Prey Read online

  Twenty-five

  Ki picked up Stormy at seven o’clock, and Barry left the house minutes later, after being sure Pete and Repeat had plenty of water. He ordered them to stay inside and knew they would obey. At the last minute, Barry tucked his lever-action Winchester .375 behind the seat of his pickup and added several boxes of ammunition and a full bandoleer, although he really wasn’t sure why he was doing it.

  Sheriff Salter straightened that out as soon as Barry ran into him, moments later, outside Nellie’s Cafe.

  “You’re still a sworn-in deputy sheriff, Barry,” Don told him. “With full arrest powers. You see something going down, you stop it. I’ll back you one hundred and ten percent.”

  “Wonderful,” Barry said sarcastically.

  Agents Robbins and Van Brocklen were in the cafe. They both looked as though they had not gotten enough sleep.

  Barry ordered coffee and biscuits and gravy, for he had skipped breakfast at the house.

  “Does anything ever affect your appetite, Cantrell?” Van Brocklen asked. “Or whatever your name is.”

  “Vlad Dumitru Radu. The answer to your question is no. Why should it?”

  “Radu?” Robbins spoke in low tones. “What nationality is that?”

  “Rumanian.”

  Van Brocklen looked at him. “How’d you get to America?” He held up a hand; shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  An agent came in and whispered in Robbins’ ear, then left. The Secret Service man sighed heavily. “Lots of strangers in town, and more gathering by the minute.”

  Van Brocklen finished his coffee in a gulp and stood up. “Time to get back to work. See you fellows.”

  FBI and Secret Service left the cafe.

  Don waited until Barry had finished his breakfast before asking, “You ready to go to work?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Circulate. Report back to me if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  “Don, a full twenty-five percent of the people in this town look suspicious.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “All right, all right.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Rather, I’m not carrying a pistol on me. I stuck a rifle in the truck.”

  “That cannon I saw?”

  “Yes.”

  Shaking his head and muttering about a rifle capable of bringing down a polar bear, the sheriff left the cafe, Barry right behind him. Barry began slowly walking around the courthouse square. He had not gone half a block when a man fell in step with him. Barry recognized him from the party, one of Robert Roche’s security men.

  “Mr. Roche wants to see you, Cantrell. His car is parked in a garage just around the corner.” He pointed. “That way. He said to tell you no tricks of any kind. He just wants to talk. He’s waiting outside the car.”

  “If anything hinky goes down, I’ll tear your arms off first and stick them up a part of your anatomy that will be very uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t want to tangle with you, Cantrell. All Mr. Roche wants is a few minutes of your time. That’s all. Regardless of what you might think, he is a man of his word.”

  “Sure he is. All right. Lead the way.”

  “We’ll dispense with handshaking, Mr. Cantrell,” Roche said, as Barry approached. “I have this, ah, call it an eccentricity about people touching me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have time to listen to a business proposition?”

  “A short one. I’ve been pressed into service by the sheriff.”

  “How admirable of you to accept such a responsible position during these trying times. Mr. Cantrell, I’m a blunt man. Name your price.”

  Barry stared at the man for a few seconds. He knew exactly what Roche meant, but the abruptness of it took him by surprise. “Robert,” he started slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I and the others like me are a fluke of nature. We possess no magic gene to give eternal life to anyone else . . . it isn’t transferable by blood transfusion or surgery. We come from all walks of life. And there are immortals being born even now, perhaps one or two every fifty or hundred years or so. We don’t die, Robert. At least I don’t think we do. I met a wanderer in Egypt once who had walked with a holy man called Jesus. I met another who remembered the flood. I met a beautiful woman who was once in Cleopatra’s court, another who marched side by side with the Phoenicians . . . when they explored what is now called North America. They’re still alive, Robert. They have all married dozens of times and had children. Ninety-nine point nine percent of those offspring lived normal lives, aged, and died. We all believe that a tiny percentage of offspring who are born immortal got that way because somewhere far back in their past they were related to an immor-tail. . .”

  “Then there is a possibility that I might have an immortal in my past?” Robert interrupted impatiently.

  “Anything is possible. But I would guess the odds at about ten million to one.” Barry paused to stare at the billionaire, sensing that the man’s mind was working furiously, coming to some strange conclusions.

  Robert slowly nodded his head. “Then I need a female immortal if I am to achieve immortality,” he spoke softly.

  Barry shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t say that for certain.”

  “Tell me where I can find one.” Robert’s voice had turned harsh and demanding.

  “Sorry. I won’t do that.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” the billionaire said, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

  Barry knew then he’d been suckered. He spun around, but too late. He felt the lash of a needle burying deep in his hip, the crack of a tranquilizer gun. His world began to fade. His legs felt rubbery, unable to hold his weight.

  “Oh, you’ll tell me,” Robert Roche’s voice came through the gathering mist in Barry’s brain. “Sooner or later, you’ll tell me. That’s the only way you’ll ever gain your freedom.”

  “So much for your being a man of your word,” Barry managed to mumble the words.

  “There is that adage about all’s fair in love and war, Barry,” Roche said mockingly.

  “I seem to recall something like that.” And that was the last thing Barry would recall for hours.

  Twenty-six

  “Drive Cantrell’s truck out to his house and park it there,” Roche instructed. “You follow the truck,” he told another man.

  One of Roche’s security men stripped Barry of his shirt and put it on. Moments later, Barry’s pickup was driven from a side street parking area and out of town. Barry was tossed onto the rear seat of Roche’s car and covered with a blanket.

  “We’ll take him to the lake house and wait until the march starts,” Roche said. He grinned nastily. “We know there will be a great deal of trouble, don’t we?” He quickly sobered. Roche’s moments of levity did not last long. “Then we’ll drive to Little Rock and fly out.”

  “Hadn’t we better handcuff him, boss?” one of the goons asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! The drug we injected him with is used to tranquilize elephants. He’ll be out for hours.”

  For several hours, yes, but not nearly as long as Roche thought. He had no way of knowing just how advanced Barry’s recuperative powers were.

  * * *

  “Any of you people seen Barry Cantrell?” Don asked several of his deputies, who were just reporting for their usual eight-to-four shift.

  “I seen his truck headin’ out of town,” one replied. “ ’Bout ten minutes ago.” The deputy frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” Don prompted.

  “Well . . . you know how friendly Barry always is? He didn’t return my wave. And I could swear he was lookin’ right at me.”

  “Maybe he had his mind on Stormy,” another deputy suggested with a smile.

  “Was he heading out toward his house?” Don asked.

  “Yes, sir, he was. And there was a car right behind him, stayin’ close.”
/>   Don nodded. “You guys go on to work, and stay loose. I got a hunch this day is going to be busy.”

  The sheriff drove out to Barry’s house. The pickup was parked in the drive, but outside the fenced-in area; Barry never parked there. Pete and Repeat were on the porch, refusing to come off, and while Don was friendly with the dogs, and believed he could enter the grounds without being harmed, he was wary of the big hybrids, even though they were not behaving in an unfriendly manner.

  Using the cell phone in his unit, Don dialed Barry’s number. He got the answering machine. He tried three times, and three times the answering machine clicked on. Barry was not at home.

  Don walked over to Barry’s truck and looked inside. The same shirt that he had seen Barry wearing just about half an hour or so before was lying on the seat.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Don muttered. He looked behind the seat. Barry’s .375 Winchester was in place. Don walked back to his unit and got behind the wheel. “What’s going on here?” he said aloud. He drove around town, then out into the county for the next hour. Barry had vanished.

  Don pulled over to the narrow shoulder when he spotted a large group of people trooping across a field. He sighed when he recognized Dr. Waller and his group of scientists and assistants.

  “We’re on the trail!” Dr. Irene Biegelsack hollered at him.

  “Wonderful,” Don replied.

  “We found a fresh track in a marshy area just a few hundred yards back!” Dr. Dekerlegand yelled.

  “Stay with it,” Don said.

  “Oh, we shall!” Dr. Inez Hopper shouted, puffing along like a miniature locomotive. “But I’m sure I’ll see you at President Hutton’s reception tomorrow evening.”

  “Right.” Don sat in his unit and watched the parade until they disappeared into a clump of woods.

  “I’m due for a long vacation,” he muttered. “I’ve earned it, I deserve it, I need it.”

  Don drove over to Vic Radford’s place, parked in the drive just off the road, being careful not to enter Vic’s property, and stared in disbelief. There were at least a hundred people milling around, the hardest-looking bunch of men and women Don had ever seen.

  “My God,” Don breathed, and backed out and drove away.

  He continued on to Bubba Bordelon’s farm. Same thing. Kluckers from all over the state had pulled in; there were so many Confederate battle flags waving in the slight breeze Don couldn’t count them. “Good Lord!” he muttered, and reached for his mike, keying it.

  “Hazel,” he said to the woman working the radio at headquarters. “Has that National Guard unit arrived yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Just about an hour ago. They sure cut it fine, didn’t they?”

  “How many of them?”

  “About a company, I think. A hundred or so. They’re meeting with the federal people now.”

  “Good. We’re sure going to need them.”

  “Where are you now, Don?”

  “Out at Bubba’s place, looking at a sea of Confederate flags and white sheets.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “Yes, Hazel.”

  “My great-granddaddy fought for the Confederacy.”

  “Well, hell, Hazel!” Don blurted. “So did mine. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Nothin’, I guess. Where are you off to now?”

  “Over to Jim Beal’s warehouse.”

  “He isn’t there, Sheriff. I just saw him havin’ breakfast in town.”

  “You see Nate Williams?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I’ll go over there and check him out.”

  “That crazy Alex Tarver’s in town with about fifty or more of those bald-headed idiots that run with him. They’re stompin’ around wearin’ army clothes and combat boots and carryin’ Nazi flags.”

  “Wonderful. That’s all we need. I’ll be in the office in about an hour.”

  “Ten-four.”

  The breakaway AFB people were gathered at Nate’s. They were dressed in army battle dress and carrying American flags. Don got out of his car and walked up to the man. “Nate. I’m warning you now: if you march, I’ll arrest you. You don’t have a permit.”

  “Neither do the nigras, Sheriff. You goin’ to arrest them, too?”

  “You damn right I am!”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Clyde Mayfield said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” his wife popped off.

  Don sighed. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Somebody in the crowd gave Don a very wet raspberry.

  “This is going to be a very interesting day,” Don muttered, as he got in his car and headed back to town.

  * * *

  Barry was tossed in the back of a panel truck parked behind the lake house and locked in, but not before a security man tied his hands and feet with rope. The security man had heard all about Barry Cantrell, and wasn’t about to take any chances. But he needn’t have worried, not for several more hours, at least.

  The march was due to start about noon, but like all events of that nature, it would be late in kicking off—just about the time Barry would start coming around.

  * * *

  Stormy called Barry about ten o’clock that morning, but got the answering machine. Then she remembered that Barry had promised he would help Sheriff Salter. She thought no more about it. She and Ki returned to work filming the gathering crowds that were milling about the courthouse square, interviewing a few of the people . . . those who would consent talk to her, that is. Some of the people were waving American flags; others held Confederate flags.

  Sheriff Salter walked up. Before he could ask if the women had seen Barry, Ki asked, “Is Congressman Madison really going to speak to this . . . ah, gathering?”

  “Far as I know his appearance is still on.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah. I agree. Stormy, have you seen Barry?”

  She cut her suddenly narrowed eyes to the man. “Not since early this morning.”

  “He checked in and then vanished. His truck is parked out at the house. His house. But he’s nowhere around. Something’s going on, and I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe he’s riding with another deputy?” Ki suggested.

  Don shook his head. “No. I checked.”

  “Robert Roche,” Stormy said. “Barry told you about him, didn’t he?”

  “A little. You want to ride out there with me and nose around? We’ve got a couple of hours before this mess kicks off.”

  “Let’s go.”

  On the way to Don’s unit, they ran into Robbins and Van Brocklen. “What’s up?” the Bureau man asked, casting a look at Stormy.

  “Barry’s disappeared,” Don said, then told the feds all he knew, including Stormy’s suspicions about Robert Roche. “We’re heading out that way now to check it out.”

  “The Speaker’s due in town in just about an hour,” Robbins said. “We’ve got to stay close. Keep us informed about Cantrell, will you? I just don’t trust him.” He glanced at Stormy. “Sorry, Ms. Knight. I’ve got a suspicious nature.”

  “You’re off base on this one,” she told him.

  “Maybe.”

  Stormy spun around and got into Don’s unit. Don looked at the feds. “I think you’re wrong, too.”

  “I hope I am, too, Don,” the Secret Service man admitted. “I sort of like Cantrell.”

  “And I can’t stand Robert Roche,” Van Brocklen added. “We’ve tangled with him before. And I would appreciate if you didn’t repeat that.”

  Don smiled. “I won’t. I’ll call in just as soon as I know something. One way or the other.”

  After Don had pulled out, Chet turned to Van Brocklen. “What the hell are we going to do with all these National Guard troops, Van? These people are a public affairs unit, or something like that, not military police or anything remotely connected with combat.”

  “We can all pray fervently they don’t shoot some innocent citizen by accident.”


  A horrified look passed the Secret Service’s face. “You mean they have live ammunition?”

  “Governor’s orders.”

  “My God, Van! These people aren’t soldiers. They’re civil servants and CPAs and bureaucrats.”

  “I know. And I wish I didn’t.”

  A Bureau man walked up. “The Speaker’s on his way into town.”

  Robbins looked at his watch. “He’s early.”

  Van Brocklen slowly shook his head and sighed almost painfully. “Here we go, gang.”

  * * *

  By eleven o’clock, all the various groups that had threatened to march were in town, and no stranger bunch had ever gathered in the North Arkansas town. Vic and his neo-Nazis were there. Bubba Bordelon and his Kluckers were there, resplendent in their robes and Confederate flags. Nate Williams and his breakaway AFB people were milling around, dressed in camouflage battle dress and black berets. Alex Tarver and his skinheads were in attendance, with their tattoos and cut-off jackets and heavy boots and chains, stomping around, scowling at everybody and frightening little children.

  Alex stomped up to one little boy, about six years old, made a face at the child and said, “Boo!”

  The little boy reared back and kicked the shit out of him, landing one small cowboy boot on Alex’s shin.

  “You little son of a bitch!” Alex hollered, hopping around on one boot.

  The boy’s mother smacked him on the side of the head with a very large purse. Alex hit the sidewalk in a sprawl.

  “Freak!” the woman yelled at him.

  “Old bag!” Alex shouted at her.

  The woman’s husband pulled her away and glared down at Alex. “I ought to kick your scummy butt, boy.”

  “Yeah!” Alex hopped to his feet. “Come on, hot shot. Try it.” He balled his hands into fists and started jumping around.

  “Break it up!” Chief Monroe said, walking up. He pointed a finger at Alex. “You—move!”

  “I didn’t start this, Chief! That little bastard yonder kicked me.”

  “Move, or I’ll lock you up, Tarver.”

  Muttering dire threats, but keeping them well under his breath, Alex and his group moved on.

  “And the day is just getting started,” the chief said.