Prey (16 page)

“I wonder why the relatives of some of the survivors haven't come forward with this story?” Van Brocklen mused aloud. “Survivors of other similar incidents have come forward.”

Chief Monroe shrugged his shoulders. “Stories fade with time. None of the original survivors who could remember it would be alive. Their kids would be at least fifteen or twenty years older than me, and more than likely dead. Hell, the survivors scattered to the wind after that night and were probably afraid to talk about it.”

One of Don's deputies walked into the cafe, looked around, and spotted the sheriff. He quickly walked over to the table. “Sheriff, Chief, gentlemen.”

“You want to sit down and have something to drink, Mark?” Don asked.

“No, sir.” He squatted down and whispered, “Another body was found about an hour ago, Sheriff. Scattered all over the place. It's in worse shape than that escaped convict's body. Although I can't imagine how that could possibly be.”

Don cursed under his breath for a few seconds. “Where?”

“On the north end of Bubba Bordelon's farm. Bubba's hired man found it. He's pretty shook up. Had to call for the EMTs to come out.”

“The coroner been notified?”

“Not yet.”

Don nodded and reached for his hat, then looked at the feds. “You boys coming along?”

“We'll follow you, Sheriff.”

“I'll be going to the house for a few minutes first.” Don glanced at the deputy. “Get in touch with Mr. Hardesty and his hounds. We're going tracking and tree this damn animal. Tell Hardesty we're going to stay out until we find this . . . whatever the hell it is. Tell Steve to take over until I get back. Tell Jess and Davy to get their rifles and pack some food and water for each man—enough for a twenty-four-hour period. Hiking boots and extra socks. Go!”

Bureau and Secret Service stood up; Bureau said, “We'll head back to the motel and change clothes. Meet you . . . where, Don?”

“City limits sign. North end of town by the supermarket.”

“We'll be there.”

In his car, Don used his car phone to call Barry and bring him up to date. “I want you with us, Barry. I think you know what's going on here.”

“Yes, I do. But who would believe me?”

“Well, we're about to find out. No press on this, Barry.”

“Stormy and Ki are gone. Meeting with the Speaker later on today. I'll leave a note telling them I'm helping you on a case.”

“I'll see you in a few minutes.”

“Ten-four, as you professionals say,” Barry replied.

Don hung up before the urge to tell Barry what he could do with his sarcasm became too great.

“This is Phil Unger,” Don said, kneeling down by the body. “Or what's left of him. See the tattoo on his left arm?”

“Where is his other arm?” Inspector Van Brocklen asked.

“We haven't found that yet,” a deputy said. “But we did find his guts. They're over yonder, about fifty yards, under that tree.” He pointed.

“This is a damn shame and a disgrace!” Bubba Bordelon hollered, waving his arms. “I'm gettin' the boys together.”

“You do and I'll put you all in jail, Bubba,” Don told him. “I don't want you nitwits wandering around shooting at everything that moves.”

“
Nitwits!
” Bubba squalled. “Who you callin' a nitwit, you nigger-lovin' son of a bitch!”

Don stood up quickly and faced the Klan leader. “Bubba, you better put a zipper on that mouth of yours and close it up tight.”

“This is my property, Salter! All bought and paid for and legal. You can't tell me what to do on my own property. Phil was my friend, and by God I'm gonna avenge him.”

“Go back to your house, Bubba,” Don told him. “Stay out of the way.”

Bubba stalked off, muttering threats and obscenities.

“Is he dangerous?” Agent Robbins asked. “We have only a very sketchy outline on Bordelon.”

“So far, he and his bunch are all mouth,” Don told the Secret Service man. “But I've always believed he has the potential to turn violent. He's worth keeping an eye on.” Don looked up at Barry. “What about this, Barry?” He pointed to the mangled body.

“Don't touch anything!” The shout came from the middle of the pasture. “Get away from there before you destroy the tracks.”

All heads turned. A half dozen men and women were trooping across the pasture, doing their best to keep from stepping in the cow patties that littered the field.

“What the hell . . . ?” Inspector Van Brocklen muttered.

“I think your archaeologists and animal behavioralists and what have you have arrived,” Barry said.

“Wonderful,” Don said. “They have such great timing.”

A man about five and a half feet tall and about five and a half feet wide huffed to the group of lawmen. “I'm Dr. Waller,” he announced, wiping his face with a large purple bandanna. “From the university. These distinguished ladies and gentlemen with me are the leading experts in our field. They've flown in from various institutions of higher learning all over the United States. From left to right, Doctors Thomas Dekerlegand, Harris Ramsey, Irene Biegelsack, Gladys Dortch, Inez Hopper.”

“A pleasure, I'm sure,” Don said with a long sigh. “I think,” he said under his breath, frowning at Barry's ill-concealed smirk.

“My word!” Dr. Irene Biegelsack blurted, getting her first good look at the body of Phil Unger. “Would you look at that!”

All the Ph.D. types suddenly wanted to crowd closer to the body. Sheriffs deputies held them back.

“Let us finish our work first, ladies and gentlemen,” Don told the group, all of them very ample in size. “Then you may make your examination.”

“I can tell you from the size and depth of those bites, this was not done by any ordinary panther,” Dr. Ramsey said. “And look at those paw tracks. This animal weighs two hundred and fifty pounds, at least.”

“Could we possibly have a mutant here?” Dr. Dortch questioned.

“Oh, quite,” Dr. Hopper said.

“Marvelous!” Dr. Waller cried.

“Wonderful!” Dr. Biegelsack clapped her hands.

“Oh, shit!” Sheriff Salter muttered.

* * *

After the pictures were taken and the deputies concluded their immediate examination, Don left two deputies with the body and walked to the center of the pasture to meet with Mr. Hardesty and his tracking dogs. Just before he left the crime scene, he overheard the Ph.D. types' conversation:

“Definitely caught somewhere in the evolutionary chain.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Not a saber-tooth, but not yet evolved to the present panther form.”

“Quite right.”

“I'm thrilled at this find.”

“I'm absolutely ecstatic.”

“What world do these people live in?” Don asked Agent Robbins.

“The very tight little world of academia,” the Secret Service man replied.

“What the hell language are they speaking?” a deputy asked.

Before anyone could reply, they all looked up at the rattle of several trucks pulling up to the fence line.

“What the hell . . . ?” Don said.

“Rental trucks,” Inspector Van Brocklen said, as about a dozen young men and women began pouring out of the vehicles and dropping the tailgates.

“Those are our assistants,” Dr. Waller said. “They're bringing in our supplies for an extended stay. Also the capture equipment.”

“Capture!” Don blurted.

Dr. Waller looked very offended. “Certainly. What were your plans?”

“To kill the goddamn thing!”

“Barbarian!” Dr. Biegelsack shrieked.

“Unthinkable!” Dr. Dekerlegand wailed.

“Call the president!” Dr. Hopper yelled. “The animal must be taken alive.”

“What president?” Don asked.

“The president of the United States, of course, you ninny!” Dr. Hopper said indignantly. “We were classmates. He'll put a stop to your primitive urgings.”

Barry had backed away from the main group, standing off to one side with a smile on his face.

Van Brocklen looked heavenward. “Just think,” he muttered. “All I ever wanted to do was be a cop in Philadelphia like my daddy.”

“Call Jacques Cousteau!” Dr. Ramsey yelled.

“Call Marlin Perkins!” Dr. Dortch hollered.

Don shook his head in disbelief and walked off to meet with Hardesty and his dogs.

“Who the hell's all them people?” Hardesty asked.

“Scientists.”

“You don't say. What are they scientistin' 'round here?”

“Animal behavior, more or less.”

“Hell, we got both kinds in this part of the state.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two-legged and four-legged. Have they seen Vic Radford yet?”

Don chuckled. “Your dogs rested and ready to go?”

“They're ready. What are we after, Sheriff?”

“A panther.”

“No kidding! Have you kept people away from the tracks?”

“As much as we could. Come on. And ignore whatever the scientists have to say.”

“Hell, I wouldn't know what they was talkin' about no ways.”

Don waved at Barry and the two deputies, Jess and Davy, who would go with him, and the men gathered around the sheriff and the dog handler. The deputies both carried 30-.06 rifles in addition to their side arms. Each had two canteens of water attached to a military-style web waist belt, and each carried a small packet of food. Don strapped on his own gear just as agents Robbins and Van Brocklen joined the group.

Don glanced over at Barry. The man carried neither water nor food and was weaponless. “You're traveling light, Barry. Where is the food and water I gave you?”

“I won't need it.”

“Why?” Robbins asked.

“We won't be out here that long.”

“You seem damn sure of that, Cantrell,” Van Brocklen challenged.

“Just a hunch,” Barry replied evenly.

“Your dogs got the scent, Mr. Hardesty?” Don asked.

“They got it.”

“Is everybody ready?”

“Sheriff, all them kids with nets and such is right behind us,” Hardesty pointed out. “All they got's them tranquilizer guns. And from lookin' at these here tracks, I got to say this is a big son of a bitch we're after, and a mean one. This cat's tasted human blood. He'll prob'ly attack without no warnin'.”

He's been doing that for hundreds of years, Barry thought. But he won't attack us unless he's cornered. That is, unless Jacques has gone completely around the bend.

“They were warned to stay back,” Don said. “I'm on record as advising them to stand clear. I won't nursemaid them. Turn your dogs loose, Mr. Hardesty.”

* * *

“You don't say?” Congressman Madison said, after the aide had interrupted the meeting with Stormy and whispered in his ear. “Lots of excitement around here.”

Ki had cut the camera at Stormy's signal.

“What's going on, sir?” Stormy asked. “If I might ask.”

“Some sort of wild animal attack outside of town. A man has been killed. The sheriff has called for tracking dogs and is out there now. It should be wrapped up quickly.”

Don't bet on that, read the silent glances that passed between Stormy and Ki.

The hounds took off with a bay of excited voices and soon were out of sight. Hardesty, although far from being a young man, loped effortlessly behind them. The other, followed in a fast walk.

“When the baying changes,” Don told the federal men, not knowing if they had ever been a part of anything like this, “we'll know the hounds have something.”

“We've done this before,” Van Brocklen told him.

“Just checking.”

“But it's been a while for me,” Robbins admitted.

Conversation stopped as the men concentrated on maintaining a fast walk through rough terrain. After only a few minutes, the baying of the hounds changed.

“Listen!” Van Brocklen said.

“I heard it,” Don replied. “That's MacFarlane Road just up ahead.”

It took fifteen minutes for the men to cover the distance, and by that time, the baying had stopped altogether.

The lawmen emerged out of the brush on a wide gravel road. Hardesty stood by the road, his dogs back on leashes.

“What the hell . . . ?” Don asked him.

“They lost the scent,” Hardesty told him. “Right over there on that turnaround.” He pointed across the gravel. “I worked the dogs in a wide circle, but they came back to that spot. Judging from the tire tracks, your big cat got in a car and drove off.”

“Somebody trained a cat to do this?” Davy asked.

“Not no cat like this,” Hardesty said. “I been trackin' in ever' state that has panthers and pumas. I ain't never seen no cat the size of this one. This son of a bitch will weigh a good two hundred twenty-five, two hundred fifty pounds. You sure we ain't after a jaguar that got a-loose?”

“Not according to the scientists,” Don said, getting up from a squat and reaching for his walkie-talkie. He keyed the mike. “This is the sheriff. I'm at MacFarlane Road, just to the north of that burned-out old farmhouse. I want a team up here to take some plaster of tire tracks ASAP. We'll secure the area.”

The scientists' assistants, students on their summer break, came panting up with their nets and tranquilizer guns and sized up the scene immediately. One of them lifted a handy-talkie and said, “The cat got away,” while the other young people cheered.

“I swear to God,” Hardesty said, slowly shaking his head. “Young people nowadays ain't got sense enough to pour piss out of a boot.” He looked at Don. “You done with me, Sheriff?”

“If you're sure the scent is gone and not retrievable.”

“I'm sure.”

“Send your bill to my office.”

“I'll shore do that, Sheriff. I'll just follow this road a bit and then cut crost-country to my truck. See you fellers.”

Deputies Davy and Jess were busy keeping the scientists' assistants out of the turnaround while Barry stood aside with the two feds and the sheriff.

“All right, Barry,” Don spoke in low tones. “What's going on here?”

Barry shrugged his shoulders. “You're not going to believe me.”

“Try us.”

“You're chasing a shape-shifter ...”

“Oh, shit!” Inspector Van Brocklen muttered. “More hocus-pocus.”

Agent Robbins said nothing, just stood and stared at Barry, a puzzled look on his face.

“Go on,” Don urged.

“His name is Jacques Cornet. He hates criminals. He's been killing them for centuries. He's . . . well, not entirely sane. He also hates John Ravenna and isn't real fond of me.”

“Ah ...” Agent Robbins was the first to speak, after he cleared his throat. “How old is this, ah, person?”

“Oh, about the same age as John, I suppose.”

“And that would make him . . . ?”

“About a thousand years old.”

Both federal agents sighed heavily with very pained expressions on their faces. “I had to ask,” Robbins muttered.

Van Brocklen lifted his walkie-talkie at a burst of sound. “Go.”

“That info you wanted on that, ah, certain subject, Inspector? The military records back to the Indian wars?”

“Yes.”

“It came back. Just like the man said.”

“Okay. We came up dry on the cat hunt. I'll be in shortly.” He turned to face Barry. “Sergeant Billy Wilson?”

“I was, at one point in my life, yes.”

“Sergeant William Shipman?”

“During the Second World War, yes.”

“Ranger Sergeant Dan Gibson?”

“During the Vietnam War, yes.”

“Son of a bitch!” Van Brocklen swore softly. “This is f'ing incredible.” Then his eyes narrowed. “If any of it's true, that is.”

“It's true. I've leveled with you all the way. I'll do whatever I can to stop these planned assassinations.”

“And then . . . ?” Agent Robbins asked.

“I want to be free to go my own way. I want the government to stop hunting me. I'm tired of being human prey.”

“I don't know if I can guarantee that,” Van Brocklen said.

“But you can try.”

“Yes. I can try.”

Barry smiled and nodded. “That's good enough for me. I used to have a friend back during the First World War who was from Missouri. One of his favorite sayings was ‘try his best' was all a mule could do.”

“Whatever happened to your friend?” Robbins asked.

“He became president of the United States. His name was Harry Truman.”

* * *

Barry returned to the motel with the federal agents to give depositions about himself, John Ravenna and Jacques Cornet, and to call Stormy and Ki for their corroboration of what they knew of his story. Sheriff Salter went with them, after trying to dissuade the scientists and their assistants from staying on the property adjoining Bubba's farm, but to no avail—not even after Bubba told them if he caught any of them on his property he'd take a shotgun to them.

“Cretinous oaf!” Dr. Biegelsack told the Klan leader.

“Fuck you!” Bubba retorted.

“It is my opinion that people who must sprinkle their conversations with the vilest of profanity possess very limited intelligence,” Dr. Dekerlegand told the man.

“Thank you,” Bubba replied.

“Imbecile!” Dekerlegand muttered.

By the time the feds got back to their motel, they had another surprise waiting for them.

“The president has decided to come into Little Rock early,” a Secret Service agent informed Chet Robbins. “This afternoon.”

“What? What the hell for?” Chet hollered the question. “The fund-raising dinner is several days off.”

“The candidate got sick and the fund-raiser was called off.”

“What's the matter with him?”

“Chicken pox.”

“Oh, shit!” Robbins and Van Brocklen said as one voice.

“I suppose,” Van Brocklen said to the agent, “that now you are going to tell me the president is coming up here earlier than scheduled?”

“He'll be here tomorrow afternoon. The first lady is coming in the next day. She and a college friend are going to do some sight-seeing in Little Rock for a day.”

“What the hell is there to see in Little Rock?” Van Brocklen questioned. “A statue of Orval Faubus?”

Chet Robbins turned to Barry. “We'll take your deposition tomorrow, Barry. We're going to be jumping through hoops here for the next twenty-four hours.”

“You know where to find me.”

Barry met Stormy and Ki in the driveway of the motel, and the three of them returned to Barry's house. Seated in the coolness of the living room, Barry told them about the president's early arrival.

“Seems to me that the president is ignoring his security by coming up here at all,” Ki remarked.

“Nothing has happened that directly affects him,” Stormy said.

“Yet,” Barry corrected.

* * *

“Jim has turned into an old woman,” Beal's second in command, Nate Williams, told a gathering of the AFB. “Now is the time to start the second revolution. But all he can do is shake his head and say no.”

Seventy-five out of the AFB's two hundred and fifty members had gathered at Nate's summons. Seventy-five men and women who felt that the time had come to strike, to stand up and show their discontent with the U.S. government.

“How far are you talkin' about us takin' this, Nate?” Clyde Mayfield asked.

“Marching,” Nate responded. No one noticed the ugly gleam in the man's eyes. “That's all. Just marching in the protest parade that's planned.”

Several of the others in the natural amphitheater in the timber exchanged furtive glances and faint smiles at that reply.

“I don't see nothin' wrong with doin' that,” Barbara Ashland said.

“Me, neither,” her husband, Dick, agreed.

The rest of those present began falling into agreement, nodding their heads or vocalizing their assent.

Nate held up a hand for silence. “One more little matter we've got to agree on, people. I have word that Mohammed Abudu X and his people will be armed and looking for trouble . . .”

“That don't come as no surprise to me,” Lenny Ford said.

“Me, neither,” his brother, Leo, said.

“And they'll also have supporters scattered along the march route, on both sides of the streets and roads, and they'll be really armed, ready to hand over rifles to Abudu and his people,” Nate continued. “So, people, I just can't see us being set up for target practice.”

“Black folks will stand out pretty plain in this part of the country,” Nolan Wade said. “We can have people close by ready to jump them should they reach for guns.”

“They won't be black people,” Nate said. “They'll be turncoat whites. People we've called friends and neighbors for years. Government sympathizers.”

“How do you know all this, Nate?” Hugh Morgan asked.

“From Jim's own plants in the Justice Department,” Nate lied. “I seen the note Jim received, just before he destroyed it. He's holdin' back from us. And that ought to tell you all something about Beal.”

“I never did trust that son of a bitch,” Conrad Hastings said.

“Me, neither,” Leon Moore said.

Others in the room began nodding in agreement. Tish Thompson said, “I told you all last year Jim was turnin' soft, didn't I?”

“That's right, Tish,” her friend, Helen Wheeler, said. “You sure did.”

“I 'member that, now,” Roy Blanchard said. “We should have paid attention to you then.”

“So what are we gonna do, Nate?” Stephen Smith asked.

“Several things. First of all, play it real close to the vest,” Nate replied, his eyes burning with a hot fever. “Jim must never know that we've met. Secondly, when you get home, pick out your favorite pistol and clean it up good—preferably a semiauto. When we gather to march, wear loose clothing and have the pistol hidden under your clothing. Have plenty of spare ammo, for when the nigras start their violence—and we all know that's what they're going to do—we've got to be ready to defend our loved ones and country.”

“Damn right!” George Rogers said, considerable heat behind his words.

Mimi Fowler said, “I got me a feelin' that there's more to this than you're tellin' us, Nate. What are you holdin' back?”

Nate took a deep breath. Now for the big lie. This one would either tear his breakaway group apart or weld them solidly together as one like-minded unit. “Jim Beal has been meetin' secretly with Wesley Parren. I been followin' them to their meetin' place out in Nolan's Woods. I don't have to tell none of you what that means. And the third party meetin' with them is that new man in town, Barry Cantrell.”

“I knew it!” Lester Crowson almost yelled the words. “I told y'all when that son of a bitch come to town he was a government plant. Now, didn't I tell you he was?”

After the babble of angry voices had died down, Nate said, “Yes, you did, Les. You did for a fact. And I want to take this opportunity right now to apologize to you for not heedin' your words. I was wrong and you were right.”

“Takes a big man to admit something like that, Nate,” Jeanne Masters said.

“Damn sure does,” Albert Simpson said.

“Aw,” Les said, grinning and ducking his head. “It wasn't nothin'.”

“I believe the time has come for us to stand up and be counted,” Wilfred Wilkes said, rising to his feet. Wilfred was the pastor of the Hand of the Lord NonDenominational Church of the Hills. Most of those present attended his services. Wilfred was also the chaplain of the AFB. Prior to his getting the “Call” and feeling the hand of the Lord touch his skinny shoulders, Wilfred had run a honky-tonk in the Bootheel of Missouri, with several trailers in the back of the joint where any one of a dozen ladies could be rented for twenty-five dollars a lick, so to speak. Wilfred had married one of the girls after receiving the nod from Above. Sophie was not exactly the quintessential pastor's wife, possessing a mouth that once caused four drunken sailors to stand speechless in awe at her ability to sling profanity to the winds.

“What are we goin' to do about all these government cocksuckers in town?” Sophie questioned.

“Now, dear,” Wilfred said soothingly.

“Fuck off, baby,” Sophie told him. “Read your Bible and let me handle this.”

“If they get in the way,” Nate said, “they're gonna get hurt. We all know whose side they're on anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“Damn right!” Paul Mullins said, standing up. Several more men stood up with him.