Prey (10 page)

The sheriff fainted.

The thunderstorm rolled into the area just as Stormy and Ki were leaving the headquarters of the Arkansas Freedom Brigade. It began with a wicked, jagged slash of lightning followed by an earthshaking roar of thunder. Then the rains came, so hard and heavy Stormy could not see to drive. She pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, turned on the emergency flashers, and sat it out.

“What do you think about Jim Beal?” Ki asked, raising her voice to be heard over the fat, drumming raindrops on the roof of the car.

“Well, he's no raving nut,” Stormy cautiously replied. Ki was superconservative on most issues, the exception being her belief in a woman's right to choose and animal rights. Even after working together as long as they had, Stormy really did not know Ki's feelings on the race issue. She did know that Ki was opposed to welfare except for the very old and the very young, felt that the Department of Housing and Urban Development, among others, should be done away with, and did not believe in affirmative action.

“Nice safe reply, Stormy,” Ki said with a grin. “I'm anxious to go back for the second part of the interview.”

“You don't agree with Jim Beal, do you?”

Ki shook her head. “Not entirely. But he makes just enough sense about some issues to be viable.”

The rain slacked off just as suddenly as the deluge had begun and Stormy pulled back out onto the road.

“Where are we heading now?” Ki asked.

“Nellie's cafe for a sandwich. Both Don and Barry said the food was good.”

“What was Barry going to do today? Did he say?”

“He was going out to see John Ravenna. After that, I don't know.”

“How are we going to handle what Beal said about the assassination?”

“Just like porcupines make love—carefully!”

* * *

Barry stretched the sheriff out on the couch and dampened a cloth, then placed it on his forehead, though he knew there was no medical evidence that that action did any good. Then he cleaned up the broken glass, and a couple of swipes with a mop cleared away the spilled iced tea. Barry filled another glass with ice and water, set it on the coffee table for Don to drink when he woke up, then sat down in his chair and waited until Don opened his eyes.

The sheriff was out for only a few moments. He groaned, opened his eyes, and sat up. He stared at Barry through totally confused eyes. “That was the damndest trick I've ever seen, Barry,” Don croaked. He picked up the glass of ice water and drank half of it.

“No trick, Don.”

The sheriff stared at Barry for a moment, then drained his glass. He set the glass down carefully on a coaster. “What the hell do you mean, no trick? Of course it was a trick. An illusion.”

“No trick,” Barry repeated. “What you saw was real.”

Don opened his mouth, but no words came out. He cleared his throat, shook his head, and whispered, “What are you trying to tell me?”

“The Indians call it shape-shifting. And I am not alone in the ability to do that. But that's only a part of it. I'm immortal, Don. And I am not alone on this earth. John Ravenna is an immortal, too. He's here to kill the Speaker of the House.”

“Shape-shifter!” the sheriff blurted out the word. “Immortal? What you are is crazy, man! You're nuts!”

Barry smiled and said nothing.

Don rose from the couch, swayed unsteadily for a few seconds, then sat down. “I'm dreaming all this. It's just a dream. It isn't real.”

“It's real, Don. I can assure you of that. I've been living it for nearly seven hundred years.”

Don stared at him. He was unable to speak.

* * *

“How quaint,” Robert Roche remarked drily, standing in the den of the house he had rented on the lake. His bodyguards, aides, and other staff members were housed in the cabins on either side of the larger house. The sudden storm had blown on east, the sky clear.

“It's the best rental property on the lake, sir,” one of the aides said.

“It will do just fine,” Robert replied in a civil tone, which was rare for him when dealing with subordinates. He turned to another aide. “Lay out my rustic clothing and get the boat ready. I want to go fishing for a time. It's been years.”

“Ah, sir?”

Roche cut his eyes. “What is it?”

“Do you have a fishing license, sir?”

Robert pursed his lips in momentary anger. His fault. He could not blame others for his oversight. “No. I do not. Thank you for reminding me. After I have changed clothes we'll drive down to that little country store we passed on the way in. Will's Grocery and Bait Shop I believe the sign read.”

“Then we'll go fishing,” the aide said.

Robert looked at him. “No . . . then I shall go fishing.”

* * *

“I don't know if this means anything or not,” the chief of the White House detail of Secret Service said to the president. “But Robert Roche has rented a lake house about a mile from where Congressman Madison and his wife will be staying.”

President Hutton leaned back in his chair and thought for a few seconds. “The richest man in the world, practically a recluse for years, suddenly decides to break out of his protected ivory tower and go fishing at the same time Cliff is in the area. What do you think?”

“I think it is no coincidence, Mr. President.”

“Neither do I. Check it out very closely.”

“Yes, sir. I've got people standing by right now. Sir?”

“What?”

“You recall a couple of years ago, all that trouble out in Idaho?”

“Which incident?” the president asked only slightly sarcastically.

“The survivalists, the hippies, the press.”

“How could I ever possibly forget it? It cost my predecessor his job, spawned the Coyote Network, and almost caused a damn armed revolt in this nation. Yes, I remember it well.”

“The man who would not die.”

“The what?”

“The man who would not die. That was the story Stormy Knight was chasing in the wilderness.”

“What about it?”

“Well, I have information that, ah, the Company has placed a person high up in the Coyote Network . . .”

“Shit!” President Hutton blurted. “Goddammit, they
know
better than that! Are those goddamn people ever going to learn?” He slowly shook his head. “Go on.

“The story is true.”

“Well, I don't doubt it. I wouldn't put anything past the Pickle Factory.”

“No, sir. I'm talking about the man who would not die. He's real.”

The president fixed the man with a very jaundiced look. “Walt, have you been drinking?”

“No, sir. The Bureau turned the CIA plant. He'll be through at Coyote the next time he's polygraphed. But the Bureau has him until then. He confirms the story is true. The man going by the name of Darry Ransom is about seven hundred years old. He's an immortal and a shape-shifter.”

President Hutton opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Tylenol
^®
, shaking out a couple of caplets. “I have suddenly developed a headache.” He popped the caplets into his mouth, drank half a glass of water, then rose from his chair, placed both hands on his desk and shouted, “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes,” the Secret Service man replied.

The president sat down heavily. “I'm afraid to ask where you think this man might be living, hiding out, whatever.”

“In North Arkansas.”

“Why does that not come as any surprise to me?” He sighed. “Let's assume for the moment that this man who would not die is real, which I strongly doubt. Does
he
have something to do with this planned assassination?”

“No, sir. The Bureau doesn't think so. They think he's screwing Stormy Knight.”

The president muttered something inaudible. He lifted his eyes. “Walt, I am not interested in a seven-hundred-year-old man's sexual escapades. Jesus H. Christ! What am I saying! All right, all right. What do you propose to do about this rumor of a”—he grimaced—“ man who would not die?”

“Check it out, sir.”

“I assume you already have people in there doing just that?”

“Yes, sir. Well, they'll be in place in a matter of hours.”

“You be sure and keep me informed about this . . . ancient paramour.”

“Yes, sir. I'll do that.”

The Secret Service man left the Oval Office, quietly closing the door behind him. President Hutton shook his head, cleared his throat, and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Shit!” he said.

* * *

Sheriff Don Salter was still badly shaken, but gradually growing calmer as Barry spoke to him. At Don's request, Barry had made a pot of coffee. When the hard rain started, the hybrids had come into the house and were now stretched out on the floor.

Don pointed to the pair of husky-wolf mix. “Do they know about . . . ah, you? I mean . . . ?”

“I know what you mean. Yes. You know anything about wolves?”

“Only what I see on the TV. Are you the alpha male?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus!”

Barry smiled. “I never met Him. I'm not that old.”

Don did not see the humor in the remark. “I don't know whether to believe any of this, or not. Part of me still thinks you are one hell of an illusionist.”

“Then believe this, Don: John Ravenna is here to kill Cliff Madison.”

“You told me that. But you don't have any proof. I can't go out and arrest somebody without some evidence to back it up.”

“You could put him under surveillance.”

“I plan on doing that. Tell me, if I went to the FBI with what you've told me, would you back me up?”

“You think they would believe me?”

The sheriff sighed, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “Hell, I'm not sure I believe it!”

“There you have it.”

“Does Ms. Knight know about, ah, your age and ability to, ah, do what you do?”

“Yes. And so does Ki.”

“Jesus & George Washington!”

“The latter I did know. Very nice gentleman. Contrary to what many historians have written about him, he had a fine sense of humor. Did you know that John Hancock was very jealous of George? It's true. Hancock was furious when George was elected commander in chief of the colonies' military. There were rumors that Hancock even thought of a duel between them. Of course, that never came to be.”

Don sighed. “Thank you for the history lesson, Barry.”

“You're welcome.”

Don stood up to pace the room for a moment, then walked to the phone and punched out his office number. He spoke with his chief deputy and ordered a tight twenty-four-hour surveillance put on John Ravenna.

“Of course, John will immediately pick up on the tail,” Barry said. “And when he wants to, he'll lose your people. He's also a shape-changer.”

“Into a wolf?”

“Something like that.” Barry spoke through a small smile.

“How long has the man been an assassin?”

“About a thousand years.”

“I'm sorry I asked,” Don muttered. He cleared his throat. “I suppose Ravenna has been responsible for the deaths of many heads of state?”

“Most of them.”

“Did he kill John Kennedy?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Oswald?”

But Barry would only smile.

“Doesn't matter,” Don said, once more rising to pace the room. “I've got to alert Chief Monroe, and I have to tell the FBI and the Secret Service about Ravenna. So I'll tell them it was an anonymous tip. Phone call. How carefully built is Ravenna's background; how much digging could it stand?”

“John has been using a variation of Ravanna for over a hundred years. I know he was living in England before moving to Ireland. He worked for the Nazis during World War II. He was in Spain prior to that. He is a brilliant man. His background could probably stand any check Interpol might give it.”

Don sat down on the couch and drank what was left of his cooling coffee. “The State Department could kick him out of the country.”

“On what charge? He hasn't done anything.”

“Well, dammit, Barry, somebody has to do
something!
The man is here to assassinate a member of Congress; the Speaker of the House.”

“When the time comes, I'll stop him, Don.”

“How? If the man is, ah, like you, how will you stop him?”

“I'll think of something.”

The sheriff shook his head. “I can't risk it, Barry. I have to go to the Bureau with this information.”

Barry shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Go tell them. John is expecting a crowd. It will just be more of a challenge to him, and he loves a challenge.”

“Where will you be?”

“Around. Here and there.”

“This area is already filling up with feds. By this time tomorrow, every other person will be a fed. Aren't you worried about that?”

“No. I'm used to being hunted. I've lived with it for a very long time.”

“Don't you get tired of it all?”

For just a quick moment, Barry's face showed the strain of centuries past; then it was gone. “After seven hundred years, Don? Why in the world would you ask that?”

“I think all hell is about to pop around here, Barry,” Stormy said. She and Ki had pulled in a few minutes after the sheriff left and told Barry what Jim Beal had said, after getting his promise that Beal's name would not be mentioned in connection with it. “We passed the sheriff on the way in, and he had a very grim expression on his face.”

“I leveled with him. Told him everything.” Barry smiled. “And showed him.”

Ki laughed. “What was his reaction?”

“He fainted. But I'm still not sure he believes what I told him about my life. A part of him still thinks I'm some sort of master illusionist.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Stormy said.

“I have an idea,” Ki said, a wide grin on her face.

Stormy and Barry looked at her.

“Let's interview John Ravenna!”

Stormy smiled. “Sure. Get a foreigner's impression of America.” She looked at Barry. “What do you think?”

“You can try. But I doubt that John will grant you an interview.”

“But we'd still have his face on film,” Ki said.

“It's dangerous, Stormy. John knows that we're a bit more than friends.”

“Oh, we wouldn't go to his house. We could wait at that little country store out by the lake.”

Barry nodded his head. “That would be much safer. And Mr. Will would get a kick out of it. I'll drive out tomorrow and talk to him. But I'm sure he'll go along with it.”

“What do we do now?” Ki asked.

“Wait,” Barry said.

* * *

There were still motel rooms to be had in the town by the lake, but not many. Federal agents had flooded into the area: FBI, Secret Service, federal marshals, and BATF. Undercover agents from the Arkansas State Police had converged on the town. Unknown to the others, agents from the National Security Agency and Central Intelligence Agency had also quietly arrived in the area.

It would be only a matter of hours before they would start falling all over each other.

Ed Simmons, the Speaker's chief aide, and his wife, Emily, were on the road and just a day away from the resort area.

Alex Tarver, leader of the local gang of skinheads, had applied to the city for a march permit and had been turned down. “Screw you, too,” Alex said to the woman at the front desk, flipping her the bird.

“I'll have you put in jail, you freak!” she shouted at him.

“Yeah? And you'll shit if you eat regular,” Alex popped right back, quickly moving out the door before the cops arrived to haul him off to the pokey. Permit or no permit, Alex planned to lead his people on a march when Congressman Madison arrived in town.

Vic Radford also applied for a march and rally permit, and he, too, was turned down.

“By God!” Vic shouted to the mayor. “It's a free country and we'll march whether you like it or not.”

“Go to hell, Vic,” the mayor told him.

“Asshole!” Vic replied.

Leroy Jim Bob “Bubba” Bordelon, chief klucker of the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan and all-around jerk, appeared at city hall for a permit to march.

“Good God, no!” the town council said.

“We'll march anyways,” Bubba said. “Hell with you people. I got to get my robe out of the cleaners.”

Shortly after Bubba had departed, Mohammed Abudu X (known to most as Willie Washington), self-appointed spiritual leader of the local chapter of the Back to Africa movement, also showed up at city hall for a parade and rally permit.

“You have got to be kidding!” the mayor blurted, eyeballing Mohammed.

Mohammed aka Willie was dressed in an orange, ankle-length robe, funky little round neat hat that absolutely defied description, and sandals. He was toting a large staff.

“We are the children of the sun,” Mohammed proclaimed. “We shall march.” He whirled around and stomped regally out of the meeting room, dragging his staff, which weighed about fifteen pounds.

“There's gonna be a goddamn riot,” one of the town council predicted. “We've got the skinheads, Vic Radford's goofy bunch, the KKK, and now Willie.”

No one really wanted to mention Jim Beal's Arkansas Freedom Brigade because two of the city council members belonged to it. But a city councilwoman finally, reluctantly, did bring it up before the board.

“No,” the council president said. “Jim and his bunch won't march. I spoke with Jim soon after we learned of the Speakers visit, and Jim said his people would keep a very low profile. Jim will keep his word.”

“It isn't Jim that worries me,” another council member said. “Jim has strong views, but he isn't a hater. It's Vic and Willie, I mean Mohammed, whatever the hell his name is, and those damn skinheads. I heard that Willie is bringing in a whole bus load of Black Muslims from Little Rock. There is going to be trouble, people. Bet on it.”

“Mohammed won't start it.” Another council member spoke. “I don't like him, but I have to say he's not a troublemaker.”

“That's not the point. Why did he ever come back here and bring those others with him?” the question was tossed out. “He was about fifteen years old when his family moved away to Little Rock. Why come back here?”

“Because he wasn't treated very nicely when he did live here.” Sheriff Don Salter spoke from the open door to the meeting room.

Chief Monroe stood beside the sheriff. “As a matter of fact, he was treated real crappy, as I recall,” the chief said. “Vic Radford sicced his boy on Willie. Whipped him bad.”

“While a number of other boys stood around and cheered young Carl Radford on,” Don added.

“I remember that,” a woman council member said. “Willie got hurt pretty bad, didn't he?”

“Busted jaw, several broken ribs, broken arm and hand,” Chief Monroe said, as he and Don walked up the center aisle and took seats in front of the council bench.

“Well, I seem to recall that this town took up a collection to pay the boy's hospital expenses,” a councilman said. “That should have squared accounts. But no. Ten years later he comes back here dressed up like some African chief and starts stirrin' up trouble with the county's nigras.”

Don smiled. “What does he have, Pete? Eight or ten members of that mosque. No more than that. And what trouble has he caused?”

“Mosque?” one woman blurted. “That's an old filling station.”

Chief Monroe chuckled. “I recall when I was a boy there was a circuit ridin' preacher made an altar out of an old stump. If Willie wants to call old man Jensen's fillin' station a mosque, I reckon it's a mosque.”

“You gone nigra-lover on us now, Chief?”

Russ Monroe laughed. “That's sort of a stupid question, Mathilda. But I'll answer it. No, I haven't gone nigra-lover. My feelin's toward blacks haven't changed . . . at least not much, they haven't. I just don't want trouble in this town. But trouble is what we're gonna get when all these factions come together: So we'd better brace for it.”

“Town is fillin' up, for a fact,” another member spoke. “Unusually so. I don't know if anyone else has noticed it, but I have. What's goin' on, Chief, Sheriff?”

“What's going on is a matter of national security.” The voice spoke from the door to the chambers.

Don and Russ twisted in their seats. The council members looked up. Four people stood just inside the council room. Three men and one woman. They held up ID cases.

“FBI,” two said.

“Secret Service,” the other two said.

“And away we go,” Sheriff Salter muttered.

* * *

Barry sat up in bed, alert, all senses working hard. Stormy slept peacefully beside him. Pete and Repeat were asleep on the floor. It was 4:30
A.M.
Barry slipped from bed and tugged on jeans, moccasins, and shirt, and padded silently from the bedroom, letting Stormy sleep. The hybrids rose and followed Barry. He closed the door behind him so whatever slight noise he might make would not disturb Stormy.

He let the hybrids out to relieve themselves, and while they were out, he made a pot of coffee. While the coffee was dripping, Barry stepped out the back door to stand for a moment in the warm early morning air. He did not know what had awakened him, except that it was not caused by danger. Pete and Repeat were calmly sitting on the porch; had there been an intruder, the big hybrids would be anything but calm. The early morning was bright with stars.

Waiting for the coffee to brew, Barry sat down on the back steps. While he slept, his mind had been busy. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to bring in John Ravenna. Who? Organized crime? Maybe. But for some reason he could not readily explain, Barry doubted that. While he had absolutely no basis for his suspicions and ultimate conclusion, Barry believed this planned assassination to be totally political.

Barry hated politics. He had lived under just about all forms of government, and had found that in the end, very few of them were worth a damn. Power corrupted and politicians would inevitably lie, disregard their constituents, and vote a straight party line, or simply ignore the wishes of the majority of taxpayers. The only thing Barry despised more than politics in general and politicians in particular was the Internal Revenue Service. It was totally out of control, and all the politicians would do about it was blow hot air.

The simplest and best form of government Barry had ever lived under had been during his time with the American Indians. You did not lie, you did not steal, you did not cheat, you did not assault a member of the tribe, and you did not commit murder against a member of the tribe. Do any of those things, and the punishment came down swift, hard and harsh, and in some cases, very final.

Barry poured a mug of coffee and returned to the back porch. All right, he mused, so who has what to gain by the death of Congressman Madison? The party that was not in control of the House and Senate, of course. With the twenty-first century just around the corner, Barry had been forced, for the sake of survival, to keep up with as much technology as possible, and to read up on current politics, as distasteful as the latter was.

He knew that Cliff Madison was an avowed conservative, and many liberals hated him for it. Especially a U.S. senator named Madalaine Bowman—nicknamed Tax and Spend. She had other nicknames, but they were not printable. Senator Bowman was capable of doing anything. She despised the military, despised conservatives, and loved all liberal causes. She had publicly announced that if she had the power to do so, she would outlaw all forms of guns . . . except those in the hands of the police and certain other selected individuals (all of them members of her political party, of course).

Barry also knew that President Hutton, while a Democrat, was a very conservative one, and Madalaine Bowman hated him.

Barry had read, much of it between the lines, that as much as Madalaine hated the president, she hated Cliff Madison a hundred times more intensely. But that was no reason to think she would go so far as to hire an assassin to kill either one. Was it?

Yeah, it was.

Barry would tell Don Salter of his suspicions, and how the sheriff handled it from that point was up to him. But from where Barry sat, the needle of suspicion pointed straight back to Washington.

And, Barry thought with a sigh, he was finished here in this lovely and quiet part of North Arkansas. “If I had any sense, I'd pull out right now,” he muttered.

But he knew he wouldn't do that. He'd take the risk and stick around, see how this thing turned out. He knew he had to stay because Stormy might well be in danger.

Barry sat on the back porch, sipped his steaming coffee and watched as the dark eastern sky gradually began to take on a silver hue. And as the horizon began to shift from dark to light, a germ of suspicion began to worm its way into his mind. He had lived far too long to accept anything at face value, and something about this planned assassination just did not add up. The Speaker of the House was an important man in politics, but killing him would really not alter very much in the day-to-day operation of the House of Representatives. Another member of the majority party would just step in and take over. So other than personal motives, what would be the point?

Barry finished his coffee while mulling over that question in his mind.

Diversion.

Sure. It was so obvious it was elusive.

But if this planned assassination was a smoke screen, then who was the real target?

The president of the United States, of course.

Now things were beginning to fit.

It was common knowledge that VP Adam Thomas and President Hutton did not get along. VP Thomas was a good and close friend of Senator Madalaine Bowman, as was Congressman Calvin Lowe, who would be next in line for the Speaker's position. And then the VP's slot.

“Well, now,” Barry muttered. “Isn't that something?”

But it was all conjecture. No proof.

Barry stood up, a smile curving his lips. No proof—yet!