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  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.

  Nine

  “We’ll fly into Little Rock,” Robert Roche told a gathering of his people, including the pilot of his personal Lear. “I’ve called our offices there, and cars will be waiting. No limos. I want this low key all the way. We’ll drive to the area. Cabins have been rented along a lake that is close to the town. We leave in the morning. That’s all.”

  His staff dismissed and out of the room, Roche sat down and again studied a map of Arkansas, occasionally glancing at a tourist guide. After a time, he leaned back in his chair, a wry smile curving his lips. Actually, he did enjoy fishing; it was very relaxing. But staying on top of and manipulating billions of dollars did not leave much time for relaxing of any sort. Consequently, Robert had not fished in years. So, this little trip might turn out to be fun after all.

  In more ways than one. Ten billion dollars could buy a lot of amusement. Fun being relative to one’s particular sense of humor, of course.

  * * *

  Federal agents had already begun moving quietly into the area. They came in as salespeople, vacationers, folks looking for investment property, or for a vacation home. Several federal agents rode motorcycles in; they would frequent the rougher honky tonks in the area. They rode Harleys that had been confiscated during a drug raid in California several years back. One of the men had his “old lady” with him, riding her own chopper.

  One of the few things the government could do well was get people into a designated area in a hurry.

  During the summer months the area was filled with tourists constantly coming and going; therefore the locals paid no attention to the new people. But the cops did.

  * * *

  John Ravenna’s face was expressionless as he stepped into the store and spotted Barry. But his dark eyes glinted with savage amusement for a few seconds. He walked to the counter and spoke first to Mr. Will, then turned to Barry and held out his hand. “John Ravenna, sir. And you are . . . ?”

  Barry shook the hard hand and said, “Barry Cantrell.”

  “So very pleased to meet you, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Barry looked at the owner. “See you, Mr. Will.”

  “Come back anytime, boy. You’re good company.”

  Barry drove down the road for a short distance, just far enough to put him out of sight of Mr. Will’s window which faced the road, and waited. He felt certain that John would be along very shortly.

  It was not a long wait. John pulled up beside Barry’s pickup and lowered the passenger side window. “Let’s drive over to my cabin, cousin.”

  “As I have repeatedly told you over the centuries, John, I am not your cousin.”

  Ravenna smiled his cruel movement of t
he lips. “Yes. I know. But if merely the thought of our being related irritates you, I shall certainly continue the practice. Follow me ... cousin.”

  Barry followed the evil immortal to his rented cabin, about a ten-minute drive along the shores of the lake. In the yard, Ravenna said, “Come on inside. I’ll get us something cool to drink. It’s very warm out this day.” John read the wariness in Barry’s eyes and laughed. “Relax, cousin. I won’t try to drug you. I am not after you. And you have my word on that.”

  “Your ... word, John?”

  “My word, cousin. Whether you care to believe it or not, I do have some honor.” He frowned. “If you are going to rebuff my offer of hospitality, then you can go right straight to hell.” Ravenna turned and walked up the steps and into the cabin by the lake.

  Barry smiled and followed the man inside. He could always count on ruffling Ravenna’s feathers by questioning his peculiar code of honor. But Barry also knew that once John Ravenna gave his word, it was a bond he would not break. However, he usually gave his word to some malefactor of evil.

  The window unit in the living room/den was humming, filling the air with coolness. John walked out of the small kitchen carrying two glasses of ice water. He set one down on a coaster beside Barry, on the table, and took a seat across the room. He smiled and lifted his glass in a sarcastic toast.

  Barry raised his glass and returned the gesture.

  “Fifty years, isn’t it, Vlad?” John asked.

  “Fifty-two to be exact.”

  “You’re looking well.”

  “We both look the same and you know it.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve visited that miserable little village where you were whelped?”

  Barry ignored the insult. “I went back just after World War I. I really don’t know why I did. I have never been able to locate the graves of my parents.”

  “They were both burned at the stake for performing witchcraft, and their ashes scattered. I thought you knew that.”

  “No. I did not. Only that they were killed shortly after I was forced to flee.”

  John grunted. “My parents were impaled and left to die much more slowly.”

  “I was always under the impression your parents were immortals.”

  Ravenna shook his head. “No. One day while I was practicing shape changing—I was about ten years old—a priest witnessed the metamorphosis. It frightened the fool half out of his rather shallow wits. He scurried off to tell his superior, and my parents were imprisoned within the hour. Then the two priests came after me.” Ravenna shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Naturally I killed them both. The legend goes that from that moment on, I was cursed by God. Ridiculous, of course. But for years it made a nice story to scare children into behaving.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, John? We’re not exactly old buddies.”

  “To be quite honest, cousin, you intrigue me. While you are certainly not a poor man—I have followed your niggardly life through the years—you have not, as I have, accumulated great wealth over the centuries. You choose instead to live as a peasant. You involve yourself for the most paltry of sums in wars and causes that really don’t concern you. I simply cannot understand why we are so different.”

  “Because you were born evil, John, and I was not. It’s that simple.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Oh, well. It’s all moot anyway. We are what we are and nothing of this earth can change it. I suppose you are curious as to why I am here in the land of hillbillies and incomprehensible speech?”

  “I think I know, John.”

  “Do you, now? Assuming that you do know, what are you going to do about it? Expose me? I doubt it. When you expose me, you also expose yourself. If you went to the police, they would want to know how you know so much about me.”

  “I realize that.”

  A frown clouded John’s features. “You’re not seriously considering going public, are you, Vlad?”

  Barry maintained a poker face and did not reply.

  “You really are considering doing just that,” John muttered. “Well, that throws everything under a different light. You do remember what happened to Basil a few years ago, don’t you?”

  “It was a hundred and fifty years ago, John,” Barry corrected. “In London. Of course I remember. After he told the authorities what he was, they locked him away in a lunatic asylum. He finally managed to escape, and no one has heard from him since.”

  “He was living up in Canada,” John mused. “Of course that was a hundred years ago. No telling where he is now. You realize that if you attempt to go public, there is a way for us to stop you?”

  Barry took a sip of ice water. “Yes. I have given that some thought.”

  Mind control. If several “older” immortals gathered and directed thoughts toward another, they could overpower him with their minds. But there was only one hitch in that, and Barry reminded him of it. “I can’t think of a single one of us who would assist you in doing anything, John.”

  “You do have a point,” John conceded. “I suppose I am not the best liked among our kind.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  John began staring intently at Barry. Barry met the man’s glare and instantly threw up mental defenses. Sweat began to glisten on Ravenna’s brow. Several minutes ticked by. Finally, John threw himself out of the chair. “Goddammit!” he shouted the oath. “You’ve grown much stronger, Vlad.”

  “I’m no kid,” Barry replied.

  John pointed a finger at the immortal. “This is none of your affair, Vlad. My business does not concern you. You have no right to interfere.”

  “Being a citizen of this country gives me that right, John.”

  “Citizen?” John shouted. “We’re citizens of the world, you idiot.”

  “Give up this assassination plot, John. If you even make an attempt, the U.S. government will never stop looking for you. You won’t be able to rest for years. I’ll personally see to that. Go on back to Ireland and enjoy your wealth. Haven’t you done enough killing over the centuries?”

  Ravenna glared hate at Barry. “I’ve only just begun, cousin. If you get in my way, I’ll destroy you.”

  “How?” Barry laughed the question. “How can either of us die? You took a musket ball through the heart in Russia in the early days of the Romanov dynasty. You were up and going all out in three days. I was shot through the brain during the final days of this country’s revolutionary war, and while I suffered some discomfort, the wound only slowed me down for a few days. Of course, I had to disappear after that, but that’s beside the point. Are we going to fight, John? Fists? Guns? Swords? Or perhaps in our animal form? And what will it accomplish? Oh, we’ll maim each other; but then we’ll quickly recover, and nothing will have changed. I hope you won’t shape-shift, John. Just the sight of your Other makes me want to vomit.” Barry laughed. “God certainly played a very cruel trick on you, didn’t He, John. I suppose that proves He does have a sense of humor.”

  Ravenna whirled around, his face colored darkly with sudden rage. “Shut up, you bastard!” he shouted. “Shut your mouth. Or we will fight, here and now and the devil take the consequences. You hear me?”

  Barry held up a hand. “All right, John. A momentary truce.” He rose from the chair to face the man. John accurately read the expression on Barry’s face. “If you continue with this assassination plot, I’ll expose you, John. And as you say, let the devil take the consequences.”

  “Why are you so concerned about the life of one miserable windbag politician?”

  “Because what you are planning is wrong. You have time before the Speaker arrives to change your mind, and I hope you do. Because I will not let you go through with this. I will stop you.”

  Barry walked out the door, got into his truck, and drove away. Several hundred yards away, his personal car tucked in a driveway and obscured by a thick stand of trees, Sheriff Salter lowered his binoculars and muttered, “Now, isn’t that interestin
g? Barry Cantrell, just who the hell are you? And what the hell are you really up to?”

  * * *

  “Cliff?” Jane Madison called from the window of their suburban Washington home.

  “Yes, dear.” Cliff looked up from the book he was reading. He knew what his wife was looking at through the rain, and he had dreaded this moment since meeting with President Hutton.

  She turned to face him. “Would you care to tell me what is going on?”

  Cliff laid aside his book and stood up, walking over to put a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Jane, there are risks that go with this job.”

  She fixed him with a very direct stare. “Don’t sugarcoat it, Cliff. Cars have been parked at each end of this street ever since you returned from last night’s meeting. I had agents following me this morning. So what’s going on?”

  “I don’t want you to go to Arkansas with me, Jane.”

  “Forget it. I’m going.”

  “It might turn into something very dangerous. And I stress might.”

  “Another death threat, Cliff?”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath. The only issues Cliff ever held back from his wife were matters dealing with national security, and he was sworn by law not to discuss those. “Jane, I was on the phone with the president today for about half an hour. Since our meeting, he’s learned a great deal more. Now, it’s theory, so far, but there may be people planning some sort of coup. We don’t believe Senator Holden committed suicide; we think he was murdered.”

  “A coup, Cliff? Here in America? A coup?”

  “Yes. The president believes, and so does the FBI, that I am to be killed first, then the president. That will move Adam Thomas into the White House. Congressman Calvin Lowe will take over the Speaker’s job.”

  “You have got to be kidding! Cal is weak.”