Don’t bet on that, read the silent glances that passed between Stormy and Ki.
Twenty-two
The hounds took off with a bay of excited voices and soon were out of sight. Hardesty, although far from being a young man, loped effortlessly behind them. The other, followed in a fast walk.
“When the baying changes,” Don told the federal men, not knowing if they had ever been a part of anything like this, “we’ll know the hounds have something.”
“We’ve done this before,” Van Brocklen told him.
“Just checking.”
“But it’s been a while for me,” Robbins admitted.
Conversation stopped as the men concentrated on maintaining a fast walk through rough terrain. After only a few minutes, the baying of the hounds changed.
“Listen!” Van Brocklen said.
“I heard it,” Don replied. “That’s MacFarlane Road just up ahead.”
It took fifteen minutes for the men to cover the distance, and by that time, the baying had stopped altogether.
The lawmen emerged out of the brush on a wide gravel road. Hardesty stood by the road, his dogs back on leashes.
“What the hell . . . ?” Don asked him.
“They lost the scent,” Hardesty told him. “Right over there on that turnaround.” He pointed across the gravel. “I worked the dogs in a wide circle, but they came back to that spot. Judging from the tire tracks, your big cat got in a car and drove off.”
“Somebody trained a cat to do this?” Davy asked.
“Not no cat like this,” Hardesty said. “I been trackin’ in ever’ state that has panthers and pumas. I ain’t never seen no cat the size of this one. This son of a bitch will weigh a good two hundred twenty-five, two hundred fifty pounds. You sure we ain’t after a jaguar that got a-loose?”
“Not according to the scientists,” Don said, getting up from a squat and reaching for his walkie-talkie. He keyed the mike. “This is the sheriff. I’m at MacFarlane Road, just to the north of that burned-out old farmhouse. I want a team up here to take some plaster of tire tracks ASAP. We’ll secure the area.”
The scientists’ assistants, students on their summer break, came panting up with their nets and tranquilizer guns and sized up the scene immediately. One of them lifted a handy-talkie and said, “The cat got away,” while the other young people cheered.
“I swear to God,” Hardesty said, slowly shaking his head. “Young people nowadays ain’t got sense enough to pour piss out of a boot.” He looked at Don. “You done with me, Sheriff?”
“If you’re sure the scent is gone and not retrievable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Send your bill to my office.”
“I’ll shore do that, Sheriff. I’ll just follow this road a bit and then cut crost-country to my truck. See you fellers.”
Deputies Davy and Jess were busy keeping the scientists’ assistants out of the turnaround while Barry stood aside with the two feds and the sheriff.
“All right, Barry,” Don spoke in low tones. “What’s going on here?”
Barry shrugged his shoulders. “You’re not going to believe me.”
“Try us.”
“You’re chasing a shape-shifter ...”
“Oh, shit!” Inspector Van Brocklen muttered. “More hocus-pocus.”
Agent Robbins said nothing, just stood and stared at Barry, a puzzled look on his face.
“Go on,” Don urged.
“His name is Jacques Cornet. He hates criminals. He’s been killing them for centuries. He’s . . . well, not entirely sane. He also hates John Ravenna and isn’t real fond of me.”
“Ah ...” Agent Robbins was the first to speak, after he cleared his throat. “How old is this, ah, person?”
“Oh, about the same age as John, I suppose.”
“And that would make him . . . ?”
“About a thousand years old.”
Both federal agents sighed heavily with very pained expressions on their faces. “I had to ask,” Robbins muttered.
Van Brocklen lifted his walkie-talkie at a burst of sound. “Go.”
“That info you wanted on that, ah, certain subject, Inspector? The military records back to the Indian wars?”
“Yes.”
“It came back. Just like the man said.”
“Okay. We came up dry on the cat hunt. I’ll be in shortly.” He turned to face Barry. “Sergeant Billy Wilson?”
“I was, at one point in my life, yes.”
“Sergeant William Shipman?”
“During the Second World War, yes.”
“Ranger Sergeant Dan Gibson?”
“During the Vietnam War, yes.”
“Son of a bitch!” Van Brocklen swore softly. “This is f’ing incredible.” Then his eyes narrowed. “If any of it’s true, that is.”
“It’s true. I’ve leveled with you all the way. I’ll do whatever I can to stop these planned assassinations.”
“And then . . . ?” Agent Robbins asked.
“I want to be free to go my own way. I want the government to stop hunting me. I’m tired of being human prey.”
“I don’t know if I can guarantee that,” Van Brocklen said.
“But you can try.”
“Yes. I can try.”
Barry smiled and nodded. “That’s good enough for me. I used to have a friend back during the First World War who was from Missouri. One of his favorite sayings was ‘try his best’ was all a mule could do.”
“Whatever happened to your friend?” Robbins asked.
“He became president of the United States. His name was Harry Truman.”
* * *
Barry returned to the motel with the federal agents to give depositions about himself, John Ravenna and Jacques Cornet, and to call Stormy and Ki for their corroboration of what they knew of his story. Sheriff Salter went with them, after trying to dissuade the scientists and their assistants from staying on the property adjoining Bubba’s farm, but to no avail—not even after Bubba told them if he caught any of them on his property he’d take a shotgun to them.
“Cretinous oaf!” Dr. Biegelsack told the Klan leader.
“Fuck you!” Bubba retorted.
“It is my opinion that people who must sprinkle their conversations with the vilest of profanity possess very limited intelligence,” Dr. Dekerlegand told the man.
“Thank you,” Bubba replied.
“Imbecile!” Dekerlegand muttered.
By the time the feds got back to their motel, they had another surprise waiting for them.
“The president has decided to come into Little Rock early,” a Secret Service agent informed Chet Robbins. “This afternoon.”
“What? What the hell for?” Chet hollered the question. “The fund-raising dinner is several days off.”
“The candidate got sick and the fund-raiser was called off.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Chicken pox.”
“Oh, shit!” Robbins and Van Brocklen said as one voice.
“I suppose,” Van Brocklen said to the agent, “that now you are going to tell me the president is coming up here earlier than scheduled?”
“He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. The first lady is coming in the next day. She and a college friend are going to do some sight-seeing in Little Rock for a day.”
“What the hell is there to see in Little Rock?” Van Brocklen questioned. “A statue of Orval Faubus?”
Chet Robbins turned to Barry. “We’ll take your deposition tomorrow, Barry. We’re going to be jumping through hoops here for the next twenty-four hours.”
“You know where to find me.”
Barry met Stormy and Ki in the driveway of the motel, and the three of them returned to Barry’s house. Seated in the coolness of the living room, Barry told them about the president’s early arrival.
“Seems to me that the president is ignoring his security by coming up here at all,” Ki remarked.
�
��Nothing has happened that directly affects him,” Stormy said.
“Yet,” Barry corrected.
* * *
“Jim has turned into an old woman,” Beal’s second in command, Nate Williams, told a gathering of the AFB. “Now is the time to start the second revolution. But all he can do is shake his head and say no.”
Seventy-five out of the AFB’s two hundred and fifty members had gathered at Nate’s summons. Seventy-five men and women who felt that the time had come to strike, to stand up and show their discontent with the U.S. government.
“How far are you talkin’ about us takin’ this, Nate?” Clyde Mayfield asked.
“Marching,” Nate responded. No one noticed the ugly gleam in the man’s eyes. “That’s all. Just marching in the protest parade that’s planned.”
Several of the others in the natural amphitheater in the timber exchanged furtive glances and faint smiles at that reply.
“I don’t see nothin’ wrong with doin’ that,” Barbara Ashland said.
“Me, neither,” her husband, Dick, agreed.
The rest of those present began falling into agreement, nodding their heads or vocalizing their assent.
Nate held up a hand for silence. “One more little matter we’ve got to agree on, people. I have word that Mohammed Abudu X and his people will be armed and looking for trouble . . .”
“That don’t come as no surprise to me,” Lenny Ford said.
“Me, neither,” his brother, Leo, said.
“And they’ll also have supporters scattered along the march route, on both sides of the streets and roads, and they’ll be really armed, ready to hand over rifles to Abudu and his people,” Nate continued. “So, people, I just can’t see us being set up for target practice.”
“Black folks will stand out pretty plain in this part of the country,” Nolan Wade said. “We can have people close by ready to jump them should they reach for guns.”
“They won’t be black people,” Nate said. “They’ll be turncoat whites. People we’ve called friends and neighbors for years. Government sympathizers.”
“How do you know all this, Nate?” Hugh Morgan asked.
“From Jim’s own plants in the Justice Department,” Nate lied. “I seen the note Jim received, just before he destroyed it. He’s holdin’ back from us. And that ought to tell you all something about Beal.”
“I never did trust that son of a bitch,” Conrad Hastings said.
“Me, neither,” Leon Moore said.
Others in the room began nodding in agreement. Tish Thompson said, “I told you all last year Jim was turnin’ soft, didn’t I?”
“That’s right, Tish,” her friend, Helen Wheeler, said. “You sure did.”
“I ’member that, now,” Roy Blanchard said. “We should have paid attention to you then.”
“So what are we gonna do, Nate?” Stephen Smith asked.
“Several things. First of all, play it real close to the vest,” Nate replied, his eyes burning with a hot fever. “Jim must never know that we’ve met. Secondly, when you get home, pick out your favorite pistol and clean it up good—preferably a semiauto. When we gather to march, wear loose clothing and have the pistol hidden under your clothing. Have plenty of spare ammo, for when the nigras start their violence—and we all know that’s what they’re going to do—we’ve got to be ready to defend our loved ones and country.”
“Damn right!” George Rogers said, considerable heat behind his words.
Mimi Fowler said, “I got me a feelin’ that there’s more to this than you’re tellin’ us, Nate. What are you holdin’ back?”
Nate took a deep breath. Now for the big lie. This one would either tear his breakaway group apart or weld them solidly together as one like-minded unit. “Jim Beal has been meetin’ secretly with Wesley Parren. I been followin’ them to their meetin’ place out in Nolan’s Woods. I don’t have to tell none of you what that means. And the third party meetin’ with them is that new man in town, Barry Cantrell.”
“I knew it!” Lester Crowson almost yelled the words. “I told y’all when that son of a bitch come to town he was a government plant. Now, didn’t I tell you he was?”
After the babble of angry voices had died down, Nate said, “Yes, you did, Les. You did for a fact. And I want to take this opportunity right now to apologize to you for not heedin’ your words. I was wrong and you were right.”
“Takes a big man to admit something like that, Nate,” Jeanne Masters said.
“Damn sure does,” Albert Simpson said.
“Aw,” Les said, grinning and ducking his head. “It wasn’t nothin’.”
“I believe the time has come for us to stand up and be counted,” Wilfred Wilkes said, rising to his feet. Wilfred was the pastor of the Hand of the Lord NonDenominational Church of the Hills. Most of those present attended his services. Wilfred was also the chaplain of the AFB. Prior to his getting the “Call” and feeling the hand of the Lord touch his skinny shoulders, Wilfred had run a honky-tonk in the Bootheel of Missouri, with several trailers in the back of the joint where any one of a dozen ladies could be rented for twenty-five dollars a lick, so to speak. Wilfred had married one of the girls after receiving the nod from Above. Sophie was not exactly the quintessential pastor’s wife, possessing a mouth that once caused four drunken sailors to stand speechless in awe at her ability to sling profanity to the winds.
“What are we goin’ to do about all these government cocksuckers in town?” Sophie questioned.
“Now, dear,” Wilfred said soothingly.
“Fuck off, baby,” Sophie told him. “Read your Bible and let me handle this.”
“If they get in the way,” Nate said, “they’re gonna get hurt. We all know whose side they’re on anyway, so what difference does it make?”
“Damn right!” Paul Mullins said, standing up. Several more men stood up with him.
“To the revolution!” Howard Dill shouted.
“To true freedom!” Mary Lou Nichols yelled, dragging her husband, Philip, to his somewhat reluctant feet.
Soon everyone in the clearing was chanting “Revolution!”
Nate stood on a rise of earth and smiled. Now, by God, he thought, he’d show the government a thing or two. And he’d do it in just about forty-eight hours.
Twenty-three
Jim Beal sat for a long time behind his computer in his office. He had received the coded messages from both his deep plants in Washington. The messages alarmed him. The president and first lady were coming here, ahead of schedule, and after a day or so of meetings with Congressman Williams and Congressman Madison, the president was to hold a press conference, during which he would announce some drastic new cuts and a total shift away from liberal democratic dogma.
So why did that fill Jim with such alarm?
He grimaced at the thought. No mystery there. He knew the answer only too well: lately, for whatever reason, there were people within his own AFB who had been secretly (so they thought) advocating open violence against the government. Jim knew who most of them were, and certainly that Nate Williams was the leader of the breakaway bunch. What he didn’t know, for sure, was what they were planning. Nate was Congressman Williams’ cousin. The two men hadn’t spoken in years.
But Jim had seen Nate Williams slowly change over the past few years. And Jim knew where to put the blame for that: the government. There was no one else to blame.
It had all started when a lady bought a souvenir from Nate’s wife—or rather, the lady who used to be Nate’s wife—at her arts shop in town—or rather, where her arts shop used to be. Liz had a knack for making things out of what nature provided, real pretty things. Several times a week she could be seen wandering the fields and woods, picking up bird feathers, which she would use to make knickknacks and doodads to sell to the tourists. Only problem was, Liz didn’t know a parakeet feather from a blue-footed booby. She just picked up pretty feathers and made pretty things with them.
No one knew for
sure who turned Liz in to the federal wildlife and fisheries people, or why, but Jim suspected it was a local. Liz was charged, among other things, with possession of feathers from endangered species. Dozens of people came forward, testifying that Liz didn’t hunt birds, she just wandered the countryside picking up fallen feathers off the ground. But in the end it didn’t do any good. Nate and Liz exhausted their savings fighting the charges, but despite their efforts, Liz had to pay a huge fine and was placed on probation for several years. Then the IRS came down on Nate and wiped them out. Their marriage ended in divorce, and Nate and Liz were ruined financially, including losing their home.
Liz now clerked at a local supermarket, and Nate did handyman jobs wherever he could find them.
And both of them hated the government.
Jim stood up and paced the floor, making up his mind. Damned if he was going to the feds with this. The goddamned feds brought it on themselves, so they could pay the price. As far as Nate was concerned, anyone who worked for the government was the enemy, and while Jim didn’t entirely agree with that, he could sure understand why Nate felt that way.
* * *
While Jim was mulling over the current state of affairs in his locale, the president of the United States and the first lady were stepping off the plane in Little Rock. Bands played, crowds cheered, and President Hutton and the first lady smiled and waved. Then they were hustled into the president’s limo, which had just a few hours before been flown into the area, and were driven off.
Sitting in a comfortable chair in the living room of his rented house by the lake, John Ravenna smiled. It was almost time to earn his pay. And he was certainly looking forward to that.
Mohammed Abudu X and his followers were busy in the barn painting placards and affixing the heavy cardboard to long poles. The slogans read: NO JUSTICE NO PEACE; WEALTH REDISTRIBUTION NOW; AMERICA IS RACIST; SPEAKER MADISON IS A JERK; MORE MONEY FOR WELFARE, LESS FOR THE MILITARY
No one paid any attention to the half dozen or so men and women who slipped away from the barn and went to a van. There, they removed a side paneling and took out weapons, each person inspecting the guns carefully: pistols, sawed-off pistol-grip shotguns, MAC-10s, and Uzis.
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