The Fraternity of the Stone by David Morrell

himself as he got out. But the corollary was that he'd always left a flashlight under the seat where he could get to it in a hurry if he needed it. So many habits of his former profession (former? he asked himself; what do you think you're doing now?) were common practice for everyone in it. That was one advantage when dealing with experts. You worked within a set of rules. The anxiety of the unpredictable came only when you dealt with amateurs.
    The flashlight was under the seat where he himself would have left it, rubber-coated, a long, high-powered, four-battery model. Drew pressed the switch and sent its beam toward the back of the van.
    No one.
    The air inside smelled stale. He saw two sleeping bags on top of two mattresses. One wall held a bank of sophisticated two-way radio equipment. Against the other wall were two open knapsacks with clothes poking out of them, a partly empty pack of Cokes, a naphtha-fueled Primus stove, several cans of Hormel chili, Heinz spaghetti and meatballs, and Armor corned-beef hash. Drew's mouth tasted rancid. Didn't these guys eat anything that didn't contain meat? Beneath the edge of one sleeping bag, the tips of two rifles protruded. There's no place like home.
    He leaned back from the van and glanced down through the rain toward the man at his feet. Nudging the wounded leg and getting no response, he confirmed that the man was still unconscious. Only then did he stoop and grab the man's armpits from behind, lifting him to shove him into the back.
    He froze when he saw headlights in the distance, two specks getting larger, approaching from the direction of Quentin, passing the lane up to the monastery, continuing this way.
    Take it easy, he thought. The lights might pose no danger. Just a late-night motorist trying to stay on the road in this storm.
    But what would the motorist think when he or she passed and saw one man pushing the motionless body of another into the van?
    Drew shut off his flashlight. Breathing quickly, he tilted the driver's seat forward, shoving the body through the gap between the seat and the door frame. As soon as the man lay in back, he covered him with a sleeping bag, even his head, then leaned in to shift the knapsacks on top, anything to increase the impression of clutter, to disguise the fact that a body lay underneath.
    Pivoting, he glanced along the road. The headlights magnified, growing brighter, closer. There wasn't time to scramble inside without looking furtive and arousing suspicion. He didn't want the driver to stop or, worse, become concerned enough to stop in the next town and call the police.
    Or what if the car belonged to the people who were after him? If he climbed inside the van, he'd be trapped. He couldn't even drive away since he hadn't changed the deflated tire and he didn't know yet where the key was.
    You'd better watch yourself, he thought. It's just a car. Six years out of action have made you paranoid. All the same, in the old days, he remembered, he'd respected the small details.
    Needing an acceptable reason to be standing out here, he shut the van door and walked around the hood to face the ditch, then pulled down the fly on his pants. Glancing toward the headlights that were now blinding him, so large they seemed like searchlights, he turned with apparent indifference toward the forest and pretended to urinate. If this car did belong to the death team, he'd have a chance to reach the trees.
    The approaching vehicle began to reduce its speed, its headlights gleaming. Drew watched in dismay. It slowed even more. He squinted through the rain and shivered when he saw a rack on the roof of the car. On the rack were two domes.
    Oh, swell, he thought. Wonderful.
    The police. It was hardly a reprieve. Drew couldn't risk telling them what had happened at the monastery. The first thing a cop would do would be to take him to the station, and after that, the police band on the C.B. radio would be filled with talk. He had to assume that the