If the march went off according to plans, the day of the parade was going to be very interesting.
* * *
Vic Radford had given it much thought before finally reaching a decision; he’d even taken a chance and visited Alex Tarver. Only after the two whackos had discussed the situation at length, the conversation often interspersed with glowing praises of Hitler and the master race, had he reached a decision: the two groups would march together and they would be heavily armed, with friends along the way holding extra weapons and ammo. If the nigras started something—and they were both sure of that happening—it would be foolish not to be prepared for it.
Vic then drove to each member’s house and personally told them the plan. No damn way was he going to use a phone, not with the feds covering him like white on rice. His plan was received with enthusiasm; all his people would be ready.
Then Vic thought of Bubba Bordelon. He decided he’d best go talk to Bubba, too. The more people he had on his side, the better off they’d be.
Vic’s oldest son, Carl, was home for a visit, just released from jail for inciting to riot during a protest march in Los Angeles, and Carl was ready to do anything his father suggested.
“I’m gonna whup that Willie Washington’s ass again, Pa,” Carl said.
“Wait ’til the march, son,” Vic cautioned him. “You got to be patient.”
“Right, Pa.”
“Ah, son, I got to ask you a question: them people you got with you, can they be trusted?”
Carl had showed up with a dozen of the most disreputable-looking men and women Vic had ever seen.
“Sure they can, Pa. I was in prison with all the men, and the women is okay, too. The men is part of the Brotherhood.”
“The Brotherhood?”
“They don’t like niggers.”
“Oh. Well . . . they must be all right, then. But they sure are a rough-lookin’ bunch, boy.”
“Each one of them shanked a coon in the joint,” his son replied proudly.
Vic wasn’t real sure what that meant, but his son was so proud of it he decided he’d not push the conversation. He’d figure it out later.
“Goddamn right I want to march alongside you, Vic,” Bubba was quick to agree to Vic’s plan. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good, Bubba, good. Have your people armed. I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be trouble.”
“We’ll be ready,” Bubba said grimly.
* * *
“Are we going to march?” Nate Williams asked Jim Beal.
“No, we are not.” Jim’s reply was quick. “I’m ordering all our people to stay away from the march route.”
“Then I reckon it’s time for me to take those who agree with me and split from the brigade, Jim. I just can’t get through to you that it’s time to act.”
“You can do what you want to, Nate, but you can’t use the Arkansas Freedom Brigade’s name.”
“We’ll come up with our own name. I don’t want nothin’ to do with you and those pantywaists who follow you.”
“I hate to see you do this, Nate. I know what the government put you and Liz through, and you got a right to be pissed off. But now is not the time to do anything stupid. This area is blanketed with feds. You know that.”
“I ain’t scared of no goddamn fed!”
“I didn’t say you were. I just want you to think about whatever it is you’re planning. Don’t go off half-cocked and do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”
“Life? Life, Jim? What life? The fuckin’ feds have ruined me and Liz. We lost everything. Just like Wesley. But Wesley rolled over for them. I wouldn’t. And never will. Me and Liz talked it over the other night. We’re trying to get back together. We both agreed that if we have to be the ones who die first in this revolution, then so be it. I can’t tell you how much I hate this goddamn government. Now, I guess you’re going to run and tell the feds everything I just said?”
Jim shook his head. “No, Nate. You know me better than that. Regardless of how you feel now, we were friends for years. I just hope you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t. Far as I’m concerned, it’s now or never. Just stand clear of this march, Jim. For your own good.”
“I don’t plan on being anywhere near the march route, Nate. And you can count on that.”
Nate Williams left Jim’s office without another word being spoken.
“Shit!” Jim breathed, slowly shaking his head. “All hell is gonna break loose around here.”
* * *
“You won’t be seeing much of us for the next couple of days,” Stormy told Barry over dinner. “We’ll be covering the president and first lady and Congressman Madison.” She smiled. “But mostly what we’ll be doing is waiting.”
“I want to be with you when you cover the march,” Barry said. “I’ve got a real bad feeling about that.”
“Have you heard when it’s going to be?”
“Day after tomorrow. It’s going to start about noon. That’s the rumor. Nothing firm.”
“That’s the same thing we heard,” Ki said. “But what can happen, Barry? There are federal agents, local cops, deputies, and state police all over the place.”
“A bullet doesn’t have a brain, Ki. It doesn’t care who it hits. Have either of you noticed that this area is filling up with some hard-looking men and women?”
They both shook their heads.
“I’ve been driving around, looking the place over. Must be fifty or so new skinheads staying out at Tarver’s place, living in tents. About the same number of men and women have pulled into town and are staying with various members of Jim Beal’s AFB. But what is odd is that none are staying with Jim or any of his close associates. I think there’s been a major split in the ranks. If that’s true, then look out, anything is apt to happen. About a hundred men and women are camped out on Bubba Bordelon’s farm. Maybe fifty or so staying at Radford’s place. To me, that’s a dead giveaway that something is about to pop. Or explode might be a better word to use.”
“Have you talked with Sheriff Salter about it?” Stormy asked.
“I haven’t been able to get through to him. But he’s a good lawman; I’m sure he’s noticed.”
“How about out at the Washington farm?” Ki asked. “Have you been out there?”
“I drove past. It looks as though some new people have arrived.” He cut his eyes to Stormy. “Have you been able to interview Mohammed yet?”
“He refuses to grant me an interview. He says the Coyote Network is racist.”
“And the guards on the farm are armed with shotguns,” Ki added.
Barry arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Have you talked with John since he came out here?” Stormy asked.
“No. And I have no idea where Jacques might be hiding. But I can tell you both very firmly that I am not going out looking for him. I’ll fight John Ravenna if it comes to that . . . although I hope it doesn’t. But if Jacques shifts into his Other, I wouldn’t have a prayer of coming out unscathed. I’ve seen what he becomes, and it’s truly awesome. There isn’t an animal in all of North America that could fight him and win, and that includes any type of bear you might want to name. Jacques’ Other is the size of the largest jaguar that ever lived, and five times as vicious. His teeth and claws are prehistoric. His strength is phenomenal, and for his size, his speed is unbelievable. If any of those scientists or their assistants ever get a picture of him, it will rock the scientific community back on their heels.”
“So will you, Barry,” Ki said.
Barry nodded in agreement. “I have just about resigned myself to that fate, ladies. Regardless of how hard the Bureau tries to work out a deal for me, I don’t think the government will agree to it. But I am not looking forward to going public.”
“I’m sure the government will be more than happy to work something out that will meet with your satisfaction,” Stormy said.
Barry fixed her wi
th a very jaundiced look. “Then you have infinitely more faith in big governments than I do, dear.”
Twenty-four
The day before the march dragged by slowly and uneventfully. None of the participants made an appearance anywhere near town. Liz Williams did not report for work, and she did not call in with any sort of explanation for her absence. Every foot of the small county airport was checked out by the Secret Service, the FBI, federal marshals, BATF personnel, state troopers, and county deputies. Every foot of the route that would be taken by the president was walked over and checked out as carefully as time permitted. Locations were picked out for Secret Service sharpshooters to be placed. Residents along the way were checked out all the way back to the moment of conception and interviewed. To the dismay of the feds, many of the residents who lived along the route thought that while President Hutton was a damn sight better than that incompetent prick he replaced, Hutton was still an asshole.
“What this country needs is for Ben Raines to step out of the pages of those books and take over,” one resident said. “He’d straighten this damn country out in a hurry.”4
“Who?” Chet Robbins asked.
Inspector Van Brocklen said nothing. He just stared off into space and silently cursed. He knew exactly what the citizen was referring to. A couple of years back, the Bureau had been asked to check out the author of the Ashes series. They had done so, thoroughly. Much to the disappointment of a number of radical extremist liberals in Washington, elected and appointed, the Bureau could find nothing about the man his political enemies could use to shut him up.
Not that the Bureau would have had anything to do with any attempt to silence a writer, Van Brocklen quickly amended his thoughts. That would have been up to the political party in power at the time. And just how they would have gone about that—if it had occurred—was something Van Brocklen did not care to dwell upon.
It was long after dark when the exhausted teams met back at the motel. They had done all they could do in the short time allotted them. Now it was all in the hands of God, or fate, or luck, or whatever one believed in.
“Hey, gloomy,” Stormy said to Barry. “You are really down this evening.”
“You’re right. I don’t recall being this depressed in several hundred years.” He tried a smile that almost made it.
Ki had gone back to the motel for some sleep; the next day was going to be a brutal one. Her words. She had no way of knowing at the time just how accurate that statement would prove to be.
“Barry, there are several hundred federal agents in this area. And probably a hundred or more undercover. There are Arkansas State Troopers all over the place, in addition to everybody Chief Monroe and Sheriff Salter could hang a badge on.”
“Yes,” Barry conceded. “And we’ve also got John Ravenna here. The feds just won’t take me seriously about him. We’ve got Crazy Jacques Cornet, who has already killed two people—that we know of. Plus we’ve got about five hundred kooks—that we know of—who hate each other, all getting ready to march. And you can bet they will all be armed. I wish I could just go to sleep for two or three days.”
“Well”—Stormy reached over and took his hand—“I can’t help you with that deep a sleep, but I might be able to help you sleep for this night.”
Barry gently squeezed her hand and smiled. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”
She stood up and tugged him to his feet. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
“My, my,” Barry said. “I just love surprises.”
All over the county, those who were to take part in the march were meeting, finalizing plans. With the exception of Abudu X’s group, all were checking their weapons one last time. Abudu did not know it, but even many of those who were not a part of the outside agitators had made up their minds to enter the march armed. Some had friends along the way, ready to hand them weapons should the need arise, and all felt it certainly would, here in what they all referred to as redneck country.
Since there was not a motel room to be had in town, the scientists and their young assistants were camping out near the lake. They were restless as they lay in their sleeping bags and blankets, eager to get an early start the next day and track this big cat and capture it. The scientists were sure the cat was some sort of throwback to prehistoric times . . . which it was, sort of. What a find this would be! What a paper they could write!
Secret Service agent Chet Robbins sat in his motel room having a much needed and welcome bourbon and water. Inspector Van Brocklen sat across the room, having a scotch and water. Both felt in their guts that tomorrow was going to be a real son of a bitch.
“I’ve asked for more people,” Van Brocklen broke the silence.
“So have I,” Chet said.
“Think we’ll get them?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Shit!” said Chet.
“Me, too,” said Van Brocklen.
* * *
Sheriff Don Salter sat in Nellie’s Cafe with Chief Russ Monroe. Each was having a cup of coffee that neither one of them really wanted, or needed. Both looked up as Congressman Steve Williams walked into the cafe, spotted the lawmen, and walked over to the table and took a seat. He came right to the point.
“My nutty cousin, Nate, is going to pull something tomorrow, gentlemen. I feel it in my guts.”
“I can’t arrest someone on the basis of your gastronomical problems,” Don said shortly. He didn’t like Steve Williams, had never voted for him, and never would. It all went back to high school days. Steve had been a damn sissy liberal puke back then and, in Don’s eyes, still was. If it hadn’t been for Steve’s daddy’s money, Steve would never have been elected to Congress... not in this district. But Steve’s daddy was one of the richest men in the state, and people were scared to death of him. The man had a nasty habit of coming back on people who crossed him . . . therefore, no one crossed him, or his puky son. No one, that was, except Sheriff Don Salter and Chief Russ Monroe. When Don was running hard for sheriff, pitted against the elder Williams’ hand-picked man, the older man had tried pulling some shady political deals against Don. But this time, the people didn’t buy any of it. Don went out to see the elder Williams at his hunting camp and placed a cocked and loaded .357 magnum against the man’s neck. The muzzle was very cold, and the older man began shaking like a leaf in a stiff breeze. He knew he was closer to death at that moment than he had ever been.
“If you don’t back away from me, you old son of a bitch,” Don told him, in a very menacing voice, “I promise you, I will blow your goddamn head off and shit down your neck.”
Williams replied, in a very shaky voice, “You just might be the right man for sheriff after all, Don.”
“Believe it,” Don told him.
The next day, Don’s opponent dropped out of the race.
Country politics could get just as nasty as big city politics, and much earthier.
“Don, Chief Monroe,” Steve said, “I know that neither of you like me. But this is serious.”
“Right on both counts. And we’re aware of the seriousness of the situation, boy,” Chief Monroe said, knowing how Congressman Williams hated to be called “boy.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Let the feds handle it,” Don told him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, boy,” Chief Monroe added.
“Don’t call me boy,” the congressman said automatically; he’d had years of practice doing so with Chief Monroe.
“Right, boy,” Chief Monroe said.
“Well, I think you’re both being very cavalier about this whole matter!”
Chief Monroe sighed, and Sheriff Salter rolled his eyes. “Steve, what would you have us do?” the sheriff asked. “Go out and arrest five or six hundred people? On what charge? All we’ve got on them now is preparing to march without a permit, and until they do march, they’ve broken no laws. Vic is out of jail legally; he paid the bond set by a
judge. We know who blew up the jail, but we can’t prove it. None of the groups we’re looking at has broken any laws . . . yet.”
Steve stood up. “Well, I’m going to the FBI and the Secret Service with this. Maybe they’ll do something about it.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you,” Chief Monroe said.
Steve left the cafe, his back stiff with anger.
“Better the feds than us,” Don said.
“You got that right.”
“You ready for tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s coming.”
“I can’t see no way of stopping it.” The chief pushed his coffee cup away and stood up. “I’m goin’ home and get some sleep.”
“See you for breakfast right here ’bout six?”
“You got it.”
Slowly the lights began going out all over town. It was peaceful. For a few more hours.
* * *
Barry slipped from Stormy’s side long before dawn began coloring the eastern sky to sit on the front porch and drink coffee. The hybrids had done their morning business and had gone back into the house, to sleep on the bedroom floor.
Barry walked soundlessly back into the house, refilled his coffee cup, and returned to the front porch. He looked up at the cloudless sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. At least in some respects. The weather forecaster had said clear and very hot with a chance of late afternoon thunderstorms. Thunder-bumpers, he’d called them.
There was going to be some thunder, all right, Barry mused, but it wasn’t going to be caused only by some weather system.
Too many factions with various axes to grind were getting together. Anything was apt to happen this day, and probably would.
Despite his gloomy feelings, Barry had to smile. For a fellow who professes to want only peace, he told himself, you sure can get yourself into some real predicaments, Vlad.
Barry stared out into the gloom of predawn. Then with a sigh he rose to his feet. Might as well get ready to face the day. Whatever else it might turn out to be, it was damn sure going to be interesting.
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