Germ

"I'm not going to take any paved roads if I can help it. We're going deeper into the woods until we can figure out what to do next."

Allen began putting on Stephen's extra clothes for the second time that night.

Stephen looked over, shook his head.

"I wasn't about to tear through the woods naked again," Allen said.

"No, looked like you were crawling to me."

Allen said nothing.

"Look, Allen—"

The car went across a particularly deep rut. Their heads banged the roof.

"Look, whatever our differences are, we're in this together now. Whatever this is. You gotta let me know what's going on."

Allen nodded. "Get us someplace safe, and I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much."

thirty-one

Julia saw an instant of sheer horror on the police officers' faces before their cars collided. The headlight beams merged, growing intense between the two cars before bursting; hoods crumpled; windshields spiderwebbed, then shattered. The collision was deafening, two mountains crashing together.

Julia vaulted forward. Her seat belt locked, catching her so rigidly she felt a rib crack. Her air bag erupted like a kernel of giant popcorn, smashing her back. The assailant's arm tore from her neck. She sensed his body crumpling against the seat back before starting to flip over it, hip and leg first. A moment later, her seat belt kachinked open, her door popped wide, and she tumbled out. Trying to stand, she stumbled, stood, weaved.

Metal clanged to the ground somewhere, glass tinkled, radiators hissed, liquid dripped, one of the police officers screamed in pain or rage or both. She turned to the cruiser. The cop in the passenger's seat was pushing down an exploded air bag.

His door swung open and he stepped out, clutching the window frame for support. He had the crusty face of a lifelong beat cop, over-weight, near retirement. He looked utterly stunned. A ruptured cigarette was smashed against his cheek, strands of tobacco flaking away as he moved. He spotted her, and his face hardened.

She held up her palm. "Federal agent!" she yelled, her voice hoarse but clear. "FBI!" She could explain the difference later. She staggered toward the policeman, pointing at the twisted metal of her car. "There's an armed man in my car. He tried to kill—"

"Are you insane?" he snapped.

"I've got an armed gunman situation here!" She couldn't believe she was having to do this. She stepped closer, instinctively picking the cop's name off the patch on his shirt. "Officer Gilbert, my name is Julia Math—"

"Hold it right there!" He put a hand on his gun but left it in its holster. "Show me some tin, lady, or you can spread-eagle on the ground right now!" He slapped the cigarette off his face.

She glanced over at the wreckage of her car, saw no sign of the killer. She removed her identification wallet from her front pants pocket, then held it up. The cop—Gilbert—signaled her to step closer. A red crease split open across his forehead as a bullet grazed him, and he fell back. Julia turned toward her car. Through jetting steam and wafting smoke, made nearly opaque by one still-blazing headlamp, she saw the killer behind the glassless windshield frame of her car. He was leaning on the center of the dashboard, his right arm draped over it as if he were chatting it up at a neighborhood tavern. One side of his face glistened with blood. In his left hand he held a bulky semi-

automatic pistol, surely a .45. Already big, the addition of a long sound suppresser made it look more like a small machine gun. He turned it toward her. A point of red light flashed in her eyes.

She dropped straight down, hearing the thunk! of the shot, followed by the tinny sound of the spent cartridge clattering against the crumpled hood. Before she realized it, her pistol was in her hand.

Officer Gilbert leaped to his feet, the red graze on his brow glowing like war paint. He had drawn his pistol and come up shooting. From her hunkered position, Julia could not see the killer, but the cop obviously thought he had a target. He rattled off six rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger. He was clicking through the paces of reloading before the sound of the last shot faded away.

She scanned the street. No civilians. Good. The closest businesses were a closed bookstore and an all-night Laundromat that appeared empty. She sprang up, the bead of her pistol's front sight hovering over the spot she'd last seen the killer. Gone.

The other cop, the driver, clambered out, falling on his hands. He yanked out his legs and stood with a dizzy swagger. He was pale, but Julia suspected that was his usual complexion: tall, skinny, mid-twenties, a shock of orange hair burning the top of his head. Blood pulsed from his mouth. It was a fighter's injury: he'd lost a central incisor, rupturing a small artery in the upper gums. Dazed, he bent into the cruiser and emerged with a shotgun. He pumped the slide, chambering a shell. He spat out a mouthful of blood and yelled, "Whatcha got?"