Watchers in the Woods

by William W. Johnstone

  “Mister Jordan?” the radioman called. “The DCI wants to talk to you.”

  Simmons’ smile was faint. “Looks like we’re both going to be on the spot, pal.”

  “I’ll get the tribe back underground. They’re not ready for this.”

  “Are we?”

  “No. But we don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  * * *

  “Why is the CIA involved in this?” Ron Arnold asked.

  Of all the network news anchors, none invoked such hatred among law enforcement people and special government agents than this one. His network was the most liberal of the big four. He and most others who worked with him moaned and sobbed and snorted and blubbered and stomped in their hankies everytime some murderer was gassed or fried. When they weren’t imploring the government to seize all the privately owned weapons in the nation, they were screaming about too much government interference in the lives of American citizens.

  “Because I was in place, on a camping trip with some of my high school graduating class,” Matt told him. Not a lie, just not all the facts.

  Matt had not shaved since he’d entered the Primitive Area. His beard would help conceal his face from the many people around the world who had him on hit lists . . . another little item that reporters never seem to give a damn about in their quest for a story.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Lee Peterson said.

  “I don’t care what you find hard to believe,” Matt shot back. If Richard viewed the evening news, and Matt was sure he would, Richard would be eating Rolaids by the handful.

  “I don’t like your attitude,” Ron said.

  “I don’t like you, period,” Matt told him.

  “Mr. Simmons,” Jerry Kaye took it.

  Matt watched out of the corner of his eye as several people wearing backpacks, including a cameraman, slipped away from the main group and headed, unnoticed by the others, into the timber. Matt turned his back on the press and walked off. He had told the Ranger CO—on orders from the White House—not to interfere with the reporters if they wanted to go stomping around in the area. Matt knew he and the others would be damned if they did and damned if they didn’t in this matter. And to hell with people who ignored warnings.

  He sat down in front of his tent after pouring a cup of coffee and waited. He had a hunch it was going to get interesting very quickly.

  Donna Gates, a reporter whom Matt had heard was as fair in her reporting as she was allowed to be, left the main group and sought him out.

  “May I join you?” she asked.

  “You may. Help yourself to coffee.”

  “Thank you. I do not have a tape recorder on me, Mr. . . .”

  “Call me Matt. Good. I’ll take your word for that.”

  She poured coffee, sugared and stirred, and sat down in the camp chair Matt unfolded for her. “I was watching your eyes as that team of newspeople slipped out of this area. You saw them leave and did nothing to stop them.”

  “They’re all adults. They were warned that this area was dangerous. I’m not going to hold their hands and wipe their noses.”

  “You don’t care what happens to them?”

  “On the record? Or off?”

  She hesitated. Smiled. “A little of both.”

  He chuckled. “No, Miss Gates. I don’t care what happens to them. If a person smokes cigarettes and develops a bad cough, the smart thing for him to do is to quit smoking and see a doctor. If someone tells you there’s a minefield in front of you, you don’t go blundering into it. See what I’m saying?”

  “There are army rangers out there.”

  “To keep people out, not to keep people in. This isn’t a prison. ”

  “How dangerous is it?”

  “Very dangerous. If they wander past the rangers’ forward positions, they might not return.”

  “Should that happen, will you go in searching for them?”

  “I won’t be in any rush about it.”

  “You hate the press that much?”

  “No—just certain members of the press who feel they should dictate foreign policy, run the country, belittle programs and individuals they disagree with or don’t like, and in general stick their noses in where they shouldn’t.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Certainly. But I’m not in a position to sway the general public. You people are, and many of you do so at every opportunity.”

  “Will we get a chance to speak to some of these so-called tribe members?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Who?”

  “Because you want to exploit them, that’s why.”

  “That’s unfair. I don’t want to exploit anybody. This is a news story. I’m paid to cover the news; I’m doing my job, that’s all.”

  Matt stared at her for a moment. “With you, and a few others in your profession, I might be convinced of that. Captain Fargo runs everything outside this camp. Agent Simmens is the official spokesman for the camp. But I run the camp. The tribe trusts me, and that ought to tell you people something.”

  “That would certainly startle Ron, now, wouldn’t it?”

  If Ronnie-baby walks out in the wilderness, Matt thought, he won’t be startled long—just dead. “I’ll speak with Ty—he’s the leader of the tribe. If he wants to talk with you, fine. But no film. Not yet. If—if you meet him, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “Grotesquely misshapen?”

  “He grows on you. Donna, it isn’t the tribe that people have to fear. It’s the Sataws and breakaways and outside sympathizers who have been killing. Ty and his bunch are the gentlest group of people I have ever encountered. They live as one with the forest, the land, and the animals. They don’t eat meat. They’re not hostile unless provoked. I’m trying to protect them, Donna.”

  “Strange talk coming from a CIA man.”

  Matt chuckled. “We’re no different from other folks. Most of us have wives, kids, mortgages, bills—just like everybody else. We’re not ogres, even though much of the press has painted us that way. Individually we support a wide range of groups, everything from the United Way to Defenders of Wildlife and everything in between. If the press just has to set itself up to judge—and I don’t know who in the hell gave you people that power—you ought to judge us individually, not tar us all with the same brush.”

  It was her turn to stare at him. “You’d be a handsome man without that beard.”

  “As long as the press is around, the beard stays.”

  “And after this is over?”

  “I’m through—retired.”

  “Is Matt your real name? All we were given was Matt, no last name.”

  “It won’t be when I officially retire.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “I figure I’m on about twenty hit lists—at least that many.”

  A young ranger walked up at a brisk pace. “Excuse me. That reporter and camera crew refused to stay within our perimeter, sir. They’re out in the wilderness, alone and unarmed.”

  “I’d say they definitely have a problem, wouldn’t you, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. One hell of a problem.”

  “You warned them that they were entering a dangerous area?”

  “Yes, sir. We got it on tape.”

  “Then we’re off the hook. Don’t worry about it. If they start yelling for help, then we’ll go in. But we’ll do so cautiously. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll babysit these people.”

  “Yes, sir,” the ranger said with a grin.

  “It would seem to me that those out . . . there,” she cut her eyes to the deep timber, “are defeating their purpose by continuing to kill. Isn’t that just bringing hardship to this peaceful tribe?”

  “That’s what they want. They were against the relocation. They were against any type of study that might eventually tame the wildness that springs up in them.”

  “The urge to kill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does this
part of the tribe not eat meat and those on the outside practice cannibalism?”

  “I don’t know. I was told it had something to do with the genes being altered by poisoned water. I don’t think anybody really knows . . . yet. I’m sure the doctors and scientists and anthropologists can give you a much better answer after they’ve had the time to study the tribe.”

  “Won’t they also have to study those running loose in the wilderness?”

  There it is, Matt thought, keeping his expression neutral. God damn you, Rich, I’m going to break your jaw for dumping this mess in my lap. “They have some to study.”

  “Then you’ve captured some of them?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He wasn’t about to tell her outside agents had picked up Cathy and Frank’s kids, among other people, and were holding them for observation.

  “Either you did or you didn’t, Matt.”

  “I didn’t capture them myself. And they’re not being held on this compound.”

  “I see. How far reaching is this problem? On the outside?”

  “I have no idea. I have not left this area in several weeks.”

  “If that camera crew is not back in by night, will you search for them?”

  “In the morning.”

  “They could be dead by then.”

  “If they’re lucky.”

  3

  “I demand that you launch a search for that missing crew immediately!” Ron Arnold said.

  “Too late in the day,” Matt told him. “We don’t have that much light left.”

  “Those are not experienced woodsmen,” Lee Peterson said.

  “Then why did they ignore warnings not to go into the deep timber?”

  “They’re here to cover a story.”

  “No, they’re not here, Mr. Peterson,” Matt corrected. “They’re out there.” He pointed to the wilderness that surrounded them. “I’ll start a search for the crew in the morning. First light, not before.”

  Ron stepped in close and stared at Matt. “I’m going to cream you, Matt Whatever-your-name-is. I’m going to smear your face over every television set in America.”

  “Go right ahead. It still won’t start the search until the morning.” He was handed a note by a smiling Agent Simmons. Matt read the note and laughed. “By orders of the Congress of the United States, and approved by the President, this area has been classified as restricted. You know the rules, boys and girls. Lieutenant Davidson, seize all cameras and expose the film.”

  “This is communism!” Ron hollered.

  “Is that the same as commonism?” Matt asked.

  “What?”

  Nick laughed as he recalled the men of the CWA.

  “Forget it—private joke.” Matt did not read the rest of the note aloud. Jones had been given a new name, a new ID, and a complete new background. He was now getting ready to start work as an accountant for a firm outside of Washington, DC.

  Something good came of this mess, anyway, Matt thought.

  Donna and the rest of the reporters knew the rules and didn’t bitch all that much. Ron puffed up and stormed about, making threats about what he was going todo. But it was legal, and the threats were hollow.

  “Can we trust them?” Captain Fargo whispered to Matt.

  “Oh, most are all right. I wouldn’t trust Ron Arnold any further than I can see him. But the cameraman is not going to risk federal charges. I saw him turn over his film and his film bag.”

  “You think that other camera crew bought it?”

  “Sure—and their killers will have planted the bodies in very conspicuous places for the reporters to see. You can make book on that.”

  Donna walked over to him. “We’ll be back as soon as it’s light, Matt. If you want to keep us out, you’re going to have to arrest us. Ron is going to have his network’s lawyers file suit to lift the restrictions on this area. You know there is a good chance the courts will go along with it.”

  “Probably.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  A smiling Ron Arnold placed the court order in Simmons’ hand an hour after daylight. Matt looked at Donna. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “We can’t keep them out, nor can we prevent them from taking pictures,” Simmons said. “The courts ruled that the tribe does not endanger national security and is to be treated as an important anthropological find.”

  “So you don’t have as much stroke as you think you do, right, hotshot?” Ron said to Matt.

  Matt smiled thinly.

  “Ron is looking to get his ashes hauled,” Ken Caney said to Lee Peterson. “He’s going to push that guy just a little too far.”

  “I tend to agree with you,” Fred Salter said.

  Matt and Simmons, with rangers spearheading the march and the press corps, now a hundred strong, stomping and stumbling along behind, left the safe compound and entered the quiet timber. Much to the disgust of Ron Arnold, Matt had borrowed some hair tint from one of the women doctors and dyed his hair blond the night before. It altered his looks dramatically. Donna thought it was funny, as did most of the other members of the press.

  They found the cameraman’s head impaled up on a limb, bits and pieces of his body scattered all about the trunk of the tree.

  “That is, was, Leona’s cameraman,” a reporter said, after swallowing hard. “But no sign of Leona.”

  “They probably took her alive for a breeder,” Nick told them. “The breakaways and Sataws are the only ones that still do that.”

  “That’s obscene!” Ron said.

  “So is trapping,” the guide told him. “But so many of your advertisers sell and wear fur you’re afraid to take a stand against it.”

  Ron shut his mouth momentarily. Everyone knew the respite wouldn’t last.

  “Take pictures and bodybag the parts,” Simmons told his men.

  Snarling and howling and strange laughter sprang from the gloom of the timber.

  “You want to go interview one of the breakaways, Ron?” Matt asked. “Just step over there about a hundred yards. I guarantee you’ll run into one.”

  For once Ron had nothing to say.

  The group pulled closer together as the howling and laughing grew louder and more derisive sounding. “His name is Matt Jordan!” Cathy shouted from the shadowed gloom. “Broadcast that.”

  “You know that woman?” a reporter asked.

  “Her name is Cathy.”

  “And broadcast this!” Cathy shouted. “The goddamn government seized my children a couple of weeks ago—my kids and several hundred other offspring of men and women like me. They’re experimenting on them.”

  “Is that true, Matt?” Donna asked.

  “I don’t know. I told you, I’ve been in here for several weeks. I don’t know what’s going on outside.”

  “Leave us alone,” a male voice shouted from the forest.

  “They killed or kidnapped an entire crew, and they want to be left alone,” Lee said. “That doesn’t make any sense. They must be crazy.”

  “Poor unfortunate wretches,” Ron said. “They know the government is going to hunt them down and kill them. Does that make you feel like a big man, Jordan?”

  “Why don’t you shut your goddamn mouth, Ron?” Salter told him. “I swear you’re getting more impossible day by day.”

  “That must be why I’m still number one and you’re still number three,” Ron said with a smile, referring to the ratings.

  “Knock it off,” Captain Fargo said. “Come on.”

  The body of a man was found hanging by his heels from a tree limb. Both arms had been ripped off.

  “Why?” Donna asked, grimacing at the hideous sight.

  “Because they’re maniacs,” Simmons said. “Personally, I’d like to call in helicopter gunships.”

  “Is that the Bureau’s official stand on this matter?” Ron asked.

  “No. But it’s mine.”

  * * *

  “Kids,” Frank Nichols said to
his children, “I had a devil of a time just getting in to see you.”

  The brother and sister sat at the table in the psychiatric ward of the hospital and stared at their father.

  “I’m trying to get you kids out of here. You didn’t help your case much by running off like you did.”

  “Where is our mother?” Claudia asked.

  “I don’t know. Still in the wilderness area, I guess.”

  “We’ve committed no crime,” Rory said. “The police have no right to hold us here.”

  “I know. I pointed that out to them. It’s a trying time for us all, believe me.”

  “The government is detaining people all over the country,” the young woman said. “Just because we have tribe blood in us. That’s not right.”

  “I’m trying to get you out, Claudia. I’m pulling every string I know how to pull. I should know something very shortly.”

  “How shortly?” Rory asked.

  “Within minutes. I just spoke with Senator Martin. He was optimistic. But why did you run away?”

  Brother and sister exchanged glances. The father did not pick up on the furtiveness in the look. Claudia said, “Because cops with guns came looking for us. They scared us, that’s why. We knew we hadn’t done anything wrong; it was a perfectly normal reaction.”

  Frank patted her hand. “I understand.”

  The door behind him was unlocked, and a man stepped into the room. “Mr. Nichols? You can take them home with you. I just got the okay to release them. Sorry for the inconvenience, kids. I hope you understand.”

  “Oh, we understand,” Claudia said. “Believe me, we do.”

  The doctor smiled and winked at her. His eyes were a strange brown tinted with yellow.

  Frank pulled up into the drive of the expensive home. The garage doors opened automatically. He pulled the Mercedes inside, and the doors closed behind them. He turned in the seat to smile at Claudia in the backseat, and Rory drove stiffened fingers into his father’s throat. Claudia reached out and grabbed her father’s head, her fingers ripping into his eyes while Rory tore out Frank’s throat.

  Frank Nichols, Denver graduating class of 1967, husband of Cathy and father of Claudia and Rory, gurgled and made funny little red spit bubbles as his blood drained from the hideous neck wound. His darling Claudia, the apple of his eye, leaned over the seat and sucked greedily at her father’s blood. Rory shoved her out of the way, began cutting Frank’s suit coat and shirt from him with a pocket knife, and then proceeded to carve them both a bloody meat treat.