Barry moved to the rear of the house and squatted down behind a stack of firewood in the backyard. Something had triggered his inner alarm system, but what?
Barry left the neatly stacked pile of wood and headed for the woods, after securing the back gate. He was unconsciously sniffing the air, tracking head up instead of nose down, so his vision would not be impaired. He slowly began his circling of the property. Very faintly, a scent came to him, a familiar scent. Barry smiled, but it was not a pleasant curving of the lips. It was more like a snarl. A low growl left his throat, a menacing rumbling that he was not cognizant of emitting.
John Ravenna was here!
* * *
Jim Beal sat in his office at the rear of the huge building that was the headquarters of his lumber yard and experienced waves of doubt and confusion. He just did not know what to do. He had no solid proof that what his informants in Washington, D.C. were telling him was anything other than rumor.
But if it was fact . . . ?
Therein lay the kicker.
Both informants, whom his movement had years ago planted very deep and who had worked their way high into government circles, had told him that Congressman Cliff Madison’s life was in danger during this vacation trip. The informants both agreed that a plot to assassinate the Speaker was in the works. But if Beal went to the feds with this rumor, they would want to know where he had learned of it. He certainly couldn’t tell them about his people in Washington, one on a senator’s staff and another placed high in the Justice Department.
Jim knew he had been under federal investigation for a long time. Off and on for years, actually. He knew the feds had an informant within the ranks of his organization, and Jim knew the identity of the man. Nothing of any importance was ever discussed in the presence of the government informer.
Jim didn’t blame Wesley Parren for what he was doing; the feds had the poor guy over a barrel because of an unintentional foul-up on his personal income tax returns for several years. Wesley had taken some deductions that he had honestly believed were legal and the IRS caught it, but only after about five years, and that left the guy owing the goddamn government about fifty thousand dollars, most of that in penalties and interest. So the feds worked a deal: inform on Jim Beal and his survivalist group, and we will, eventually, forgive the money.
Wesley really didn’t have much choice in the matter. He had two kids in college and a hypochondriac for a wife who rushed off to the doctor every time she experienced an ache or a pain. He was in debt up to his butt with no way out. Then the feds moved in on him.
Jim Beal knew personally what kind of a bind Wesley was in, for the feds had been auditing him for years . . . on a regular basis. Auditing him, investigating him, spying on him. There was not one area of his life the feds had not scrutinized, from the cradle to the present.
And Jim Beal hated them for it.
He rose from his chair to pace the office. If he could, he would see the reporter, Stormy Knight, and tell her about the planned assassination, on the condition that he remain anonymous. It was a big story, and Jim felt that she would go for it. He hoped she would, for he knew he had to do something. Congressman Madison was a good man.
Then Jim pondered for a few moments over this: if the visiting dignitary being lined up in cross hairs was a very liberal senator or representative, would he make any effort to save his life?
After a moment, he decided he would not.
* * *
Victor Radford closed the book and put it aside. He never tired of reading the writings of his hero, Adolf Hitler. Such a great man. A man with vision. And really, a peace-seeking man. It was all nonsense about the concentration camps and the killing of millions of Jews. That was just Jew propaganda. Lies to sully the memory of a man with a wonderful vision of a master race and a society free of inferiors.
But the dream did not die with the führer. Oh, no. Not at all. Hitler’s vision was very much alive and doing quite well, thank you. And not just in this area. Oh, no. There were cells all over America. Men and women who shared the dreams of the great man.
Victor looked at the wall of his den, covered from floor to ceiling with Nazi memorabilia. And right in the center of the wall, hanging above the fireplace, a huge portrait of Victor’s idol: Adolf Hitler.
* * *
“I am really looking forward to this vacation,” Congressman Madison said to several of his colleagues. The legislature’s summer break had rolled around, and members of Congress were anxious to get back to their home base. “I’ve never been river rafting before.”
A representative from Idaho smiled. “Well, you can practice on that little river in Arkansas, Cliff. When you get ready for the big time, come on out to my state and run our wild rivers.”
The men and woman gathered around laughed, then shook hands and said their goodbyes for the upcoming month’s vacation.
Cliff Madison’s aide said, “You’ll be met at the lodge by two Secret Service agents out of the Little Rock office, Mr. Speaker. You and your wife will be accompanied on the plane to Memphis by two deputy federal marshals.”
“Any word on why the beefed-up security, Ed?”
“No, sir. I think it’s just a precaution, that’s all.”
“I’m sure that’s it. You and Emily all packed and ready to go?”
Ed smiled. “Rarin’ to go, sir. We’re leaving several days ahead of you and Jane. We’re going to drive and enjoy the scenery.”
Cliff sighed and returned the smile. He looked tired and was tired. This session of Congress had been grueling on everybody in both parties in both houses. “I sure wish we could. I’d like to just disappear into the woodwork for the entire month.”
“That is never going to happen, Cliff,” the chief aide said in low tones. Even though they were good and close friends, Ed never used the Speaker’s first name unless they were alone together. “Not until you retire, and that is years away.”
“Hopefully, Ed,” the Speaker said with a smile. “Years away, hopefully.”
Laughing, the two men walked away.
* * *
Seconds after he picked up the scent of his old adversary, John Ravenna, Barry ducked behind some thick underbrush and dropped to a crouch.
He did some fast thinking. If Ravenna was here—and there was no doubt about that; Barry’s nose didn’t lie—trouble was sure to be hanging around the man like a shroud . . . a very deadly shroud. But what type of trouble? Directed against whom? Not against Barry, for the two men would accomplish nothing by fighting. Stormy? Maybe. But somehow Barry didn’t think she was Ravenna’s target. Then . . . who was it?
It had to be Speaker of the House, Cliff Madison.
Barry knew that John Ravenna’s deadly services were very expensive. Indeed, Ravenna was a wealthy man, amassing a fortune over the bloody centuries. He certainly did not have to work. Ravenna killed because he liked to kill.
Barry sniffed the air again. The scent was quickly fading. Ravenna was gone.
But Barry was certain of one thing: Ravenna would be back.
* * *
Sheriff Don Salter sat in his office and looked at the information he had just received by fax. The shooter behind the rifle out at Cantrell’s property did indeed belong to a very radical antiabortion group; a group that was suspected of several abortion clinic bombings and burnings. The guy was wanted up in Michigan for arson and attempted murder. So that cleared up the warning Miss Knight had received before leaving New York City.
Don looked up as Chief Monroe tapped on the doorjamb. “Come on in and take a load off, Russ. Coffee?”
The chief sat down. “No, thanks, Don. I cut myself back to two cups a day. Both of them in the morning. Feel better. You seen Jim Beal today?”
“I haven’t seen Jim in, oh, a week or better. Why?”
“That’s a mighty worried man. Something is gnawin’ on him, big-time.”
Don looked at his empty coffee cup, started to get up, then thought better of it. Maybe he should
cut back on caffeine, too. And cigarettes. “You still think Jim and his bunch are up to something, don’t you?”
Russ shook his gray head. “No. But I think they, or at least Jim, know something that we ought to know. By the by, I just saw a lady that is the spittin’ image of that reporter, Stormy Knight. Damn near run my car off the road lookin’ at her.”
“Well, I guess it’s no secret anymore, Russ. That was Stormy. She’s stayin’ out at the Cantrell place. She and Barry have this little thing goin’.”
“No kidding! The man must have hidden talents.”
“And good taste.”
“Damn right. And that was no woofer with Stormy.”
“That was probably her camera operator. Barry told me about her. Ki Nichols. She was jerked up just north of here, little town in Missouri. Anyway, Stormy said that in about three/four days, we can expect this area to be flooded with reporters.”
“Wonderful,” the chief said, no small amount of sarcasm in his tone. “I just can’t express how much I love those liberal bastards and bitches. And since we’re not exactly overrun with black folks, you can bet the networks and newspapers will send black reporters in to cover the Speaker’s vacation. That’s the way they operate.”
Don could not contain his laughter at the expression on the chief’s face. Don remembered all too well when several very racist and antigovernment groups settled not too many miles away from town. Several reporters had insinuated, not too subtly, that Russ and Don were protecting those groups, and just maybe were actually a part of them. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but both men had been very unfairly tainted nonetheless.
Don’s feelings toward the national press were not as virulent as Russ Monroe’s, but they weren’t too far behind the chiefs views. As millions of Americans had done, when the Coyote Network’s news department came to be, he had switched over to them for any and all news broadcasts. The Coyote Network people told it straight with no frills, and they gave Americans news about America.
Don tapped a pencil on his desk, then lifted his eyes to look at Chief Monroe. “You’ve known Jim Beal for a good many years, right, Russ?”
“All his life. I know everybody in his organization. Jim is really not a bad person. When it comes to race, he is a separatist, but not a supremacist. Hell, I’m not tellin’ you anything you don’t already know.” The chief stood up. “I think I’ll just go have a little chat with Jim. He knows I’m not his enemy, and he just might level with me ... or at least give me a clue.”
“Russ?”
The chief looked at the sheriff.
“What about that bunch of so-called skinheads that have formed up north of here?”
“Oh, yeah. I must be gettin’ old. I was gonna tell you about that. The word I get is that they’re about to link up with Victor Radford’s group. Vic is gonna give us some grief, I’m thinkin’.”
“And you can bet he’s got it timed for Speaker Madison’s visit.”
“Yeah. That’s the way I have it figured.”
“Are you going to call up your reserves?”
“All of them.” He smiled. “All eight of them.”
Don laughed. “I’ve got about ten reserves that I know I can count on. I guess I’d better give them a call. They can handle traffic and crowd control and free up my people for everything else.”
“It’s about to get real interestin’ around here, Don.”
“I hope that’s all it gets.”
“I might know more after talkin’ to Jim. I’ll let you know what, if anything, I find out.”
“I’ll either be here or in my unit.”
“I’ll give you a bump whichever way it goes.”
Russ closed the door behind him. The only sound in the office was the hum of the air conditioner, the window unit turned down low. Don felt jumpy, as if he’d been up a long time and was on a caffeine jag. But he knew that wasn’t it, for he’d gotten a good night’s sleep and hadn’t consumed that much coffee.
He felt as though something, well, just plain awful was about to happen.
A deputy tapped on the door and pushed it open. “You got a minute, Sheriff?”
“Sure, Al. Come on in and have a seat.” The young deputy seated, Don said, “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s probably nothing, Sheriff. But . . . well, I was over on the lake early this morning. Got called out of bed to answer a prowler call—turned out to be a raccoon—and I stopped by Will’s Grocery just as he was opening up and had a cup of coffee. He was telling me about this man who rented the old Hawkins camp. Said that man was spooky-lookin’. No sooner had the words left Will’s mouth when the guy in question walked in. Sheriff, you remember when you were a kid and went to see a real scary movie? You knew who the bad guys were right off the bat. They were, well, sinister-lookin’. Well, this man made chill bumps rise up on my arms. He’s about forty, dark complexion, real black hair graying at the temples, ‘bout six feet tall, muscular build, and in tip-top shape. You could tell that by the way he moved. Will told me before the guy walked in that he was scared of him, and the man hadn’t been nothin’ but polite. Sheriff, that man had the coldest eyes I ever seen in my life. I swear to you, and you’re going to think me a damn fool, but lookin’ into that man’s eyes was like lookin’ into an open grave.”
“For a fact, Al, he’s got you spooked. Does this man have a name?”
“Yes, sir. He stuck out his hand and shook and howdied soon as he walked in. Said his name was Ravenna. John Ravenna.”
Seven
Sitting on his front porch, Barry thought of and immediately rejected a dozen plans, and in the end, knew there was nothing he could do except wait for John Ravenna to show his hand.
Chief Russ Monroe went to see Jim Beal, but the man was gone. The manager of the lumber yard and hardware store did not know where he had gone or when he would return, or even if he would return this day.
Sheriff Don Salter, on an impulse, drove out into the country to the headquarters of Victor Radford’s whacky bunch of neo-Nazis. Victor was standing by the rural mail box when Don drove past. Victor gave him the middle finger, and Don returned the gesture, feeling just a little bit foolish as he did so. Flipping the bird to someone was not against the law (at least not in this area), not since a local judge had ruled it was freedom of expression.
Don could see no one else on the property as he slowly cruised past. But he knew that didn’t mean a thing, for Victor had underground bunkers dug all over the place. Victor was certain that a revolution was just around the corner, and he intended to be ready.
And that was the one and only issue that put Sheriff Don Salter and Victor Radford in agreement, for Don firmly believed that if the government of the United States didn’t get off the backs of Americans, some sort of violent upheaval was right around the corner.
Don knew that many of the people in his county, and in the surrounding counties, were heavily armed, with many stockpiling ammunition and keeping a thirty-day supply of food and water at all times. Don also was well aware of how the majority of people in his county felt about the ever-growing power of big government and the government’s snooping around in citizens’ lives. Don knew that all across America, there was a growing feeling of resentment against the government. Something had to pop this festering boil, and Don was very much afraid that when it happened, the result would be violent. And he also knew, from talking with law enforcement officers around the nation, that the mood was the same all over America.
And the sad thing was, Don firmly believed that most elected officials in Washington did not have a clue as to what was really happening.
For politicians to be so far out of touch with the citizenry was a disgrace, to Don’s way of thinking.
Don came to a crossroads and turned left, heading for the lake. Maybe he’d get lucky and meet this mystery man that had spooked his deputy.
* * *
“It’s beautiful country,” Stormy said, after sitting down
and thanking Barry for a tall glass of iced tea. “And the people are so friendly.”
Ki had insisted upon checking into a motel. She wanted to give Barry and Stormy as much time alone as possible.
“They’ll be friendly and helpful to you and the other Coyote reporters,” Barry replied. “The majority won’t be all that friendly to correspondents from the other networks.”
Many Americans held the belief, whether it was true or not, that the big three networks and the all-news networks held decidedly liberal views and slanted the news to the left. It was a hard fact that Coyote was the only network whose news reporting nearly always took the conservative side (some dissenters called it right-wing news reporting). Coyote field reporters asked the hard and often inflammatory questions. One Coyote reporter actually went out and found jobs for half a dozen people, white and black, in an attempt to get them off public assistance; then when five of the six refused to accept the positions (it was demeaning and humiliating work, so they said), did a five-minute story about their refusal to take gainful employment and choosing instead to remain at the public trough, slopping like hogs and breeding like rabbits (or words to that effect). Coyote was still being sued over that one.
But the majority of viewers loved it.
Including Sheriff Don Salter, who grew up in a family where there was never enough money to go around and everybody worked, before school, after school, and on weekends, in an oftentimes vain attempt to make ends meet. He had worked too hard and struggled for too long to believe in free rides. And he had absolutely no use whatsoever for cry-baby liberals.
Don and Barry had a lot more in common than either man realized.
* * *
“How did you enjoy our county, Miss Knight?” Don asked.
Everyone was settled in the den with a beer or cocktail and the mood was relaxed. The late afternoon was hot, and the air-conditioning softly hummed, keeping the house at a comfortable level. Pete and Repeat were asleep on the floor of Barry’s bedroom.
“It’s Stormy, Sheriff. And in answer to your question: I think this is beautiful country. We”—she cut her eyes to Ki—“drove over a hundred miles today, sightseeing and talking with people.” She frowned for a second. “Almost everyone was very nice and friendly. Except for one man. We got lost a couple of times and stopped at a house to ask directions. That man was very unfriendly. . .”
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