Prey (11 page)

Nine A.M. Stormy and Ki were at Will's Grocery & Bait Shop waiting for John Ravenna to make an appearance. They were chatting with Mr. Will and thoroughly enjoying the man's anecdotes and background on the area. He had told them stories about how rowdy Chief Monroe had been in his youth, and how Sheriff Salter had been no angel while growing up.

“I think men who were about half-rogue while growin' up make the best cops,” Will said. “They know firsthand the pitfalls of standin' too close to lawlessness and what it can lead to.”

“Don't men like that tend to overreact in any situation that turns violent?” Stormy asked.

Will shook his head. “No. At least that's been my experience. You take men who grew up dependin' on their wits and their fists to survive, they can see trouble buildin' and head it off.” Mr. Will shifted his gaze to the outside. “Company's comin'.”

“My God,” Stormy whispered. “That's Robert Roche!”

Even Mr. Will was impressed.
“The
Robert Roche? The richest man in the world?”

“One of the richest. In the top five, at least. Maybe higher.”

“He was in here yesterday, buyin' bait and such. I should have recognized him. I must be gettin' senile.”

Ki smiled and put a hand on his arm. “You've always seen pictures of him in a business suit and shirt and tie. The way he's dressed now, he looks like a farmer.” She glanced at Stormy. “You want me to start shooting him now?”

“Now wait just a minute, ladies!” Mr. Will blurted, alarm in his voice.

Stormy laughed. “With a camera, Mr. Will. Relax.”

“Oh,” the store owner said, relief evident.

Stormy shook her head. “No. Hold off. Let's try to get on his good side. After all, he is our boss, in a way.”

Robert Roche recognized Stormy immediately and was all smiles and cordiality. “Ladies!” he said, taking the hand of each. “How good to see you. I knew you were in the area, covering the Speaker's visit. I've been making inquiries as to where you were staying.”

“Oh?” Stormy said.

“Yes. I'm planning a little informal get-together for the Speaker. I wanted to invite you both, and gentlemen friends of yours, too.” He smiled at Stormy. “I knew you were here, of course. I won't take no for an answer. You see, I know your little secret, Ms. Knight.”

“What little secret, Mr. Roche?”

Robert leaned close. He smelled of very expensive cologne. “The mystery man in your life, Stormy. Your secret love. You really didn't think you could keep something like that quiet for very long, now, did you? Besides, I've already included your names on the guest list. It will have to be given to the FBI for them to look at. But then, none of us has anything to hide, now, do we?”

Ki looked at her friend in amazement. As long as they had known each other, this was the first time she had ever seen Stormy rattled.

“Ah, why, ah, no. Of course not,” Stormy finally managed to mutter.

“Of course you don't. That's settled then.” The billionaire smiled, but his eyes were as hard as flint. “I'm so looking forward to meeting your gentleman friend,” Robert said. “I know how to get in touch with you; I'll have my aide give you a jingle, ladies. Until then.” He turned away, bought his bait and supplies, and left without another word.

“So you're seein' Barry Cantrell, eh?” Mr. Will said, a twinkle in his eyes.

Stormy sighed. Were there any secrets in this part of the world? “Yes, sir. I am.”

“Barry is a real nice young feller. I like him. Liked him from the git-go.” Again, the man cut his eyes to the front of the store. “But here comes one I don't much cotton to, ladies. This here is John Ravenna pullin' in the drive. And I'd sooner stick my hand into a gunnysack full of rattlesnakes than mess with him. He's a bad one, ladies. I don't know why he's here. But he's up to no good. I'll bet on that.”

Mr. Will introduced Ravenna, and while John was ever the gentleman, both women fought back the urge to recoil from him. The eyes of the man were fish-cold, the voice just too unctuous.

“I do enjoy your reports on the telly, Miss Knight,” John complimented Stormy. “I watch them whenever possible.”

In Ireland? Stormy thought. You must have one hell of a satellite system, buster. “Thank you. ‘Telly' gives you away, Mr. Ravenna. England, perhaps?”

“Ireland, actually. But I do spend a great deal of time in London. Business, you know?”

Killing business, the words jumped into Stormy's head. “I have an idea, Mr. Ravenna. I'd like to do what we call a human interest story. An Irishman's views on America.”

Stormy watched Ravenna's eyes change from ugly to awful. But the smile never left his lips. “An interview, Miss Knight? I'll certainly give that some thought. Yes. I really will.”

John Ravenna bought a pack of cigarettes and left the store without another word. But his back was stiff with anger.

“I ain't the most brilliant feller in the world, Miss Knight,” Mr. Will remarked, “but I do know this: you just made a bad enemy there.”

“Yes,” Stormy said softly. “I believe I did.”

* * *

“Feds were damn firm in what they want from us,” Chief Monroe said to Sheriff Salter.

“Yes. And?”

“They can go suck eggs, far as I'm concerned. You heard me tell them that Jim Beal's bunch is not involved in this thing and I won't give them a list of people I think are part of his AFB. You know damn well they've got a snitch in that group, and we both know it's Wesley Parren. I don't know about you, but I don't blame Wesley for rollin' over for the feds. Hell, the IRS had him bent over a barrel with his pants down around his ankles and were fixin' to stick it to him. Poor guy had no choice in the matter. Goddamn government.”

Don said nothing. He did not want to start the chief off on the government, even though he pretty much agreed with him.

When Russ saw that Don was not going to take any bait, he asked, “How about this John Ravenna?”

“I gave the feds his name, and they said they'd check him out. But they didn't seem too excited about it; said they'd get back to me.”

“Don't hold your breath until they do. If the people out of the Little Rock office were handling this, they'd work with us. But these are back east feds. And to tell you the truth, I don't think they really trust us, Don.”

Don said nothing. He sat and stared off into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes.

“What's wrong with you, Don?” the chief asked, after a moment of silence. “You've been actin' odd since yesterday afternoon.”

“Just have a lot on my mind, I guess, Russ.” Yeah. Like a man who turns into a wolf right before my eyes, and then tells me he's seven hundred years old. You could say I have a lot on my mind. If I'm not losing it, that is.

“People tell me that Ravenna fellow's a nice guy. A little on the odd side, but nice.”

“That's what I hear,” Don replied. And he's a
thousand
damn years old.

Maybe I am losing my mind.

“You got people on him, don't you, Don?”

“Following every move he makes.” Provided he doesn't pull a Barry Cantrell and change into a goddamned wolf and go loping off into the timber.

“Good. You'll keep me informed?”

“You know I will. Russ? We still have a few red wolves in this area, don't we?”

“Damn few. I haven't heard of a sighting in a long time. Why?”

“How about gray wolves?”

“Wiped out nearly a hundred years ago, so I'm told. I've never seen a timber wolf in the wild. Why all the sudden interest in wolves?”

“Oh, just curious. I wonder if they're as vicious as people claim they are?”

“Not from what I see on the TV.” He chuckled. “You're thinking about those big hybrids of Cantrell's, aren't you?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. They're more than half-wolf; anyone with eyes can see that. Yet I've seen dogs that were a lot more vicious than Pete and Repeat.”

Russ laughed. “Did Cantrell name those hybrids, you reckon?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“Well, the man's sure got a sense of humor. I have to say that.”

After seven hundred years on this earth, he'd better have a good sense of humor, Don thought.

Don's walkie-talkie cracked out his name. He took it out of the leather carrying case attached to his belt and keyed the mike button. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. Ed Simmons, the Speaker's chief aide, and family just picked up the keys to their lake house, Sheriff. Thought you'd like to know.”

“That's ten-four. Thanks.” He turned to Russ. “You heard?”

“I heard. That means Congressman Madison is only a couple of days behind him. I better get all my reserves ready to go.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Those that can take time off from work, that is.”

“I'm gettin' a real bad feelin' about this thing, Don.”

You
are? I've got two men in this area who can't die, and to make matters worse, one is under contract to kill the Speaker of the House. And you've got a bad feeling, Chief? Don nodded his head. “Yeah. I do, too, Russ. A real bad feeling.”

* * *

“So are we going to Robert Roche's little ‘get-toether'?” Stormy asked Barry.

“It would look awfully odd if we didn't. Sure, we'll go.”

“That place is going to be swarming with federal agents,” Ki reminded him. “As soon as Roche turns that guest list over to the feds, your life is going to get very interesting.”

Barry smiled. “My life has been interesting since about 1315, Ki. But you're right. I've never really faced modern technology before. Not to this extent. I have a hunch Roche has already turned that list in to the feds. He probably did it before he talked to you. One doesn't get to be worth billions of dollars without having the ability to stay one step ahead of everybody else, all the time. I'm thinking that Robert Roche planned all this very carefully.”

“It's time to go public, Barry,” Stormy urged. “Time to stop running.”

He shook his head. “Not just yet. Oh, if I thought my doing that would throw a kink into this planned assassination, I would do it without hesitation. But my going public would only cause more confusion in this area, at a time when it's least needed. Within twenty-four hours after the announcement, there would be a thousand or more reporters in here, from around the world. Plus about ten thousand rubberneckers wandering all over the place and clogging up the highways—with more coming in by the minute. Just think about it for a moment. My God, there would be a traffic jam stretching out for miles in all directions. And we certainly don't need that now.”

“You think the feds are going over that guest list now, Barry?” Stormy asked.

“If Roche has turned it in, and I strongly suspect he has, the feds are scrutinizing that guest list as we speak.”

* * *

“Everybody on this list checks out clean,” Special Agent Van Brocklen said. “Except for this Barry Cantrell.”

“Have you run him?” Special Agent Miller asked.

“As far as I could. I'm checking on his social security number now.”

“Good luck. That might take a week. What else do you have on him?”

“He just moved into the area a few months back and doesn't have a job.”

“So?”

“So why the hell would he be invited to a party at Robert Roche's house?”

“That is a very good question. What did he used to do for a living?”

“I don't know. Like I said, I'm waiting on social security to give me a background.”

“Let's don't wait on them. Go see the local sheriff. The people out of our Little Rock office say he's a real straight-arrow type.”

“On my way.”

“Inspector Van Brocklen?” an agent called, hanging up the phone.

Van Brocklen turned. “Yes?”

“Congressman Madison decided to leave early. He and his wife will be landing in Memphis tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. They'll be here about the middle of the afternoon.”

“Well, that's just friggin' wonderful!” Van Brocklen said. “Why doesn't he make our jobs just a little bit more difficult?”

Special Agent Miller smiled. “Ours is but to serve, Van.”

“Yeah, right,” Van Brocklen said sourly. “You bet.”

Stormy received the call from New York about Congressman Madison's decision to start his vacation early and was advised that Coyote's affiliate in Memphis would cover his landing. She and Ki left to do a prearranged interview with the mayor and the city council.

Barry glanced at the clock on the mantel. Just past noon. He felt in his guts that matters were about to pop wide open in this area, and decided he'd better get ready for it.

He got out his .375 Winchester and carefully cleaned and oiled the lever-action rifle. He propped the rifle in a corner of the bedroom and decided to take the hybrids out for a walk in the woods. At the back door, Barry paused, and reflected for a moment, his expression hardening. Then he returned to the bedroom and picked up the rifle, slipping a few extra rounds into his jeans pocket. The feeling he'd suddenly developed of impending danger was building strong within him. Every fiber of his being was screaming
get out get out.

But he knew he wouldn't do that. He'd already made up his mind he was not running. Not this time. At least not yet.

Barry took the hybrids for a short walk, then put them back into the house and locked the doors. He returned to the woods and began making a slow circle of his property. His highly honed senses rarely failed him, and he was certain they were accurate now: somebody, or some
thing,
was on his property . . . and he, it, or they did not belong here.

He squatted down behind a huge old tree and remained rock-still. His eyes caught a quick flash of movement, a burst of blue denim that was gone as quickly as it came. New blue denim, Barry thought.

Barry did not move a muscle. He waited. If the person was a hunter, he was poaching, for no season was open. And Barry hated poachers.

Moments later, he spotted the flash of blue again. It was much closer to his location. Barry slowly laid the rifle on the ground and tensed his leg muscles, ready to jump. The person came closer until he was only a few yards from Barry's position. Barry emerged from concealment in a burst of motion. He slammed into the man, knocking the intruder sprawling on the ground. He jerked the man to his feet and stopped his right fist just a split second before he made contact.

Only it wasn't a man.

It was a woman. Her cap had fallen off, spilling a shock of auburn hair. Barry stared at her in amazement for a few seconds. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he blocked the move. He gave her a hard shove, and she landed on her butt, on the ground. She cussed him and reached for the pistol holstered at her side. Barry none too gently kicked the autoloader from her hand. The gun went sailing off into the brush.

“Oww!” she hollered, her eyes flashing anger. “That hurt, you son of a bitch!”

“It isn't nice to point guns at people, lady. Who are you and what the hell are you doing skulking about on my property?”

“I wasn't skulking!”

“Yes, you were. And you aren't a very good skulker either. Now get up and behave yourself.”

The very attractive lady slowly rose from the ground and brushed herself off. “I'm Susan Green, United States Secret Service. You're in big trouble, mister.”

“That's crap!” Barry popped right back. “You were the one trespassing on posted property. Let me see some identification.”

The woman took a leather case from her back pocket and did the famous federal badge flip. Before the two leather halves could meet, Barry jerked the case from her hand and looked at it.

“Well, it looks genuine,” Barry conceded, handing the leather folder to her. “What the hell are you doing here, lady?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Really? Well, I understand. I guess you were inspecting these old nuclear missile silos on my place.”

That shook the woman, widening her eyes. She looked all around her. “What nuclear missile silos?” Then she saw the grin playing around Barry's mouth, and that put a disgusted look on her face.

“Gotcha, didn't I?”

“Very funny, Mr. Cantrell. Cute.”

“You know my name.”

“And that's about all I know.”

“Does that make me a criminal, Ms. Green?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, obviously it makes me some sort of suspect about something or you wouldn't have been snooping around my property.”

The woman said nothing in reply. Barry stared at her for a moment. She was dressed all in denim: blue jeans and cowgirl shirt with pearl snaps in place of buttons. Auburn hair cut fairly short. Hazel eyes. He guessed her in her late twenties. Very pretty. Very well endowed.

She met his gaze for a moment, then suddenly flushed in embarrassment.

“I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Ms. Green. Forgive me. But you are a very pretty lady.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cantrell.”

“Call me Barry, please. Look . . . let's go up to the house where it's cool. I'll get you a soft drink or water or coffee and we'll talk. I'll answer any question you might have. How about it?”

Susan opened her mouth to speak just as Barry twisted around at the sound of a faint click from the woods around them. Susan turned just as a rifle slammed, the bullet passing between the man and woman. If Susan had not turned with Barry, she would have caught the bullet in her chest. Barry threw himself against the woman and rode her down to the ground.

“Next time, you federal cunt!” the voice ripped out of the deep timber. “Remember Waco and Ruby Ridge!”

The woods fell silent. Barry scrambled over to where Susan's pistol had hit the ground, scooped it up, and tossed it to her. They both knelt on the ground, listening intently. But whoever had fired the shot was gone as silently as they had come.

“You'll want to call this in,” Barry said, still kneeling. “I have a phone in my house.”

“I would hope so,” the Secret Service woman said drily. “Most people do.”

Barry grinned and helped her to her feet. Susan's face was flushed, but other than that, she showed no signs of being very shaken. “You've been shot at before.”

“Just one other time. A gunfight isn't very pleasant.”

Neither is a battle with spears, lances, swords, or bows and arrows, Barry thought.

“Where is your car?” Barry asked her.

“Parked on a gravel road over that ridge,” Susan said, pointing. “Why?”

“I'll make a bet you've got four flat tires, among other damage.”

“No bet, Mr. Cantrell.” She took a small transceiver from a belt pouch, inserted a tiny plug into her ear, and called in. She spoke only for a few seconds, then listened. “They'll meet us at your house,” she said. “Now, I'll take you up on that offer of something cold to drink.”

“You're not going to pursue the attacker, Ms. Green?”

She shook her head. “There are people throwing up a cordon around this area now.” And she would say no more.

A few minutes after they arrived at the house, two cars pulled up and three men got out of each one. Barry left Susan inside with Pete and Repeat and opened the sidewalk gate, waving the men inside. They did not offer to shake hands and neither did Barry. They didn't smile, either.

“You boys take life entirely too seriously,” Barry told the six agents. “Lighten up, you'll live longer.”

“Thank you for the health tip, Mr. Cantrell,” one said, walking toward the house.

“You're welcome.”

“Is Agent Green all right?” another asked.

“She's fine. She's inside, playing with my dogs. And speaking of my dogs, don't make any sudden moves until they get a chance to sniff you and see that you're not here to harm me or them.”

“Those big bastards move toward me and they're dead dogs,” an agent wearing a very surly expression popped off.

Barry had sized that one up as an iron pumper; his neck was about the same size as his head. Which, under a thick mop of hair probably came to a point, Barry concluded.

“And should that happen,” Barry told him, stopping the walk toward the house and facing the government agent, “I can guarantee you that you will be dead approximately two seconds later.”

“Are you threatening me?” the agent almost shouted the question.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Barry replied in much softer tones.

The mouthy agent opened his trap to retort, and an older man said, “Close your mouth, Ray. You're out of line.”

“I don't have to take that kind of crap from—”

“Shut up, Jones!”

“Yes, sir,” Ray said.

“What a fun afternoon this is going to be,” Barry said, stepping up on the porch and opening the door. “My tax dollars at work are coming in, Susan. Pete and Repeat, stay.”

Barry had cut his eyes to the older man, and saw a small smile play at the corners of his mouth and a twinkle spring into his eyes at Barry's words.

The hybrids sniffed the men, then, at Barry's command, went out into the fenced backyard. But Barry could tell that both hybrids had taken an instant dislike to Agent Jones.

He could certainly understand why the dogs reached that decision. So far, there wasn't very much about Agent Jones to like.

The older man took Susan off to one side and spoke in low tones for a moment; then they rejoined the group, taking seats.

“Sorry for any inconvenience we've caused you, Mr. Cantrell,” the older man said. “Let me assure you that you have not been singled out. As a matter of precaution, we're checking out a number of people in this area.” He stuck out a hand. “I'm Chet Robbins, Secret Service.”

Barry took the hand; then Chet began introducing the others. One name jumped out at him: Special Agent Don Branon. Branon had been one of the agents in Idaho who had come in after the rogue agents, and the man was studying Barry with a very careful and critical eye, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Found anything interesting about me, Agent Robbins?” Barry asked.

“We can't find out much about you at all, Mr. Cantrell,” the senior Secret Service man said. “That's really why we're here.”

“Maybe there isn't very much
to
find out, Agent Robbins. I live a very quiet life. My grandfather left me with a small inheritance, and I get by on that.” He gave them the name of the San Francisco law firm that handled his estate. “Would you like for me to call them and clear the way for you to check me out?”

“Oh, that won't be necessary,” Chet said evenly. “But it's kind of you to offer.”

“Anything to help.” Barry met the eyes of all the agents sitting in his living room. He could not understand why they all seemed so unconcerned about the shooting.

As if reading his mind, Chet said, “This area has been sealed off, Mr. Cantrell. Not that it will do us much good. I'm sure the person who shot at either you or Agent Green—and that has not yet been determined—is long gone. The thing that bothers us is this: how did they know Susan would be here, and how did they know Susan was a federal agent?”

“I'm sure I don't know the answer to either question.”

Chet stared at Barry for a moment. “Perhaps,” he finally said.

Barry shrugged his shoulders. He didn't really give a good goddamn whether the federal agent believed him or not. He'd been questioned by agents of kings, queens, princes and princesses, potentates, Indian chiefs, premiers, prime ministers, presidents, and every type of royalty in between. None of them had been able to intimidate him.

“The sheriff tells us you moved here from Idaho, Mr. Cantrell,” Special Agent Branon said. “What part of the state?”

Barry smiled. “The part where all the action took place last year. It got just a little bit noisy around there for me.”

“How come your name never came up from any of the teams who went in there?” Branon questioned. “Everybody who lived in that area was questioned.”

Barry smiled. “Friend, you people didn't talk to one tenth of the folks who live in there. People move into the wilderness to avoid human contact.”

To Barry's surprise, Branon nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah, you're probably right about that. That op was a screwup from the word ‘Go.' ”

Chet put a hand to the plug in his ear and then lifted his handy-talkie and keyed the talk button. “All right. That's about what we expected. I'll be around there in a few.” He turned to the room full of agents. “The shooter slipped out before our people could get into place. No surprise there. But we do have some good boot prints we're casting now, as well as some tire tracks. We could get lucky there, but I wouldn't count on it. We'll call a garage to tow your car in, Susan. It's got four flat tires.”

Susan Green said several very ugly words, and the other agents laughed.

“I didn't hear any vehicle leave,” Barry said.

“Neither did I,” Susan added.

Chet shook his head. “The tire tracks probably don't belong to the shooter. But he could have been there earlier checking out the area. A team is coming in now to try to find the slug.”

“Good luck,” an agent said softly.

Chet cut his eyes to Barry. “May I use your phone to make a credit card call, Mr. Cantrell?”

“Of course. There is a jack in the kitchen if you'd like more privacy.”

“Someone pulling up outside,” Branon said, glancing out the window.

“Stormy,” Barry said.

“Stormy?” Chet questioned.

“Stormy Knight. The reporter.”

“No kidding?” Agent Jones said. “What's she doing here?”