Prey (24 page)

Barry parked on the side of the winding mountain road, got out of his truck, and looked down at the town he would soon put behind him. Pete and Repeat showed no inclination to leave the comfortable bed of the truck. Barry stared at the picturesque scene for a moment. Really, the town was no different from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other small communities scattered throughout America. It was quietly being torn apart by philosophical differences about what was best for the nation.

He heard a whisper of sound behind him and turned to face Jacques Cornet.

“Leaving, Vlad?” the man asked.

“Yes. And so should you.”

“Oh, I am.”

“What in the hell ever prompted you to come here, Jacques?”

“John Ravenna.”

“But you didn't confront him. And what would have been the end result if you had? Both of you maimed and torn . . . and for what? You both would have been healed in twenty-four hours.”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively. “No matter. I have much work to do in this nation.”

“Oh, Jacques! Give it up and go home. Why stick your nose into the internal affairs of a nation in which you have no interest?”

“Because France is hopeless, that's why!”

Barry chuckled. “Well, I won't argue that with you.”

“Why do you suppose John killed the politicians? And we both know he did.”

Barry shook his head. “Who knows why John does anything?”

“True. Vlad, John would work with us if for no other reason than the adventure of it. Just think, the three of us could change the course of this nation. I've given up on France, but there is still hope for America.”

Barry shook his head. “No way, Jacques.”

“But this is your adopted country!”

“It's going to have to work out its own problems without my help.”

For a moment, the French immortal looked reflective. Then he sighed. “Perhaps you're right. I might go down to Central America and organize against the hunters and poachers.”

“I'm sure the environmentalists would love you for it.”

“I'll think about it.”

Several rental trucks rattled by, the occupants waving at the two men standing by the side of the road. The scientists and their assistants, off on yet another adventure.

“I had fun with them,” Jacques said.

“I'm sure you did.” Barry's reply was decidedly dry.

Jacques smiled. “I have an idea, Vlad.”

“I can't wait to hear this.”

“Why don't you tell your Mr. Roche about me? Let him chase me for a while. I can promise him a much more exciting time of it.”

“I don't know that I want to wish you on him, Jacques.”

The Frenchman nodded, and his expression turned serious. “You know how we French feel about liberty and freedom, Vlad.”

“Yes. So?”

“When the time comes for this country's second revolution, I shall be on the side of the libertarians. I felt you should be advised of that.”

“You think I won't be, Jacques?”

“I don't know, Vlad. Sometimes you're very difficult to predict.”

“You're not.”

“Thank you. Well, I won't keep you. I, ah, just wanted you to know that, ah, any hard feelings I might have held toward you are, ah, no more. Au revoir, Vlad.”

Before Barry could reply, Jacques stepped off the shoulder of the road, trotted into the timber, and was out of sight.

Barry looked back at the town, Norman Rockwellish in the sunlight. “Very interesting little town,” he muttered. “I wonder if the next one will be as interesting.”

He got into his truck and stared at the winding road for a moment. He sighed, thinking of the long journey ahead of him. He pulled out and headed northeast. A few moments later, when he had settled into the rhythm of the road, he began to relax.

Stormy and Ki had interviewed several people about the suicide of Sheriff Don Salter, then packed it up and pulled out for the Memphis airport. Barry and Stormy had said their goodbyes earlier.

Barry had met with Van Brocklen and Chet Robbins one more time before pulling out.

“Any way I can reach you?” the Bureau man had asked.

“I'll get in touch with you,” Barry told him. “It'll be a couple of months, at least.” He stared into the eyes of both federal men. “Why did Don eat a pistol?” he asked.

“I've been thinking about that,” the Secret Service man replied. “I think the organization Don was a part of—whatever it is—is so hard underground, and so committed to their beliefs, the members would rather take their own lives than be taken prisoner and risk giving anything away.”

“They're that dedicated?”

“I think so,” Van Brocklen said. “And I think they've been around for a long time.”

“Then . . . the people who grabbed the president were part of Don's group?”

“Maybe,” Chet picked it up. “But I think not. I think they took their orders from a group in Washington. The people who attacked the Speaker . . . well, that's another story.”

“Victor Radford's people?”

“No,” Van Brocklen said with a strange smile. “Jim Beal's people.”

“Oh, yeah. That's a smart man, Barry. I think he was Don's boss for this cell ... maybe for the entire state or region. We'll probably never be able to prove it. But I'll go to my grave believing it.”

Barry glanced at Chet. “That's your thinking, too?”

“Yes. The strangest thing is, in his own way—and Van and I are in agreement on this point—Jim Beal is a nice guy. He loves America, doesn't want to see any harm come to minorities, but he is firmly convinced that they are inferior to the white race. He's a man fighting his own personal demons. We think Don engineered and pulled the kidnapping without Jim's permission—with some breakaway members, and those members probably not from this cell or region. When the kidnapping attempt failed, and this now becomes pure guesswork, he knew Jim Beal would nail him. Rather than disgrace the movement, he took his own life. Something silently passed between the two men while we were in the sheriff's office, some hidden signal. Don got the message and knew it was over for him. So he ended it then and there.”

“And left you people with a very cold trail.”

“Yes,” Van Brocklen said. “Hell, Barry, we know we've got people with racist or subversive or militia or survivalist ties within our organization. You can't turn around in D.C. without bumping into one of them. We know that. Hell, we know who some of them are! Not many, but a few of them.”

“The military is full of those types of people,” Chet continued. “If, or I should say when, this second revolution starts, the military really can't be counted on to do much. They're going to be busy fighting among their own ranks . . . at least for a time, and God only knows who'll win. And all this organization wasn't done overnight. It took a long time and some very careful groundwork. This thing is much, much bigger than most people think.”

“Members of Congress know how big it is?” Barry asked.

“Some of them,” Van Brocklen said. “They're the ones who are really concerned about it. Others refuse to admit we've got a real problem growing in this nation. Still others realize we've got a problem, but think it will work itself out.”

“It's gone too far for the latter to happen,” Barry said flatly.

“Of course it has,” Chet said. “We know that. But the liberals in Washington still cling to the notion that disarming the American public is the way to go. They can't see, can't or won't understand that type of action only adds to the problem.”

“Then they're idiots!”

“The term is liberal,” Van Brocklen said sourly.

“Barry, do you have any idea how many cells of militia, survivalist, or groups, some armed, some not, of alternate political philosophy there are in the United States?”

“I have no idea.”

“As of right now, ten thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine that we know of. That is approximately two hundred and twenty groups per state. Many of them have only five or six members and they're completely harmless, but others can field five or six hundred heavily armed members.”

“And to say that many, if not most, of these groups are very unhappy with the direction the government has been heading for the past three or four decades would be the understatement of the century,” Van Brocklen said. “Pissed off, would be a better way of describing their mood.”

“And dangerous,” Barry added.

“Oh, hell, yes!” the Secret Service man said quickly. “There are some out there who would make Jim Beal and Don Salter look like choir boys. This nation is facing a rough and rocky ride. And how it will eventually turn out is anybody's guess. Guys like Van and I are in complete sympathy with that little Dutch boy with his finger in the hole in the dike. He just doesn't have a long enough reach or enough fingers to keep up with the new holes that keep breaking through.”

“Barry,” Van Brocklen said. “Put some distance behind you, and when you get there, keep your head down.”

Barry thought he knew what the Bureau man was trying to tell him: the government was coming after him. They wanted him for research.

“All right,” Barry said, then shook hands with both men. He watched them walk away.

Now as he drove steadily northeast, Barry wondered if he would ever be able to put enough distance between himself and those chasing him. Maybe not, he thought. But he figured Maine was a pretty good start.

LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 1996 William W. Johnstone

 

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First electronic edition: May 2016

ISBN: 978-1-6018-3531-4

Notes