Prey (6 page)

“Oh, yeah. I must be gettin' old. I was gonna tell you about that. The word I get is that they're about to link up with Victor Radford's group. Vic is gonna give us some grief, I'm thinkin'.”

“And you can bet he's got it timed for Speaker Madison's visit.”

“Yeah. That's the way I have it figured.”

“Are you going to call up your reserves?”

“All of them.” He smiled. “All eight of them.”

Don laughed. “I've got about ten reserves that I know I can count on. I guess I'd better give them a call. They can handle traffic and crowd control and free up my people for everything else.”

“It's about to get real interestin' around here, Don.”

“I hope that's all it gets.”

“I might know more after talkin' to Jim. I'll let you know what, if anything, I find out.”

“I'll either be here or in my unit.”

“I'll give you a bump whichever way it goes.”

Russ closed the door behind him. The only sound in the office was the hum of the air conditioner, the window unit turned down low. Don felt jumpy, as if he'd been up a long time and was on a caffeine jag. But he knew that wasn't it, for he'd gotten a good night's sleep and hadn't consumed that much coffee.

He felt as though something, well, just plain
awful
was about to happen.

A deputy tapped on the door and pushed it open. “You got a minute, Sheriff?”

“Sure, Al. Come on in and have a seat.” The young deputy seated, Don said, “What's on your mind?”

“It's probably nothing, Sheriff. But . . . well, I was over on the lake early this morning. Got called out of bed to answer a prowler call—turned out to be a raccoon—and I stopped by Will's Grocery just as he was opening up and had a cup of coffee. He was telling me about this man who rented the old Hawkins camp. Said that man was spooky-lookin'. No sooner had the words left Will's mouth when the guy in question walked in. Sheriff, you remember when you were a kid and went to see a real scary movie? You knew who the bad guys were right off the bat. They were, well, sinister-lookin'. Well, this man made chill bumps rise up on my arms. He's about forty, dark complexion, real black hair graying at the temples, ‘bout six feet tall, muscular build, and in tip-top shape. You could tell that by the way he moved. Will told me before the guy walked in that he was scared of him, and the man hadn't been nothin' but polite. Sheriff, that man had the coldest eyes I ever seen in my life. I swear to you, and you're going to think me a damn fool, but lookin' into that man's eyes was like lookin' into an open grave.”

“For a fact, Al, he's got you spooked. Does this man have a name?”

“Yes, sir. He stuck out his hand and shook and howdied soon as he walked in. Said his name was Ravenna. John Ravenna.”

Sitting on his front porch, Barry thought of and immediately rejected a dozen plans, and in the end, knew there was nothing he could do except wait for John Ravenna to show his hand.

Chief Russ Monroe went to see Jim Beal, but the man was gone. The manager of the lumber yard and hardware store did not know where he had gone or when he would return, or even if he would return this day.

Sheriff Don Salter, on an impulse, drove out into the country to the headquarters of Victor Radford's whacky bunch of neo-Nazis. Victor was standing by the rural mail box when Don drove past. Victor gave him the middle finger, and Don returned the gesture, feeling just a little bit foolish as he did so. Flipping the bird to someone was not against the law (at least not in this area), not since a local judge had ruled it was freedom of expression.

Don could see no one else on the property as he slowly cruised past. But he knew that didn't mean a thing, for Victor had underground bunkers dug all over the place. Victor was certain that a revolution was just around the corner, and he intended to be ready.

And that was the one and only issue that put Sheriff Don Salter and Victor Radford in agreement, for Don firmly believed that if the government of the United States didn't get off the backs of Americans, some sort of violent upheaval was right around the corner.

Don knew that many of the people in his county, and in the surrounding counties, were heavily armed, with many stockpiling ammunition and keeping a thirty-day supply of food and water at all times. Don also was well aware of how the majority of people in his county felt about the ever-growing power of big government and the government's snooping around in citizens' lives. Don knew that all across America, there was a growing feeling of resentment against the government. Something had to pop this festering boil, and Don was very much afraid that when it happened, the result would be violent. And he also knew, from talking with law enforcement officers around the nation, that the mood was the same all over America.

And the sad thing was, Don firmly believed that most elected officials in Washington did not have a clue as to what was really happening.

For politicians to be so far out of touch with the citizenry was a disgrace, to Don's way of thinking.

Don came to a crossroads and turned left, heading for the lake. Maybe he'd get lucky and meet this mystery man that had spooked his deputy.

* * *

“It's beautiful country,” Stormy said, after sitting down and thanking Barry for a tall glass of iced tea. “And the people are so friendly.”

Ki had insisted upon checking into a motel. She wanted to give Barry and Stormy as much time alone as possible.

“They'll be friendly and helpful to you and the other Coyote reporters,” Barry replied. “The majority won't be all that friendly to correspondents from the other networks.”

Many Americans held the belief, whether it was true or not, that the big three networks and the all-news networks held decidedly liberal views and slanted the news to the left. It was a hard fact that Coyote was the only network whose news reporting nearly always took the conservative side (some dissenters called it right-wing news reporting). Coyote field reporters asked the hard and often inflammatory questions. One Coyote reporter actually went out and found jobs for half a dozen people, white and black, in an attempt to get them off public assistance; then when five of the six refused to accept the positions (it was demeaning and humiliating work, so they said), did a five-minute story about their refusal to take gainful employment and choosing instead to remain at the public trough, slopping like hogs and breeding like rabbits (or words to that effect). Coyote was still being sued over that one.

But the majority of viewers loved it.

Including Sheriff Don Salter, who grew up in a family where there was never enough money to go around and everybody worked, before school, after school, and on weekends, in an oftentimes vain attempt to make ends meet. He had worked too hard and struggled for too long to believe in free rides. And he had absolutely no use whatsoever for cry-baby liberals.

Don and Barry had a lot more in common than either man realized.

* * *

“How did you enjoy our county, Miss Knight?” Don asked.

Everyone was settled in the den with a beer or cocktail and the mood was relaxed. The late afternoon was hot, and the air-conditioning softly hummed, keeping the house at a comfortable level. Pete and Repeat were asleep on the floor of Barry's bedroom.

“It's Stormy, Sheriff. And in answer to your question: I think this is beautiful country. We”—she cut her eyes to Ki—“drove over a hundred miles today, sightseeing and talking with people.” She frowned for a second. “Almost everyone was very nice and friendly. Except for one man. We got lost a couple of times and stopped at a house to ask directions. That man was very unfriendly. . .”

“That's not all,” Ki picked it up. “We could see into his living room. He had a huge picture of Hitler hanging on the wall. It was grotesque.”

Don chuckled. “Just north of town on a county road?”

“Yes,” Stormy replied.

“Describe him.” After Stormy had painted a vocal picture of the man, Don said, “You met Victor Radford. He's the leader of a neo-Nazi group. A bunch of kooks and flakes. They look silly parading around in their Nazi uniforms, but they're dangerous. And that's off the record, Stormy.”

“All right. Any other off-the-wall groups around here I need to know about?”

“Well, yes, sort of. Jim Beal fronts a large group of people, men and women, who call themselves the AFB. The Arkansas Freedom Brigade. They believe in the complete separation of the races, but they are not white supremacists. Jim doesn't preach hate toward other races; he doesn't advocate violence toward other races. Actually, except for his strong views about separation, Jim is a nice guy and a reasonable man.”

“Sounds as though you genuinely like the man, Sheriff. And I'm not interviewing you, and none of this will go on the air, I assure you.”

“Yeah, I like the man. He's never been in trouble with the law. I don't think Jim Beal has ever so much as received a traffic ticket. And in a lot of ways, he makes sense. He's a very intelligent man. And on the plus side, he's never belonged to the Klan, or any group like it. He's very selective about the people he allows into his organization.”

“I'd like to interview this man, Don.”

“I can arrange that, I think. Jim has said a number of times that the reporters for the Coyote Network are about the only ones he trusts not to do a hatchet job on people who believe as he does.”

“I'd also like to interview this Victor Radford. Is that possible?”

“I don't know about that. I don't even like to get around the guy. He's a flamin' screwball. But I'll see what I can do. I can't make any promises.”

“That's fair enough. Now then, at your convenience, I would like to interview you and get your views on the Speaker's visit here.”

Don suddenly looked nervous. “On camera?”

“Sure.”

His wife, Jeanne, grinned and tickled his ribs. “Oh, go on, Don. Do it.”

The sheriffs grin wiped years from his face. “Oh, okay, Stormy. I guess it won't kill me.”

Barry fixed fresh drinks and cold beer for everyone—except himself, he rarely drank—and sat down in time to catch the last of Don's remarks.

“... and this man really spooked one of my deputies. And Al is a steady sort of fellow.”

“Did the man do anything to bring this on?” Jeanne asked.

The sheriff shook his head. “No. Al said he was really quite friendly. But something about the man caused the short hairs to stand up on Al's neck. He was still spooked when he talked to me, hours later.”

“This man live around here?” Barry asked, after taking a sip of iced tea and carefully placing the moisture-covered glass on a coaster.

“No. Well, for a while, I guess. I checked and found that he's leased some property for a couple of months. Ah, he's all right, I'm sure. Probably a nice guy just here to do some fishing and relaxing.”

“Does he have a name?” Stormy asked.

“Yes,” Don replied. “Ravenna. John Ravenna.”

* * *

“Those idiots,” Robert Roche muttered, still irritated about the hired thugs' failure to grab Barry. Then he calmed himself. He had known all along that they would fail. The man who was born Vlad Radu was too smart, too wary, to allow himself to be captured by garden variety thugs.

Perhaps he'd been taking the wrong tack with the man who now called himself Barry Cantrell. Robert hated to think he could ever be wrong, but sometimes one simply had to reassess matters and take one's losses and change, if change was needed.

And in this case, it was needed.

“Yes,” Robert muttered. “Yes, indeed.”

* * *

President Dick Hutton stared out the window of the Oval Office, watching the rain splatter against the bullet-proof panes. Congress had gone home for a month, and Dick and his family were scheduled to take a two-week vacation. But getting out of Washington's pressure cooker was not foremost on the president's mind. No, something was all out of focus; something very unhealthy was growing like a cancer. Dick was a good politician, with a politician's knack for sniffing out trouble, and he could sense that something was terribly wrong.

But he didn't have a clue as to what it was.

Yet.

Dick glanced at the clock. He had thirty free minutes before his next appointment. He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Max? Come in here, will you?”

Max Montgomery had been with Dick Hutton since he was first elected to the senate. The first thing Dick did after becoming president was to name Max his chief of staff. It was one of Dick's better moves.

The door opened and Dick pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Max. Something's been bugging me ...”

“Bad choice of words, Dick,” Max said with a smile. “Let's hope not.”

Dick grinned. “Right.” He sat down in the chair next to Max. “Max, what's going on?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Something smells bad, Max. And it ain't cabbage cookin' in the kitchen. So what are you holding back from me?”

Max didn't hesitate. He knew his friend and boss could pick up on a lie as easily as any streetwise cop. “Totally unsubstantiated rumors, Mr. President. Concerning Speaker of the House Madison.”

“What rumors, Max?”

The chief of staff sighed heavily. “That a contract has been placed on his life.”

“Good God!” The president's reply was filled with genuine concern. While Dick Hutton and Cliff Madison were on opposite sides of nearly every issue, the two men had been friends for years. Indeed, they were the same age and had actually played football against each other in high school. Both were from Tennessee. Dick's family had moved to Ohio in his junior year, and he had called the Buckeye State home ever since. Dick Hutton was the ninth man from the state of Ohio to be elected to the presidency.

Congressman Cliff Madison still called the Volunteer State home.

“Both the FBI and the Secret Service are trying to track down the source of the rumor—”

The phone rang, interrupting Max. The secretary's voice pushed through the speaker. “For you, Mr. Montgomery.”

Max listened, his face paled. “Oh, dear God!” he said, then hung up. He turned to face the president. “Sir, Senator Holden's body has just been found. He apparently shot himself in the head. The cleaning lady found the body on the bedroom floor.”

Dick Hutton slumped back in his chair, a stunned expression on his face. He was speechless.

“Mr. President,” Max began, “I'll get right on this. I—”

“Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day, Max. I don't have anything urgent on the agenda.”

“Yes, sir.”

Max left the Oval Office, and Dick rose and walked to his desk, sitting down. His mind was racing, his thoughts dark. He did not believe for one second that Senator Holden had committed suicide.

He buzzed his secretary. “I don't want to be disturbed, Ruth.”

“Yes, sir.”

All presidents, if they expected to last in Washington, had their personal cadre of spies. Such was the nature of modern-day politics. Dick knew all about the secret meetings held by the ultraliberal left of his party. He knew who met with whom, where they met and how often. While he did not know for sure what they discussed behind those closed doors, he had a very good idea.

Senator Holden had been a moderate, a voice of reason among the liberal left. Gene Dawson was a big-money man here in Washington, a philanthropist who loved even the most hopeless of liberal causes. He had inherited a fortune from his father and mother and, as far as Dick knew, had never worked a day in his life. Gene also disliked Republicans. No, dislike was too mild a word. Loathe was a better choice of words. Senator Paul Patrick hated anything and anybody of the right-wing persuasion. Senator Sam Stevens was another ultraleft liberal. Just like Dawson, Sam had inherited a huge fortune from his parents. But Madalaine Bowman was quite another story. Possessing the disposition of a pit viper, Madalaine was the most dangerous of those who attended the private meetings in that room behind the restaurant. Dick had always felt Madalaine was capable of anything . . . even murder. The others who attended, even though they wielded great power, were tagalongs, sheep. They would follow the Judas Goat blindly and without question.

Dick scribbled on the legal pad. It was all beginning to add up, at least in his mind. And what it was adding up to both disgusted and frightened the president. It was unthinkable.