I unlocked the door.
“Let me in!” She was bare-headed, with no raincoat. Wet blond hair plastered her cheeks. She looked about my age, and temptingly modeled in the cling of her wet blue blouse. She was breathing hard. “I’ve come to warn them.”
“Warn who?”
“Mr. Moorhawk and his congress. They’re meeting upstairs in the old lodge hall.”
“Who are you?”
“Lydia Starker. Just let me in.”
Pepperlake had cautioned me about readers who came in to complain about what we had printed or failed to print, sometimes violently. I’d even encountered two or three, but never one at night.
“I know Mr. Moorhawk.” She looked desperate. “I know Cass Pepperlake and Rob McAdam. I’ve come to warn them.”
“Warn them?” Was she mad? “About what?”
“No time for talk.” She moved to push past me. “Just let me upstairs.”
I blocked her way. “If you can explain—”
“They’ll be here any minute.” She was breathing hard. “The sheriff and his deputies. A federal agent. They’re at the TV station now, just waiting for a camera crew. Burleigh wants a sensation on the infonet.”
Still unbelieving, I stepped back and let her in.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE RAN PAST me into the dark back room. I grabbed a camera and followed. She flipped a light switch and darted around the old Linotype. The rest rooms were in the far comer, opposite a little space I had taken for a storage closet. She ran to that, wrenched the door open, and snapped on the light in a narrow stair well. I followed her to the top. She battered on another door there till Cass Pepperlake opened it and goggled in astonishment.
“Miss Lydia, what do you want?”
She slipped past him into a dim and dusty-smelling hall. A dozen men sat around a long table in the middle of the empty floor, Kit Moorhawk at the head. I recognized Rob Roy McAdam and a florist and the soft-drink canner from the Rotary lunch.
“Kit!” She ran to Moorhawk. “Burleigh’s coming to bust you.” “Bust us?” He scrambled to his feet. “For what?”
“Anything he can. Sedition. Plotting armed rebellion.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Burleigh and Hunn saw red when they heard about the Rifle
rally.” She turned to the others. “They got wind of the meeting tonight, maybe from Gottler—he has contacts everywhere. They’re on their way here now with the Feds and a TV crew.”
The startled canner was on his feet. “How do you know?”
“1 work at the station. I was on the phone when he called for the camera crew. Slipped out the back and ran in the rain.”
Rob Roy was still calmly seated at the end of the table while most of the others crowded around her in a clamor of dismay.
“Let’s not panic,” he called to Moorhawk. “Stuart may be my outlaw brother, but you know I’m not involved with his Rifles or his politics. He’s his own man. He does his own thing. He always has. He’d never take orders from Gottler and his gang.”
“They believe you are involved,” Lydia said. “Stuart has let them think so.”
“Stuart!” He made a face. “He’s always making problems, but we’re honest people here. The Citizens Congress is a private discussion group. We’ve broken no laws.”
“Burleigh and Hunn!” The canner scowled. “I don’t want to tangle with them.”
“Nasty brutes!” The florist had started for the door but hesitated uncertainly, looking back at Moorhawk. “We’ve got to get out.” “Hold it, Mack.” Moorhawk spread his hands, palms down. “Bugging out, we’d look guilty of all they say we’re doing. Let’s sit tight and tell the truth.”
“Whose truth? They’ll make up their own, and screw us with it.”
“They’re at it already.” Lydia raised her breathless voice. “They’re parked at the TV station, waiting for cameras. Burleigh wants to tape the bust and make it an infonet circus.”
The florist muttered something and vanished down the stairwell. Pepperlake shrugged and turned back to the others.
“If you want to get out, there’s a safer way.” He pointed at a stack of chairs and tables in the back of the hall. “The fire escape, just behind that junk. A steel stair outside takes you down to the alley.”
“Most of us are parked in the lot just across it.” The canner led the way. “Make it quiet. Make it quick.”
Pepperlake guided them out.
“We’re caught!” The florist came trembling back from the stairwell before they were gone. “They’re already here. Two squad cars parked out front.”
Pepperlake pointed. He scuttled after the others, and Pepperlake closed the fire escape door.
Still sitting, Rob Roy was filling a plastic cup from a water pitcher on the table.
“Cool head, Lyd.”
“Not all that cool.”
Still breathing hard, Lydia pushed the wet hair off her face and collapsed into the chair beside him. She started back to her feet when we heard a crash and shouts below. Pepperlake listened at the stairwell door and closed it quietly.
“You’re the intern?” Rob Roy waited for me to nod. “Calling for the CyberSoft story?”
“I told him to.” Pepperlake brought an open bottle of Jim Beam from a filing cabinet. “We need the story, so long as it’s something local and safe to print. And need your ads, whenever you get back in business.”
“Whenever.” Rob Roy shrugged. “But here they come.”
Whistling “Dixie” under his breath, Pepperlake sloshed whiskey into plastic cups and pushed them around the table. Feet came pounding up the stair. I got my camera ready and heard hammering on the door.
“Open up!” Bull Burleigh’s bawl. “Open to the law!”
Rob Roy beckoned Lydia back into her chair.
“Breathe easy, Lyd,” he murmured. “Just sit still.”
The door flew open, splinters exploding from the lock. Burleigh burst into the room, a man with a shouldered video camera just behind him.
“Freeze!” Burleigh bellowed. “Freeze where you are.”
Police crowded after them and spread to cover us with drawn guns. I raised my camera to get a shot of his fat red face. Light blinded me. Burleigh lunged at me, snatched my camera, hurled it at the wall, and stepped aside to let the TV camera sweep the room.
“Why, Bull! Saul!” The plastic cup still in his hand, Pepperlake pushed up his glasses and looked up at them, his eyebrows lifted in the image of mild astonishment. “Can you tell us what this is all about?”
The purring camera stopped at last. The dazzling light went out. When I could see again, Burleigh stood glaring at Pepperlake.
“Where are they?” He turned to scowl at Rob Roy and Lydia. “We were informed that others would be here.”
“Just us.” Pepperlake shrugged. “Who do you want?”
“A gang of troublemakers that call themselves the Citizens Congress, if you don’t know.” Burleigh stalked closer, shouting triumphantly at the camera. “A nest of terrorists trapped in their conspiracy.”
Pepperlake peered into Hunn’s narrow, sharp-chinned face with an expression of innocent bewilderment.
“Saul, I think you owe us some kind of explanation—”
“Any explaining is yours to do.” Hunn pursed his thin lips and turned to Moorhawk with an air of stem authority. “Your slick little crew face charges of sedition. Obstruction of justice. Even murder.” “Murder?” Moorhawk blinked at Hunn with shrewd gray eyes. A small man with pale untidy hair and a neat little rust-colored moustache, Moorhawk wore a bright purple vest, a bright green tie, and the look of a startled child. “Who’s been murdered?”
Alden, for one.
“A dozen people,” Hunn snapped. “Killed two weeks ago by that bomb at the Frankfort Federal Building.”
“You don’t suspect—”
“We want to know.” Burleigh was looking hard at Lydia, and she cringed from his gaze. “We intend t
o find the facts.”
“We have evidence,” Hunn plowed on. “Hard evidence linking that bomb to this so-called congress. We were informed that they were meeting here.”
“Look for yourselves.”
Hunn glared into the corners of the empty room and turned back to huddle with Burleigh and a tall man behind them. Still wet from the rain, Lydia was shivering. Rob Roy put his arm around her. We sat waiting till they broke out of the huddle and Burleigh strode toward us.
“Gentlemen, have a seat.” Pepperlake gestured at the chairs around the table. “If you don’t mind, I’d like an apology for this uncivil intrusion.”
“Apology?” Burleigh snorted. “I want answers.” He shook his head at the empty chairs. “What was going on here.”
“Our business.” Pepperlake shrugged amiably. “Private business, unless you can show us a search warrant.” He gestured at the tall man. “Who’s your friend?”
“United States Marshall Harrison Creighton.”
Creighton came on toward the table, Hunn and Burleigh beside him.
“Rob McAdam.” Hunn nodded at Rob Roy and turned to Creighton. “The man you came to look for.”
“R. R. McAdam?” Creighton came to stand over him. “Head of CyberSoft Corporation?”
“Yes, sir.” He waved at the Jim Beam bottle. “May we offer you a drink?”
Stiffly, Creighton shook his head.
“McAdam, we have something to discuss.” He scowled and raised his voice. “I’m an officer of the federal court. You and your corporation have been enjoined to cease and desist from the production or distribution of a device known as a cryptophone. The court has received no reply.”
“Mr. Moorhawk is my attorney.” Rob Roy nodded at him. “We met here tonight to frame our response.”
Burleigh stepped aside, growling something to Hunn.
“Cass Pepperlake, publisher of the Freeman. ” Rob Roy gestured at him and then at me. “Clayton Barstow, a staff writer. The Freeman will publish our reply.”
“A newspaper squib?” Creighton sniffed. “That’s no legal answer.”
“Mr. Creighton, please.” Moorhawk stood up, protesting mildly. “If you have a moment to listen, I can state our case here and now. In our opinion, the federal action against CyberSoft is an unfair and illegal restraint of trade. We expect to carry our defense to the highest court.”
“Do as you like,” Creighton snapped. “As you know, however, your crytophone has been found to be a threat to the national security. External enemies or criminal gangs here in America could employ it for the transmission of secret messages detrimental to the public peace and safety. The court has forbidden any manufacture or use of it until such time as you choose to provide our national defense agencies with complete algorithms for the decryption of cryptophone messages.”
“My client is aware of your demand.” Moorhawk shrugged. “But he is also aware that the value of the cryptophone system derives from its absolute integrity. The court is demanding that we destroy that integrity. The order amounts to the illegal expropriation of our property.”
Creighton turned to Rob Roy, something close to a snarl in the twist of his lips.
“McAdam, we aren’t playing games.” His flat raspy voice was almost a snarl. “I came here to bring you a warning from the court. If you continue to promote this prohibited technology, you will find your buildings padlocked and yourself in a federal prison.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rob Roy grinned at Moorhawk. “Your advice will be considered.”
“Laugh if you like,” Creighton sneered. “But the court has found your cryptophone to be a weapon of war, which you have supplied to potential enemies both here and abroad. The government will act accordingly.”
“We stand for the freedom of speech.” Rob Roy grinned. “We’ll act according.”
“You damn McAdams!” Burleigh’s voice dropped to a threatening growl. “You ain’t the lords you used to be. We are the law of the county and the law of the nation. We’re going to put you and your chickenshit corporation out of business.”
“I am a McAdam, and proud of the name.” Rob Roy nodded cheerfully. “But don’t confuse me with my dear brother Stuart. 1 don’t command any militia army. I assure you that we aren’t here to hatch insurrection.”
“We have evidence you are.”
“Just four of us?” He made a sardonic shrug toward Pepperlake, Lydia, and me. “Do you think we came here to declare our independence? To make war on the United States of America?”
“No matter what I think, you skulking McAdams are done for.” Nodding for Creighton and his deputies to follow, he stalked toward the door.
“Something else before you go,” Pepperlake called after them. “I’ll be billing McAdam county for what you did to my door downstairs. And for any damage to Mr. Barstow’s camera.”
Burleigh turned back to shake a black-haired fist.
“Talk to your cocksucker lawyer. Let him sue.”
Pepperlake followed them down the stairwell. I picked up my cameras. The flash was knocked askew and the shutter didn’t work, but I found Burleigh’s fat red face still in the digital memory, yellowed teeth shining through a dark bristle of unshaven beard as his big mouth yawned to shout.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WE WAITED AROUND the table. Rob Roy poured a little whiskey into his cup and offered the bottle. Lydia shook her head. Moorhawk helped himself, added water, and sat without tasting it. Pepperlake came back up the stairs at last. Softly whistling “Dixie,” he sat down at the table and pushed the bottle away.
“About Mr. Barstow?” Moorhawk nodded inquiringly at me. “Is he here by chance? Or one of us?”
“A college kid from D.C.” Pepperlake shrugged, with an amiable grin. “An intern on the paper.”
I told them how I had let Lydia into the building.
“Something else you ought to know.” Rob Roy studied me soberly and spoke to the others. “Mr. Barstow isn’t just any college kid. My sister says he’s a half-brother of Alden Kirk, author of Terror in America. He claims to be down here looking for his brother’s killer.”
Startled at that, I felt a flash of resentment at Elizabeth Mc-Adam. I thought she had promised not to expose me. “True,” I said.
“I was Alden’s research assistant. I want to know who mailed the bomb.”
“So what?” Moorhawk looked doubtfully at Pepperlake. “I don’t want us on the infonet.”
“I’m not reporting for the infonet,” I said. “Or to anybody except the Freeman. ” That, I told myself, was true. My arrangement with Botman had very definitely broken down when “Acorn Three” asked for my order number. I didn’t intend to call again.
“We McAdams don’t cut throats,” Rob Roy was saying, “but my sister disapproves of spies.”
“So do I.” Moorhawk looked at me rather grimly. “The raid seems to show that we already have a mole here in the congress. We don’t need another.”
“But we must consider Mr. Barstow.” Rob Roy sipped his drink and eyed me judicially. “He may be here by accident, but I think better with us than against us.”
They all studied me.
“I came here to take up my brother’s work,” I said. “I hope to finish the new book he meant to write. And to do whatever I can to identify his killer.”
“A tall order.” Moorhawk studied me again, shaking his head.
“I have to try.” Waiting under their critical eyes, I took a nervous sip from my cup. “I don’t expect Burleigh and company to do much about the letter bomb. Not since I’ve met them.”
Moorhawk nodded at last, and Lydia gave me a slight pale smile.
“Okay.” Pepperlake seemed relieved. “I think your brother would have been our friend. I had intended to sound him out when he got back from Washington. Do you have questions?”
“What is the Citizens Congress?”
Pepperlake shrugged. “We began after a few of us had met your brother, a little group of concerne
d citizens discussing the sorry state of the nation as it looked to Alden Kirk. No dues or membership cards, though you must agree to keep our secrets.”
“Agreed,” I said, and they all rose very solemnly to shake my hand.
“Tonight—” Still on his feet, Pepperlake turned to Moorhawk and waited for his nod. “We weren’t exactly plotting sedition, but Stuart Me Adam and his militia have alarmed us. We met to hear an announcement from Kit.”
Moorhawk rose and turned to Rob Roy.
“Your brother Stuart and his Rifles—” Wryly, he shook his head. “They’ve become a threat to the peace of the county.”
“I don’t control Stuart.” Rob Roy shrugged. “Nobody does.” He waited inquiringly. “The announcement?”
“Won’t shake the earth,” Moorhawk said. “Call it one small step. Maybe enough to jolt Hunn and Burleigh. I’m going to run against your brother for city-county mayor and manager.”
“Have you thought about the cost?” Pepperlake squinted at him. “County politics can be nasty.”
“I should know.” Moorhawk nodded, and added deliberately, “The campaign may get rough, but the county’s sick for something better than we’d ever get from Stuart and his Rifles. Or Burleigh and Hunn. Or even Finn and Gottler, if you want to reach that high.” His eyes narrowed. “Can the Freeman—”
Pepperlake had to hesitate.
“We’ll do what we can,” he said. “But we have to stay alive.” “All I can ask for.”
Moorhawk turned to study me with the fixed intensity of a poker master.
“Okay, Barstow.” He nodded at last, and spoke with a sudden force, his voice as loud as the hues of his tie and vest. “If you’re with us, here’s where I stand. I read your brother’s book. I wish I’d known him better, because I share his concern for our future.
“We are breeding barbarians. Kids who grow up without families, without discipline, without God, with no culture except violence, no belief except in themselves, no loyalty except to their gangs. They are ignorant of history, of science, of everything except the streets. They can take us down the way Rome went down.” “Can you stop them?” Pepperlake seemed sardonic.
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