The sheriff looked doubtful. “The coroner said it wasn’t a wolf that killed him.”
“He’s right. Ravenna does not shape-shift into a wolf. He can only become a hyena.”
Don almost ran off the road at that. He quickly corrected his path and cut his eyes to Barry. “A hyena? You mean one of those big ugly African things? A scavenger?”
“Yes. Very big, and very dangerous. Capable of crushing a large bone with one snap of his jaws.”
“This Professor Garrison will be able to identify the hair, won’t he?”
“Very quickly.”
The sheriff sighed. “We’ve got to sit on this. News of this gets out, every redneck in three counties will be out in the woods blasting away at anything that moves.” He was silent for a mile. “Barry? When this is over, will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Would you consider moving?”
Eighteen
The two men rode in silence for a time, wandering the back roads of the county. After a few miles, just as dusk was settling over the land, Don said, “He could be anywhere.”
Barry glanced out at the gathering gloom. “Probably back at his rental house, sitting in the dark. Don, has Vic made bail yet?”
Don shook his head, stepped on the brake, cut down a gravel road, and said, “Not to my knowledge. This is a shortcut to the lake. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so. I want to talk to this bastard.”
“And what will you say?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. If he gets too lippy, I’ll have the boys throw a net over him and lock him down. Then he can shape-shift all he likes, but he won’t be able to get past steel doors and bars.”
Barry smiled. “That would certainly be a sight to see.”
“Sounds as though you’d like to see it.”
“Oh, I would. John and I are not exactly what you might call friends.”
Don pulled into the driveway just in time to see John Ravenna walk out of the woods behind the lake house and pause by the side of the house as the sheriff pulled in. He walked over to the unit.
“Gentlemen,” Ravenna said with a mocking smile. “Ah! Good evening, Sheriff Salter. Out for a little drive in the twilight, are we? I’ve been walking in the woods for the past hour or so. It’s such a lovely part of America. How may I be of assistance to you?”
“We, ah, saw you coming out of the woods,” Don said. “Didn’t recognize you at first, Mr. Ravenna. Thought you might be a prowler and wanted to check it out.”
“Heavens, me!” Ravenna replied with that same mocking smile. “A prowler. Think of that. I’d probably have a heart attack if confronted by some criminal element. Violence is something I try to avoid. But I do thank you for your concern.”
“Have a nice evening, sir,” Don told him.
“Thank you, I shall.”
Don backed out of the drive and headed back to town. Just around the bend, he slowed and pulled in beside a van with two men in the front.
“Federal agents?” Barry asked.
“Yes.” Don lowered his window and spoke to the driver. “He’s back in his house now. Said he’s been out walking in the woods.”
“He’s slippery as sheep shit,” the driver said, giving Barry a visual once-over. “There is more going on here than meets the eye. I just wish I knew what it was.”
“Yes. Well,” Don said, suddenly uncomfortable. “You boys take it easy. See you around.”
A few hundred yards down the road back to town, Don’s radio began squawking. “Sheriff!” dispatch hollered, panic in the man’s voice. “The damn jail just blew up!”
* * *
When the heavy charge of dynamite blew, it threw one jailer through an office window, depositing him in a trailer load of watermelons that a deputy had brought in just that day, the vehicle having expired plates, no brake lights, and defective brakes, among other charges.
The deputy was not badly hurt, except for about a dozen minor glass cuts, but when the watermelons exploded under his impact, he was covered with a red stain. The deputy felt sure he was mortally injured and began shrieking to high heaven.
Another deputy was blown under a desk, and since he was more than a bit overweight, he got stuck in the leg hole and panicked. He began hollering for someone to get him out.
A third deputy had just brought in one of the town’s regular drunks, with the help of a city policeman. All three of them were rolled down the tiled hall from the concussion and found themselves in a tangle of arms and legs and total confusion.
The jail quickly filled with black jumpsuited men, wearing ski masks and carrying a variety of weapons. They began searching the cells. But their leader was nowhere to be found, for Vic was sound asleep in his recliner, miles away, smiling in his sleep, dreaming of a pure Aryan nation.
“Yahoooo!” one of the ski-masked skinheads shouted, pointing his AR-15 at the ceiling and pulling the trigger just as fast as he could, sending plaster and concrete and dust flying everywhere. The rapid fire sent everybody into a panic.
Two FBI agents and one Secret Service agent were having supper at a small cafe just across the street from the jail when the blast occurred. The heavy charge of dynamite had been placed at the back door of the jail. Just inside the door, the men’s room was on the left, the ladies’ room to the right. Commodes and urinals and sinks and bricks and pipes and paper towel dispensers went flying through the air. One commode landed in the middle of the street and exploded into a thousand pieces. The concussion blew out the windows on all the storefronts on two sides of the courthouse square; falling debris dented cars and trucks and smashed vehicle windows.
The federal agents were knocked off their stools and dumped on the floor, addled but unhurt.
Inspector Van Brocklen had just driven into the center of town and was stopped at a red light when the back wall and part of one side of the jail blew apart. Part of a urinal landed on the hood of his car, knocking a huge dent in the metal and popping out the windshield. Van Brocklen exited the passenger side faster than he had moved in a long time, and crouched on the street, pistol in hand, looking wildly all around him. He couldn’t see much, for the dust from the explosion and the gloom of near dark cut his vision down to nearly nothing.
“What the hell happened, Inspector?” one of his men called from the cafe.
“Part of the courthouse blew up,” Van Brocklen called. “Or maybe the jail. I can’t tell until the dust settles.”
“Might be a diversion, sir.”
“Maybe. Call in. See if the Speaker is all right.”
“I can’t call in, sir.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because there’s a toilet in the front seat of my car. Radio’s gone.”
Van Brocklen cautiously opened the passenger side door to his car and grabbed the mike and called in.
While Van Brocklen waited for a reply, Vic’s men and the skinhead group, seeing that Vic was not in the jail, decided to split. They ran out a side door and disappeared into the dark alleys on the undamaged side of the square.
Slowly the dust began to settle in the still and humid air.
“Help!” the deputy trapped deep in the trailer load of watermelons hollered. “Help! I’m mortally wounded.”
Sheriff Don Salter put on the brakes and slid to a halt on the damaged side of the courthouse. “Holy shit!” he whispered, gazing at the huge hole in the building.
The deputy who had called it into the sheriff was trapped in his unit. A huge chunk of concrete had landed on the roof of his vehicle, jamming all four doors. He had managed to kick out the glass on the driver’s side and was struggling to climb out of his car without cutting himself.
Crowds were beginning to gather on the fringes of the courthouse square, to look and point and wonder.
“Keep those civilians back,” Van Brocklen yelled, as more and more federal agents began to gather. “We don’t know what we’ve got here.”
Leroy Jim
Bob “Bubba” Bordelon, chief klucker of the local KKK, had driven into town with two of his people. They were stopped at roadblocks set up by Chief Monroe’s men and had to walk the rest of the way to the square. There, they bought popsicles at a drug store and stood licking and looking at all the excitement.
“Gawddamn,” one of Bubba’s men said.
“Yeah,” the other one said. “Gawddamn.”
The deputy, the city police officer, and the drunk they had been escorting to the bucket staggered to the front of the courthouse.
“Hold your fire!” Sheriff Salter, Chief Monroe, and Inspector Van Brocklen all yelled simultaneously, as the three men appeared in the doorway.
Several deputies rushed up to escort them to safety—more or less, since no one really knew what the hell was happening.
“Oh, Lord, help me!” the deputy in the trailer load of watermelons hollered. “I’m bleedin’ to death.”
“Who the hell is that?” Chief Monroe asked, after carefully working his way over to Don.
“Sounds like Ricky,” the sheriff said.
“Where the hell is he?”
“I think he’s in that there load of watermelons,” a citizen ventured.
“He must have got blowed through that courthouse window,” another allowed.
“All right,” Don said. “I’m going to get him. Cover me.”
“You want some company?” Barry asked.
The sheriff thought about that for a moment. “Yeah. I do. Consider yourself deputized, Barry.”
“Wonderful,” Barry said drily.
The two men ran to the trailer and crawled up the side, peering over into the mashed mess.
“Jesus,” Don said. “He’s cut all to pieces.”
“I don’t think so,” Barry replied. “I think that’s stain from the watermelons.”
“Give us your hand, Ricky,” Don urged.
“I’m dyin’,” Ricky said.
“No, you’re not. Give me your hand.”
Don and Barry hauled the deputy out of the trailer and stretched him out on the grass. They quickly checked him over and discovered he was far from dying; just cut up a bit.
“Stay here,” Don told him. “EMTs will be with you as soon as we get this mess straightened out.” He keyed his walkie-talkie. “We’re going inside. Hold your fire. Pass the word to the feds.”
“Ten-four, Sheriff.”
Barry and Don cautiously entered the building through the blown-out hole where the back door and most of the back wall used to be.
“Get this fuckin’ desk off me!” the words drifted to the two men as they stood in the rubble-littered hallway. “I’m trapped in here. Help!”
“That’s Frank,” Don said. “Come on.”
Barry started laughing at the sight of Frank stuck beneath the desk, and his laughter was infectious. Don soon was chuckling as the two men tugged and pulled and finally managed to get Fat Frank free of the heavy steel desk.
“Don’t say nothin’ about this Sheriff,” Frank pleaded. “Please?”
“Your secret is safe with us, Frank. Just try to lose a few pounds, will you?”
Frank went staggering off toward the gaping wall, muttering to himself.
The few prisoners in the lockup were all right, just scared. Other than that, the jail was empty.
“Come on in,” Don radioed. “It’s clear.”
“Christ, what a mess!” Van Brocklen said, standing in the hall.
Federal agents, deputies, city cops, and a few local and county officials began filling the long corridor, all of them staring in disbelief.
None of the jailers could shed any light on who the people were who blew up the jail, since none had actually seen any of them.
Van Brocklen whispered to one of his agents, “See if John Ravenna is at home.”
“Maybe they weren’t after anyone,” a deputy said. “Maybe this is in retaliation for arresting Vic Radford.”
“That’s a thought,” Van Brocklen said. He pointed to several agents. “Get on that. Go over that list of members we got from Radford today. Start knocking on doors.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight. Move!”
Van Brocklen turned to the sheriff. “I saw your name on the guest list for that shindig out at Robert Roche’s. I need to get with you on security.”
“Tomorrow morning at nine in my office?”
“Sounds good.” The FBI inspector slowly looked all around him at the damage and shook his head. “Jesus, what else is going to happen?”
“Nothing, I hope,” Don said, taking off his hat and wiping his face with a handkerchief.
Don’t bet on that, Barry thought, standing off to one side. He looked at his wristwatch. Forty-eight hours until the party at Roche’s house. And that, he was sure, was when all hell was going to break loose.
Now just how do I know that? Barry silently questioned.
Because that would be John’s style, came the reply. Ravenna likes to do things with a flourish.
“Let’s get some help in here and clean this mess up,” Don said. He looked up at a sudden burst of harsh light. Ki and Stormy were standing just outside the ruined wall, filming.
“The press is here,” Van Brocklen said, then gave Barry a very dirty look.
“What’d I do?” Barry asked the Bureau man.
“I don’t know,” Van Brocklen said, keeping a steady gaze on Barry. “Yet.”
Nineteen
The next two days were very frustrating for law enforcement. The Bureau rounded up every name on the membership list of Vic’s neo-Nazi group but were unable to link any of them with the bombing of the jail. They all alibied for each other, and no one broke the code of silence. Vic was ruled out that very same night. He had downed several very stiff drinks on an empty stomach and was still drunk when the agents finally managed to rouse him from a deep sleep. Vic Radford thought the destruction of the jail was highly amusing.
“It’s just too bad,” he added, looking at the federal agents with open hate in his eyes, “you people weren’t standing next to the blast.”
Leroy Jim Bob “Bubba” Bordelon and his white-sheeted night riders were also questioned, but they all had unshakable alibis.
Every friend, colleague, and advisor to the president did his best to talk the president into changing his plans to travel from Little Rock to North Arkansas, but to no avail. The trip was on and that was that. The president was not going to change his mind.
More federal agents were sent into the area.
The FBI, Secret Service, and Federal Marshal’s Service now had two entire wings of a local motel and one wing of another. One local wag commented, “There’s enough antennas around them places to talk to Mars.”
Undercover agents were quartered all over town. The motorcycle boys and girls were sleeping in tents out at a campground on the lake.
Work on repairing the jail had begun at dawn the morning after the bombing. Those few prisoners who had been in lockup had been transferred to the old city jail. Adding to all the federal agents, the governor had sent about a dozen Arkansas state troopers into the area to help out.
Stormy and Ki were shopping for something to wear to Roche’s party that night, and Barry decided to stop in at Nellie’s Cafe for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.
He had just sat down when Sheriff Salter, Inspector Van Brocklen, and Secret Service Agent Chet Robbins joined him.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Barry said. “The apple pie looks awfully good.”
“1 leveled with them, Barry,” Don spoke in a whisper.
“Did you, now?”
“I just didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“I don’t blame you. Relax.”
The waitress walked over and took their order, then left. The table where they were seated was in a far corner of the cafe, and at midmorning, Barry, Don, and the two feds were the only customers.
“So you are the mystery man from the Idaho shootout?” Van
Brocklen asked.3
“You didn’t have to run, Barry,” the Secret Service man said. “There are no charges against you. Inspector Wallace and Special Agent Murphy saw to that.”
“Thank them for me.”
“But there is a little matter of six rogue agents who seemingly dropped off the face of the earth,” Van Brocklen said. “Max Vernon and the five men with him. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that.”
“I imagine they fought the wilderness and lost,” Barry said with a straight face. “You can’t fight the wilderness. You have to work with it.”
“I’ll be sure and put that in my report,” Van Brocklen said drily.
“How long have you known John Ravenna?” Chet asked.
“About six hundred and fifty years. I met him in Italy. He’d been hired to kill the pope. I stopped that assassination, and John has hated me ever since.”
Van Brocklen suddenly had a very pained look on his face, Chet Robbins wore an expression of utter disbelief, and Don Salter ducked his head to hide a smile.
“We’ve run into each other every two or three decades since then. This has been the longest time between meetings.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?” Chet asked. He quickly added, “Not that I believe any of this.”
“World War II. In France. He was working for the Nazis. I was in the American Army, going by the name of William Shipman. I was dropped into France and was working with the French Resistance. You can check that. It’s all true.”
Conversation stopped while the waitress brought their coffee and pie. When she had left, Van Brocklen asked, “Assuming any of this is true, Barry, are you two the only immortals?”
“Oh, no. There are at least several hundred of us around the world. I suspect there are several thousand. None of us know for sure.”
After a full minute of silence had ticked by, Secret Service asked Bureau, “Do you believe any of this?”
Van Brocklen shook his head. “I don’t know, Chet. I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore.”
Robbins chewed on a bite of pie for a moment, sipped his coffee, looked at Barry. “Let’s put this hocus-pocus business aside for a moment. Do you think this John Ravenna is here to whack Congressman Madison?”
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