Watchers in the Woods
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Though known largely for his epic tales of the American West including The Mountain Man series, New York Times bestselling author William W. Johnstone began his career by writing some of the most frightening and nightmare-inducing novels of his generation, including The Devil’s Heart and The Devil’s Kiss, which have developed a cult following in the years since their first publication.
You can learn more about Johnstone’s books including upcoming releases and special promotions by visiting williamjohnstone.net or kensingtonbooks.com.
Watchers in the Woods
WILLIAM W JOHNSTONE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Title Page
Copyright Page
BOOK ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Book Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Book Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
THE BEGINNING
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1991 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL PRESS, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical
Underground logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Office.
First electronic edition: October 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3536-9
ISBN-10: 1-60183-536-1
BOOK ONE
A little season of love and laughter,
Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,
And a horror of outer darkness after,
And dust returneth to dust again.
Adam Lindsay Gordon
1
“I think it’s a great idea!” Susan said, getting so excited she almost spilled her coffee. She placed the cup on the counter and sat down in a chair. “The class of ’67 rides again—yeaaa!” she yelled.
“Susan!” The voice that originated three thousand miles away tried to sound stern but failed miserably, trailing off into a schoolgirlish giggle. Talking to an excited Susan was infectious. But then it always had been. “Susan!” she yelled, finally getting her attention. “How about Tom? You remember him, don’t you? He’s your husband.”
“Oh, he’ll go along with it, Nance. I’m telling you, girl, it’s fate, pure and simple fate. It has to be. Milli calls about a reunion and tells me they have a six-week vacation coming. Well, Tom had planned to take six weeks off. And then you tell me that you and Wade are taking six weeks off. It’s fate!”
“Six, six, six,” Nancy Lavelle said. “Three sixes. That means something, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Is it supposed to mean something?”
“Oh, I guess not. Fate it may be, kid, but hold onto your socks, ’cause there is more.”
“So tell me!”
“You remember Norman Hunt?”
“Sure, I remember him. He married Polly Simpson.”
“They’re taking six weeks’ vacation too.”
Susan squealed with delight. In San Jose, California, Nancy grinned and held the phone away from her ear. “Susan! There’s more!” she yelled.
“Well, tell me!”
“Frank and Cathy Nichols are also taking their vacation then. Oh, Susie, I think you’re right—it is fate.”
The women giggled like teenagers for a few minutes. Finally Susan got herself under control. “Ok, Mrs. Lavelle, now listen up.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“The kids.”
“Oh, shit . . . and we were having so much fun.”
“Camp.”
“What about it?”
“I can maybe stick one of mine in camp and drag the other along.”
“That’s an idea. We still have time to make arrangements. Your oldest is ... ?”
“Traci is seventeen, Tommy is eleven. Oh, I think they’d like to come along. They’re both good sports.”
“Ok. My two boy-heathens I can farm out. Sara I’d better bring along.”
“She’s ten now, isn’t she?”
“Eleven. And very tomboyish. She likes camping.”
“How about the others?”
“That, dear heart, is up for grabs. I know that Milli and Dennis have some brats. They told me that themselves. Norm and Polly waited late and have two darling kids; they’ll take them, I’m sure. Frank and Cathy had two early on, when they were both still in college, and they’re both off at school.”
“OK. How about vehicles?”
“Well, we’re flying into Lewiston and renting vehicles for the drive over to that quaint-sounding lodge. From there I guess we’ll walk in or ride horses, or something. I tell you what: you get a Norm Thompson or L. L. Bean catalog and start outfittingyou and yours. This is going to be such a kick, girl. Oh, Susan, before I forget . . .”
“Yes?”
“The last invitation was returned today, only a couple of months late. Matt will be there.”
* * *
Susan had fixed another cup of coffee after hanging up and took it outside to drink by the pool.
Matt Jordan. God! Talk about a name from the past! What a crush she’d had on him. Nothing had ever come of it, although it was not because she didn’t pursue him with all her teenage wiles. Matt was one of those rare young men who, when not in school, was working to help out at home. His parents had not been destitute, but neither were they quite middle class . . . just good, decent, hardworking people—both of them. Matt had dropped out of school at the start of his second year of college, after his parents were killed in a house fire. She’d heard he’d gone into the army, and then to work for the CIA around 1970. He would have his twenty years in.
Susan Dalton hadn’t thought about Matt Jordan in years.
Well—months, anyway.
* * *
“What?” Tom Dalton said, turning slowly from the wet bar in their nice Westchester County home, the drink he had just fixed forgotten. He blinked at Susan. “You want to do what?”
“Go camping for two weeks in Idaho,” she repeated. “After the class reunion. You and me and Nance and Wade and all the rest of our group.”
“Our group? No—that’s your group, Susan, not mine. I I am not a happy camper. I don’t like the woods. I don’t like bugs and snakes and other things that slither and crawl around on the ground.”
She could not help herself: she laughed at the expression on his face. “Tom, you were a Boy Scout!”
“Not a very happy one, I assure you. And not for very long. No, I think I’ll pass on this venture, Susan.”
She looked at him, defiance in her eyes. “What are you going to do for two weeks?”
He sat his martini glass on the bar. “What do you mean, Susan?”
“I mean, Tom, that the day after the dance at the reunion, a group of us are flying out to Idaho and going camping in the wilderness area. For two weeks.”
“With or without my permission?”
She blinked. “Your . . . permission?”
“Susan, I, uh, I didn’t say that right. Certainly you don’t have to have my permission to do anything. I was just assuming that you would not want to go camping in the woods without me.”
“I would rather you did come with us, Tom. You’re behaving as if this is the first time you’ve heard of the reunion and the camping trip. It isn’t. You just hear what you want to hear. Traci is very excited about it, and so is Tommy. They’re both coming along. Tom, it isn’t as if we’re going out there in a covered wagon, for heaven’s sake. We’ll have the best equipment available. We’ll sleep on air mattresses. And there is a town just about fifty miles from the campsite.”
“Fifty . . . miles?”
He was so serious she could not keep from laughing at him. “I’m sorry, honey. But the expression on your face was priceless. I . . .” She cracked up again.
He walked out of the room, his face red and his back stiff with anger. She watched him go and sobered, her laughter quickly fading. One more nail in the coffin, she thought. She walked to the bar and picked up his forgotten martini, tasting it, and grimaced. As usual, he had put too much vermouth in it.
* * *
“Idaho!” Dennis Feldman said. “You’ve been serious about this all along?”
Milli nodded her head. “Oh, yes.”
“Idaho . . . that’s where they have bears and wild Indians and stuff like that.”
Milli, a member of the Denver class of ’67, could not contain her amusement. Like Susan, she burst out laughing at the expression on her husband’s face. Dennis was city born and city bred. His idea of roughing it was an outing to the zoo.
Dennis and Milli were a physical mismatch if ever there was one. Milli was tall and slim and elegant and lovely. Dennis was built like a fireplug. But unlike Tom Dalton, Dennis was game for just about anything. He had grown up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn and was just as good with his fists as he was with a law book. He had met Milli in college and they were married after he got out of law school. In less than fifteen years he had become one of the most feared and respected lawyers in southern California. And one of the wealthiest.
“I can see it now,” Dennis said, trying his best to look mournful. He didn’t quite make it; his natural good humor prevented it. “Los Angeles attorney attacked by wild Indians and eaten by bears.”
Milli laughed at him. “You’re going to love it, Dennis.”
“Of course I will. Sounds like fun. I’ve always looked forward to being infested with fleas and chiggers and attacked by porcupines.”
* * *
“Dennis and Milli still driving down for the weekend?” Wade Lavelle asked his wife as he came in from work.
“Sure. We’ve got to get started on what to take on our wilderness outing.”
“OK. We boys will cook the steaks and you ladies can make the salad. We’ll all help with the dishes.”
“You have a deal, tiger.”
He fixed them weak drinks and took off his jacket before sitting down on the sofa. He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. “Made up your mind about our thundering herd, baby?”
“Yeah. The boys we can farm out. I’ve already made arrangements. We’ll take Sara.”
“Sounds good to me. Oh, by the way, when you order the equipment, be sure and get me one of those jackets like Stewart Granger used to wear in the jungle movies. I’ve always wanted one.”
She grinned at him and the love they shared for each other was evident. “My husband, the great white hunter.”
He returned the grin. “Who has never fired a gun in his life. And never intends to,” he added. He lifted his glass. “Cheers, darling.”
* * *
In Denver, Cathy Nichols sat on the couch with her husband and watched the news with Peter Jennings. During a commercial break, she said, “Looking forward to our vacation, honey?”
“I sure am,” Frank said. “It’ll be good to see the old gang again. Most of them. Is Matt Jordan coming to the class reunion?”
“That’s what Nancy told me.”
“I wonder if the rumors are true that he works for the CIA.”
“According to her, yes. He just retired as chief of station of a South American desk . . . whatever in the world that means.”
Frank grinned. “I wonder if Susan still has a crush on him.”
“Now that would be interesting.”
“How so?”
“Nancy implied that Susan’s marriage is pretty shaky. They’ve split up a couple of times, for a week or so. Nancy says that Tom is a real jerk.”
“Is he coming along on the camping trip?”
“I don’t know. But I do know one thing: Susan will definitely be there.”
* * *
In Virginia, the assistant director of central intelligence walked into Matt Jordan’s temporary office within the confines of the CIA complex. He sat down.
“You won’t change your mind, Matt?”
“No. I’m tired and discouraged and more than slightly pissed off. I’ve got my twenty years, my disability has been approved, and I can draw sixty-five percent and live nicely. The Company has changed and it isn’t to my liking. I’m tired of having to account for every damned paper clip and pencil I use. Our hands are tied more now than they were during the Carter administration. It was pathetic then, it’s worse now. I’m gone.”
Richard nodded in understanding. “Are you planning on attending your high school class reunion, Matt?”
Matt did not bother to ask how the assistant DCI knew about that. “Yes. I’m looking forward to it.”
The number two man at the Agency stared at Matt Jordan. He was losing another of the good ones and it irked him. Few men without a college degree—from the right school, of course—ever rose to chief of station. Matt Jordan was the exception. He possessed a high level of intelligence, was tough as a mountain goat—and could be just as hardheaded—and had a percentage of successes on assignment as high as any chief of station. Better than most, in fact. Richard hated to lose him. When South America was busting wide open—and drugs were only a part of the problem—the Agency needed all the older hands it could keep.
“I could probably arrange for more money, Matt.”
“Money had nothing to do with my decision to leave. It’s politics, Richard. It’s always been too political and now it’s getting worse. We could have taken out the Ayatollah in France long before he returned to Iran and screwed it all up. Turned down from Sugar Cube. We had the opportunity to kill that asshole in Panama a dozen times. Turned down. We could have stopped the drug crap in Colombia and Bolivia and Peru long before it ever got started. I drew up the plan. It was turned down supposedly because some innocent might get hurt or killed. Nobody who associates with drug lords is innocent. Nobody who is close to organized crime is innocent. Now look at the mess the country is in. And I’m not talking about South America, either. Jesus Christ, Richard! On my first day back here, you know what I was told? Don’t walk in certain sections of DC during the day. Don’t walk in any section of DC alone at night. Welcome back, Matt. Just remember you’re in a combat zone here and we can’t do anything because we might violate someone’s constitutional rights. I’ve been gone twenty years, Rich. What the hell have I come back to?”
The assistant DCI waited, allowing Matt time to vent his spleen. Many
of the older hands were irritated, and much of that irritation was justified. Richard knew just how deeply into the toilet American justice had slipped. The new young blood coming into the Agency were all good, patriotic young men, from all the right universities and so forth, but they didn’t have the survival instinct men like Matt possessed. And Richard worried about that.
Matt summed it up. “I just want out, Richard.”
“Very well. How is your debriefing going?”
“As good as that crap ever goes. And if I have to talk to one more psychiatrist and answer more dumb-assed questions, I’m going to punch somebody.”
“It’s for your own good.”
Matt stared at him.
“Are you planning to go on the camping trip some of your old classmates have lined up?”
Matt blinked. “I don’t know anything about a camping trip.”
Richard grinned. “Normally, we wouldn’t either.”
“I wouldn’t think so, unless domestic operations accidentally came across it.”
Number Two shook his head. “You’ve been out of the country for a long time, Matt. All that has been scaled back. In some cases it was a good move, in others not so good. Tell me, what do you know about a group called CWA? The Citizens for a White America.”
“Nothing. What are they, some kind of racist group?”
“Yes—racist-survivalist types, a large group—and growing. They train in central Idaho. In the wilderness.” He opened a briefcase and spread a map on the desk. One large area was circled in red. “In that region, Matt.”
Matt stood up and leaned over the desk, studying the map; a very good map. The area circled was wilderness, all right, a lot of it very likely never thoroughly explored except by the Indians, a long time ago. A lover and student of the outdoors, he knew this area would have magnificent mountains, beautiful valleys, wild, rushing rivers, and dark forests. He looked across the desk at Richard.