“No trick,” Barry repeated. “What you saw was real.”
Don opened his mouth, but no words came out. He cleared his throat, shook his head, and whispered, “What are you trying to tell me?”
“The Indians call it shape-shifting. And I am not alone in the ability to do that. But that’s only a part of it. I’m immortal, Don. And I am not alone on this earth. John Ravenna is an immortal, too. He’s here to kill the Speaker of the House.”
“Shape-shifter!” the sheriff blurted out the word. “Immortal? What you are is crazy, man! You’re nuts!”
Barry smiled and said nothing.
Don rose from the couch, swayed unsteadily for a few seconds, then sat down. “I’m dreaming all this. It’s just a dream. It isn’t real.”
“It’s real, Don. I can assure you of that. I’ve been living it for nearly seven hundred years.”
Don stared at him. He was unable to speak.
* * *
“How quaint,” Robert Roche remarked drily, standing in the den of the house he had rented on the lake. His bodyguards, aides, and other staff members were housed in the cabins on either side of the larger house. The sudden storm had blown on east, the sky clear.
“It’s the best rental property on the lake, sir,” one of the aides said.
“It will do just fine,” Robert replied in a civil tone, which was rare for him when dealing with subordinates. He turned to another aide. “Lay out my rustic clothing and get the boat ready. I want to go fishing for a time. It’s been years.”
“Ah, sir?”
Roche cut his eyes. “What is it?”
“Do you have a fishing license, sir?”
Robert pursed his lips in momentary anger. His fault. He could not blame others for his oversight. “No. I do not. Thank you for reminding me. After I have changed clothes we’ll drive down to that little country store we passed on the way in. Will’s Grocery and Bait Shop I believe the sign read.”
“Then we’ll go fishing,” the aide said.
Robert looked at him. “No . . . then I shall go fishing.”
* * *
“I don’t know if this means anything or not,” the chief of the White House detail of Secret Service said to the president. “But Robert Roche has rented a lake house about a mile from where Congressman Madison and his wife will be staying.”
President Hutton leaned back in his chair and thought for a few seconds. “The richest man in the world, practically a recluse for years, suddenly decides to break out of his protected ivory tower and go fishing at the same time Cliff is in the area. What do you think?”
“I think it is no coincidence, Mr. President.”
“Neither do I. Check it out very closely.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got people standing by right now. Sir?”
“What?”
“You recall a couple of years ago, all that trouble out in Idaho?”
“Which incident?” the president asked only slightly sarcastically.
“The survivalists, the hippies, the press.”
“How could I ever possibly forget it? It cost my predecessor his job, spawned the Coyote Network, and almost caused a damn armed revolt in this nation. Yes, I remember it well.”
“The man who would not die.”
“The what?”
“The man who would not die. That was the story Stormy Knight was chasing in the wilderness.”
“What about it?”
“Well, I have information that, ah, the Company has placed a person high up in the Coyote Network . . .”
“Shit!” President Hutton blurted. “Goddammit, they know better than that! Are those goddamn people ever going to learn?” He slowly shook his head. “Go on.
“The story is true.”
“Well, I don’t doubt it. I wouldn’t put anything past the Pickle Factory.”
“No, sir. I’m talking about the man who would not die. He’s real.”
The president fixed the man with a very jaundiced look. “Walt, have you been drinking?”
“No, sir. The Bureau turned the CIA plant. He’ll be through at Coyote the next time he’s polygraphed. But the Bureau has him until then. He confirms the story is true. The man going by the name of Darry Ransom is about seven hundred years old. He’s an immortal and a shape-shifter.”
President Hutton opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Tylenol®, shaking out a couple of caplets. “I have suddenly developed a headache.” He popped the caplets into his mouth, drank half a glass of water, then rose from his chair, placed both hands on his desk and shouted, “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes,” the Secret Service man replied.
The president sat down heavily. “I’m afraid to ask where you think this man might be living, hiding out, whatever.”
“In North Arkansas.”
“Why does that not come as any surprise to me?” He sighed. “Let’s assume for the moment that this man who would not die is real, which I strongly doubt. Does he have something to do with this planned assassination?”
“No, sir. The Bureau doesn’t think so. They think he’s screwing Stormy Knight.”
The president muttered something inaudible. He lifted his eyes. “Walt, I am not interested in a seven-hundred-year-old man’s sexual escapades. Jesus H. Christ! What am I saying! All right, all right. What do you propose to do about this rumor of a”—he grimaced—“ man who would not die?”
“Check it out, sir.”
“I assume you already have people in there doing just that?”
“Yes, sir. Well, they’ll be in place in a matter of hours.”
“You be sure and keep me informed about this . . . ancient paramour.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
The Secret Service man left the Oval Office, quietly closing the door behind him. President Hutton shook his head, cleared his throat, and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Shit!” he said.
* * *
Sheriff Don Salter was still badly shaken, but gradually growing calmer as Barry spoke to him. At Don’s request, Barry had made a pot of coffee. When the hard rain started, the hybrids had come into the house and were now stretched out on the floor.
Don pointed to the pair of husky-wolf mix. “Do they know about . . . ah, you? I mean . . . ?”
“I know what you mean. Yes. You know anything about wolves?”
“Only what I see on the TV. Are you the alpha male?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus!”
Barry smiled. “I never met Him. I’m not that old.”
Don did not see the humor in the remark. “I don’t know whether to believe any of this, or not. Part of me still thinks you are one hell of an illusionist.”
“Then believe this, Don: John Ravenna is here to kill Cliff Madison.”
“You told me that. But you don’t have any proof. I can’t go out and arrest somebody without some evidence to back it up.”
“You could put him under surveillance.”
“I plan on doing that. Tell me, if I went to the FBI with what you’ve told me, would you back me up?”
“You think they would believe me?”
The sheriff sighed, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “Hell, I’m not sure I believe it!”
“There you have it.”
“Does Ms. Knight know about, ah, your age and ability to, ah, do what you do?”
“Yes. And so does Ki.”
“Jesus & George Washington!”
“The latter I did know. Very nice gentleman. Contrary to what many historians have written about him, he had a fine sense of humor. Did you know that John Hancock was very jealous of George? It’s true. Hancock was furious when George was elected commander in chief of the colonies’ military. There were rumors that Hancock even thought of a duel between them. Of course, that never came to be.”
Don sighed. “Thank you for the history lesson, Barry.”
“You’re welcome.”
Don stood up to pace
the room for a moment, then walked to the phone and punched out his office number. He spoke with his chief deputy and ordered a tight twenty-four-hour surveillance put on John Ravenna.
“Of course, John will immediately pick up on the tail,” Barry said. “And when he wants to, he’ll lose your people. He’s also a shape-changer.”
“Into a wolf?”
“Something like that.” Barry spoke through a small smile.
“How long has the man been an assassin?”
“About a thousand years.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” Don muttered. He cleared his throat. “I suppose Ravenna has been responsible for the deaths of many heads of state?”
“Most of them.”
“Did he kill John Kennedy?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Oswald?”
But Barry would only smile.
“Doesn’t matter,” Don said, once more rising to pace the room. “I’ve got to alert Chief Monroe, and I have to tell the FBI and the Secret Service about Ravenna. So I’ll tell them it was an anonymous tip. Phone call. How carefully built is Ravenna’s background; how much digging could it stand?”
“John has been using a variation of Ravanna for over a hundred years. I know he was living in England before moving to Ireland. He worked for the Nazis during World War II. He was in Spain prior to that. He is a brilliant man. His background could probably stand any check Interpol might give it.”
Don sat down on the couch and drank what was left of his cooling coffee. “The State Department could kick him out of the country.”
“On what charge? He hasn’t done anything.”
“Well, dammit, Barry, somebody has to do something! The man is here to assassinate a member of Congress; the Speaker of the House.”
“When the time comes, I’ll stop him, Don.”
“How? If the man is, ah, like you, how will you stop him?”
“I’ll think of something.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I can’t risk it, Barry. I have to go to the Bureau with this information.”
Barry shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Go tell them. John is expecting a crowd. It will just be more of a challenge to him, and he loves a challenge.”
“Where will you be?”
“Around. Here and there.”
“This area is already filling up with feds. By this time tomorrow, every other person will be a fed. Aren’t you worried about that?”
“No. I’m used to being hunted. I’ve lived with it for a very long time.”
“Don’t you get tired of it all?”
For just a quick moment, Barry’s face showed the strain of centuries past; then it was gone. “After seven hundred years, Don? Why in the world would you ask that?”
Twelve
“I think all hell is about to pop around here, Barry,” Stormy said. She and Ki had pulled in a few minutes after the sheriff left and told Barry what Jim Beal had said, after getting his promise that Beal’s name would not be mentioned in connection with it. “We passed the sheriff on the way in, and he had a very grim expression on his face.”
“I leveled with him. Told him everything.” Barry smiled. “And showed him.”
Ki laughed. “What was his reaction?”
“He fainted. But I’m still not sure he believes what I told him about my life. A part of him still thinks I’m some sort of master illusionist.”
“I can certainly understand that,” Stormy said.
“I have an idea,” Ki said, a wide grin on her face.
Stormy and Barry looked at her.
“Let’s interview John Ravenna!”
Stormy smiled. “Sure. Get a foreigner’s impression of America.” She looked at Barry. “What do you think?”
“You can try. But I doubt that John will grant you an interview.”
“But we’d still have his face on film,” Ki said.
“It’s dangerous, Stormy. John knows that we’re a bit more than friends.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t go to his house. We could wait at that little country store out by the lake.”
Barry nodded his head. “That would be much safer. And Mr. Will would get a kick out of it. I’ll drive out tomorrow and talk to him. But I’m sure he’ll go along with it.”
“What do we do now?” Ki asked.
“Wait,” Barry said.
* * *
There were still motel rooms to be had in the town by the lake, but not many. Federal agents had flooded into the area: FBI, Secret Service, federal marshals, and BATF. Undercover agents from the Arkansas State Police had converged on the town. Unknown to the others, agents from the National Security Agency and Central Intelligence Agency had also quietly arrived in the area.
It would be only a matter of hours before they would start falling all over each other.
Ed Simmons, the Speaker’s chief aide, and his wife, Emily, were on the road and just a day away from the resort area.
Alex Tarver, leader of the local gang of skinheads, had applied to the city for a march permit and had been turned down. “Screw you, too,” Alex said to the woman at the front desk, flipping her the bird.
“I’ll have you put in jail, you freak!” she shouted at him.
“Yeah? And you’ll shit if you eat regular,” Alex popped right back, quickly moving out the door before the cops arrived to haul him off to the pokey. Permit or no permit, Alex planned to lead his people on a march when Congressman Madison arrived in town.
Vic Radford also applied for a march and rally permit, and he, too, was turned down.
“By God!” Vic shouted to the mayor. “It’s a free country and we’ll march whether you like it or not.”
“Go to hell, Vic,” the mayor told him.
“Asshole!” Vic replied.
Leroy Jim Bob “Bubba” Bordelon, chief klucker of the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan and all-around jerk, appeared at city hall for a permit to march.
“Good God, no!” the town council said.
“We’ll march anyways,” Bubba said. “Hell with you people. I got to get my robe out of the cleaners.”
Shortly after Bubba had departed, Mohammed Abudu X (known to most as Willie Washington), self-appointed spiritual leader of the local chapter of the Back to Africa movement, also showed up at city hall for a parade and rally permit.
“You have got to be kidding!” the mayor blurted, eyeballing Mohammed.
Mohammed aka Willie was dressed in an orange, ankle-length robe, funky little round neat hat that absolutely defied description, and sandals. He was toting a large staff.
“We are the children of the sun,” Mohammed proclaimed. “We shall march.” He whirled around and stomped regally out of the meeting room, dragging his staff, which weighed about fifteen pounds.
“There’s gonna be a goddamn riot,” one of the town council predicted. “We’ve got the skinheads, Vic Radford’s goofy bunch, the KKK, and now Willie.”
No one really wanted to mention Jim Beal’s Arkansas Freedom Brigade because two of the city council members belonged to it. But a city councilwoman finally, reluctantly, did bring it up before the board.
“No,” the council president said. “Jim and his bunch won’t march. I spoke with Jim soon after we learned of the Speakers visit, and Jim said his people would keep a very low profile. Jim will keep his word.”
“It isn’t Jim that worries me,” another council member said. “Jim has strong views, but he isn’t a hater. It’s Vic and Willie, I mean Mohammed, whatever the hell his name is, and those damn skinheads. I heard that Willie is bringing in a whole bus load of Black Muslims from Little Rock. There is going to be trouble, people. Bet on it.”
“Mohammed won’t start it.” Another council member spoke. “I don’t like him, but I have to say he’s not a troublemaker.”
“That’s not the point. Why did he ever come back here and bring those others with him?” the question was tos
sed out. “He was about fifteen years old when his family moved away to Little Rock. Why come back here?”
“Because he wasn’t treated very nicely when he did live here.” Sheriff Don Salter spoke from the open door to the meeting room.
Chief Monroe stood beside the sheriff. “As a matter of fact, he was treated real crappy, as I recall,” the chief said. “Vic Radford sicced his boy on Willie. Whipped him bad.”
“While a number of other boys stood around and cheered young Carl Radford on,” Don added.
“I remember that,” a woman council member said. “Willie got hurt pretty bad, didn’t he?”
“Busted jaw, several broken ribs, broken arm and hand,” Chief Monroe said, as he and Don walked up the center aisle and took seats in front of the council bench.
“Well, I seem to recall that this town took up a collection to pay the boy’s hospital expenses,” a councilman said. “That should have squared accounts. But no. Ten years later he comes back here dressed up like some African chief and starts stirrin’ up trouble with the county’s nigras.”
Don smiled. “What does he have, Pete? Eight or ten members of that mosque. No more than that. And what trouble has he caused?”
“Mosque?” one woman blurted. “That’s an old filling station.”
Chief Monroe chuckled. “I recall when I was a boy there was a circuit ridin’ preacher made an altar out of an old stump. If Willie wants to call old man Jensen’s fillin’ station a mosque, I reckon it’s a mosque.”
“You gone nigra-lover on us now, Chief?”
Russ Monroe laughed. “That’s sort of a stupid question, Mathilda. But I’ll answer it. No, I haven’t gone nigra-lover. My feelin’s toward blacks haven’t changed . . . at least not much, they haven’t. I just don’t want trouble in this town. But trouble is what we’re gonna get when all these factions come together: So we’d better brace for it.”
“Town is fillin’ up, for a fact,” another member spoke. “Unusually so. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed it, but I have. What’s goin’ on, Chief, Sheriff?”
“What’s going on is a matter of national security.” The voice spoke from the door to the chambers.
Don and Russ twisted in their seats. The council members looked up. Four people stood just inside the council room. Three men and one woman. They held up ID cases.
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