Prey (19 page)

“Oh, my God!” a woman yelled. “They'll spread the ebola everywhere.”

Agent Robbins sighed heavily. He was doing a lot of sighing lately.

Chief Monroe lifted his walkie-talkie. “Don? You got your ears on?”

“Go ahead, Russ,” Don replied.

“We got three bus loads of fruits and fairies comin' in.”

There followed about ten seconds of silence. Then, “Ten-nine?”

“About a hundred fags on the way.”

“That's what I thought you said. I was hoping I misunderstood you.”

“You didn't.”

“We'll just have to make the best of it.”

“I'm gonna call the highway patrol and have them block the road and turn those damn people around. You ten-four that?”

“You can't do that, Russ. They haven't broken any laws.”

“Don, if those people march and protest, there will be a goddamn riot and you know it. People 'round here ain't gonna put up with that crap!”

“I'll be back in about thirty minutes, Russ. We'll handle it.”

“The county is your call, Don, the town is mine. Monroe out.”

Don was just pulling into the drive at Robert Roche's lake house. He sat for a moment, conscious of Stormy's eyes on him. He expelled a long breath and said, “Good Lord, what next?”

“Dr. Hopper!” a young student called excitedly. “We've found the creature's lair.”

“Wonderful!” Dr. Hopper cried. “I'll radio the others. We've agreed this find is something we will all share. ”

Soon the scientists and their young assistants were gathered around a hole set into a knoll, the entrance hidden behind a thick stand of bush.

“Careful now,” Dr. Irene Biegelsack cautioned. “We really don't know what we're dealing with here.”

“It's a panther,” Dr. Waller said.

“No, it's a leopard,” Dr. Dekerlegand contradicted.

“I believe it's some sort of mountain lion that is, or was at one time, indigenous to North America,” Dr. Dortch said.

They were all both wrong and right, to some degree, as they were about to find out. Very abruptly.

Inside the small cave, Jacques Cornet, as his Other, lay on his belly on the cool ground and listened to the humans talk. He sensed these people were not criminals, and certainly not dangerous—except for the tranquilizer guns they carried. Jacques was very familiar with those.

He did not want to harm these silly people, just scare them away. And he had a good idea just how to do that. His prehistoric teeth bared back in an animal smile. As his Other, Jacques weighed nearly three hundred pounds, stood three and a half feet tall, and was just over seven feet long.

“Get the nets ready,” Irene said. “I'll go in and see what we've got.”

Which was going to be a good trick, for Irene's ass was just about as wide as the cave entrance.

Irene removed her pith helmet and laid it to one side. She wriggled her bulk halfway into the darkness and suddenly came nose to snout with a prehistoric sabre-tooth beast of as yet undetermined species. As his Other, Jacques' fur was as black as midnight, and his teeth very long and very white.

Jacques was in reality a throwback to the jaguar family, and jaguars screamed about as often as they roared. And Jacques screamed. Irene banged her head on the cave entrance, unhinged her ass, and left the lair with her hair standing straight up on end. She knocked over her colleagues like bowling pins and sent the young assistants scurrying in all directions, nets and tranquilizer guns forgotten. Jacques bounded out of the cave to stand for just a couple of seconds in front of the brush and scream at the frightened group. Then he was gone, leaving the area with amazing strength and speed.

“After the beast!” Dr. Thomas Dekerlegand hollered, crawling to his hands and knees.

“Come on, people!” Irene bellowed, finally managing to stand up. “This is the greatest find of the century!”

And off they went, stumbling across the fields and over the hills and through the timber of North Arkansas. The route they were following would take them straight to the highway which led to the lake—the same road the marchers planned to use. Jacques knew this. Jacques may have been slightly around the bend, but he still had a sense of humor . . . albeit a rather strange one.

* * *

In the panel truck, Barry's fingers began to twitch. But he was still a couple of hours away from full consciousness.

* * *

The gates of the driveway leading to Robert Roche's rental house were closed, and no amount of horn honking would bring any response. Don shook his head. “They're not going to come out, and I can't go in there without a warrant.”

Ki had stayed back in town to do some filming. Stormy said, “Go back down the road and let me out at Will's store. I'm certain that Roche has Barry.”

“How will you get back to town?”

“When you get back, look up Ki and tell her to drive out to the store. I'll be waiting.”

Don was dubious about the idea, but he couldn't hold the woman against her will. He nodded. “All right. But I don't think it's a good idea.”

Stormy grinned at the sheriff. “I'm pretty good at taking care of myself, Don.”

Don let her off at Will's store and headed back to town.

* * *

Jacques Cornet had put some distance between himself and his pursuers, then shifted into his human form. He wanted to time their arrival at the road just right. Overland, they were still a good three hours from the road, through some rough country. Jacques smiled as he walked, thinking this was going to be more fun than Marie and the food riots in France.

* * *

Congressman Cliff Madison took one look at the mob of people and flags and placards and manner of dress around the courthouse square and paled. “Good God!” he said.

“This was not a good idea, Mr. Speaker,” a federal marshal told him. “This crowd is very volatile. Too many factions involved here. It's not safe.”

But by then it was too late to back out. The mayor and members of the town council had rushed up and were all talking at once, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. Just about that time, the buses carrying the gay rights activists pulled up at the edge of the square.

“Hey!” hollered Jason Asken, one of the skinheads. “The faggots is here!”

* * *

“I would suggest, Mr. Roche,” one of the billionaire's aides said, “that we leave now.”

“We'll leave as planned,” Robert said, without rancor in his voice. He was feeling too good for anger. He was closer to eternal life than ever before. Absolutely nothing could spoil his mood. He held up a county map. “Taking the route I have outlined. Not before.”

“Yes, sir. As you say, sir.”

“Always, as I say, Richard.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the panel truck, Barry stirred in his unconsciousness and moaned faintly. His eyelids fluttered, and he clenched his hands into fists. Then drifted back into darkness.

* * *

“We'll park the car at that empty house just up from Roche's place and go in the back way,” Stormy told Ki. She spoke openly in front of Will, for she liked and trusted the older man.

“You ladies better think some on this,” Will warned. “That Roche is a mean man; he's got ruthless written all over him. And some of Vic Radford's nuts have been prowlin' around here this mornin'. They're not so much mean as they are plumb crazy.”

“We'll be careful,” Stormy assured him. “And Ki is armed, if that makes you feel better.”

“Will you use that weapon?” Will asked.

“I'll use it.”

Will stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I believe you will.”

The two women left the store and drove off. Will sat for a time behind the counter, then slowly shook his head. “I got me a bad feelin' 'bout all this. There ain't no good gonna come of it. No matter how it turns out, somebody is gonna get hurt.” He thought for a time longer, then stood up and got his shotgun, loading it up full with double-ought buckshot. “I think I'll just take me a ride,” he said.

Will hung the CLOSED sign on the front door and locked up. Behind the wheel of his pickup, he checked to make sure his .38 was in the glove box and loaded up. He knew a mostly forgotten old dirt road that he could circle around on that would take him right up to the rear of Roche's rental house. He'd just keep him a good eye on those two ladies.

* * *

President Hutton had quietly flown into the small county airport and had been hustled out to Congressman Williams' home without incident. Since Hutton and Congressman Madison were about to bury the hatchet—for a change not in each other—and try to work together for the good of the country, the press had been asked to leave the president alone with his thoughts. They had agreed and for the most part had done so. Now it was just about time for him to drive out, or rather, take a ride out to the airport to pick up his wife.

One of his aides entered the room. “The first lady will be a couple of hours late arriving, sir. She decided at the last minute to visit a children's hospital.”

“Thank you. Then we'll leave for the airport about . . . ?”

“Two-thirty, sir.”

“I believe I'll take a nap.”

“Very good, sir. I'll wake you in plenty of time.”

In plenty of time for the president to look death right in the eye.

* * *

A thousand miles away, Senator Madalaine Bowman looked at the men and women seated around her in the den of a lodge in the Virginia mountains. She was quite pleased with herself and with the way matters were beginning to shape up in Arkansas. She glanced at her watch and then lifted her eyes to the small group.

“We have only a few moments before the others arrive. Later, when we hear the news, we must all be shocked, stunned, sickened, and horrified at what has happened. In approximately three hours, events will have taken place in Arkansas that will shape the destiny of our party, our philosophy, and the nation well into the next millennium and, hopefully, beyond. What makes it all so perfect is that none of us can be even remotely linked to the tragedy that is about to befall Congressman Madison and President Hutton.” She smiled and spread her hands wide. “What could be more innocent than a party planning committee meeting over the weekend?”

The others in the room chuckled their approval at how well the senator had planned.

* * *

Jim Beal just couldn't stand it any longer. He locked his warehouse office and told his store manager he was gone for the rest of the day. Jim got into his truck and drove to the courthouse square. Maybe he couldn't stop the march or the violence he knew was going to come with it, but by God he could be a part of putting an end to it.

He found Sheriff Salter. “What can I do to help today, Don?”

The sheriff stared at him for a moment. “Are you serious, Jim?”

“As serious as a crutch. You know that Nate took about seventy of my people and left the AFB?”

“Yes. They're here in force and going to march. Are they armed, Jim?”

“I could be wrong, Don, but I just don't think they would be that stupid. But you can bet they'll have people along the way ready to hand them weapons if the need arises.”

Van Brocklen walked up and gave the AFB leader a hard look. Don caught it and said, “He's all right, Van. He's offering to help us.”

The FBI man knew that Jim had forbidden his AFB people to march, knew his brigade had split up over that decision—among other things. And knew that most people in the community felt Jim was a decent man—despite, or because of, his views on race—and agreed with about ninety-nine percent of the local militia's beliefs. Van Brocklen shrugged his shoulders. “That's your call, Don.”

Don didn't hesitate; he'd known Jim Beal all his life. “Ride with me, Jim. Let's see if we can't defuse some of these walking time bombs.”

“You'll never do it, Don,” Jim was quick to reply. “Nate Williams, Alex Tarver, Bubba Bordelon, Vic Radford. . . they've all been waiting for a moment like this. This is their chance to blow the lid off and bring themselves national attention.”

“And you, too, Mr. Beal?” Van Brocklen couldn't resist asking.

“No,” the AFB leader said softly. “That isn't true. What's left of my militia feels just like the majority of militias around the country: we don't want a lot of publicity, because the type of coverage we get from the press is always biased. Look, Mr. Van Brocklen, don't you think I know who Wesley Parren works for? I've known it since the day he rolled over for you feds and started informing on us. You people must have a thousand or more guys like Wesley around the nation, spying on men and women who call them friend. But it works both ways, and you're fully aware of that, too. Let me tell you something, Federal Agent, you think your stats are right about two hundred million guns in the hands of private citizens in America. Try half a
ballion
guns and you'd still be short. Most of us in the militia or survival movements don't want a damn war. Hell, that's the last thing we want. It's just that we've got enough foresight to see that one is coming.” He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus, Van Brocklen, this is not the time to be discussing political ideologies. We're going to have a war on our hands right here in this little North Arkansas town if we can't clamp the lid down tight, and do it today. Now what's it going to be, Mr. Federal Agent?”

Van Brocklen stepped closer to Jim Beal, conscious that Agent Robbins had walked up and had been listening. But there was no back up in Jim Beal. The two men stood nose to nose and eyeball to eyeball on the side street. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Militia Leader.” The Bureau man's voice was low. “Do you think the majority of us in the Bureau, the Secret Service, BATF, Federal Marshal's Service, DEA, or what have you, like to take orders from pantywaist egg-sucking liberals? Do you think we actually enjoyed watching the events at Waco or Ruby Ridge . . . ?”

“Yeah, I do, you federal prick!” Jim popped back, not giving an inch. “That brown spot on your nose is not a freckle. That's shit from the attorney general's liberal ass!”

Van Brocklen balled his hands into fists, then sighed, shook his head, and got a grip on his temper. “All right, there are some among us who did, I'll admit that, but they're damn few in number. Every enforcement branch, from local to federal, has its share of hot dogs. Goddammit, Beal, we take and follow orders—”

“Yeah,” Jim interrupted. “That's the same thing the gestapo members said during the war crimes trials after World War II. Just . . . taking . . . and . . . following... orders.” The last was said very sarcastically.

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” Agent Robbins stepped in. “You can't seriously be comparing us to a bunch of Nazis!”