The helicopter slowly rose into the sky.
Cory snapped the 30.06 to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was jammed. He fumbled with the bolt and fought with his fingers to seat the cartridge properly in the chamber.
Another searchlight flipped on as its beam followed the rise of the helicopter.
Half a dozen eighty-second Airborne troopers exited from the tree line beyond the helicopter pad. A noncom shouted commands, and automatic weapons snapped to shoulders.
The helicopter, a hundred feet in the air, began a sweep to the north as it struggled to gain altitude.
Cory would have one shot.
Norm Lewis spoke to him from a time a thousand years ago, during a rainy afternoon at the Hunt Club. “For Christ’s sake, Cory, that’s a bunch of crap! There are a dozen factors involved in a shot: weather, type of ammo, motion of the target …”
Ed Robinson had joined in. “You guys can talk about targets, scopes, and windage from now until the eagle screams. It doesn’t mean bat shit. It’s a different ballgame when you face other men with loaded weapons.”
A time so long ago, when he had boasted of his marksmanship and ability to hit any target.
The helicopter was at two hundred feet and moving at an angle away from his position.
There were low crumps from the squad of troopers beyond the pad as they fired at him.
He held the rifle at a forty-five-degree angle. It was difficult to get a decent sight picture. No time for windage adjustments. It would be a dead-reckoning shot at the white face of the presidential aide who stared down at him through the helicopter port.
Cory fired.
The face in the helicopter window snapped back as the bullet pierced the plexiglass and entered Al Smythe’s forehead.
Another weapon fired and blackness overcame Cory.
“Pull!”
The clay pigeon spun into the air and disintegrated in the shotgun blast.
“Christ, Mr. Johnson. You’re one hell of a shot.”
The man with the shotgun looked at the young man and smiled. “You’ve got a pretty good eye yourself, Billy. A little more time, and you’ll get there.”
Billy shook his head. “I’ll never be as good as you, Mr. Johnson.”
The man with the shotgun called out. “Wrap it up for the day, Stacy. We’re going in.”
Cory and Billy broke open their shotguns and let them dangle over their forearms as they walked slowly toward the long rustic building that overlooked the lake. They paused where the path topped a ridge, and turned to look at the sun setting over Hiawassee Lake.
Two outboards, fishing lines trailing as they trolled back toward the boat dock, slowly approached. “If they’re still trolling when they come in, there’s no fresh bass tonight.”
He took Billy’s gun with his own and placed them in the gun rack in the lodge dining room. He made a mental note to clean them after dinner. He poked his head through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
She stood by the stove with both hands clamped firmly across her protruding belly.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“It’s kicking like hell. I think I can feel a foot.”
He crossed to her and kissed the nape of her neck and then placed a hand on her stomach. “It’s an elbow.”
“Whatever.”
He gasped and put both hands against his temples. “Jesus!”
“It still hurts,” she said as a statement of fact.
“Not as much as last month and less than the month before.” The sharp stabbing pain subsided, and he lowered his hands. “Twelve covers for tonight’s dinner—assuming no one gets lost out on the lake. Come out on the veranda, and we’ll have a drink before they come in.”
She shook her head. “I’ll come out, but no booze. Bad for the baby.”
“It’ll quiet him or her down. One won’t hurt.” He took her hand and led her out to the long porch that ran the length of the building.
They sat with cool drinks, on wide wicker chairs. The Rod and Gun Club was built on a TVA lake and nestled near a large national forest near the center of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a secluded and quiet spot financed for Cory by the Department of Justice, just as their new names, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and Social Security numbers in the name of Johnson had been provided by the government.
“There was an article in the paper today about General Rainman,” she said.
“That bastard. What’s he up to?”
“He shot himself at the Wiltshire Club.”
Cory nodded without feeling. Rainman wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last, of the members of the Committee who had killed themselves. President Crescatt had moved with alacrity. The deputy director of the FBI had been removed from office by forced resignation on the day following the shooting at Camp David. Ten high-ranking army officers had suddenly found themselves on the retirement list. In the following week a hundred other bureaucrats had been transferred to far-flung posts.
It had become quickly obvious to all members of the Committee that their names and locations were known. Many had opted to leave the country and permanently exile themselves.
The remaining members had been isolated and rendered harmless. Subtle and not-so-subtle pressure over the ensuing months had removed nearly all of them from places of power.
The Committee’s effectiveness had been negated. President Orville Crescatt continued his Crusade for a new world, while Liz Crescatt married Dr. Halliburton and played a great deal of tennis.
Cory had been unconscious ten days, from the head wound. His survival was termed miraculous.
Fishermen were trudging up toward the lodge from the boat dock. Ginny slowly rose from the wicker chair. “Here they come. You better mix drinks for the paying guests. I feel like a cow.”
He kissed her. “A beautiful cow.”
“Thanks a million.”
They walked into the house. She went back into the kitchen, while Cory stepped behind the bar at the far end of the dining room. He set a cocktail shaker on the dark-stained wood and began to mix manhattans.
Only occasionally did he glance toward the wall phone with the very private number.
He wondered, wistfully, if it would ever ring.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1981 by Stockton Woods
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3797-6
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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