Prey (7 page)

Dick knew Madalaine hated him. He could read it in her eyes each time they met, and Gene Dawson and Paul Patrick shared her feelings. Dick was a moderate liberal, just as Holden had been.

The kicker in this hypothesis was Vice President Adam Thomas, a very good friend of Madalaine Bowman, and a man Dick Hutton could just barely tolerate. For the sake of the party, in public, they were buddy-buddy, but in private, they loathed one another with equal fervor.

Dick's spies had informed him that Madalaine had called for some sort of emergency meeting just a few nights past. Of course, VP Thomas could never attend those gatherings, but he would be kept abreast of anything that was discussed. Dick's spies had told him that when Senator Holden left the meeting, he appeared to be badly shaken.

Dick was now certain that the “rumor” about a contract on Congressman Madison's life was no rumor. And he felt sure he knew why Senator Holden had been killed.

Dick pulled out a drawer of his desk and paused for a moment before using his private line to place a call. Meeting secretly with Speaker Madison would be chancy, but his Secret Service people could work it out. They'd
have
to work it out. And they wouldn't have much time in which to do it. The call concluded, Dick summoned the head of the White House Secret Service detail. Moments later, the man was standing in front of the president's desk.

“Let's do it, Walt,” the president of the United States said.

“John Ravenna is not here to relax and fish,” Barry told Stormy and Ki, after the sheriff and his wife had left. “Ravenna has been a hired assassin for nearly a thousand years. And he despises me.”

“When did you last see him?” Ki asked.

“1944. In France. I was with the OSS, working with the French Resistance.”

Stormy and Ki knew all about the man who was christened Vlad Dumitru Radu. They were the first mortals Barry had leveled with in more than half a century.

“You think Robert Roche hired him?” Stormy asked.

“I don't know. But I suspect not. That would not be Ravenna's first choice of assignment. He's a hunter, a torturer, a killer. He lives to kill. He talks of us fighting, but for obvious reasons, it would be a useless physical confrontation. No, John is here for someone other than me.”

“Pete and Repeat?” Ki asked, looking at the huge hybrids, sprawled in sleep on the floor of the living room.

Barry shook his head. “No. John knows I would track him until the end of time if he harmed something I loved. I would never let him rest; I would expose him wherever he went. So that means he isn't after either of you.” Barry went into the kitchen, poured a mug of coffee, sugared it, and returned to the living room. “So that leaves only one other possibility as John's target.”

“Who?” Both women asked.

Barry told them.

* * *

It was possible for the president of the United States to slip out of the White House undetected by the press. It wasn't easy, but it was possible. Over the years, sitting presidents had used doubles, disguises, secret passageways, tunnels running under the White House, and other techniques of evading the press and the public. Usually they didn't work. This night, the president was successful.

The president's wife was back at their home in Ohio, where they had planned to spend a few days of their upcoming two-week vacation. Both their children were in college. Dick had canceled all White House functions. So on this night, Dick Hutton slipped out the back way, got into a nondescript Secret Service vehicle, and left the grounds undetected, even though actions such as these made the Secret Service awfully nervous.

At the same time, Speaker of the House Cliff Madison was being picked up by another unmarked government vehicle. The president and the Speaker met in the underground parking area of a government office building. Present at the meeting were selected agents of the Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and the FBI.

Dick Hutton pointed a finger at the FBI. “Just listen, don't talk. Not yet. I want your best people working on the death of Senator Holden. It was not a suicide. I strongly suspect it was a contract killing.” The president told the gathering who he suspected was behind the killing, and that shook the men and women right down to the soles of their shoes. Dick looked at Cliff Madison. “I believe there is an assassin already in place in Arkansas waiting to kill you, Cliff. I believe an accident has been planned for you while boating.” He looked at the gathering of federal law enforcement personnel. “Get undercover people into that area ASAP. The very best you have, no fuck-ups. This country cannot take another Waco, or Ruby Ridge, or, God help us all, another fiasco such as the one in Idaho last spring. I want no large display of force. You've got five days to set this up.” He looked at Cliff. “Unless you want to cancel, and I hope you do.”

“No,” the Speaker said. “No way. You know as well as I do that if we're targets, they'll get us, one way or the other. It goes with the job. But what do I tell my wife?”

“The truth, Cliff. And won't that be refreshing?”

Cliff smiled.

Dick turned his attention to the federal enforcement agents. “I have alerted certain people at NSA and CIA. And I accept full responsibility for using the CIA domestically. But if some people have to be taken out, and you know what I mean, the Company does it better than anyone else. All right, get your people in there as fishermen, hikers, tourists, people looking for investment property, retirement homes. I want around-the-clock surveillance on Gene Dawson, Senators Stevens and Patrick, and especially on that venomous bitch Madalaine Bowman. Phones bugged; the whole nine yards. I've already spoken with a federal judge who is a close friend of mine. Everything is legal and above-board—more or less—but we're ready to go. I don't want young agents in on this. No cowboys or hot dogs. I want highly experienced men and women who won't panic and jump the gun. Understood?”

Perfectly.

* * *

“That bitch reporter, Stormy Knight, is in the area,” Alex, the boss of this particularly odious bunch of shaved heads, told his equally shiny-domed gang. “Vic Radford just confirmed it. She's gonna do a number on us.”

“Maybe we better lay low,” a gang member suggested. “We don't need no more heat on us.”

“We ain't done nothin' wrong,” Alex countered. “We got a right to our opinions same as anyone else. Fuck 'er.”

“I'd like that,” another shaved head said with a dirty laugh.

“You wouldn't when you come down with AIDS or some other fag disease,” Alex said. He frowned at all the members gathered around. “She's like all reporters: in love with niggers and queers and Jews. Liberals think it's fashionable to fuck niggers and kiss queers. If our race is gonna survive, we gotta be more careful than ever before. You boys and girls keep that in mind.”

Alex gave his following a slow visual once-over. They were small in number, but they would grow with time. Alex knew that, for he had met with the leaders of other chapters around the country before deciding upon this location for a cell. And in only a few months five new members had been added. It did not take long to convince a certain type of person that Hitler was a great and wise man. You just had to know what to look for. Alex had been carefully coached in that and was not nearly as dumb as he appeared to be.

Which certainly could not be said for most of his followers.

* * *

Stormy and Ki were prowling around the country, would be gone most of the day. Barry made certain Pete and Repeat had plenty of fresh water, secured his place, and took a drive out to Will's store on the lake. Barry was more aware than any other living person that when it came to men of John Ravenna's caliber, there was no point in pussy-footing around: they had to be met head-on. He was also well aware that moments after he stopped at the store and asked directions to Ravenna's place, Will would be on the phone to Sheriff Salter. Couldn't be helped. This was something that had to be done.

Barry had a soft drink and chatted with the old man who had established the store and operated it for almost half a century.

“I bet you've seen some changes in this country since you first opened your store, right, Mr. Will?” Barry asked.

“Son,” the old man replied, “I could sit here for the rest of the day and tell you stories about this area of the state. And I wouldn't even scratch the surface. Not just this little part of the country, but the whole nation. We're headed straight down the toilet, we are. And I don't see no way it can be stopped. Sit down, boy, sit down.” He pointed to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. You ain't in no hurry, are you? Good. I don't take to many folks, but you got an honest face. Manners, too. That's rare nowadays.” Will poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down. “I was raised right here in this country. Born in 1918, I was. On the day the big war ended. The war to end all wars, they said. Twenty-four years later my ass was in North Africa in the infantry. Two years later I waded ashore on D-Day. I was the only man in my squad to survive that bloody day. When the Krauts finally surrendered, I was the only man out of the original platoon left alive. I come back here and by God I ain't left the state since then.”

Will took a sip of coffee. “I got married a year after I come back. Had four kids. Two of ‘em turned out all right; last two ain't worth a sack of shit. Haven't seen them in years; don't wanna see 'em. Last time I seen the youngest was back in the late sixties. He come wanderin' in here drivin' a van had flowers painted all over it. He was dressed up so's he looked like he oughta be a part of a freak show. Had a girl with him—I think it was female, I ain't sure to this day—had a conversational ability about like a concrete block. The boy told me the war in Vietnam was wrong and anybody who fought over there was a criminal and should be put in prison. I knocked him down right over there by the front door, kicked his ass off the porch and ain't seen him since. After I kicked him off the porch that girl-thing with him said something like, ‘Oh, wow, man, I mean, that's truly heavy, like, you know?' I ain't figured out yet exactly what the hell she was talkin' about.”

Will got up to wait on a customer wanting minnows and worms and then returned to his chair. “This part of the country used to be a nice place to live. Folks got along. Now we got Nazis, skinheads, hippies, so-called survivalists, big militia group, and God only knows what else. These new-Nazis say that Hitler was a great man. The son of a bitch was a ravin', murderin' lunatic, that's what he was. Wasn't nothin' great about him. I don't know what them damned shaved heads believe in; nothin', probably. Don't know where they get their money to live like they do. I get along pretty well with the few hippies left around here. They work hard and mind their own business. The survivalists make me laugh . . . but I think they're harmless, for the most part. They gather together one weekend a month and dress up like they was in the army and run around in the woods, shootin' and hollerin' and carryin' on. I been knowin' most of 'em since they shit yeller. But them militia folks is serious now . . . and I tend to agree with most of what they espouse . . .”

Barry noticed that the old man would occasionally slip out of his folksy, backwoods way of speaking. He'd noticed the stack of newspapers and magazines behind the counter, and accurately guessed that Will was well read and highly literate—when he wanted to let it show. Barry had also seen the book, Lost Rights, authored by James Bovard, on a bookshelf behind the counter. One of the finest books about the destruction of American liberty to be published in years. Barry suspected that Will might play well the part of backwoods philosopher, but the still waters that flowed throughout the man ran deep with knowledge.

Barry accepted Will's offer of coffee and poured a cup and sugared it. “How about this nation, Mr. Will. America. Where are we heading?”

Will shook his head. “Country's in trouble, boy. Bad trouble. Folks are unhappy. Thousands of ‘em joinin' this group or that group or the other group. But all the groups have one thing in common: they don't like the federal government. Government's got too big and too bossy. Stickin' their noses into a person's personal business. They got no right to do that. None at all.”

“You think we're looking at revolution, Mr. Will?”

“Maybe,” the older man said solemnly. “It wouldn't surprise me none to see it happen. Hard-workin' folks get pushed long enough, they'll push back. Feds know that, too. That's why those goddamn egg-suckin' liberals up in Washington are tryin' so hard to disarm us all. They're scared, boy. And they ain't scared of criminals like they say is behind the move. They're scared of me and you and folks like us all over America.”

“Would you turn in your guns to the government, Mr. Will? If that legislation were to pass both houses and get signed into law?”

The man smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “Hell, no. Would you?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so. You don't look the type. But”—Will smiled widely—“you might be another one of those snoopin' Feds that come around here ever' so often askin' all sorts of damn fool questions 'bout things that ain't none of their goddamn business.”

Barry laughed. “No, sir. I can assure you I am not a federal agent. I bought a piece of property on the other side of town, about five miles out. I think it's called the old Pearson place. Something like that.”

“Yeah. I know where you live. I just wanted to see any reaction you might have when I mentioned the feds.”

“Mr. Will, I live a good ten miles from this store. How would you know about me?”

“Oh, people stop by and keep me up to date, son. I like to know when strangers move into our area.”

“Any strangers moved out this way recently?”

“I wondered when you'd get around to that, son.”

Barry smiled. “I suppose you know all about the trouble out at my place.”

“I think I've heard something about it, yeah. That good-lookin' lady reporter is stayin' out there with you, right?”

“That's right.”

“Sure can't fault you for that. We've had a stranger or two move in around here lately, for a fact. One of ‘em's gonna be comin' through the front door in about half a minute. He might be a nice enough feller, but I just can't cotton to him. After he leaves, you gimme your impression, boy.”

Barry twisted in his chair. John Ravenna was opening the front door to the country store and bait shop.