Prey (5 page)

After Stormy and Ki left, Barry checked the freezer to see if he had enough steaks for tonight's cookout. He did. But since he seldom drank, he had no beer in the house. He drove into town and bought several six-packs, then drove to a local bakery that baked some of the finest breads and pastries he had ever tasted, and purchased bread and two freshly baked apple pies. Back at his house, he put the beer in the refrigerator and stowed the rest of his purchases away. He tidied up the house a bit, then looked around for something else to do. The house was neat and orderly and spotless.

“Charcoal,” he muttered. “Do I have enough?” He checked on the back porch and found he had plenty.

Barry was not accustomed to having company. Not since technology had begun taking giant steps. It had been so different in the old days. That brought a smile to his lips. The old days. Which old days in particular are you referring to, Barry? he silently questioned. He shook his head, attempting to clear away those thoughts. He did not often dwell on the far past, for that usually left him with a feeling of depression.

Possessing the ability to live forever was not all wine and roses, he sourly mused. Barry stepped out on the porch and stood for a moment, recalling a few good and close friends he'd had in the past. Jean Laffite did not deserve the bad reputation that had been hung on him . . . at least that was the impression Barry had gotten during the few years he'd known the man. He was a gentleman pirate. Indeed, just after the battle of New Orleans, General Andrew Jackson had called Jean one of the ablest men he'd ever met. Jean had died a relatively young man, only forty-five years old. However, it was certainly true that Jean had burned Galveston to the ground just a few years before his untimely death. Barry didn't know what had happened to Jean's brother, Pierre. The last time he'd seen Pierre, the man was running a blacksmith shop in New Orleans. That was . . . oh, around 1814, as Barry could best recall.

Barry had returned to the western mountains after the Battle of New Orleans, resuming his lonely life as a mountain man and living with a pack of timber wolves in the Rocky Mountains. When he desired human company, he would visit an Indian village. The Indians knew who he was and greatly respected him. Barry knew that even today, Indians still sang songs about him.

He could only stay a few years in any one spot, for since he did not age, suspicions would quickly grow. That was why Barry seldom allowed people to get very close to him, or he to them.

Then Stormy came along and his life had not been the same since.

Standing on the porch, Barry smiled at that last thought. He had to admit that that particular change had been, for the most part, for the better.

A sudden feeling of great danger seized Barry, and he quickly stepped off the porch, moving to his left. He stood by the corner of the house wondering what had caused that moment of alarm. Pete and Repeat were in the living room, behind stone walls, out of harm's way.

Barry moved to the rear of the house and squatted down behind a stack of firewood in the backyard. Something had triggered his inner alarm system, but what?

Barry left the neatly stacked pile of wood and headed for the woods, after securing the back gate. He was unconsciously sniffing the air, tracking head up instead of nose down, so his vision would not be impaired. He slowly began his circling of the property. Very faintly, a scent came to him, a familiar scent. Barry smiled, but it was not a pleasant curving of the lips. It was more like a snarl. A low growl left his throat, a menacing rumbling that he was not cognizant of emitting.

John Ravenna was here!

* * *

Jim Beal sat in his office at the rear of the huge building that was the headquarters of his lumber yard and experienced waves of doubt and confusion. He just did not know what to do. He had no solid proof that what his informants in Washington, D.C. were telling him was anything other than rumor.

But if it was fact . . . ?

Therein lay the kicker.

Both informants, whom his movement had years ago planted very deep and who had worked their way high into government circles, had told him that Congressman Cliff Madison's life was in danger during this vacation trip. The informants both agreed that a plot to assassinate the Speaker was in the works. But if Beal went to the feds with this rumor, they would want to know where he had learned of it. He certainly couldn't tell them about his people in Washington, one on a senator's staff and another placed high in the Justice Department.

Jim knew he had been under federal investigation for a long time. Off and on for years, actually. He knew the feds had an informant within the ranks of his organization, and Jim knew the identity of the man. Nothing of any importance was ever discussed in the presence of the government informer.

Jim didn't blame Wesley Parren for what he was doing; the feds had the poor guy over a barrel because of an unintentional foul-up on his personal income tax returns for several years. Wesley had taken some deductions that he had honestly believed were legal and the IRS caught it, but only after about five years, and that left the guy owing the goddamn government about fifty thousand dollars, most of that in penalties and interest. So the feds worked a deal: inform on Jim Beal and his survivalist group, and we will, eventually, forgive the money.

Wesley really didn't have much choice in the matter. He had two kids in college and a hypochondriac for a wife who rushed off to the doctor every time she experienced an ache or a pain. He was in debt up to his butt with no way out. Then the feds moved in on him.

Jim Beal knew personally what kind of a bind Wesley was in, for the feds had been auditing him for years . . . on a regular basis. Auditing him, investigating him, spying on him. There was not one area of his life the feds had not scrutinized, from the cradle to the present.

And Jim Beal hated them for it.

He rose from his chair to pace the office. If he could, he would see the reporter, Stormy Knight, and tell her about the planned assassination, on the condition that he remain anonymous. It was a big story, and Jim felt that she would go for it. He hoped she would, for he knew he had to do something. Congressman Madison was a good man.

Then Jim pondered for a few moments over this: if the visiting dignitary being lined up in cross hairs was a very liberal senator or representative, would he make any effort to save his life?

After a moment, he decided he would not.

* * *

Victor Radford closed the book and put it aside. He never tired of reading the writings of his hero, Adolf Hitler. Such a great man. A man with vision. And really, a peace-seeking man. It was all nonsense about the concentration camps and the killing of millions of Jews. That was just Jew propaganda. Lies to sully the memory of a man with a wonderful vision of a master race and a society free of inferiors.

But the dream did not die with the führer. Oh, no. Not at all. Hitler's vision was very much alive and doing quite well, thank you. And not just in this area. Oh, no. There were cells all over America. Men and women who shared the dreams of the great man.

Victor looked at the wall of his den, covered from floor to ceiling with Nazi memorabilia. And right in the center of the wall, hanging above the fireplace, a huge portrait of Victor's idol: Adolf Hitler.

* * *

“I am really looking forward to this vacation,” Congressman Madison said to several of his colleagues. The legislature's summer break had rolled around, and members of Congress were anxious to get back to their home base. “I've never been river rafting before.”

A representative from Idaho smiled. “Well, you can practice on that little river in Arkansas, Cliff. When you get ready for the big time, come on out to my state and run our wild rivers.”

The men and woman gathered around laughed, then shook hands and said their goodbyes for the upcoming month's vacation.

Cliff Madison's aide said, “You'll be met at the lodge by two Secret Service agents out of the Little Rock office, Mr. Speaker. You and your wife will be accompanied on the plane to Memphis by two deputy federal marshals.”

“Any word on why the beefed-up security, Ed?”

“No, sir. I think it's just a precaution, that's all.”

“I'm sure that's it. You and Emily all packed and ready to go?”

Ed smiled. “Rarin' to go, sir. We're leaving several days ahead of you and Jane. We're going to drive and enjoy the scenery.”

Cliff sighed and returned the smile. He looked tired and was tired. This session of Congress had been grueling on everybody in both parties in both houses. “I sure wish we could. I'd like to just disappear into the woodwork for the entire month.”

“That is never going to happen, Cliff,” the chief aide said in low tones. Even though they were good and close friends, Ed never used the Speaker's first name unless they were alone together. “Not until you retire, and that is years away.”

“Hopefully, Ed,” the Speaker said with a smile. “Years away, hopefully.”

Laughing, the two men walked away.

* * *

Seconds after he picked up the scent of his old adversary, John Ravenna, Barry ducked behind some thick underbrush and dropped to a crouch.

He did some fast thinking. If Ravenna was here—and there was no doubt about that; Barry's nose didn't lie—trouble was sure to be hanging around the man like a shroud . . . a very deadly shroud. But what type of trouble? Directed against whom? Not against Barry, for the two men would accomplish nothing by fighting. Stormy? Maybe. But somehow Barry didn't think she was Ravenna's target. Then . . . who was it?

It had to be Speaker of the House, Cliff Madison.

Barry knew that John Ravenna's deadly services were very expensive. Indeed, Ravenna was a wealthy man, amassing a fortune over the bloody centuries. He certainly did not have to work. Ravenna killed because he liked to kill.

Barry sniffed the air again. The scent was quickly fading. Ravenna was gone.

But Barry was certain of one thing: Ravenna would be back.

* * *

Sheriff Don Salter sat in his office and looked at the information he had just received by fax. The shooter behind the rifle out at Cantrell's property did indeed belong to a very radical antiabortion group; a group that was suspected of several abortion clinic bombings and burnings. The guy was wanted up in Michigan for arson and attempted murder. So that cleared up the warning Miss Knight had received before leaving New York City.

Don looked up as Chief Monroe tapped on the doorjamb. “Come on in and take a load off, Russ. Coffee?”

The chief sat down. “No, thanks, Don. I cut myself back to two cups a day. Both of them in the morning. Feel better. You seen Jim Beal today?”

“I haven't seen Jim in, oh, a week or better. Why?”

“That's a mighty worried man. Something is gnawin' on him, big-time.”

Don looked at his empty coffee cup, started to get up, then thought better of it. Maybe he should cut back on caffeine, too. And cigarettes. “You still think Jim and his bunch are up to something, don't you?”

Russ shook his gray head. “No. But I think they, or at least Jim, know something that we ought to know. By the by, I just saw a lady that is the spittin' image of that reporter, Stormy Knight. Damn near run my car off the road lookin' at her.”

“Well, I guess it's no secret anymore, Russ. That was Stormy. She's stayin' out at the Cantrell place. She and Barry have this little thing goin'.”

“No kidding! The man must have hidden talents.”

“And good taste.”

“Damn right. And that was no woofer with Stormy.”

“That was probably her camera operator. Barry told me about her. Ki Nichols. She was jerked up just north of here, little town in Missouri. Anyway, Stormy said that in about three/four days, we can expect this area to be flooded with reporters.”

“Wonderful,” the chief said, no small amount of sarcasm in his tone. “I just can't express how much I love those liberal bastards and bitches. And since we're not exactly overrun with black folks, you can bet the networks and newspapers will send black reporters in to cover the Speaker's vacation. That's the way they operate.”

Don could not contain his laughter at the expression on the chief's face. Don remembered all too well when several very racist and antigovernment groups settled not too many miles away from town. Several reporters had insinuated, not too subtly, that Russ and Don were protecting those groups, and just maybe were actually a part of them. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but both men had been very unfairly tainted nonetheless.

Don's feelings toward the national press were not as virulent as Russ Monroe's, but they weren't too far behind the chiefs views. As millions of Americans had done, when the Coyote Network's news department came to be, he had switched over to them for any and all news broadcasts. The Coyote Network people told it straight with no frills, and they gave Americans news about America.

Don tapped a pencil on his desk, then lifted his eyes to look at Chief Monroe. “You've known Jim Beal for a good many years, right, Russ?”

“All his life. I know everybody in his organization. Jim is really not a bad person. When it comes to race, he is a separatist, but not a supremacist. Hell, I'm not tellin' you anything you don't already know.” The chief stood up. “I think I'll just go have a little chat with Jim. He knows I'm not his enemy, and he just might level with me ... or at least give me a clue.”

“Russ?”

The chief looked at the sheriff.

“What about that bunch of so-called skinheads that have formed up north of here?”