They trooped through the kitchen, across the sales room, out onto the sidewalk.

Bryce went immediately to the wooden gate between the bakery and the shop next door. He stared over the top of the gate, into the lightless, covered passageway. Dr. Paige moved to his side, and he said, “Is this where you thought something was in the rafters?”

“Well, Lisa thought it was crouched along the wall.”

“But it was this serviceway?”

“Yes.”

The tunnel was utterly black.

He took Tal's long-handled flashlight, opened the creaking gate, drew his revolver, and stepped into the passage. A vague, dank odor clung to the place. The squeal of the rusty gate hinges and then the sound of his own footsteps echoed down the tunnel ahead of him.

The beam of the flash was powerful; it carried over half the length of the passageway. However, he focused it close at hand, swept it back and forth over the immediate area, studying the concrete walls, then looking up at the ceiling, which was eight or ten feet overhead. In this part of the serviceway, at least, the rafters were deserted.

With each step, Bryce grew increasingly certain that drawing his revolver had been unnecessary-until he was almost halfway through the tunnel. Then he suddenly felt… an odd… a tingle, a cold quiver along the spine. He sensed that he wasn't alone any longer.

He was a man who trusted his hunches, and he didn't discount this one. He stopped advancing, brought the revolver up, listened more closely than before to the silence, moved the flashlight rapidly over the walls and ceiling, squinted with special care at the rafters, looked ahead into the gloom almost as far as the mouth of the alleyway, and even glanced back to see if something had crept magically around behind him. Nothing waited in the darkness. Yet he continued to feel that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes.

He started forward again, and his light caught something. Covered by a metal grille, a foot-square drain opening was set in the floor of the serviceway. Inside the drain, something indefinable glistened, reflecting the flashlight beam; it moved.

Cautiously, Bryce stepped closer and directed the light straight down into the drain. Whatever had glistened was gone now.

He squatted beside the drain and peered between the ribs of the grille. The light revealed only the walls of a pipe. It was a storm drain, about eighteen inches in diameter, and it was dry, which meant he had not merely seen water.

A rat? Snowfield was a resort that catered to a relatively affluent crowd; therefore, the town took unusually stringent measures to keep itself free of all manner of pests. Of course, in spite of Snowfield's diligence in such matters, the existence of a rat or two certainly wasn't impossible. It could have been a rat. But Bryce didn't believe that it had been.

He walked all the way to the alley, then retraced his steps to the gate where Tal and the others waited.

“See anything?” Tal asked.

“Not much,” Bryce said, stepping onto the sidewalk and closing the gate behind him. He told them about his feeling of being watched and about the movement in the drain.

“The Liebermanns were killed by people,” Frank Autry said. “Not by something small enough to crawl through a drain.”

“That certainly would seem to be the case,” Bryce agreed.

“But you did feel it in there?” Lisa asked anxiously.

“I felt something,” Bryce told the girl. “It apparently didn't affect me as strongly as you said it did you. But it was definitely… strange.”

“Good,” Lisa said, “I'm glad you don't think we're just hysterical women.”

“Considering what you've been through, you two are about as unhysterical as you could get.”

“Well,” the girl said, “Jenny's a doctor, and I think maybe I'd like to be a doctor someday, and doctors simply can't afford to get hysterical.”

She was a cute kid-although Bryce couldn't help noticing that her older sister was even better looking. Both the girl and the doctor had the same lovely shade of auburn hair; it was the dark red-brown of well-polished cherry wood, thick and lustrous. Both of them had the same golden skin, too. But because Dr. Paige's features were more mature than Lisa's, they were also more interesting and appealing to Bryce. Her eyes were a shade greener than her sister's, too.

Bryce said, “Dr. Paige, I'd like to see that house where the bodies were barricaded in the den.”

“Yeah,” Tal said, “The locked room murders.”

“That's the Oxley place over on Vail.” She led them down the street toward the corner of Vail Lane and Skyline Road.

The dry shuffle of their footsteps was the only sound, and it made Bryce think of desert places again, of scarabs swarming busily across stacks of ancient, papyrus scrolls in desert tombs.

Rounding the corner onto Vail Lane, Dr. Paige halted and said, “Tom and Karen Oxley live… uh… lived two blocks farther along here.”

Bryce studied the street. He said, “Instead of walking straight to the Oxleys', let's have a look in all the houses and shops between here and there-at least on this side of the street. I think it's safe to split up into two squads, four to a group. We won't be going off entirely in different directions. We'll be close enough to help each other if there's trouble. Dr. Paige, Lisa-you stay with Tal and me. Frank, you're in charge of the second team.”

Frank nodded.

“The four of you stick together,” Bryce warned them, “And I mean together. Each of you remain within sight of the other three at all times. Understood?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Frank Autry said.

“Okay, you four have a look in the first building past the restaurant here, and we'll take the place next door to that. We'll hopscotch our way along the street and compare notes at the end of the block. If you come across something really interesting, something more than just additional bodies, come get me. If you need help, fire two or three rounds. We'll hear the gunshots even if we're inside another building. And you listen for gunfire from us.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Dr. Paige asked.

“Sure,” Bryce said.

To Frank Autry, she said, “If you come across any bodies that show signs of hemorrhaging from the eyes, ears, nose, or mouth, let me know at once. Or any indications of vomiting or diarrhea.”

“Because those things might indicate disease?” Bryce asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Or poisoning.”

“But we've ruled that out, haven't we?” Gordy Brogan asked.

Jake Johnson, looking older than his fifty-seven years, said, “It wasn't a disease that cut off those people's heads.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Dr. Paige said, “What if this is a disease or a chemical toxin that we've never encountered before-a mutant strain of rabies, say-that kills some people but merely drives others stark raving mad? What if the mutilations were done by those who were driven into a savage madness?”

“Is such a thing likely?” Tal Whitman asked.

“No. But then again, maybe not impossible. Besides, who's to say what's likely or unlikely any more? Is it likely that this would have happened to Snowfield in the first place?”

Frank Autry tugged at his mustache and said, “But if there are packs of rabid maniacs roaming around out there… where are they?”

Everyone looked at the quiet street. At the deepest pools of shadow spilling over lawns and sidewalks and parked cars. At unlighted attic windows. At dark basement windows.

“Hiding,” Wargle said.

“Waiting,” Gordy Brogan said.

“No, that doesn't make sense,” Bryce said, “Rabid maniacs just wouldn't hide and wait and plan. They'd charge us.”

“Anyway,” Lisa said quietly, “it isn't rabid people. It's something a lot stranger.”

“She's probably right,” Dr. Paige said.

“Which somehow doesn't make me feel any better,” Tal said.

“Well, if we find any indications of vomiting, diarrhea, or hemorrhaging,” Bryce said, “then we'll know. And if we don't…”

“I'll have to come up with a new hypothesis,” Dr. Paige said.

They were silent, not eager to begin the search because they didn't know what they might find-or what might find them.

Time seemed to have stopped.

Dawn, Bryce Hammond thought, will never come unless we move.

“Let's go,” he said.

The first building was narrow and deep, with a combination art gallery and crafts shop on the first floor. Frank Autry broke a pane of glass in the front door, reached inside, and released the lock. He entered and switched on the lights.

Motioning the others to follow, he said, “Spread out. Don't stay too close together. We don't want to offer an easy target.”

As Frank spoke, he was reminded of the two tours of duty he served in Vietnam almost twenty years ago. This operation had the nerve-twisting quality of a search-and-destroy mission in guerrilla territory.

They prowled cautiously through the gallery's display but found no one. Likewise, there was no one in the small office at the rear of the showroom. However, a door in that office opened onto stairs that led to the second floor.

They took the stairs in military fashion. Frank climbed to the top alone, gun drawn, while the others waited. He located the light switch at the head of the stairs, snapped it on, and saw that he was in one corner of the living room of the gallery owner's apartment. When he was certain the room was deserted, he motioned for his men to come up. As the others climbed the stairs, Frank moved into the living room, staying close to the wall, watchful.

They searched the rest of the apartment, treating every doorway as a potential point of ambush. The den and dining room were both deserted. No one was hiding in the closets.

On the kitchen floor, however, they found a dead man. He was wearing only blue pajama bottoms, propping the refrigerator door open with his bruised and swollen body. There were no visible wounds. There was no look of horror on his face. Apparently, he had died too suddenly to have gotten a glimpse of his assailant-and without the slightest warning that death was near. The makings of a sandwich were scattered on the floor around him: a broken jar of mustard, a package of salami, a partially squashed tomato, a package of Swiss cheese.

“It sure wasn't no illness killed him,” Jake Johnson said emphatically, “How sick could he have been if he was gonna eat salami?”

“And it happened real fast,” Gordy said, “His hands were full of the stuff he got out of the refrigerator, and as he turned around… it just happened. Bang: just like that.”

In the bedroom they discovered another corpse. She was in bed, naked. She was no younger than about twenty, no older than forty; it was difficult to guess her age because of the universal bruising and swelling. Her face was contorted in terror, precisely as Paul Henderson's had been. She had died in the middle of a scream.

Jake Johnson took a pen from his shirt pocket and slipped it through the trigger of a.22 automatic that was lying on the rumpled sheets beside the body.

“I don't think we have to be careful with that,” Frank said. “She wasn't shot. There aren't any wounds; no blood. If anybody used the gun, it was her. Let me see it.”

He took the automatic from Jake and ejected the clip. It was empty. He worked the slide, pointed the muzzle at the bedside lamp, and squinted into the barrel; there was no bullet in the chamber. He put the muzzle to his nose, sniffed, smelled gunpowder.

“Fired recently?” Jake asked.

“Very recently. Assuming the clip was full when she used it, that means she fired off ten rounds.”

“Look here,” Wargle said.

Frank turned and saw Wargle pointing to a bullet hole in the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It was at about the seven foot level.

“And here,” Gordy Brogan said, drawing their attention to another bullet lodged in the splintered wood of the dark pine highboy.

They found all ten of the brass shell casings in or around the bed, but they couldn't find where the other eight bullets were lodged.

“You don't think she scored eight hits?” Gordy asked Frank.

“Christ, she can't have!” Wargle said, hitching his gun belt up on his fat hips. “If she'd hit somebody eight times, she wouldn't be the only damned corpse in the room.”

“Right,” Frank said, though he disliked having to agree with Stu Wargle about anything. “Besides, there's no blood. Eight hits would mean a lot of blood.”

Wargle went to the foot of the bed and stared at the dead woman. She was propped up by a couple of plump pillows, and her legs were spread in a grotesque parody of desire. “The guy in the kitchen must've been in here, screwing this broad,” Wargle said. “When he was finished with her, he went into the kitchen to get them somethin' to eat. While they was separated, someone came in and killed her.”

“They killed the man in the kitchen first,” Frank said, “He couldn't have been taken by surprise if he'd been attacked after she fired ten shots.”

Wargle said, “Man, I sure wish I'd spent all day in the sack with a broad like that.”

Frank gaped at him, “Wargle, you're disgusting. Are you even turned on by a bloated corpse-just because it's naked?”

Wargle's face reddened, and he looked away from the corpse. “What the hell's the matter with you, Frank? What d'ya think I am-some kind of pervert? Huh? Hell, no. I seen that picture over on the nightstand.” He pointed to a silver-framed photograph beside the lamp. “See, she's wearin' a bikini. You can see she was a hell of a nice-lookin' broad. Big jugs on her. Great legs, too. That's what turned me on, pal.”

Frank shook his head. “I'm just amazed that anything could turn you on in the midst of this, in the midst of so much death.”

Wargle thought it was a compliment. He winked.

If I get out of this business alive, Frank thought, I won't ever let Bryce Hammond partner me with Wargle. I'll quit first.

Gordy Brogan said, “How could she have made eight hits and not have stopped something? How come there's not one drop of blood?”

Jake Johnson pushed a hand through his white hair again. “I don't know, Gordy. But one thing I do know-I sure wish Bryce'd never picked me to come up here.”

Next to the art gallery, the sign on the front of the quaint, two-story building read:

BROOKHART’S