that he thinks it might be valuable."

"First I heard of it. Hell, I just talked to Miller yesterday and he didn't mention going on a float trip with Jenkins. Or finding a meteorite."

"Maybe he didn't think that it was relevant," Bob said. "He told us about it when we were with him on Thursday."

"I still think that he should've told me about it when I talked to him," the sheriff insisted. "Do you think that they're involved? When I talked to him, I'm sure that he had a pistol in each of his jacket pockets. I had other more important things to do, so I didn't roust him."

Bob looked at John, both trying to contain their surprise. "We don't know, but that doesn't sound good." Bob shrugged. "We hope to find them at her cabin. There are some more questions that we'd like to ask them. But first, we have a problem that we have to deal with."

"What's that?"

John interjected, "From the samples we took from the impact site of the meteorite, it appears that it's made of a toxic substance. We're not sure what effect it might have on people, but we don't want to take any chances," he lied convincingly.

"What!" the sheriff exclaimed.

John hurriedly added, "We don't think that it's dangerous unless a person actually touches it, but we don't want any rumors to get started. You know how they tend to get exaggerated."

The sheriff looked around to see if there was anyone within hearing distance, then asked, "Do you mean that anybody touching it might be hurt."

"We really hope not, but we can't rule out that possibility. Preliminary indications are that it could cause a serious skin rash and mild sickness."

The sheriff thought for a minute, then said, "There's an all points bulletin out for Jenkins in six states. I've got to add a warning to the bulletin. What should I say?"

Bob spoke up. "Just the truth," Bob lied. "Issue an alert to all law enforcement agencies explaining the situation and for anyone apprehending him to keep him contained and notify you." Bob handed a business card to the sheriff. "Then immediately contact our office."

Ollie nodded. "I'd better call that in right now."

One of the deputies interrupted them to tell the sheriff that he was wanted on the radio.

"Gentlemen, I've got my hands full at the moment, but I'd like to talk to you later if you'll still be around."

"We'll be in Olympia right after we're through at the cabin," John said, "and there are a couple things you might be able to help us with."

"Be glad to." He spun on his heels and hurried off toward his squad car.

"Shouldn't we ask the sheriff to locate the assayer?" Bob asked.

"We'll have him do that when we get to town. It looks like he's pretty busy right now," John said thoughtfully. "First, let's get on the phone and put a little cheer in the colonel's day."

______________________

Sherri led Tom through familiar ground toward the cabin, keeping within sight, or at least hearing distance of the road. They stopped at the edge of the clearing around the cabin.

"Unless there were more than two of them I'm sure nobody got here before us, but to play it safe, you cover me again while I check it out."

She nodded and stood behind a tree in firing position. Tom ran to the side of the cabin and looked through the kitchen window. He could see all of the kitchen, most of the living room, and part of the bedroom. He tapped lightly on the window. There were no sounds from inside. He motioned for Sherri to join him. It seemed like déjà vu. He was sure that there was nobody in the cabin, but he still felt protective, and therefore, cautious.

"From here you can see most of the house and the front door. I'm going around and knock on the door. If you see anybody, put a couple of slugs through the window, then run straight behind the cabin and into the woods. I'll put a couple through the front door and run around the other side and meet you. By the time they gather the nerve to venture outside, they won't know which direction we went."

She nodded in agreement, then whispered, "You sound like you've done this kind of thing before."

"Never in my wildest, but I've watched a lot of movies." He kissed her on the cheek, ducked down and ran under the window to the front of the cabin and disappeared around the corner.

Sherri waited until she heard him bang on the door, then she jumped back from the window to avoid shattering glass and aimed her pistol at the window and waited. The front door swung open with a bang. Tom dove in from her left, hit the floor and rolled over to the end of the sofa in front of the fireplace. From his angle he could see most of the interior of the cabin that wasn't visible from the window. Except for the dead man in the middle of the floor, he didn't see anything unusual. He stood up and motioned. Sherri ran around the back to the opposite side of the cabin and peeked through a crack in the boards covering the bedroom window, then went around to the front and entered cautiously, her gun automatically following the track of her searching eyes.

She looked at the two legs protruding from the trash bag. "What are we going to do with him?"

"I'd love to cut his dick off and put in his mouth, like the mob does," he said. "Then maybe they'd leave us alone."

"Gross," she said, hanging her tongue out as if simulating puking.

"Gross, but maybe effective." He handed her his hunting knife.

By reflex action she reached out to take the knife and then a shocked expression instantly came over her face. She jerked her hand back and wiped it on the front of her shirt and said disgustedly, "Are you serious?"

"Well, surely you don't think I'm gonna do it," he said smiling.

"If anybody does that, it's gonna be you, and I'm gonna be long gone before you get his pants unzipped," she said, backing toward the door.

"Just kidding, babe, but we should try to do something to make them think that we're tougher than we really are."

"Try to think of something not quite so gross."

"Let's get ready to go while I'm thinking…. Let's see… something not quite as gross…"

While thinking about what to do with the biker, he ran to the tree and retrieved the rifles while Sherri stood guard out front. Walking back to the cabin, he had an idea. He handed the .223 to her. "I wish we hadn't lost the shotgun, but this thing, with the three, thirty-shot clips isn't half bad."

She slid back the bolt far enough to see that the shell casing had a bullet sticking out the end of it, then slammed it home and checked the safety. "It'll do just fine."

Tom did the same thing with the 30/06, then put two loaded clips and two boxes of shells into his jacket pocket.

"How're we gonna get out of here?" Sherri asked.

"Their truck and their bike is smashed, and if there are anymore of them, I think that we'd have heard them looking for us by now. I think we should go back to Dan's truck and make a run for the highway. You drive and I'll ride in the bed with the .223. If we see them, thirty shots ought to keep them down until we get by. Then we hit the highway and find a phone and call the police. What do you think?"

She thought a moment. "Dan's truck is a four wheel drive, isn't it?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I was just thinking that if they blocked the road somehow, maybe with boulders or logs or something, we could always go through the woods."

"Maybe we should start through the woods back here and miss them altogether."

Sherri shook her head. "The country's too rough until we get closer to the highway. There are gullies back here that would make the one we crashed in look like a wrinkle on a prune."

"Is that a euphemism; a wrinkle on a prune?"

"Yeah, I thought it wouldn't be lady-like to say the crack of your ass," she said straight faced.

"I don't see why not? That kind of talk turns me on, lady."

"Hang on to that thought, but…" she motioned toward the door.

Tom pointed at the body on the floor.

She shrugged. "Well what are we going to do with him?"

He was prepared for the question. "Do you have a bucket or a big pan?"

______________________

Skip parted the brush and peeked down the highway to the right at the approaching sound of motorcycles. "That's gotta be Hank," he said back to Chuck. "You wait here." He crawled through the weeds to the shoulder, checked to make sure, then jumped up and waved, pointing to the gravel road to his left.

Hank turned in, followed by Ace and Cutter riding double. Chuck stumbled out of the brush to join them.

"This the road?" Hank asked.

Skip did the honors, "Yeah, I sent Deuce in to check it out while we waited out here. A few minutes later we heard some shots. I figured Deuce had iced somebody. Then in about five minutes we hear a bike coming real fast. It sounded like Deuce coming back."

"Yeah," chimed in Chuck, "it came around the corner and that crazy cunt we followed up here was driving it and that sissy dude was holding on to her, scared shitless. We started shooting and she cut into the woods over that way. We chased 'em and almost had 'em." He paused and looked at Skip, wanting his ever eager big mouth to take over. Skip looked down and started playing with his fingers.

"Well, goddamnit, what happened?" Hank hollered.

Skip fidgeted. "Ah, shit, man we couldn't help it. The bitch led us into a gully. They crashed, but they landed on the other side. I sent Chuck after them while I called you."

Hank looked at Chuck menacingly. Chuck looked astonished at Skip. After all, he wasn't the one that ran the truck into the gully.

Hank grabbed Chuck by the front of his shirt and jerked him to within six inches of his face and screamed, "What in the fuck happened, asshole?"

"Hey, man, they're like the Green Berets or something," he whined. "Ask Skip. "There were so many bullets coming at me that I—when I tried to get away, I fell back in the gully. I'm lucky to be alive."

"If we don't find them, you won't think you're so damned lucky," Hank promised. "Get up by the road and wait for Clyde. We're gonna go looking for them."

Chuck ran up the road toward the highway. Before Hank could finish telling the men his plan, he heard Chuck hollering that Clyde was coming. Clyde turned onto the road, followed by Guido, and then Ox on the three-wheeler.

Hank quickly filled Clyde in on what had happened and grudgingly, but silently, resumed his second-in-command status, awaiting his orders, hoping they made sense.

"Ace," Clyde started. "You ride lead, Hank, you and Guido stay back about a 100 yards, and…"

______________________

Cliff was intent on finding something along the river that would reward him for all the years of being a surrogate dog-catcher for the city of Big Bend. He wasn't going to chase anymore murdering dogs, or speeding dogs, or dogs that don't pay child support. He wanted to be a rich dog for a change. It was his time.

He looked to his left and saw Goose Creek. Fifteen miles upriver and he hadn't seen anything unusual, and definitely nothing that even resembled something worth money. Unless he counted the real estate, the miles and miles of woods and fields and brush. He was daydreaming when something caught his attention.

"Stop the boat!" he shouted, pointing to the hillside to his right. "What's that over there?"

Joe looked in the direction of Cliff's emphatically pointing finger. "Shit, that's nothing but a tree that's been hit by lightning."

"On yeah?" Cliff said excitedly. "Then why's all the brush trampled down by the river? And there's practically a road cut through the shrubs on the hillside leading directly toward it."

"Well…"

"Well nothing!" He grabbed the driver by the shoulder and ordered, "Pull into the bank right there."

As soon as the bow of the boat touched the bank, Cliff jumped off and ran up the hillside toward the tree. Ed jumped off right behind him and barely escaped a lunging grab by Joe.

"Hey, where in the fuck do you think you're going?" Joe yelled, jumping off in pursuit. Ed ignored him and kept running. Cliff stopped suddenly. Ed bumped into him and almost knocked him into the hole.

Cliff maintained his balance and grabbed Ed, keeping him from careening off him and falling into the hole himself.

"What is that goddamned hole?" Cliff shouted directly into Ed's ear. Joe stopped beside them and dumbfoundedly gaped at it.

"Well, what's the hole here for?" Cliff repeated insistently.

Ed walked around the hole and then looked at the tree and at the limbs scattered around the area. "Something must have hit that tree and then buried itself in the ground right here," he said, pointing at the hole.

"No shit," Cliff answered impatiently. "Any fool can see that. But what in the fuck was it?"

"I don't know, but we aren't the first ones to find it. Look at all the footprints and vehicle tracks around here," Ed said, gesturing around.

"Some son of a bitch already got whatever it was," Joe expertly volunteered, drawing an irked look from the chief.

"Unless I miss my guess," interjected Ed, "we're looking at a crater caused by a meteorite."

Joe turned to Ed. "What in the hell do you know about—"

"Wait a goddamned minute, Joe," interrupted Cliff, "this is the kinda shit he's supposed to know something about. He may be on to something. There had to have been something in this hole that someone thought was worth taking." He paused to let Joe think about it.

Joe started to comment, then choked off his reply.

"Makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?" Cliff nodded his head, agreeing with himself. "And don't forget, the girl's cabin is upriver." He looked around proudly. "Come on, let's get back to the boat. We're going upriver."

Joe looked deflated, but he nodded his head and looked in the hole again, as if he hoped the answer would be anything but a meteorite.

______________________

Ace came roaring back around the corner, flew past Hank and Guido, and slid to a shuddering stop in front of Clyde. "The road dead ends at a cabin about a quarter mile past that curve," he said excitedly, pointing up the road.

"Did you see them?" Clyde asked.

"No, but that must be where they went."

Clyde raised his hand and motioned for Ox and Skip to come forward. Hank and Guido had already turned around and were coming back.

"Ace says that there's a cabin around that curve. Hank, Guido, and I will take the front. The rest of you surround it."

With no attempt at stealth, they rumbled their machines to the cabin, split up and surrounded it, and drew their weapons.

Hank, Guido, and Clyde went to the front door. Clyde pulled his pistol out of his shoulder holster and banged on the door. He stepped to the left to allow Guido and Hank a clear shot. They waited. There was no answer.

Clyde motioned to Hank. "Kick the fuckin' thing in." Hank grinned and stepped to the door. Guido, his sawed off shotgun trained on the door, moved to the right so he wouldn't have to shoot through Hank, not that he'd really mind. Hank raised his right foot and sent one of his killing karate kicks into the door a few inches above the door knob. The door popped open without the expected splintering of the door jamb. Hank almost fell into the room, and instantly froze in his tracks. Guido, following him in, jumped to the right and swung his shotgun around, looking, hoping, begging for something to shoot. Clyde came in between them and also stopped dead in his tracks.

All three stood for a few seconds looking at the naked body of Deuce hanging from a rafter by his feet. A bucket sat on the floor directly under the remaining shards of his head, half full of coagulating blood. A safety pin held a note pinned to the tip of his penis.

Clyde swiveled his head quickly to Guido, whose eyes were already calmly checking out the surroundings. Hank remained frozen, his eyes locked on the bucket end of the body. Clyde shook his head disgustedly at Hank, thinking that maybe it really was time for Guido to take over, then he walked over and read the note.

Hon,

I've gone to town to get some cigarettes. I'll finish the butchering in time for supper. I hope you like this one.

Love,
Punkin

"What in the hell is this?" Clyde mumbled, stunned, amazed.

Guido and Hank were looking over his shoulder reading the note.

Clyde looked at Guido and practically screamed, "Check this fucking place out!"

Sue calmly sauntered in, looked at the body inquisitively, then walked over and ran her fingers lightly over the bloody holes in its chest. In one motion Clyde pushed her away and shoved Hank toward the door, "Get the men in here."

As the men filed through the door, each of them stopped and stared and had to be jostled inside by the man behind him.

When they were all inside, Clyde started in on them.

"You jackoffs! Who in the hell said that we were only dealing with some broad and her sissy boyfriend?"

Hank glanced around and then stared at his shoes.

Clyde continued, "The sissy torches Skip's bike, then they get away from you assholes twice, and now they waste Deuce and hang him by his feet and drain his blood into a bucket and…" Too furious to continue he stopped and glared daggers at the cringing, downcast group. They shuffled around, looked at each other, their feet, out the windows; anywhere to avoid looking into Clyde's eyes.

"Get over here and read this note!" Clyde bellowed, getting their attention. He stepped back while they huddled next to the body. Someone was reading it aloud, unnecessarily. The only member of the gang that couldn't read simple words, didn't care any longer. He was the one that used to sign his name, 2.

Clyde waited until he was sure that the men had absorbed every detail and adequately realized the gravity of the situation. He pushed his way through them, jerked the note off Deuce's dick, wadded it up and threw it across the room. Then he picked up the bucket and threw it out the door. He turned toward his men and glared at each one of them in turn. He pulled out his knife, causing the men to back up a step, then reached up and sliced the rope. Deuce's body crumpled to the floor.

Clyde was proud of his leadership qualities when it came to getting the most out of his men when the going got tough. This time he knew that he'd achieved his objective. They were ready.

"Ace, get back up the road, out of sight, and watch for anybody coming in. Skip, you and Chuck get rid of Deuce. Hank, you and Cutter take bikes and start checking upriver. I want one of those bastards back alive."

He thought a second and then added, "If I was you, I'd bring the girl back."

"Why the girl?" Hank asked. "I thought you wanted the guy alive."

"Just my dick talking cause it doesn't matter, now. It's obvious that she's in on it just as much as the guy."

Hank gave him his biggest, black-toothed smile, nodded knowingly, then went out the door.

"But why the girl?" Ox asked.

"Which one's can give you the most pleasure before you kill 'em?"

______________________

From their vantage point on a hill upriver of the cabin, Tom and Sherri watched the motorcycle gang surround the cabin, their hopes crumbling.

"I count nine of them," Sherri said.

Flustered, wondering how she could be so calm, he blurted, "I count a whole goddamned army!"

They watched silently as the men went into the cabin, each picturing their own scenario, both wishing they could see the biker's reaction.

They watched two men carry out the body of the biker and toss it into the river.

"Do you think we scared them, or just made them mad?" Sherri asked.

"It sure as hell doesn't look like they're running away screaming."

"What now?"

"We've got to get to the truck before those idiots find it, or us!"

Tom led the way through the woods.

______________________

Ollie Matson was watching Lance's body being taken away on a stretcher when he saw two Big Bend police cars approaching. He walked toward the road, figuring that they'd stop. They didn't even slow down. He wasn't sure, but one of them looked like Kawalski, his brother-in-law.

"I'll be goddamned," he muttered. "What in the hell are they doing? They're supposed to be on a roadblock, not running around up here."

He ran to his car and grabbed the microphone.

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Tom had just spotted Sherri's car to the left, when he heard the motorcycles. He motioned to her to veer to the right to avoid a small clearing directly ahead. They stopped a couple hundred yards uphill from her car and watched two bikers pull up to the Viper and stop.

One of the men started talking on a walkie-talkie. Tom couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could imagine.

"We'll never get away from them in the truck," Tom whispered.

Sherri motioned upriver to the rising bluff. He nodded and they started climbing. Once above the treetops, they could see for miles. They could still see the cabin and now could see the river winding to the north and disappearing around the bluff about three miles upriver. But their view to the ground was almost entirely blocked by the treetops.

The sound of starting bikes brought them to a halt. The clamor of the machines piercing the woods and echoing off the bluff made their exact location nearly impossible to determine. Realizing that the bikers were coming upriver, they crouched and peered over the edge of the cliff.

Flashes of canary yellow, the color of a well known dirt bike, and sparkles of chrome filtered through the trees. Directly across, the bikes broke into a small clearing. Suddenly, something jumped from the brush and swept the trailing biker from his machine, then pounced on him. A blood-curdling scream was abruptly choked off. The other biker stopped, watched briefly, then took off through the woods around them. The attacker left the now still body sprawled on the road and tried to cut the bike off, but the screaming bike was too fast. The biker swerved back onto the road and roared back toward the cabin. The thing went back to the body on the road and dragged it into the brush.

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Jed couldn't wait to take his kill back to the cave. He bit into a meaty part, ripped a chunk of it off and gulped it down, blood dribbling down his chin, his eyes appeared glazed over in rapture. He would have eaten his fill if it wasn't for all of the new noises close by. He knew that there were lots of them. Having temporarily quelled the most insistant hunger pangs, he picked up the meat and started back upriver.

Transfixed by the scene below, Tom hadn't noticed Sherri's grip on his arm. It had reached the point of pain as they'd watched the bizarre, nightmarish event unfold. He patted her hand, breaking the spell.

She shuddered. "What was that?"

"I don't know… but I'd rather the bikers find us than that thing."

"Thing?" She looked at him quizzically, then skeptically. "What do you mean, thing?"

"God, I don't know." Tom shook his head as if doubting his own words. "Maybe some kind of bear… or gorilla. What did it look like to you?"

"You know that I'm just a touch nearsighted," she answered, squinching her face slightly, reflectively, as she did when looking intently at distant objects. "And I only got a couple quick glimpses of it through the trees, but…" She shrugged her shoulders, "it didn't move like either one." Being extremely serious, she stuttered slightly, hesitated, then spit it out. "I always thought the bigfoot stories were a bunch of bunk…"

"God, I hope so," he said, glancing around almost too casually. "I'm beginning to feel like we dropped into the Twilight Zone." Wondering if his own eyes were all right, and not wanting to needlessly create more terror for Sherri by speculating, he changed the subject and pointed uphill at the increasingly rough, rocky terrain. "Let's go up higher where we can see better and wait awhile. Our little show at the cabin didn't spook the bikers, but maybe what happened down there will do the trick. It's sure got me freaked out."

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