Phantoms by Dean Koontz

wife’s serving with PCP, so you could later claim she was in a drug-induced frenzy. You didn’t figure the coroner would catch you out.”
    “Wait just one goddamned minute!” Robine shouted.
    “Then, while you washed your bloody clothes,” Bryce said to Kale, “you cleaned up the ice-cream-smeared dishes and put them away because your story was that you had come home from work to find little Danny already dead and his mother already freaked out on PCP.”
    Robine said, “That’s only supposition. Have you forgotten motive? Why in God’s name would my client do such a hideous thing?”
    Watching Kale’s eyes, Bryce said, “High Country Investments.”
    Kale’s face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered.
    “High Country Investments?” Robine asked. “What’s that?”
    Bryce stared at Kale. “Did you buy ice cream before you went home last Thursday?”
    “No,” Kale said flatly.
    “The manager of the 7-Eleven store over on Calder Street says you did.”
    The muscles in Kale’s jaws bulged as he clenched his teeth in anger.
    “What about High Country Investments?” Robine asked.
    Bryce fired another question at Kale. “Do you know a man named Gene Terr?”
    Kale only stared.
    “People sometimes just call him ‘Jeeter.’”
    Robine said, “Who is he?”
    “Leader of the Demon Chrome,” Bryce said, watching Kale. “It’s a motorcycle gang. Jeeter deals drugs. Actually, we’ve never been able to catch him at it himself; we’ve only been able to jail some of his people. We leaned on Jeeter about this, and he steered us to someone who admitted supplying Mr. Kale with grass on a regular basis. Not Mrs. Kale. She never bought.”
    “Who says?” Robine demanded. “This motorcycle creep? This social reject? This drug pusher? He’s not a reliable witness!”
    “According to our source, Mr. Kale didn’t just buy grass last Tuesday. Mr. Kale bought angel dust, too. The man who sold the drugs will testify in return for immunity.”
    With animal cunning and suddenness, Kale bolted up, seized the empty chair beside him, threw it across the table at Bryce Hammond, and ran for the door of the interrogation room.
    By the time the chair had left Kale’s hands and was in the air, Bryce was already up and moving, and it sailed harmlessly past his head. He was around the table when the chair crashed to the floor behind him.
    Kale pulled open the door and plunged into the corridor.
    Bryce was four steps behind him.
    Tal Whitman had come off the window ledge as if he’d been blown off by an explosive charge, and he was one step behind Bryce, shouting.
    Reaching the corridor, Bryce saw Fletcher Kale heading for a yellow exit door about twenty feet away. He went after the son of a bitch.
    Kale hit the crashbar and flung the metal door open.
    Bryce reached him a fraction of a second later, as Kale was setting foot onto the parking lot.
    Sensing Bryce close behind him, Kale turned with catlike fluidity and swung one huge fist.
    Bryce ducked the blow, threw a punch of his own, connecting with Kale’s hard, flat belly. Then he swung again, hitting him in the neck.
    Kale stumbled back, putting his hands to his throat, gagging and choking.
    Bryce moved in.
    But Kale wasn’t as badly stunned as he pretended to be. He leaped forward as Bryce approached and grabbed him in a bear hug.
    “Bastard,” Kale said, spraying spittle.
    His gray eyes were wide. His lips were skinned back from his teeth in a fierce snarl. He looked lupine.
    Bryce’s arms were pinned, and although he was a strong man himself, he couldn’t break Kale’s iron hold on him. They staggered a few steps backwards, stumbled, and went down, with Kale on top. Bryce’s head thumped hard against the pavement, and he thought he was going to black out.
    Kale punched him once, ineffectively, then rolled off him and crawled away fast.
    Warding off the darkness that rose behind his eyes, surprised that Kale had surrendered the advantage, Bryce pushed up