Phantoms by Dean Koontz Page A

onto his hands and knees. He shook his head—and then saw what the other man had gone after.
    A revolver.
    It lay on the blacktop, a few yards away, gleaming darkly in the glow of the yellowish sodium-vapor lights.
    Bryce felt his holster. Empty. The revolver on the ground was his own. Apparently, it had slipped out of his holster and had spun across the pavement when he’d fallen.
    The killer’s hand closed on the weapon.
    Tal Whitman stepped in and swung a nightstick, striking Kale across the back of the neck. The big man collapsed on top of the gun, unconscious.
    Crouching, Tal rolled Kale over and checked his pulse. Holding the back of his own throbbing skull, Bryce hobbled over to them. “Is he all right, Tal?”
    “Yeah. He’ll be coming around in a few minutes.” He picked up Bryce’s gun and got to his feet.
    Accepting the revolver, Bryce said, “I owe you one.’
    “Not at all. How’s your head?”
    “I should be so lucky to own an aspirin company.”
    “I didn’t expect him to run.”
    “Neither did I,” Bryce said. “When things get worse and worse for a man like that, he usually just gets calmer, cooler, more careful.”
    “Well, I guess this one saw the walls closing in.”
    Bob Robine was standing in the open doorway, staring out at them, shaking his head in consternation.
     
    A few minutes later, as Bryce Hammond sat at his desk, filling out the forms charging Fletcher Kale with two homicides, Bob Robine rapped on the open door.
    Bryce looked up. “Well, counselor, how’s your client?”
    “He’s okay. But he’s not my client any more.”
    “Oh? His decision or yours?”
    “Mine. I can’t handle a client who lies to me about everything. I don’t like being made a fool of.”
    “So does he want to call another attorney tonight?”
    “No. When he’s arraigned, he’s going to ask the judge for a public defender.”
    “That’ll be the first thing in the morning.”
    “Not wasting any time, huh?”
    “Not with this one,” Bryce said.
    Robine nodded. “Good. He’s a very bad apple, Bryce. You know, I’ve been a lapsed Catholic for fifteen years,” Robine said softly. “I made up my mind long ago that there weren’t such things as angels, demons, miracles. I thought I was too well educated to believe that Evil—with a capital E—stalks the world on cloven hooves. But back there in the cell, Kale suddenly whirled on me and said, ‘They won’t get me. They won’t destroy me. Nobody can. I’ll walk away from this.’ When I warned him against excessive optimism, he said, ‘I’m not afraid of your kind. Besides, I didn’t commit murder; I just disposed of some garbage that was stinking up my life.”’
    “Jesus,” Bryce said. “Wish you could testify to that.”
    They were both silent. Then Robine sighed. “What about High Country Investments? How’s it provide a motive?”
    Before Bryce could explain, Tal Whitman rushed in from the hall. “Bryce, could I have a word with you?” He glanced at Robine. “Uh, this better be in private.”
    “Sure,” Robine said.
    Tal closed the door behind the lawyer. “Bryce, do you know Dr. Jennifer Paige?”
    “She set up practice in Snowfield sometime back.”
    “Yeah. But what kind of person would you say she is?”
    “I’ve never met her. I heard she’s a fine doctor, though. And folks up in those little mountain towns are glad they don’t have to drive all the way in to Santa Mira for a doctor any more.”
    “I’ve never met her either. I was just wondering if maybe you’d heard anything about ... about whether she drinks. I mean ... booze.”
    “No, I haven’t heard any such thing. Why? What’s going on?”
    “She called a couple of minutes ago. She says there’s been a disaster up in Snowfield.”
    “Disaster? What’s she mean?”
    “Well, she says she doesn’t know.”
    Bryce blinked. “Did she sound hysterical?”
    “Frightened, yeah. But not hysterical. She doesn’t want to say much of anything to