storm front
DESCRIPTION
Domestic terrorists kidnap the son of an Adirondack Great Camp Internet magnate, in a plot that involves Native Americans in a suspenseful thrillerTRANSCRIPT
PROLOGUE
February 16, 1998
The snow had stopped, six inches for the day on top of three feet
already down. Outside the bar, the mounds of dirty snow surrounding the
unpaved parking area were white once more, although they wore a yellow
cast in the light thrown by the bar's frosted windows. The general store
across the street was dark, the gas pumps standing lonely vigil in the harsh
glare of an arc lamp.
The bar was busy, a half-dozen vehicles out front, all wearing a
mantle of fresh-fallen snow, gun-racked pickups mostly, but a few cars
too, one a late model Firebird, the others tired sedans bearing the ravages
of hard time in the mountains. Three snowmobiles sat near the sign that
spelled out "Sportsman Inn" in bark-covered sticks. The blare of the
jukebox echoed tinnily out into the darkness of the surrounding forest.
Inside, several men sat at a wooden bar presided over by a
prettyish woman in her twenties, her bleached hair attempted blonde but
instead brass-orange, homepermed in strained-looking squiggles. Behind
her, a dusty mount of a white-tailed deer gazed out over a meager
collection of liquor bottles arrayed as if for target practice on a shelf of
unfinished plank. A plastic holly wreath, ghost of some Christmas long
past, dangled jauntily from the deer's right antler. A lone man, older than
the rest, unshaven and dressed in a dirty canvas coat and coveralls and an
Agway Feed cap, sat hunched over his drink at the bar's end, obviously
drunk. The rest of the room's occupants were ranged around the pool table
where a large-bellied, bearded man was leaning over to take a shot.
Balls clacked and one dropped to murmurs of approval.
"Nice shot, Creight," a voice said.
Creighton Anders studied the array of balls, then leaned his bulk
over the table for another shot, his faded flannel shirt lifting above a wide
leather belt to reveal an expanse of flabby white flesh. He stroked, then
watched the nine head for the corner pocket but bang off the cushion to the
left.
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“Shit,” he said. He grabbed his beer from the hand of a scrawny
man who stood at his side.
“Don’t worry, Creight, he’s got no shot,” the scrawny man said.
Another leaned down to take a look.
“Charlie’s right. He’s blocked.”
“Where’s he at?” Anders growled.
“The jukebox,” Charlie Stitchard said.
They watched a slender man with glistening, shoulder-length black
hair punch buttons on the jukebox, swaying drunkenly as he did. He wore
tight jeans and a fancy western shirt in red and white satin.
“Hey, Cochise, you’re up,” Anders said.
The long-haired man made a last selection and grabbed his cue. In
the smoky brightness of the table it was clear he was not one of them, with
dusky beardless skin and dark eyes set above high cheekbones.
“Tol’ you,” he said. “Name’s Rodney, Rodney Boots, Wolf Clan
Mohawk. Cochise was ’n Apache.” His speech was slightly slurred, his
accent not Indian, the nasal flatness of upstate New York.
The men snickered.
“Well, Rodney Boots, you’re up.”
“But you got no shot.”
The Indian stood staring at the table.
“Let’s go, Rodney. We ain’t got all day,” Anders said.
Boots leaned over and addressed the ball, cigarette dangling from
his lower lip.
“Cue off the rail into the two,” he said, his voice more controlled
now. “Two into the five. Five in the corner.”
He shot, running the cue down to the far rail and back almost the
same distance to tap the two softly into the five. The five rolled slowly
toward the corner pocket, hung briefly on the lip, and tumbled in.
Absolute silence, even the jukebox pausing to change songs.
Boots walked unsteadily around the table, stabilizing himself on it
with one hand along the way. The jukebox started again, Patsy Cline
going to pieces. Boots joined her in falsetto, his voice soft and girlish, as
he considered his shot.
“I . . . go . . . to pieces. . . each time I hear you call my name. . .
Two ball straight in.”
He shot, the two flying into the corner pocket while the cue ball
came to rest in position for a point blank shot at the eight. The eight fell.
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“I win,” he said. “That’s ten more you owe me.” He held out his
hand palm up.
Anders stared red-faced.
“I wanna play again,” he said.
“I’m gonna go have a drink,” Boots said.
“You ain’t walkin’ away with my money.”
“I’m havin’ a drink.”
Boots made his way to the bar and tossed a $100 bill down on it.
“Hey, miss,” the Indian said in a loud voice. “Drinks for everyone.
I’m buyin’. Rodney fuckin’ Boots is buyin’.”
“Are you sure you want to do that? That’s gonna cost you twenty,
twenty-five dollars.”
“Well, this will cover it then, won’t it,” he said gesturing at the
bill.
“There’s plenty more where that came from too.” He held up a thick wad
of bills for her to see. “A thousand buckaroos.”
The other men had crowded around Boots in anticipation of free
drinks.
“That casino money, Rodney?” one asked.
“‘S my money.”
“Yeah, but from the casino, right?”
“That’s right. From the casino. Made it in jus’ one week and all
tax free.”
“It’s all under the table, huh?”
“Under the table, top of the table, makes no difference. ‘S’all tax
free. Sovereign Indian land. ‘Course, this is all sovereign Indian land.”
He gestured broadly with his arm. “All stolen. But we’ll get it back.
You’ll see. Then maybe we’ll put you on reservations.” He laughed, his
dark eyes glittering. “‘S’in court right now. But meantime I’m buyin’
‘cause I got the world by the fuckin’ balls.”
The bartender was still standing in front of him, pouring beers one
after the other and handing them to the men. As the crowd thinned, Boots
leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Wha’s your name?” he asked.
“Annie,” she said.
“You know, Annie, I could spend some of this money on you,” he
said.
“Sorry, I’ve got to work.”
“No, I mean some other time.”
“I don’t think so. Thanks.”
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“What’sa matter, you don’t like Indians?”
“I don’t know any.”
“Well, wouldn’t you like to?”
“Look. I’m not interested, OK?”
Boots looked downcast.
“All right,” he said.
“There some kind of problem here, Annie?”
The voice came from over Boots’ shoulder.
“No, Jared, not at all,” she said.
Jared Wright was neatly dressed in a heavy red flannel shirt, jeans
and cowboy boots, with red hair and beard cropped close. His blue eyes
glittered in a face flushed from drink.
“He botherin’ you?”
“Nope. We’re just talkin’.”
Boots twisted on his stool to face the interloper.
“What’s it to you?” he said.
“What’s it to me? I’ll tell you what. ‘Round here we don’t take
kindly to people hasslin’ our ladies. That’s what.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t hasslin’ her. I was just tellin’ her I could
show her a good time, is all.”
Wright’s eyes grew hard.
“Well, maybe you should just stick to your own kind. Or are you
Indians like niggers and only like white women?”
Boots stood up.
“You better watch your mouth.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll shut it for you.”
Wright stiffened and stepped forward clenching his fists. Although
of only average height and build, he was much larger than Boots who was
small at 5’8”, 140 pounds.
Annie spoke.
“That’s enough, now, Jared. He wasn’t doin’ nothin’. Go sit down
and leave him be. He’s had too much to drink is all.”
“Well, maybe he should do his drinkin’ elsewhere,” Wright said.
He turned to go. “Goddamn Indians can’t hold their liquor.”
“I’ll drink where I want,” said Rodney.
Jared stopped as if to come back.
“Jared,” Annie said. “Just go sit down.”
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Jared paused, considering his options, then went off down the bar
where he engaged in low conversation with the other men sitting there.
“You best watch your step,” Annie said quietly to Boots. “This
can be a rough place.”
The Indian downed his drink.
“Fuck ’em,” he said. He got up and lurched his way over to the
jukebox. “Fuckin’ Lynyrd Skynyrd,” he said to no one in particular as the
chorus of Sweet Home Alabama filled the bar. “Redneck shit.”
He pushed away from the jukebox without making any selections
and turned to the pool table where Anders and a sparsely bearded man in
his twenties were playing.
“Who wants to play?” Boots said loudly. “Who wants to get his
ass whipped?” He staggered as if he might fall but regained his balance.
Anders and his opponent exchanged looks.
“I’ll play you,” Anders said quickly. “Lon, you don’t mind, do
you?” It was framed as a question but wasn’t.
The younger man shook his head.
“No, Creight. That’s fine,” Lon Bellard said.
“OK, Cochise. Rack ’em.”
“Tol’ you, I’m not Cochise. Rodney Boots. Wolf Clan Mohawk.”
He lurched his way to the end of the table. Squatted down. Stared blankly
at the balls in their compartment.
“Ya gotta put quarters in, chief.”
Boots stood up, dug deep in his pocket, and retrieved some change.
Three nickels and a quarter.
“I don’t have enough,” he said plaintively.
“That’s all right,” Anders said. “I’ll lend you three quarters, since
you and me is such good friends.” He tossed the coins on the table.
“Now, rack ’em.”
Boots struggled to pick up the quarters, then struggled equally to
put them in the slots, holding on to the edge of the table with one hand to
keep his balance. He worked the slide. The balls fell.
Anders took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the
floor.
“Fifty dollars, this time,” he said. “That all right with you, chief?”
“Fifty?”
“Yeah, fifty. That’s nothin’ to a big man like you, or are you
chickenshit?”
“No, I’m not chickenshit,” Boots said, racking the balls.
Anders gazed around at the assemblage and smiled.
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“Get ’em, Creight,” Clay Brown said.
“Yeah, skin his red hide,” Clay’s brother Ronnie added. Although
they were fraternal, not identical, twins, Ronnie shared Clay’s pale blond
hair, blue eyes and six foot frame still lean and hard at thirty.
Anders leaned over, ran the cue back and forth against his bridged
hand, then gave a mighty stroke. The cue ball glanced off the side of the
pack and flew into the corner pocket. The racked balls shifted only
slightly.
Anders stared in shock.
“Scratch on the break. I win,” Boots said.
“That was a bad rack,” Anders said.
“Was not.”
“Was so. It was loose as shit. I’m takin’ the shot over.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m doin’ it over or the bet’s off. You want me to break again or
not?”
Boots hesitated then shrugged.
“Lon, you rack ’em,” Anders said. “Cochise here is too fucked-up
to do it right.”
Bellard pulled out the rack and corralled the balls once again. He
rolled the rack forward and back several times then lifted it carefully.
“Tight as a virgin’s pussy,” he said.
Anders broke again. Several balls fell. He shot. Shot again. Shot
again. Missed.
“You go, chief,” he said with satisfaction.
Boots shot, missing the object ball completely.
“Little too much firewater, Rodney?” Anders said.
“Looks like you got yourself fifty bucks, Creight,” Bellard said.
“Just a matter of time,” Anders said smugly. He shot. A ball
dropped. Then another. “Last one,” he said. It dropped. “And I got a
shot at the eight. It’s tight, but it’ll go. Straight in. Side pocket.”
He aimed. Stroked. Shot. The eight rolled slowly toward the
pocket, passing neatly between two intervening balls with only a fraction
of an inch to spare on each side, and dropped in to cries of congratulation.
But the cue was still rolling toward the far corner. Looking like it
would never make it. It fell. Silence.
Boots broke it.
“Scratch. I win again. Fifty bucks.”
He held out his hand.
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Anders’ eyes were still fixed on the table, his face blotchy with
rage. He shoved his hand into his pocket and came out clutching nickels
and dimes.
“Somebody give me quarters,” he demanded. He glared at Boots.
“We’re playin’ again. Double or nothin’. That was my game.”
“I want my money.” Boots’ hand was still out.
“You’ll get it after we play again.”
“No way. I want it now.”
“Rodney, if I were you, I’d put that hand down right now, before I
break the fuckin’ thing off.”
Boots considered his hand, then looked at Anders. He shrugged.
“OK. I’m done.”
He headed for the bar.
“What do you mean?” Anders said to Boots’ back.
Boots flung a twenty on the bar, grabbed his fringed buckskin coat
from the deer hoof coat rack, and headed for the door.
“Where the fuck you think you’re goin’?” Anders demanded.
“Not playin’ anymore. We had a bet.”
“You callin’ me a cheater?”
“Good night and thank you for a very nice time,” Boots said.
Boots was fumbling with his keys at the door of the Firebird when
Anders reached him. He grabbed Boots’ shoulder and spun him so they
were face to face.
“You callin’ me a cheater, you fuckin’ Indian piece of shit?” he
said.
The crowd had tumbled out behind Anders. They fanned out
around the two men, watching silently.
Boots was still struggling with his keys.
“I’m goin’ home,” he said.
“Goin’ back to the reservation with my fuckin’ money and callin’
me a cheater? No, you ain’t.”
Boots found the right key and pointed it toward the lock.
Anders slapped the keys out of his hand. They hit the snow-
covered ground with a muffled jingle.
Boots bent to pick them up.
“I just want to go home,” he said.
“Oh, now you just want to go home. You come in here with your
fancy car and your roll of money and get drunk and try to pick up our
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women and then you call me a cheater and now you just want to go home?
Is that it?”
Boots was bent over looking for his keys in the snow. Anders
shoved him with both arms. Boots staggered but didn’t go down. He kept
searching for his keys.
“Is that it, you fuckin’ red nigger piece of shit?”
Boots found his keys and started to straighten. Anders shoved him
again, hard this time. Boots struggled to maintain his balance, but
couldn’t and went down. He sat staring, then reached for his pants pocket.
A click, and silver flashed.
“Watch out, he’s got a knife!” someone yelled.
Boots was scrabbling to his feet but Anders stepped forward
quickly and kicked him, connecting cleanly with Boots’ face. Boots went
down again.
“Lousy bastard,” Anders grunted.
Boots tried to rise, blood gushing from his nose, staining the snow
crimson. Anders kicked him in the ribs this time. There was an audible
crack and a moan of pain from Boots. He dropped back down to the
ground and curled into a fetal ball, arms protecting his head, as Anders
kicked him repeatedly, his heavy workboots thudding against Boots’ body.
Finally Anders stopped. His labored breathing was the only sound.
Boots lay motionless. Anders turned toward the bar.
“Time for a drink.”
He started for the steps, the crowd reluctantly following.
There was a commotion at the rear then a cry of warning as Boots
rushed after Anders, his knife descending towards Anders’ back even as
Anders whirled to block it with an upraised arm and shove Boots away.
The crowd surged back, leaving Boots alone and encircled, slowly
turning in a slight crouch, knife pointing outward.
“Get the bastard,” a voice said.
Ronnie Brown stepped forward. “I’ll get him.” He held a cue
stick, fat end out. He advanced toward Boots, swinging the cue slightly.
Boots backed away, waving his knife. A figure separated from the crowd
behind him and lunged, swinging a cue in a whistling arc that ended at
Boot’s head. The men swarmed as Boots went down, pushing for
position, kicking him again and again and again—until at last they were
still.
The bar door banged as Annie withdrew from her post on the
porch.
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“Is he dead?” It was the scrawny man, Charlie Stitchard.
“Serves him right, pullin’ a knife,” Lon Bellard said.
“Somebody check.”
“Ed, you’re ambulance. Check him.”
A clean-shaven, gray haired man with wire rimmed glasses knelt
beside the body. He wore a green work shirt with pens in the pocket.
“I think he’s dead,” Ed Matson said.
Anders shoved his way to the front. He looked at the body, then in
measured tones, said, “Car accident, slippery road at night, too much to
drink. Damned shame.” He surveyed the faces around him. “Damned
shame. You got that?”
There was silence.
“You got that?” he repeated. “Car accident. Slippery road at
night. Damned shame.”
No one spoke.
“Good. We don’t need nobody else gettin’ hurt. Now, where’s his
keys at?”
“Here they are, Creight.” Charlie Stitchard held them up and
jangled them.
“All right, Charlie. You drive his car. The rest of you put him in
the back of my truck. And Charlie, don’t touch nothin’ with your bare
hands.”
“Creight, let’s call the police.” It was Ed Matson.
“Yeah, Creight. It was self-defense.”
“What, are you simple? You want the goddamn nigger State
Police crawlin’ all over here? You want to take a chance they see things
the right way?” He glowered at the crowd. “It was a car accident.
Damned shame. Now get him in the back of my truck.”
A caravan of vehicles pulled over where the road made a sharp
bend along a steep ridge. Men got out.
“Charlie, point the car toward the edge then stall it in fourth so it
looks like he was drivin’,” Anders said. “You guys get the body. And
hurry it up before somebody comes.”
“But how we gonna get it over?” Stitchard asked.
“Push it.”
“In gear?”
“We can push it in fourth. What do you want to do? Leave it in
neutral so they know it’s a setup?”
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They put Boots’ body in the car then massed behind it and pushed
it toward the road’s edge. It rolled slowly, engine chugging lifelessly,
until it hit the bank of snow that lined the road and stopped. The men
pushed again. The car didn’t budge.
Anders studied the car then walked swiftly to his truck.
“OK. Everybody out of the way,” he said.
He climbed into the cab, nosed the truck forward so it was kissing
the rear bumper of the Firebird, and revved the engine. The truck’s tires
spun without effect. Anders backed up a few feet then drove forward and
banged into the car’s bumper. The Firebird lurched into the snow bank,
and stopped. Anders backed up. Banged the car again. It lurched further
still, almost free. Again, and this time the Firebird shot over the edge of
the hill and slid down the embankment, bouncing off one tree and then
another before coming to rest.
Anders got out and peered down at the car.
“That oughta do her,” he said. “Now everybody get home. I’ll go
back and make sure they got it straight at the bar. And remember, we was
all there just like it happened, only no Indian. We had a few beers, shot
some pool, then went home. No problem.”
“You think they’ll be askin’ questions?”
“No. But just in case. You got it?”
“Yeah.”
“OK. Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER ONE
On a glorious day in May, Sarah Williams, D.V.M., locked her
office door and walked toward the red Jeep Cherokee parked on the far
side of the freshly paved parking area. An athletic-looking woman in her
young thirties, she was dressed in her usual workday attire of jeans, denim
shirt and hiking boots. In deference to the demands of her job, her
shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair was pulled back in an efficient single
braid to reveal a tanned face with long-lashed gray eyes above a
determined mouth and a delicate nose lightly dusted with freckles.
Although not beautiful, she was attractive in a natural, unaffected way—
an active, competent woman comfortable with herself and her place in the
world.
Sarah’s office was the rear wing of her two-and-a-half-story
Victorian home in Spencer, a small but relatively prosperous lakefront
town of two thousand some odd souls located in New York’s Adirondack
Park. Sarah had purchased the house several years earlier with the
proceeds of her mother’s estate. She’d had the wing added and an area
cleared and paved to provide parking for the bustling veterinary practice
she hoped would quickly materialize. It didn’t. The locals were wary of
newcomers, the young, and women professionals; Sarah had three strikes
against her from the start. Despite the fact that her nearest competitor was
Doc Lester over in Saranac Lake, clients had been few and far between.
Luxuries like repairs to the residential portion of the house and the dented
right fender of her car had gone waiting while her financial reserves ran
low.
At her most desperate, she even considered pulling up stakes and
returning to her suburban, downstate hometown to set up practice there.
But a rural practice was the dream that had motivated her as she earned
top grades at Cornell’s College of Veterinary Medicine and served her
internship and residency at the prestigious Animal Medical Center in New
York City and she wasn’t about to give up that dream short of bankruptcy.
She had hung on through one cold winter and then two. And
finally things had begun to change. Doc Lester’s retirement had helped,
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along with his recommendation that his clients couldn’t do better than to
use Sarah’s services. And, undeniably, landing the Skolnick account was
a big plus. But also, she’d slowly built trust, particularly among the
farmers for whom veterinary services were not luxury but lifeblood. And
that was important to her. There was more money in pets but a greater
sense of purpose in livestock and poultry, despite the slow pay and need to
make calls.
Her first stop was the post office a few blocks away in the center of
town, an imposing Georgian edifice of red brick with white columns and
trim that stood out among the wooden storefronts that predominated in the
three blocks that passed for Spencer’s business district.
Spencer owed its existence to tourism. Little more than a
collection of rough woodsmen’s cabins for the first fifty years of its life,
Spencer was transformed by the completion of the Adirondack & St.
Lawrence Railroad in 1892, becoming a waystation for the Gilded Age’s
upper crust who came to the mountains each summer seeking relief from
the heat of New York City. Arriving at the train station (now a museum)
after the long, hot ride from the City, they revived in Spencer before
embarking by wagon, carriage or steamboat for the so-called “Adirondack
Great Camps”—the baronial wilderness estates of their high society peers.
The Depression ended the age of the Great Camps, but the allure of
the Adirondack Park lived on. For contemporary vacationers, as for their
Gilded Age forbears, Spencer was a jumping off place, a tidy outpost of
civilization at the wilderness’ edge.
Spencer had changed some over the years, but basically it was the
same quiet village it had been at the turn of the century, with well-kept
houses (a number of them now bed and breakfasts supplementing the
accommodations of the venerable Adirondack Hotel) nestled on a few
blocks of tree-lined streets.
“Mornin’, Pearl,” Sarah called out as she crossed the polished
marble floor of the lobby. Although the post office was an impressive
structure, it far exceeded the needs of Spencer which were easily met with
the services of one full-time employee. For the past twenty-three years,
that employee had been Pearl Beckwith.
Pearl turned from the brightly-lit carrel where she stood sorting
mail and waddled over to the barred service window, her stout form
covered in a print dress from another era.
“Mornin’ Sarah. That package you was waitin’ for come in. From
Cabot Lavatories.”
Johnson 14
“Oh, good,” Sarah said, suppressing a giggle. Pearl could be
counted on for at least one malapropism per conversation.
“Also, you got a letter from American Express, first class, your bill
I expect, and another from the bank. The rest is catalogs.”
Pearl believed that an important part of her job was examining
mail as it came in so she could ease the shock that unannounced delivery
to the addressee might entail. She brought a parcel and other
miscellaneous pieces of mail over to the counter.
“Here you go. I guess that’s somethin’ about the Indian, huh?”
Sarah had no clue what Pearl was talking about but knew that was
all right. Pearl would have been disappointed if Sarah had already heard
the news.
“Indian?”
“Yeah. The one what went off the road over to Gilsum. You
know, during that big storm in February.”
“Oh yes. What about him?”
“Well, the State Police over to Tupper Lake got a ’nonymous letter
sayin’ his car was parked at the Sportsman Inn in Gilsum the night he
died.”
She peered at Sarah expectantly. Sarah didn’t understand the
significance of this informational tidbit and looked it.
“Anonymous?”
“That means unsigned.”
“Yes, I know. But didn’t they already know he’d been drinking?”
“Yeah, but nobody come forward to say it was at the Sportsman.”
“Maybe the owners of the Sportsman were worried about liability
and asked whoever else was there to keep quiet about it.”
“Maybe. And to be sure a lot of the kind of folks who might go to
the Sportsman would just as soon spit as help the police and don’t like
Indians neither.”
“But?”
“Then why’d somebody write a letter?”
The Dawson farm lay just inside the so-called “blue line”―the
Park boundary―at the Park’s northern edge, nestled in the softly
undulating folds of the Adirondack foothills. Four hundred and fifty acres
total, two hundred arable, two hundred pasture, the rest woods. The elder
Dawson’s great grandfather Ezra had purchased the land in 1833, built the
ten room farmhouse and barn with the help of his brothers, then fetched
his wife and two young boys, John and William, from Albany.
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At that time there was no blue line and no Park, just a howling
wilderness populated with trappers, hunters and loggers, with a few
subsistence farms like the Dawsons’ thrown in. Times changed, however.
With the late nineteenth century transformation of the Adirondacks into a
summer destination for the well-to-do, a market emerged for farm goods.
For a time the Dawsons thrived, supplying milk and eggs and vegetables
to the hotels and those Great Camps that did not have their own farming
operations.
But that had been long before. The Dawson farm was not thriving
now.
Rising expenses and flat prices had combined to make modest
dairy operations like the Dawsons’ increasingly uneconomic. Repairs and
improvements had fallen by the wayside as the current patriarch, the
fourth John Dawson, struggled to hang on. It was a battle he was losing.
Unless something happened to change things, the Dawson farm would
soon be no more.
And now Sarah was bringing tidings of another blow to the fragile
finances and psyche of clan Dawson. The test results had come back from
the State’s Department of Agriculture and Markets: Mycobacterium bovis.
Bovine tuberculosis. Incurable. Untreatable. Highly contagious.
Destruction of infected animals, quarantine of the entire herd and
cessation of milk sales mandated pending further testing, with the survival
of the herd uncertain. A crushing development.
John Dawson came out of the barn wiping his hands on his
coveralls as Sarah parked her car under one of the towering cottonwoods
that framed the barnyard. He was haggard, his cheeks unshaven, eyes
bloodshot. Looking every bit of his sixty years plus some.
“Mornin’ Sarah.”
“Morning, John.”
He took off his greasy Agway Feed cap to reveal sparse gray hair.
“I tried treatin’ ’em the way you said, but I can’t see that it’s made
much difference.” He spoke with apology in his voice, as if embarrassed
by his failure to produce results with the procedure she had recommended.
That failure was no surprise given the test results.
“Yes, well . . . I’ve got bad news, John. It’s tuberculosis.”
Dawson stood head down, cap in his hands, pushing a stone back
and forth in the dirt with a manure encrusted rubber boot. He looked up
and turned slightly away from Sarah, staring out across the fields,
moisture forming in his eyes.
Johnson 16
“I’ll get my bag,” she said.
When Sarah returned, Dawson had regrouped. He led the way into
the barn where fifty black and white Holsteins stood at their stanchions in
the semi-darkness. Sarah sniffed as the rich not-unpleasant smell of
manure enveloped her.
“I was just milkin’ ’em,” he said, as he knelt to detach the suction
nozzles from the udder of the nearest cow. “Gotta do that whether we can
use the milk or not.”
“Of course,” Sarah said gently.
“You don’t, they’ll sure enough let you know. For bein’ as dumb
as they are, they sure know how to communicate.”
He brushed the next cow’s teats with disinfectant and struggled to
force her leg down when she raised it as if to kick.
“Easy now,” he said patting the cow’s flank with a badly chapped
hand. Then to Sarah, “Dobbin here gets ideas when there’s folks around.”
He stood up.
“So, it’s quarantine then?” he said.
“For those that test negative.”
“And the rest?”
“They’ll have to be destroyed.”
“There’s no way to treat ’em?”
“I’m not even allowed to try. Agriculture and Markets will be
sending a vet to oversee the removal of the infected animals.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“John, there’s an indemnity program. It won’t make you whole or
even close, but it’s something.”
He shook his head in dismay.
“What about the rest? Are we gonna lose them?”
“I’m not going to lie to you. You might. It’s highly contagious.
But there’s things we can do to discourage its spread. Split the herd.
Monitor them closely for symptoms. Segregate and test any that show
symptoms. I’ll work with you. With luck, we can keep further losses to a
minimum. There’s a chance, anyway.”
“I guess that’s all anybody’s got a right to ask for.”
Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed but said nothing, busying herself with
examining the cows while Dawson looked on.
They walked back into the sunlight in time to see Dawson’s son,
Jack, wheel into the yard on a green and yellow John Deere tractor. Jack
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was a dark haired, dark eyed man in his late twenties whose natural good
looks were undermined by a seemingly perpetual scowl. He shut off the
engine and climbed down out of the cab.
“Sarah’s brought bad news, Jack,” John said. “The cows got
tuberculosis. We’re on our way to check the ones in the pasture.”
“So that’s it,” Jack said to Sarah. “They have to be destroyed,
right?” There was, as always, an undercurrent of hostility beneath the
younger man’s words that rankled.
Sarah nodded.
“The ones that test positive. The rest will have to be quarantined.”
Jack looked at his father. “That means no cash comin’ in, with the
corn three months off.” He spoke as if this were yet another point in a
longstanding argument. “And we gotta pay her on top of the rest.”
“I can wait,” Sarah said quickly.
The father ignored her. “We can sell the first hay cutting. It’s
good hay.”
“And then what? Buy it back this fall for twice as much? That’s a
hell of a business.”
Looking intimidated, the old man concentrated on the ground.
Jack focused on Sarah again.
“I guess you must be doin’ pretty well, you don’t need your bills
paid.”
He almost made it sound as if her generosity were evidence of
profiteering on other’s misery―and the way he talked to his father!
Despite her sympathy for their position, she felt anger stirring within.
“I do need my bills paid,” she said. “But I can work with you if
you’re having some hard times, that’s all.”
Jack stared at his father.
“Yeah, well, we’ve been havin’ some hard times for a long time
now.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“How long do they have to be quarantined?” Jack asked. His tone
suggested that the quarantine was a whim of Sarah’s rather than a
necessary response to an unfortunate development.
“Until the disease is gone,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide
her annoyance.
“Or the cows are, you mean.”
He turned and walked toward the house.
Johnson 18
It took Sarah an hour to inspect the remaining hundred cows.
When they were done, she stood stretching to get the kinks out of her
back. They were in a pasture high on a hill under a clear sky dotted with
pure white cumulus clouds, a spectacular vista before them: emerald
fields crossed by stone walls and surrounded by woods just showing
green, the house and barns neatly laid out, mountains rising dark and
strong in the distance. It was warm in the sun.
“It sure is a beautiful day,” Sarah said. “And no black flies, yet.”
“Yeah,” Dawson said without enthusiasm.
“It’s a beautiful place you’ve got here.”
“We like it.”
The sentence betrayed an unfinished thought. A statement of fact
tinged with loss. Sarah decided to change the subject, saddened that even
the beauty of spring was depressing for a man in Dawson’s position.
“Did you hear about the Indian?” She felt foolish gossiping but
gossip was after all a prime source of news in the backcountry. Besides, if
it would help Dawson get his mind off his troubles . . .
Dawson looked at her sharply.
“Indian?”
“Yes, the one that died in the car crash on Route 30 this winter.
The State Police received an anonymous letter claiming the Indian’s car
was parked at the Sportsman Inn right here in Gilsum that night.”
“Do they know who it was from?”
“Apparently not. The thing is, if the Indian was there, it’s a little
strange that nobody came forward to say so.”
“There’s nothin’ says a witness has to come forward if they aren’t
asked any questions. The world would be a better place if more people
minded their own business.”
“Then why’d they write the letter at all?”
He looked as if he was about to say something then shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever been to the Sportsman?”
“I have, yes.”
There was a hesitancy in his voice Sarah could not understand.
She studied him trying to read his thoughts. He seemed nervous. Or
perhaps it was just his worries about the farm casting a pall over every
subject.
“Well, I suppose the police will be checking into it now.”
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Jack was working on some fence by the road as Sarah drove out.
He stepped out into the roadway and raised his hand to flag her down as
she approached.
“What was the count?” he asked.
“No further symptoms for now. Let’s hope we’ve got it
contained.”
“Yeah,” he said.
He looked down at the road’s dirt surface. Sarah waited, sensing
he had something more to say, but not eager to engage in conversation.
Finally he said, “I’m sorry if I was rude before. We appreciate
your help.” He did not raise his eyes. Then, as if deciding to take it like a
man, he met her gaze. “We really do. It’s just . . .” He shrugged
helplessly.
“You weren’t rude, Jack. It’s a tough situation.”
He stared into the distance.
“Yeah, it is,” he said and Sarah sensed he was talking about more
than just the cows. “Yeah, it is.”
She decided to drive past the Sportsman Inn on her way home.
The bar was open, for lunch she supposed, although it was only eleven-
thirty and not a place she would have chosen to eat at any time. A neon
Genesee beer sign glowed red in the window. Several mud splashed
pickups sat in front. A depressing place, even on a glorious spring day. A
dark stop on the road to an untimely death.
She drove on.
CHAPTER TWO
To get to the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club you drove four miles
south out of Mason Flow, turned right on Harrington Road, drove 2.3
miles on that and then turned left onto a dead end track some called Lynx
Hill Road, some called Valkyrie Road and still others maintained had no
name. By whatever name, that road snaked its way three quarters of a
mile up the nearly vertical slope of Lynx Hill, quickly becoming little
more than a pair of washed-out ruts, and ended abruptly at a padlocked
aluminum gate with a large “Keep Out” sign bolted to it, on which
someone had added in red spray paint, “Or Else”.
One hundred yards from the gate sat a squat barn-like structure of
recent vintage with unpainted sheet metal walls and roof, a single metal
door, and windows that could be shuttered and locked. The shutters were
open now and smoke streamed from the stovepipe at the back. A
Confederate flag flapped angrily on the flagpole out front in a raw wind
more reminiscent of winter than spring.
To the right, a low grass-covered berm looked across one hundred
yards of cleared land at a wall of dirt that served as a backstop for ten
human silhouette targets suspended from a wire about five feet apart.
Pickups and utility vehicles were scattered on the grass that
surrounded the building.
Creight pulled in next to Ed Matson’s battered Chevy Blazer and
hurried toward the door. He hoped Butler hadn’t already called the
meeting to order. Butler was going to be pissed off enough as it was.
He opened the door and stuck his head in cautiously. He’d lucked
out. In the bright light of Coleman lanterns spaced strategically around
the cavernous room, a dozen men in camouflage fatigues sat on a motley
assortment of folding chairs facing a low stage. Mounted on the wall
behind the stage was a large wooden cross. Beneath it, a long white
placard bore the heading, “The Second Amendment” with the words,
“The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. . .”
inscribed below in stylized script. Stage left were two flag poles in
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stanchions, the one Confederate, the other red with a black bent-armed
cross on a circular field of white.
In the back of the room a pair of tables held an assortment of
firearms, some relatively benign-looking with long barrels and wooden
stocks, others far more sinister, like weaponry from a science fiction
movie, with open metal stocks, pistol grips, short snoutlike barrels, and
large clips.
The men were speaking in low whispers when Creight opened the
door but watched silently as he lumbered toward them.
“Ed. Ronnie. Clay.” Anders nodded to each in turn. “Lon.”
“Creight.”
“Where’s he at?” Anders whispered conspiratorially.
“In the back.”
“He say anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Shit, Creight. He’s gonna be pissed as hell. Merlin ain’t even
showin’.”
“That ain’t smart. Butler’s gonna thi . . .”
Anders stopped in midsentence as the door in the back of the room
opened and someone hissed “Butler”. Anders sat down hurriedly as a man
walked toward the stage, a large black and tan German Shepherd at his
side. Raymond Butler was tall and lean with acne pitted cheeks, close
and deeply set blue-gray eyes, and dark hair receding to a peak on a high
forehead. He too was dressed in camouflage fatigues, the pants tucked
into black combat boots polished to a mirror-like shine. A green beret was
folded under the epaulet on his left shoulder. A U.S. Army issue M9
Beretta 9mm pistol was fastened to his hip with a black leather holster.
Man and dog mounted the short steps to the stage. When he
reached its center, Butler stopped, the dog sitting beside him without
evident command. He patted the dog then stood regarding his audience
which had remained locked in silence since his entrance.
“Gentlemen,” he said at last, “We have a problem.” His gaze
swept over the men, causing eyes to drop and bodies to squirm. “A
serious problem.”
He continued to survey the group before him then, as if distracted,
patted the dog again. It lifted its head to gaze adoringly at its master and
licked the lowered hand. The man smiled absentmindedly.
He looked up.
“Where is Merlin Barrows?”
Johnson 22
No one moved or spoke.
“Was he contacted?”
“Yes,” a voice said from the second row.
“Stand up when you report, soldier!” Butler barked.
A biker type with a full beard, long graying red hair tied back in a
ponytail, and a half-moon scar by his left eye scrambled to his feet.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Daryl Higley reporting, sir. I contacted
Merlin the day before yesterday as instructed. He said he didn’t think he
was going to make it.”
“Is that all?” Butler’s eyes bored icily into Higley’s.
“Pretty much,” Higley said, lowering his eyes.
“Did he say why?”
“Not really.”
Butler turned partly away from his audience and gazed at the
ceiling as if digesting this information. Higley remained standing, shifting
awkwardly on his feet.
After long moments, Butler turned back.
“Mr. Stitchard.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie Stitchard stood up hastily, his uniform ill-
fitting and hanging loosely on his skimpy frame.
“Did you contact Mr. Barrows?”
“Yes, sir,” Stitchard said, wringing his fatigue cap nervously. “I
did. He told me the same thing.”
Butler considered that response. “Is anyone else not present?”
Silence. Higley and Stitchard cautiously sat down.
“Very well. We will deal with the subject of Mr. Barrows later.”
He paused, then barked, “Anders!”
Creight had attempted to prepare for the moment of reckoning he
knew would come but still was unprepared. He stood up shakily. For all
his bullying of others, Creight was deathly afraid of the skinny man with
the death’s head grin. Butler’s anger when he had first heard about the
killing of the Indian had been frightening to behold. Creight was sure he
had been only an eyelash away from a beating―or worse. And that was
when the sheriff’s department still considered the death an accident.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Front and center.”
Anders walked slowly to the front of the room and stopped five
feet from the stage. The dog whined and was patted once more. “It’s OK,
Blondi,” the man on stage said in a soothing tone. “It’s O-K.”
Anders kept his eyes on the floor.
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Butler looked out at the gathering over Anders’ head, his hand
resting lightly on the dog’s neck.
“I assume you have all heard the news. Someone has written an
anonymous letter to the State Police telling them the dead aborigine was at
the Sportsman Inn in Gilsum the night he died.” He paused for effect then
stared down at Anders.
“You don’t have to be overly bright to know what that means, do
you Mr. Anders? That means more investigation, investigation of the
morons who were in the bar that night, of the morons who have
jeopardized the existence of this organization and all our plans through
their stupidity.”
The men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
“That alone is bad enough. But we also have to consider the
possibility that the letter writer is one of us, someone who was there that
night even, someone who might be tempted to bargain for leniency with
the minions of the government. Discussing not only that night but every
detail of our organization and all our plans. That, of course, we must
prevent at all costs.”
Butler started slowly pacing the stage, hands behind his back, like
a professor considering a thorny problem. The dog watched, its head
swiveling to track his master’s motion.
“Yes, a problem,” he said, addressing the air. “What should we do
about it?”
He stopped and faced Anders. “Eh, Mr. Anders? What should we
do about it?”
Anders stood speechless, looking glum.
“No answers, Mr. Anders? I thought you were the idea man
around here. You were smart enough to mastermind the clusterfuck that
created this problem, why aren’t you smart enough to get us out of it?”
He walked to the front of the stage. Anders kept his eyes
steadfastly averted.
“You were smart enough to know that my directive that all
members keep a low profile was a foolish one, one to be ignored if you
were stupid enough to be hustled at pool by a drunk Indian. You were
smart enough then, weren’t you Mr. Anders? You were the big man, the
ringleader. Giving orders. Fucking up.”
Creight stood frozen.
“Mr. Anders, I’m talking to you. Do you hear me?”
Johnson 24
Creight tried to respond but all that came out was an affirmative
sounding croak, his only thought the image of Al Jessup being pistol-
whipped by Butler, blood streaming down Al’s face and mixing with his
tears—and that because Jessup had accidentally pointed a loaded AR-15 at
Butler’s dog. What Creight had done was far worse.
“What shall we do, Mr. Anders?”
A cogent thought suddenly came swimming out of the fog.
“Find out who wrote the letter?”
“Wonderful. Very good. That’s very good, isn’t it men? Now I
see why you look to Mr. Anders here for guidance.”
He turned back to Anders.
“And just how do we do that, you stupid sack of shit?”
Anders stared at the floor, Al Jessup’s bloody face before him once
more. Al had taken his family and moved downstate shortly after the
incident.
“Look at me.” Butler’s voice was full of menace.
Creight lifted his eyes but withdrew far back into his mind—just as
he had as a child when his father beat him in one of his drunken rages―so
that Butler seemed small and distant. Too far away to hurt
Creight―whatever he might do to him.
Butler smiled grimly.
“That’s good Creight. Very good. Because that’s how we are
going to get out of this mess that you and these other fuck-ups have
created, that’s how this organization is going to survive and thrive, that’s
how we’re going to make our plans succeed: through obedience.” He
glanced down and patted his dog once more. “Now, come up here.”
Creight stared at Butler in terror. Butler’s tone was engaging but
Creight knew that meant nothing. Butler held out his hand.
“Come on,” he said gently.
Creight took the offered hand and Butler helped him up onto the
stage almost daintily, as if they were partners at a ball. He turned Creight
to face the audience.
“We’ve already discussed one essential ingredient of
organizational success. Obedience. But there is another, equally as
important, that we must all embody if we are to prevail against the forces
of darkness that beset us. And that is sacrifice. Through obedience and
sacrifice we can save the world.
“And what does sacrifice mean? It means putting the organization
first. It means recognizing that our struggle to save this land is more
important than anything else. It means total commitment so we can build
Storm Front 25
a better future for our families and race, a future free of the contaminating
influence of the Jew-inspired one worlders, the miscegenists, and all the
others who would take away the rights which are our birthright. It means
doing whatever is necessary to free our nation of the shackles of the
Zionist Occupancy Government that now holds it in its thrall.”
He stood frozen, head cocked, as his words faded. When he
resumed speaking, his voice was more intimate.
“Sacrifice, gentlemen. Sacrifice.”
As if a casual idea had just occurred to him, he unsnapped his
holster and pulled out his pistol.
The men in the audience shrank back as Butler brandished the gun.
Creight cringed, his intestines awash in fear.
“Sacrifice.”
He turned to Anders.
“Take this.” He offered the Beretta to Creight butt first.
Creight hesitated.
“Remember, Creight. Obedience. Take it.”
Anders reached out and grasped it gingerly. Butler stepped back.
“Now shoot the dog.”
Anders gaped at Butler in confusion.
“Shoot Blondi, Creight.”
“But . . . he’s your dog.”
The dog was watching the men intently, gazing at Creight as he
spoke, then looking at Butler as if to divine what he could do to please
him.
“Sacrifice, remember? That is what is required if we are to defeat
ZOG—of all of us. Me included. And you all know how I feel about
Blondi.”
They did. They remembered the loving attention. The constant
companionship. The only signs of warmth from a man who radiated
coldness like a glacier. That he could intend Anders to shoot the dog for
no reason was beyond comprehension.
Anders shrugged helplessly, terrified to disobey but terrified even
more at the prospect of destroying Butler’s only love.
“But . . .”
Butler stared a moment more then said, “All right, give me the
gun.”
Anders did, visibly relieved, hoping he had somehow passed the
test.
Johnson 26
Butler holstered the gun.
“Kindness and loyalty are also positive traits,” he said.
He squatted down in front of the dog and ruffed its neck.
“Good boy,” he said then in one quick motion pulled the Beretta
from the holster, put it to Blondi’s ear and pulled the trigger. Blood and
flesh exploded from the dog’s ruined head, splattering Anders and Butler
with gore. The dog collapsed.
Butler stood and calmly holstered the pistol again.
“Now go sit down,” he said gently to Creight.
Creight hopped quickly off the stage while Butler gazed out over
his stunned audience. The dog’s legs began to twitch rhythmically, then
slowly subsided. Butler ignored the commotion, waiting patiently while
Anders took his seat.
“Men, what I hope I have showed you by my little demonstration
is that this is no game we’re involved in. If we are going to survive the
coming Armageddon and defeat ZOG we must be prepared to do whatever
is necessary. There will be no room for sentiment. That will have to
await the dawning of the future. Most of you have read The Turner
Diaries and you know how the hero is forced to confront the necessity of
doing that which is painful to achieve the ultimate good. Others have
already done so, the brave souls of Ruby Ridge, and Waco, and Oklahoma
City, men and women who did not hesitate to do what needed to be done.
We must be willing to do no less.”
“Now, let us bring the meeting to order . . .”
The meeting lasted almost two hours. Two hours spent listening to
Butler go over the version they would give of what happened that night in
Gilsum, giving them their explanation of why they didn’t report the
Indian’s presence to the sheriff, emphasizing the need for absolute
solidarity, hinting at the fate that awaited anyone who broke ranks—
although the blood-soaked corpse of the dog lying on the stage made that
part of the presentation unnecessary. They next moved on to the reports of
various “operational cells” on their progress with respect to Operation
Shylock . . .
Through it all the men sat numb, speaking only when called upon.
If before the activities of the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club had seemed a
game, an adult version of playing army, that illusion was gone now. As
for Operation Shylock, most hadn’t really believed it would ever happen.
Planning it was just something to do, a fantasy that helped lessen the pain
Storm Front 27
and anger of being who they were. But Butler shooting Blondi, that was
something else. Butler’s lesson was understood by all: he wasn’t kidding
around.
The meeting drew to a close. As always, the final act of the
session was a prayer led by Butler. They bowed their heads as he recited,
“Lord Yashua, who guides us in all things, lead us on to victory in your
name and the name of your people, the true people of Israel, and give us
victory over those who seek to defile and corrupt and destroy us in the
name of Satan.” By motion duly made and seconded, the meeting was
adjourned.
But it was not over. Butler asked for two volunteers to dig a grave
for Blondi. All raised their hands. While the chosen two went outside to
prepare a grave, Butler chatted inside with the other men in an atmosphere
of unreality that left the men even more unnerved than the violence itself.
They huddled graveside in the chill wind while yet another prayer
was offered, Butler praying for the soul of a comrade fallen in battle while
tears slid slowly down his cheeks. They stood silently after the prayer
ended, listening to the flag flapping on the pole and the whine of a
chainsaw somewhere down the mountain until finally one brave man
asked if there was anything he could do and was blessedly brushed away
by a Butler unable to speak, and all knew they could drift safely away.
CHAPTER THREE
It was raining when Sarah rose and made her way down to the
kitchen for coffee then into her gleaming examination room to set up for
the day.
Tuesday was an office day for Sarah, a day on which she was
much more likely to deal with pets than farm animals, and town folk
instead of farmers. This day promised to be no exception.
Mrs. Beemis would be by with her Persian cat whose lethargy and
incontinence were the non-remediable products of advanced old age. If it
was Sarah’s cat she would have relieved it of its suffering long before.
But the cat was Mrs. Beemis’ life and she simply couldn’t let it go.
Old Burleigh Harris would be by with his mutt Esther. Esther was
scheduled to have her cast removed—the result of an encounter with a
moving car, her second in two years. Sarah had suggested leashing Esther
in the future but Harris believed that dogs, like men, should run free.
Sarah hoped Esther didn’t pay the ultimate price for her freedom the next
time around—or that Harris moved away from the main road.
Paul Pritchard, who owned the hardware store in town, would be
by with his beagle, Candy―Paul was an avid rabbit hunter―due for her
annual shots.
In the afternoon, a new client would be coming in―always a
welcome development―bringing his eight-week-old German Shepherd
puppy for a general checkup and shots. Anxious, he said on the phone, to
get Blondi off to a good start in life.
A nice array of clients, and she would use the rest of her time to
catch up on some long neglected billing. And the fact that it was so dark
and dreary outside made the notion of spending the day snug in the bright
warmth of her office much more appealing than it might otherwise have
been.
The new client, Raymond Butler, arrived promptly at two as
scheduled, bearing his puppy, a squirming black and tan bundle of energy
and affection. Puppies never failed to move Sarah, despite her constant
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contact with them. She found them adorable, a view she considered
thoroughly unprofessional but that persisted nonetheless.
Raymond Butler on the other hand would never be called adorable.
Although attractive in a wolfish sort of way, with his gaunt features and
pale blue eyes he was a daunting figure, an impression his reserved
bearing did nothing to counteract.
And he was reserved, at least at first, introducing himself formally
with a grave handshake. None of the flirtatious banter that Sarah had
come to expect from the local men, married or not, who crossed her path.
Instead he seemed nervous, as if Sarah made him uncomfortable. She
suspected his relationships with the fair sex had been few and far between.
Certainly there was no ring on his finger.
And his clothes! He appeared as if he’d just come from a military
inspection, all crisp and ironed and polished, with pressed khaki pants and
shirt and shiny black shoes.
But he came alive when he interacted with his puppy, petting him
and murmuring soothing endearments, his affection evident, the warmth
that lay under all the reserve clearly shining through.
And there was nothing wrong with a little reserve, after all. Sarah
resolved to do what she could to bring him out of his shell and show him
women were nothing to be afraid of.
“Is this your first dog?” The terrified puppy stood quivering on the
stainless steel examination table, paws splayed and tail between its legs,
while Butler tried to soothe it.
“No,” he said.
Not much of a conversational gambit, but she could work with it.
“Have you had one recently?” she asked as she gave the pup a
shot.
“Yes.”
Something there, she sensed.
“Was that one a Shepherd, too?”
“Yes, he was.”
Regret, she was sure. A recent loss perhaps and this one a
replacement. Very common.
She gave the puppy another injection as Butler held it firm.
“Did something happen to him?”
Butler’s face darkened as if at a painful memory.
“Yes,” he said, in a tone laced with bitterness. “He was shot.”
Johnson 30
Shot. How awful. It happened though, particularly up in the
mountains and particularly during deer season, when hunters unable to
locate legitimate quarry sometimes took out their frustrations on other
things.
“How terrible.”
“Yes,” he said, and she could hear in that single word a world of
pain.
“How did it happen?”
He didn’t say anything for a time, then said finally, “It’s a long
story,” and smiled apologetically, his message clear: he didn’t want to
talk about it. She was prying but he was too polite to say that.
Sarah kicked herself for prodding memories that were obviously
still painful to him. She smiled to show she understood.
“Well, you’ve got a fine pup, here. And he’s all set for now.
Bring him back in three weeks and we’ll do the next series of shots.”
Butler picked the puppy up and rubbed its belly while it squirmed
with delight and tried to lick his face.
“If you’ll just come into my office, we can get the paperwork
squared away and you can be on your way.”
She led the way into her business office and sat down at her
computer.
“OK,” she said, typing on the keyboard. “Raymond Butler.
Address?”
“Pittman Road, Smyrna.”
“No street number?”
“No.”
“RFD number?”
“No. General delivery.”
She looked up.
“I don’t get much mail.”
Just as she’d thought, a loner.
“Is that where I should send the bill?”
“I’ll pay cash now.”
“O.K. How about a phone so I can call you with the fecal exam
results?”
“Sorry. I don’t have one. I’ll have to call you.”
“Wow. I guess you’re pretty much off the grid, as they say.”
“I could just never see paying for things I don’t need.”
Sarah inputted the vaccinations she had administered and printed
out the invoice.
Storm Front 31
“That will be twenty-five dollars,” she said. “And I’ll see you in
three weeks, right? Oh, and don’t forget to call about the fecal exam. I
should have the results early next week.”
She took the money, smiled, and held out her hand.
“It was nice meeting you.”
They shook.
“And you too, Blondi,” she said, taking the puppy’s paw.
She watched as Butler climbed into his van, a recent model
modified for off-street driving with oversize all-terrain tires and a raised
suspension. Smyrna was out in the boonies. And for all she knew Pittman
Road might be a goat path.
She wondered what he did for a living way out there. He didn’t
seem like your typical backwoodsman. She wished she’d thought to ask.
He drove away from the veterinarian’s office angry with himself.
It had been a mistake to give her his address. A stupid mistake. He’d let
down his guard, distracted by her attentions. Of course, it wasn’t as if she
would be turning her files over to the FBI for no reason, although no doubt
she would in a second if they were to ask. People like her were the source
of ZOG’s power, unwittingly helping the government obtain information
and control on behalf of its Zionist masters, mindlessly recording,
registering, filing and complying. Sheep ripe for the slaughter. Well, he
wasn’t going to be one. They might slaughter him, but it wouldn’t be
without pain for them. Big pain. Bigger pain than even the idiots in his
ragtag militia could conceive of.
But giving out information about himself was not the way to
accomplish his goals. And the way she kept looking at him. Asking him
all those questions. Trying to figure him out, to see inside him. The nosy
bitch. Well, maybe he’d have a look inside her before all was said and
done. He stirred at the thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
Operating at full throttle, the thirty-inch Stihl chainsaw ate steadily
through the thick trunk of the spruce, throwing off an aromatic plume of
sawdust that covered the man’s gloves and boots and the ground on which
he stood. When the man judged the cut to be close enough to the felling
notch, he withdrew the guide bar from the kerf and hit the kill switch, then
stepped away. Removing his battered yellow hard hat, he wiped the sweat
from his forehead with the wear-slick sleeve of his canvas coat.
Inside the trunk, the narrow hinge he had left was starting to crack
under the intense weight of the tree, the wood fibers snapping with
increasing rapidity as fewer and fewer were left to bear the strain. The
tree started to lean as the cracking became a popping roar, growing louder
and louder as gravity slowly won out, joined now by the rush of leaves
and branches ripping through the air, until the crash came and suddenly
there was silence.
Merlin Barrows was thirty-four and had been logging almost since
he was old enough to walk. His perpetually ruddy face was nicked with
scars from flying splinters, his left hand was minus its two outer fingers,
and x-rays would have revealed the evidence of arms and legs once
broken.
His mother died of cancer when Merlin was three and as a child he
had worked the woods with his father whenever he wasn’t in school,
hauling branches at first but quickly graduating to hand and then power
saws. By the time he dropped out of high school at the age of fifteen,
Merlin knew as much as any man about the art of logging, and with a six-
two frame wrapped in rock-hard muscle, was physically capable of more
than most.
When his father died three years later, killed by a falling tree in an
uncharacteristic moment of carelessness, his death had hit Merlin hard.
His father had been a tough and taciturn man but he was the center of
Merlin’s life. His passing left a hole that Merlin had no way to fill but
with work. He had carried on, bidding contracts from private landholders
Storm Front 33
and felling the timber for sale to the mills just as his father had, hiring on
with one of the timber companies or larger independents when cash got
short.
It was a hard existence that left little money for luxuries and little
opportunity for a social life, but it was an honest one and the only one
Merlin knew. He accepted it as his lot without complaint.
Which was why he wondered what had ever possessed him to join
the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club. It was Charlie Stitchard’s idea, which
only went to show how out of his mind Merlin must have been. Charlie
was a nice enough guy, but truth be known he had the brains of a rabbit.
Merlin had been working some Champion International land in
Santa Clara with one of Bill McConnell’s crews. Charlie had hired on too
and one night after work, he and Charlie and a bunch of the other guys
stopped to have some beers at the Timberland out on Route 458.
As was typical, talk got around to how hard it was to make a living
logging anymore.
“It’s those goddamned downstate tree-huggers,” Jake Warren had
said. “They think trees are more important than people.”
“Yeah, trying to regulate us right out of existence,” Dan O’Leary
agreed. “They want the Park to be this pretty place they can visit once a
year and to hell with the people who live here. And now they got this
bond act and if it passes the State’s gonna buy more land and use that as
an excuse to pass even more restrictions.”
“Yeah, but what can we do?” Jake said. “They got all the power.”
Merlin didn’t say anything. He wasn’t much for political
discourse―he wasn’t much for discourse period, when you came right
down to it―but he agreed with Jake and Dan. The way things were going,
it was lookin’ bad for folks inside the blue line, especially loggers. If he
had a son, and Merlin still hoped to someday, the boy would most likely
have to find a different line of work or move out of the Park altogether.
That was when Charlie spoke up.
“Maybe we can do something. There’s a guy named Butler gettin’
people organized to fight back. There’s gonna be a big meeting next week
over to the Sportsman in Gilsum. You should come.”
And instead of asking who Butler was and where he came from
and what his interest in the plight of the hardworking logger might be,
Merlin found himself agreeing to go.
The first meeting had been the biggest with at least forty people
packed into the Frontier Room of the Sportsman Inn. Butler had talked
Johnson 34
about local issues and how they were a part of a bigger picture that came
right down to competing visions of how this country should be: one
where local people had control over their own fates or one where outsiders
dictated how things would be.
“Look,” Butler said. “I don’t have to tell you what’s going on.
You see it every day. Families who have lived here for over one hundred
years, no longer free in the land their ancestors settled. Able men
unemployed because the businesses that employed them have been driven
into bankruptcy by government regulations. Loggers prevented from
harvesting God’s bounty by yuppies and eco-nuts who think their whims
are more important than your families. Hard working Americans forced to
sell their land to pay confiscatory taxes but unable to get market value for
their own property―their own property―because of use restrictions
imposed by downstaters. The blue line is a noose around your necks, and
with each year that passes it gets drawn a little tighter.
“Do you think the Adirondack Council cares about you, the people
who live and work and raise their families here? Hell no. All they care
about is making sure their masters in New York and Albany have their
playground the way they want it. And make no mistake about it. Their
ultimate goal is the confiscation of your land and the elimination of your
way of life. And they’ll succeed too, because they pull all the strings,
from Washington right on down, unless . . . unless . . . you have the guts
to stop them, to fight for your rights under the Bible and Constitution.”
A lot of what Butler said made some sense, and some of what he
said made a lot of sense. Merlin attended more meetings, only smaller
now, limited to those Butler said were strong enough to stand up for what
was right. There was more and more talk about Jews and blacks and what
Butler called ZOG, and how the Jews ran everything and were trying to
use blacks to undermine white Christianity and how it was time for whites
to fight back.
Merlin should have known then that Butler’s organization wasn’t
for him—his father had raised him to judge each man by his deeds, by
whether he was honest or a cheat, brave or a coward, pulled his load or let
the others do the pulling for him.
But by that time they were building the compound up on Lynx Hill
and Merlin had been chosen as a squad leader and couldn’t bring himself
to walk away. He felt responsible, and admired, and for the first time
since his father died, a part of a team. He had stuck it out, although he
thought a lot of what Butler was saying was a bunch of garbage and a lot
Storm Front 35
of what they were doing, the military drills and such, was a bunch of
tomfoolery.
And then Butler began to talk about the need to raise money to get
the message out to more people and brought up the plan that Merlin
suspected had been behind the whole thing right from the
beginning―Operation Shylock. That was enough for Merlin.
The first time he missed a meeting, it had raised little comment.
He’d said he was sick―although he considered both lying and sickness
shameful so it had left him uneasy.
The second had earned him a call from Butler.
“Merlin, we’ve missed you,” Butler said. “Is there a problem?”
“No, I’ve just been really under the gun trying to beat a contract
deadline and couldn’t spare the time.”
“But what we’re trying to do is important. You’re letting people
down.”
“I know,” Merlin said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about
that. I’m just not sure I can make the commitment what with all the jobs
I’ve got coming up.”
“But you have obligations to the group.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”
“That’s not really acceptable, Merlin. You think about it some
more. We can talk at the next meeting.”
“I don’t know if I can make it.”
“Sure you can. I’ll expect you.”
Charlie Stitchard had called a day or so later and tried to “reason”
with Merlin, as Charlie put it, to get Merlin to stick with the club at least
until the operation was complete.
“No, Charlie. I’m through with Butler. And if you’re smart, you’ll
get out too. The guy’s nothin’ but trouble.”
The next day it had been Daryl Higley who called. Merlin told
him the same thing.
Now, more than a week had passed since that meeting. Merlin
hadn’t gone, and despite Butler’s thinly veiled threats, Merlin hadn’t heard
a word from anyone. Unfortunately, although he was out of the club, the
peace he usually felt when he worked the woods had deserted him.
Butler’s plan was going ahead without him. And kidnapping was
wrong―not just a violation of a law passed by an illegitimate government
like Butler said―but wrong. And although Charlie and the rest might
believe Butler’s assurances that no one would get hurt, Merlin knew there
Johnson 36
was a good chance somebody would. Just knowing Creight Anders was
involved was enough to tell you that.
So now he couldn’t get rid of the thought that walking away was
not enough, that he had to do something to stop Butler’s plan. But what?
There was no way he was going to talk Butler out of it. As for the others,
as long as Butler kept whipping them up, there was little likelihood that
anything Merlin might say would influence them. Hell, guys like Jared
Wright, Lon Bellard and the Brown twins had never been able to resist a
bad idea even back when they were kids.
There was, of course, another option. The one he didn’t want to
think about. The one that wouldn’t go away. To even threaten to
tell―and presumably that would be all he would have to do―would go
against his vision of himself as a man.
But increasingly Merlin saw little other choice.
Staring at the fallen tree lost in thought, Merlin didn’t hear the dark
green van driving slowly up the logging road until it was almost upon him.
He turned as Butler brought the van to a halt.
“Mr. Barrows,” Butler said by way of greeting as he approached.
“Hard at work, I see.”
“Butler,” Merlin responded guardedly.
“We missed you the other day. I thought you were coming,”
Butler said, locking his eyes on Merlin’s.
Butler was dressed in the camo fatigues that were the club’s
uniform.
“I don’t know why you would think that,” Merlin said evenly.
“I hoped you would realize that people were depending on you and
change your mind. You didn’t strike me as the type to weasel out.”
“I’m doing what I should have done months ago. This plan of
yours, this Operation Shylock, is all wrong. Even if the others don’t see it,
I do. A hundred things could go wrong, and even if they don’t, it’s not
right.”
“I thought you were just too busy.”
Merlin blushed.
“I am―but it’s not only that.”
“I see. And you figure if you back out now you won’t be
responsible, is that it?”
Merlin fiddled with the throttle trigger on his saw.
“Is that it?” Butler repeated, his voice harsh.
Storm Front 37
This was the moment Merlin had dreaded, the one he had sought to
avoid―but it had come seeking him even in the still depths of the forest.
“No. It’s not.”
Butler raised his eyebrows.
“Oh?” he said.
“I’d still be responsible,” Merlin said softly. “I can’t let you go
through with it.”
Butler stared.
“And just how are you going to stop me?” he asked finally.
“You’re going to stop yourself.”
“And why would I do that?”
Merlin made no reply, unable to speak the words, but kept his eyes
glued to Butler’s.
“I see,” Butler said again. “Not only a weasel but a rat.”
“Calling me names doesn’t change the facts.”
“You’d be guilty of conspiracy with the rest of us.”
“That doesn’t matter. I deserve whatever’s coming to me, for ever
bein’ fool enough to get involved.”
“And what if I call it off?”
“You’ll go your merry way and I’ll go mine.”
Butler continued to stare at Merlin then gazed off into the forest.
Merlin watched him silently, hopes rising.
After a seeming eternity, Butler turned back.
“You won’t go to the authorities?”
“No.”
“You don’t leave me much choice.”
Merlin merely tightened his lips in acknowledgement.
“All right,” Butler said.
He moved to go, then paused.
“Are you the one who sent the letter about the Indian?”
Merlin shook his head.
Butler regarded him for another long moment, then apparently
satisfied, headed for his van.
Watching him walk away, Merlin was surprised to find that he felt
good. Although he had threatened to be the squealer, it wasn’t going to be
necessary, and the shame he felt in making the threat was a small price to
pay for putting an end to Operation Shylock.
With a sharp pull on the cord, he started his saw again. He had
work to do and the day was passing fast.
Johnson 38
Throughout his conversation with Barrows, anger had been coiling
within Butler like some great snake, although he had managed to maintain
an appearance of calm. Now as he walked away, that snake writhed and
squirmed, struggling to break free.
The oaf had actually threatened to go to the authorities, to sabotage
all his plans!
Butler needed to think, but with rage flooding his brain, he
couldn’t.
A traitor, that’s what Barrows was, the lowest of the low―and he
was stupid enough to think that was all there was to it, that he could
threaten Raymond Butler and go on his “merry way.”
He heard the saw start behind him. Barrows was trudging saw in
hand toward the fallen tree, going back to work as if nothing had
happened.
Adrenalin surged within Butler, its taste bitter in his mouth. The
stupid bastard actually thought that was all there was to it!
By the time Butler reached him, Barrows was limbing the tree. He
didn’t hear Butler’s footsteps, only felt the pain as Butler slammed a
length of wood into the side of his head.
His hardhat sailed through the air as he toppled heavily to the
ground, the saw slipping from his hands and stalling as the whirring chain
bit the earth. He gaped dazedly up at Butler, trying to comprehend what
had happened.
His eyes widened as Butler swung the limb again.
Butler stood over Barrows, breathing heavily, the now bloody log
still in his hand. He drew it back slowly as if to strike Barrows’ inert
form, but let it down.
It wouldn’t do.
Moving deliberately, he went to the van and returned with a first
aid kit. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, carefully wiped the blood
from Barrows’ face and scalp with a piece of gauze, and bandaged the
lacerations caused by his blows. He then retrieved the hardhat and placed
it beside Barrows as if it had been on his head when he hit the ground.
That portion of his task complete, Butler stood back and surveyed
his handiwork. It should work, he thought. They’d think the head wounds
were unrelated.
Storm Front 39
He picked up the chainsaw. It was flooded and wouldn’t start at
first, but ultimately did, sputtering to life with a backfire and a cough of
blue smoke before settling into a steady idle.
He imagined how it might have happened, Barrows limbing the
tree, the saw churning through a branch but suddenly leaping free as the
cut pinched tight upon it, out of control, a ravening mechanical beast
seeking flesh on which to feed. A terrible accident.
He cut partway through the limb just where Barrows might have,
the saw falling to an idle when he was done.
Only one more thing to do.
The saw’s RPMs climbed again as it cut deep into a different kind
of limb, Barrows’ shriek of pain barely audible above the racing engine.
And then the saw was still and only Barrows’ low moans of pain broke the
silence. After a short time, they ceased too.
CHAPTER FIVE
The sleek white Bell 222 helicopter banked sharply as the lake
came into view, its wooded shores unbroken save at the north end where
an elaborate two-story log boathouse projected out into the water. Three
of the Sunfish were out, Harvey saw, their sails exclamations of color
against the water’s deep blue. Some of Staci’s friends no doubt. A crew
of them had arrived from the City the week before.
Up the hill from the boathouse, colossal white pines towered above
the cedar shake roofs of the main complex: the great lodge, the dining,
music, and game pavilions, the chapel, the bowling alley, the guest
cottages―all connected by covered walkways that meandered crookedly
through the trees. On the far side of these buildings, the trees gave way to
a freshly mowed sward where a croquet course was laid out near an
octagonal log tea house. A pair of clay tennis courts sat empty nearby.
Only the macadam circle of a helipad marred the otherwise idyllic scene
of Gilded Age rusticity.
As they flew closer, Harvey could see the service complex a
quarter mile from the lodge, the utilitarian structures essential to the
working of a self-sufficient estate; some, like the icehouse and smithy,
vestiges of a bygone day, but most, the barns and sheds and garages, the
laundry and shop and lumbermill, all still in use. Beyond them lay the
recently completed half-mile horse track and the open expanse of the
fields and pastures which finally gave way once more to the encircling
arms of the forest. Harvey could just make out the houses of the year-
round workers, eight white frame structures with generous porches and
green tin roofs, grouped into a tiny, woodland community just inside the
forest’s edge.
The Birches, thirty-eight buildings in all, one of the greatest of the
Adirondack Great Camps, the one time wilderness retreat of robber baron
Ezekiel Fripp, railroad magnate extraordinaire. Twenty thousand acres (of
the original thirty) of unspoiled mountain forest, including the three
hundred acre Lake Ezekiel, all located in the heart of the Adirondack Park.
As always when he first saw it, Harvey was struck with a sense of wonder
Storm Front 41
that he, Harvey Skolnick of East Fordham Road in the Bronx, was now the
owner of this mountain treasure.
Harvey’s spectacular climb from geeky valedictorian of the Bronx
High School of Science to forty-one-year-old Internet billionaire was a
saga that had been profiled dozens of times, in media ranging from
Fortune to Rolling Stone and 60 Minutes to Oprah. But it was a saga
Harvey still had difficulty believing at times, despite the limousines, jets
and helicopters, Park Avenue apartment, homes in South Hampton, Palm
Beach and St. Tropez, and the constant fawning of all who came near him.
Oh, and Staci, the crown jewel, aspiring supermodel turned harpy.
She was waiting by the helipad on the east lawn as they descended,
futilely attempting to keep her perfectly coiffed hair in place in the
turbulence.
Rick Benton’s voice crackled in Harvey’s headphones.
“You’ve got a welcoming committee,” he said dryly, casting
Harvey a sidelong grin. The back of the chopper was custom furnished
with a conference table, couches and chairs upholstered in gray leather,
and a full array of business equipment, but Harvey rode up front when he
wasn’t otherwise occupied. He leaned forward to take a look.
Although there was much that was impressive about Harvey
Skolnick, his physical appearance was decidedly unimposing. His large
frame was running to fat, his hair was mostly a memory, and his beard was
mottled with gray. More than one business adversary had mistaken this
unprepossessing exterior as a sign of interior weakness. Those lucky
enough to get the chance didn’t make the same mistake twice.
“Oh, God,” Harvey said into the mike at his lips. “I wonder what
it is this time? Water spots on the crystal?”
With the exception of Harvey’s lifelong pal Artie Weissman, Rick
Benton was probably Harvey’s closest friend, or at least closest confidant.
He, among the hordes of people that swarmed around Harvey, seemed
unfazed and unimpressed by Harvey’s immense fortune, retaining the
same laconic wit and amused condescension he had displayed when
Harvey first interviewed him for the job of personal pilot. Rick alone
seemed to see in Harvey the shy and clumsy boy he still was at heart, and
treated him with a teasing affection that Harvey found he craved badly in
his new role as lord of the universe.
Benton spoke again. “Now be fair, Harve. The last time you had
exactly the same attitude and it did turn out to be serious. She really
couldn’t get all the soaps with just that one measly dish you installed.”
Johnson 42
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got to learn to be more patient.”
“That’s a good boy.”
The copter touched down and Rick switched off the engine.
“Well, here goes,” Harvey said, opening the door.
“Go get ’em, cowboy.”
“Yahoo,” Harvey said, and wondered, not for the first time,
whether Rick had slept with Staci. He didn’t think so―sleeping with a
friend’s wife was not Rick’s style―but sometimes it seemed as if she had
slept with everyone else. He leapt out and walked hurriedly under the still
spinning blades.
Staci Skolnick nee White was a beautiful woman. Not a pretty
woman, certainly not a cute woman. She was beautiful in a way that lent
her features an air of unreality, a perfection almost inhuman: long, silken
ash-blonde hair, deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, lips full but not
exaggeratedly so as was the current fashion, pale pellucid skin, and a nose
long and straight and aristocratic, which was indeed the persona most
commonly projected by her ads. The unattainable queen of every man
(and woman’s) dreams.
That her body too was perfect, sensual and full without slipping
into voluptuousness, was a fact that often went unnoticed, so striking was
her face. Men would see her across a room and so rivet to the face that
their eyes never even made the usually inevitable descent to investigate
her other charms. She was indeed a prize.
Staci Skolnick nee White was also a bitch, a trailer park harridan,
who had overcome her white trash lifestyle, but not her white trash nature.
Pushed by a mother whose vision far exceeded her dingy West Texas
beauty parlor, Staci had early begun emulating the women whose pictures
and exploits paraded across the pages of the tabloids stacked in the beauty
parlor rack, constantly experimenting with makeup, hair, and clothes, and
later with the feminine wiles that made men sit up and beg.
Years later, that training had enabled her to kindle the fires of love
in a balding, chubby boy from the Bronx who just happened to be one of
the richer men in America, and now this vision of surpassing beauty was
his, all his―at least in theory.
“Hi, hon,” he said coming up to her. For all his cynicism about
Staci, Harvey was still in love and hoped each time he saw her that
somehow things would be different between them.
Storm Front 43
“Harvey, I want you to fire that stableman,” she said without
preamble. Staci still retained more than a trace of her Texas twang.
“Stableman?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, Jim?”
“Yes, Jim. That’s who I mean.”
A likable silver-haired widower of sixty, Jim Flaherty was the
trainer Harvey had hired to care for Texas Swing, the thoroughbred
stallion Harvey purchased for Staci’s birthday several years earlier.
Harvey had met Jim at Saratoga through Bob Marlowe, the partner-in-
charge of Harvey’s account at Goldman Sachs. Marlowe had been
investing in thoroughbreds for years.
“You ought to try it, Harve,” Bob had said. “It’s a hell of a lot of
fun and the tax breaks are fantastic. And you can keep the horses on your
place when they’re not on the circuit.”
The idea had appealed to Harvey. Staci had always adored
Saratoga during the racing season, with its parties and jet-setters and old
money and conspicuous consumption―Marylou Whitney’s annual ball
was a must-attend event―and of course, horses. Harvey had taken the
plunge in his usual cautious way, buying one horse to start for a by-his-
standards modest investment of one hundred thousand dollars and then
hiring the best man he could find to train and care for it. Texas Swing and
Jim Flaherty were the result.
And when Texas Swing had been retired from racing and put out to
stud, Jim had retired to the Birches with him (put out to stud himself and
still looking for takers for his services, he was fond of joking). Jim now
worked at The Birches full time, overseeing the stud services of Texas
Swing and the care of The Birches’ ten-horse string of riding horses.
“What’s the matter?”
“The man is insolent. He opposes me at every turn and treats me
like I was dirt, not like the person who’s paying him thirty thousand
dollars a year plus room and board just to feed a bunch of horses.”
“What did he do?”
“It’s not just one specific thing. It’s everything.”
Harvey frowned. He didn’t want to fire Jim. Jim’s life was now
here at The Birches.
“Why don’t I talk to him?”
“I want you to fire him, not talk to him.”
Johnson 44
He wondered why she hadn’t fired him herself. She certainly fired
other people often enough: maids, cooks, gardeners, even the mechanic
over some contretemps about the Porsche. Nelson, the estate manager,
had complained bitterly about that one and had only this week found a
replacement.
“I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
Harvey sighed. This explanation was revealing but not in the way
Staci intended. The notion of gentle, devout Jim Flaherty lusting after
Staci was ridiculous―and Harvey knew that if Jim had been lusting after
her as Staci was implying, the last thing Staci would want would be to
have him fired. Collecting male admirers was Staci’s hobby. No, it was
more likely that Jim, still devoted to the memory of his wife now five
years gone, had resisted―or worse, failed to notice―Staci’s allure.
“Look, I’ll talk to him,” Harvey said.
“But . . .”
“I’ll talk to him,” Harvey repeated with more force. “And now I
don’t want to talk about it any more. How’s Davey?”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he around?”
“Yes, he’s with Bridget somewheres, in the house I think.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t,” she said petulantly. “I don’t feel it’s necessary for
me to spend every minute of every day watching over him. That’s why
we have Bridget.”
“I would hope that you’d want to know where he was. He’s your
son.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful. You go jetting off for days and weeks at a
time leaving me here in East Buttfuck then criticize me for not spending
every waking minute with a four year old. Well, excuse me, but that’s not
my idea of a good time. And besides I have guests.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to criticize you, I just . . .” He shrugged
helplessly, his eyes pleading for Staci’s understanding.
Receiving none, he turned and headed for the house.
The main lodge had been completed in 1893. Constructed of
locally harvested virgin spruce, it had taken three years to build, requiring
the full time labor of over one hundred workers. Designed to rival the
“camps” of Ezekiel Fripp’s wealthy peers―the Rockefellers, Carnegies,
Whitneys, Posts, Colliers, and their ilk―it boasted thirty rooms within
three sprawling stories, including ten bedroom suites, each with its own
Storm Front 45
sitting room and bath, and a library containing over fifty thousand
volumes.
The centerpiece of the house was the thirty by fifty living room,
dominated by a massive fieldstone fireplace with a hearth tall enough for a
man to stand in. The chimney rose thirty feet to a cathedral ceiling of
spruce planks supported by an open log truss polished to a golden gloss
with coat upon coat of beeswax and hung with chandeliers fashioned from
deer antlers. Walls too were of spruce plank, decorated with the heads of
game animals culled by Fripp on his frequent African safaris and local
hunts, and landscapes by Cole, Tait, Kensett and Durand. Fur rugs were
scattered among islands of wicker furniture and rustic tables made by local
artisans from unpeeled saplings.
Outside, the log facades were a welter of leaded diamond-pane
windows framed with red trim that gave full views of the lake and
surrounding mountains.
Harvey mounted the stone steps that led to the front entrance and
entered the front hall. A plump woman in her young thirties wearing jeans
and a pullover sweater was standing in the doorway to the study as Harvey
came in, a mischievous smile on her freckled face.
“Hello, Bridget,” Harvey said in a jovial tone. “Is that son of mine
here?”
“Well, I’m just not sure where he is. He was here a second ago,
but now he’s disappeared,” she said in mock wonder. Bridget
O’Shaughnessy had been Davey’s nanny since his birth, the product of an
exhaustive, nationwide search.
“I’ll bet the helicopter scared him,” Harvey said.
“Maybe so, because he disappeared shortly after we heard it
coming.”
“Oh well, I guess I’ll just fly right back to New York then, ‘cause
if I can’t see Davey, there’s just not much point in my being here. I’ll see
you next week.”
He took loud steps toward the entrance, but stopped when a squeak
emanated from the combination bench, mirror, and coat rack that sat just
inside the door.
Harvey stopped.
“Bridget, I think we have mice here,” he said. “Would you speak
to Nelson for me and have him set some traps? But tell him to make them
big ones because it sure sounds like these mice are giants.” He turned to
the door again. “OK, I’ll see you.”
Johnson 46
There was another squeak. Harvey went over to the bench.
“It’s coming from right in here,” he said and went to lift the bench
lid.
Before he could, the lid was thrown open and a tiny body
catapulted into his arms with a roar. Harvey caught the human projectile
and tumbled back onto the floor, Davey on top of him.
“Oh, no,” Harvey cried. “Bridget, help! The king mouse has got
me. Help! Help!”
“No, Daddy, it’s me,” Davey said.
“Davey?” Harvey said incredulously.
“Yes, Daddy. I was hiding. I heard the helicopter, and I knew you
were coming, so I hid to surprise you. I’m not afraid of it. I like to ride in
it.”
“No, you’re not afraid of it, are you?” Harvey said fondly, hugging
him. “You’re a brave little boy. A very brave little boy.”
He climbed to his feet and picked Davey up as Rick Benton arrived
with Harvey’s bags.
“Hi, Rick,” Davey said with obvious affection.
“Hi, cowpoke. How ya doin’?”
“Rick, you can just drop those there,” Harvey said. He turned his
attention back to his son.
“So, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to, huh?” Harvey
said. “It’s been a whole week since I saw you. Come on, let’s go in the
study where we can talk man to man.” And with a wink at Bridget, he
carried Davey away.
CHAPTER SIX
Jack Dawson awoke to the singing of the birds outside his
bedroom window. He lived in a small frame cottage tucked into a wooded
pocket of the Dawson property a few hundred yards from the main house.
He looked at the clock. Four thirty. Time to get up. He threw on
some clothes, washed up at the ancient pedestal sink in the bathroom
downstairs, and headed across the dew drenched fields for the main house.
Predictably, Jack’s mother was busy at the stove when he entered
the kitchen, looking as if she had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell
painting in her worn blue print dress, heavy shoes, and gray hair wound
tight to her head.
The homey aroma of coffee and bacon enveloped him as he hung
his jacket on a peg near the door.
“Hi, ma,” Jack said. He went over and kissed her. “Where’s
dad?”
“Out in the barn.”
“Already?”
“Been out there most the night. I took a cup of coffee out to him
about an hour ago.”
Jack frowned.
“Has he―”
“No,” his mother said quickly before Jack could finish his
question. “He’s fine. Just worried, is all. Sit down and eat.”
Jack sat and his mother brought a plate of eggs and bacon over to
him.
“Your father says the vet is stopping by again today.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Bringing more bad news, I don’t doubt.”
“She seems like a pretty smart cookie to me.”
“I guess.”
“Pretty too.”
Jack ate his eggs.
“You could do worse than to get to know a girl like that.”
Jack grimaced.
Johnson 48
“Now, ma, what would a college educated, city girl want with a
poor, dumb farmer like me?”
“You’re not dumb, Jack. And she’s not from the city. Downstate
is all.”
“Maybe I’m not dumb, but I sure as hell am poor. And not likely
to get much richer the way things is goin’.”
“Money isn’t everything, Jack.”
“I know, ma, I know. But it sure helps some―particularly where
women are concerned.”
“Oh, you know so much about women. Well, let me tell you
something: money isn’t everything and a smart girl knows that.”
Jack swiped at his plate with a piece of toast with exaggerated
vigor.
“You could at least try being nice to her. That wouldn’t hurt
none.”
“I am nice to her.”
“That’s not what I hear. I hear you like as bite her head off every
time she comes near.”
“I do not.”
“Well then, if you’re on such good terms, why don’t you try askin’
her out sometime.”
“Ma.”
He gave her an exasperated look.
She turned back to the stove.
“All right, all right. It’s none of my business. But you’re not
gettin’ any younger, you know.”
John Dawson was sitting on a milk can, shoulders slumped, staring
blankly at the heat expectancy chart on the wall as Jack walked through
the wide double doors into the warm glow of the barn’s interior. When
the older man heard Jack he stood up quickly.
“Mornin’, son.”
“Mornin’, dad. How they lookin’?”
“About the same, I guess.”
“Ma says you been out here most the night.”
“I reckon so.”
He studied his father carefully.
“What’cha been doin’?”
“Nothin’ much. Thinkin’.”
“You all right?”
Storm Front 49
“I’m fine. Just worried about them cows is all.”
“Yeah,” Jack said.
When Jack heard Sarah’s Jeep pull into the barnyard he reaffirmed
his resolve to be pleasant to her. His mother was right, after all. He had
been rude. That was why he’d had to apologize.
But as he heard her car door shut and the exchange of greetings
between Sarah and his father, he could not restrain a twinge of annoyance.
Why, he wasn’t sure. But it had something to do with her calm self-
possession. It didn’t seem right that she should be so considerately
competent while they floundered in failure. She must really think them
pathetic.
And thinking she thought that made him angry. And it made him
angrier to realize that if his father had listened to him, they wouldn’t be
raising goddamn dairy cows which nobody was makin’ any money at
anymore even without diseases and then he wouldn’t have to put up with
her superiority and her humiliating offers to let them pay when they could
manage it.
By the time his father and Sarah entered the barn he could hardly
contain himself. And realizing that made him nervous―at least he figured
that was why he suddenly felt like a grade schooler about to give his first
oral report. He ducked into the milk house then out into the yard.
Later, Jack watched from high on the hill as Sarah’s Jeep wound
out the long drive to the road, gripped by a vague malaise he could not
name. Embarrassment, he guessed. He had behaved like a fool. Running
away. A grown man. Leaving had seemed the thing to do at the time, the
best way to avoid another display of rudeness on his part. Now it just
seemed pathetic. What on earth must she think?
He watched his father climb onto the tractor and head out to plow
the thirty acre cornfield that abutted the county road. Watched the tractor
turn the fallow ground from silvery beige to chocolate, row by orderly
row. A sight that usually brought him joy, symbolic of the earth’s
productivity in the hands of loving caretakers. He felt empty.
A truck stopped out on the road near the field. He watched a
heavyset man get out, pick his way gingerly across the freshly turned
furrows, and wave his father to a halt. Heard the tractor’s engine fall to a
shadowy murmur. Watched the men talk, a toy tableau, his father astride
Johnson 50
the tiny tractor, the man standing in the dirt beside it peering up at him,
shading his face from the sun with his hand.
Who the hell was it? It almost looked like Creight Anders. It was
possibly his truck although it was tough to tell under all that mud. But
why on earth would he take the trouble to stop and talk to Jack’s father?
After the man walked back to his truck and drove off, Jack’s father
sat motionless on the tractor for a few minutes. Then he fired the tractor
up and began plowing once more.
“You puttin’ this on the hay?” Jack asked.
They were in the shed at the end of the main barn watching manure
tumble off the conveyor that ran through troughs in the barn floor and into
the spreader.
Jack’s father was using a pitchfork to distribute the ever-growing
pile evenly in the cart.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “I figure we’ll put it on the hill field.”
“You finish plowin’ the corn?”
“Yup.”
“Should be able to plant it soon, if the weather keeps up,” Jack
said.
“I reckon. It’s still pretty wet in places.”
“So, who was that you were talkin’ to out there?”
John looked up sharply as a flush surged up his neck.
“Talkin’ to?”
“Yeah. Looked like Creight Anders.”
“Oh, yeah, it was,” John said quickly. He poked vigorously at the
mound of manure. “He was just passin’ the time.” He hoped his voice
sounded casual.
“Creight Anders walked all the way out into that field to pass the
time?” Jack said incredulously. “I didn’t know you and him were such
good friends.”
“We’re not exactly.”
Jack was waiting for further explanation.
“He just saw me plowing, I guess.”
“So what’d he say?”
“What do you mean, what’d he say? He didn’t say nothin’, I told
you.”
The lie rang false in John’s ears, but Jack seemed not to notice.
“All right. You don’t have to bite my head off. I was just askin’.”
Storm Front 51
John felt bad about snapping at Jack, but there was no way he
could tell him the truth about his conversation with Anders. What would
he tell him? That Creight Anders had come to ask him if he was the “rat”
who had sent the letter about the dead Indian? That Creight Anders’ visit
had left him shaking with fear? That he was indeed the “rat” who had
betrayed their friends and neighbors? That he wrote the letter because he
was ashamed of his silence, but was too much the coward to come forward
like a man?
He knew his drinking had left Jack with little respect for him, but
he couldn’t bear to lose whatever shreds might remain. He would rather
live with his guilt and fear.
He just felt so alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shortly after he got the call from the New York State Police in
Tupper Lake, Oren Tebo drove the red and white Tribal Police cruiser
through the thicket of pot-holed streets that was the heart of the
Akwesasne Mohawk reservation―thirty-six square miles of wind-swept
land straddling the United States/Canada border along the St. Lawrence
River, the largest remnant of the thousands of square miles the Mohawk
Nation once called home.
At first glance, there was little to suggest that this was a Mohawk
village. The same modest houses and double-wide trailers that
characterized the average upstate New York town predominated here,
although clustered more thickly than might be the case in a town outside
the reservation. Ironically, the most telling sign that this was Mohawk
land were the numerous government-financed buildings tucked in among
the houses―blocky, modern structures that housed the tribe’s
administrative offices.
At 31, Oren had been the law for the U.S. side of the reservation
for five years. He had gotten the job after graduating from Syracuse
University with a degree in criminal justice and completing an intensive
training program with the New York State Police. With his short cropped
black hair and crisp uniform hugging his well-muscled six-foot frame,
Oren looked very much the picture of competence despite his relative
youth. It was an impression he worked hard to project, having been taught
that the appearance of professionalism was crucial to the efficient exercise
of authority.
Oren loved his job, but it was not without its difficulties. Although
his training had prepared him for the usual tensions of police work―the
fear and anger and the difficulties of managing the sometimes conflicting
roles of caregiver and enforcer―his instructors could not help Oren
prepare for the problems unique to the reservation.
For one thing, the reservation’s governance structures were
impossibly complex, a product of the tribe’s tortured history. Oren was
employed by the St. Regis Tribal Council, the entity recognized (and
Storm Front 53
funded) by the United States government as the administrator of the
American side of the reservation.
However, to the degree the ten thousand members of the Mohawk
tribe remained a sovereign people―an area of great uncertainty―they
were led by the traditional Longhouse Council of Chiefs. The Council of
Chiefs did not recognize the division of Akwesasne into American and
Canadian sectors or the authority of the St. Regis Tribal Council, which
they viewed with hostility as a sort of Vichy Government.
To make matters worse, the Mohawk, like many Indian tribes,
were a people embittered by their status as wards of their conquerors, and
plagued by more than their share of social problems like unemployment
and alcoholism. The potential for anti-social behavior was high,
particularly among the Nation’s young men.
Oren was stuck in the middle. As a Mohawk, he respected the
authority of the Longhouse Council of Chiefs. As a realist, he recognized
that the tribe in many ways remained dependent upon the policies of the
United States and Canada. The Nation needed policing. And since the
only police force the United States was willing to sanction was one
answerable to the Tribal Council, he was their man.
Out of the village, Oren turned onto the two-lane highway that
traversed the reservation on its way from Massena to Malone. There, it
was more obvious he was on Mohawk land. The businesses that crowded
the highway, the gas stations, convenience stores, gift shops, liquor stores
and the like, had traditional Mohawk names for the benefit of passing
tourists.
Roadside signs reflected the tensions within Mohawk society. The
official greeting of the St. Regis Tribal Council bid visitors “Sekon”, and
asked that they drive safely while in the reservation. A short distance
away a larger sign defiantly asserted that various American
authorities―the FBI, IRS, and New York State Police among them―were
“not allowed”. This sign had been erected by a militant nationalist group:
Rotiskenrahkete, the so-called Warrior Society. Oren considered that
declaration inflammatory, but he basically agreed with its position―not so
much that outside authorities weren’t allowed, but that they had to work
through appropriate tribal channels.
The part that annoyed him was the sign’s closing statement:
“SECURITY ENFORCED BY ROTISKENRAHKETE.” Although some
of the Warriors were all right, others were just troublemakers or criminals
using the cause of tribal sovereignty to advance their own interests. In any
Johnson 54
event, they had no authority whatsoever. Oren had been told that the sign
must stay—an exercise of free speech―but he had made it as clear as
clear could be that no “security enforcement” by Rotiskenrahkete would
be tolerated on his watch.
Finally, Oren reached the clearest indicator that this was a late
twentieth century Indian reservation: casino row.
He turned the cruiser into the newly-paved lot of the Golden
Nugget. Despite its name, the Golden Nugget was stolid rather than
glitzy, a massive, windowless, three story, cinder block structure more
reminiscent of a warehouse than an entertainment emporium. The casino
didn’t open until four and the lot was mostly empty, with just a few cars
parked near the side entrance.
That suited Oren fine. He wanted a chance to talk to the people
who worked there without the distraction of customers. His mission was
simple. Find out why Rodney Boots had been in the Sportsman Inn in
Gilsum, New York on a snowy February night. Find out if Rodney knew
anyone who lived in the area. Find out if there was anyone who might
have wanted Rodney Boots dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rick liked to think that he could find the good in any man, but he
didn’t like the new mechanic from the minute he met him. There was an
evasive quality about him that started with his handshake, a half-hearted
offer of an unwashed paw accompanied by shifting eyes desperate to
avoid Rick’s, and continued with his face, weathered above but with
flabby cheeks pink-white where they had obviously been shaved for the
first time in a long time. Rick told himself he was being overly
critical―lots of people had lousy social skills and it was no crime if the
guy’d had a beard before he took the job―but a vague sense of dislike
remained.
Well, Nelson said the guy really knew his stuff, had even worked
on choppers in the Army and could help Rick there in addition to handling
the other vehicles, so hopefully it would all work out.
The new man―his name was Darren Latham―was a bachelor
who hailed from Malone, about seventy miles to the north, and was
moving into the other apartment above the six-car garage next to Rick.
Rick was fueling the chopper when Nelson brought him over.
“That’s a beauty,” the new man had said after introductions were
completed. He ran his hand appreciatively along the chopper’s sleek hull.
“A 222, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Rick said without enthusiasm.
“I’ve flown a lot of Bells in my day, 206 JetRangers and
LongRangers most recently, but never a 222. Twin engine, right?”
Despite his misgivings about the man, Rick couldn’t help but be
intrigued. Latham did seem to know choppers.
“You’re a pilot?” he asked.
“No, not really. Not anymore. But I flew them in Nam, and
worked on them on and off ever since. I was a mechanic with GHS
Courier in Albany for ten years, until I got laid off.”
“Nam, huh? Hueys?” Rick wondered if the half-moon scar near
Latham’s left eye was a war injury.
Johnson 56
“You bet, but just about everything else the Army flew over there
too. Cobras mostly, but Chinooks and Choctaws, too. Even a Skycrane
once.”
“They’re wild.”
“Lifting a twenty ton half-track with one of those babies is an
experience, I’ll tell you. How about you?”
“I’m a Navy man, myself. Flew most of what they had too.
Seasprites, SeaKings, SeaStallions, SeaDragons. Never saw any combat
though.”
“A SeaDragon, huh? That must have been something. Those
things are huge.”
“Ninety-nine feet.”
Nelson cleared his throat.
“Yes, gentlemen. Well, I’m sure this is all very fascinating but I
for one have work to do. Rick, would you take Darren under your wing?
I’ve already briefed him and given him the basic tour, but I’m sure there’s
a lot more you could tell him.”
“Sure. No problem,” Rick said.
Later, after he had shown Latham around and helped him move his
few belongings into the apartment, Rick wandered over to the paddock.
Jim Flaherty was leaning on the fence watching a groom, the teenage son
of one of the resident families, saddle Texas Swing while another, also a
native son, held his head. Skittish, the horse stamped his hoofs and
fidgeted, his ebony coat gleaming in the morning sun.
“Saw you with the new man,” Flaherty said when Rick leaned
against the fence next to him.
“Nelson asked me to show him around.”
“What do you think?”
Benton shrugged.
“Hard to say.”
“I know what you mean. He’s a nervous kind of a fella.”
“Seems to know his way around an engine, though. Choppers
included. How’d Nelson find him all the way up in Malone? He see the
ad?”
“It was pure luck. A guy came by a couple of weeks ago looking
for work. Nelson told him the only thing open was the mechanic’s
position. The man said he wasn’t qualified for that, but had a buddy
looking for work who could definitely do the job. Well, you know how
desperate Nelson’s been to replace Marty. He said send the man by. A
Storm Front 57
couple of days later, this Latham fella shows up. I guess choppers is his
main thing, but he’s worked as an auto mechanic too.”
“That’s no drawback from my standpoint, as I guess you can
imagine,” Benton said, smiling. “He’s not going to make the snappiest-
looking chauffeur though. I wonder if the Lady Skolnick has seen him.”
“I asked Nelson about that. She hasn’t. But Mr. Skolnick told him
to just go ahead and hire him if he was qualified as a mechanic and that if
Mrs. Skolnick pitched a fit, they’d just hire a driver for when she’s here.”
“Harvey’s getting brave in his old age,” Rick said with a chuckle.
“But I wouldn’t put money on this guy lasting very long after Staci sets
eyes on him.”
“She’s a strong willed woman, she is.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
There was a break in their conversation as Flaherty instructed the
grooms to lead Texas Swing to the track and breeze him. He focused on
Rick again.
“Sarah’s coming by today, in case you don’t know.”
He regarded Benton appraisingly.
“Speaking of strong willed women,” Benton said with a rueful
smile. “No, I didn’t.”
“I get the sense she’s giving you a bit of a tussle.”
“I’m not sure what it is.”
“Well, forgive me for being a meddling old fool, but you know,
sometimes the best horses are the hardest to put a halter on.”
“You better not let Sarah hear you compare her to a horse or you’ll
be in some kind of trouble.” Rick grinned but grew serious. “Jim, I’ll tell
you. I just don’t know what the heck is going on with that woman. We
were going great guns, then all of a sudden she’s pushing me away.” He
shook his head in exaggerated dismay. “Women. Can’t live with ’em,
can’t live without ’em.”
“Oh, you can sure enough live with them,” Flaherty said. “I lived
with my Kate for thirty-five years and thanked the Lord each day that I
did. But then again, I wanted to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning nothin’.”
“I think she just decided she doesn’t like me,” Benton said. He
grinned again. “I know it’s difficult to imagine.”
“A new experience, huh?”
“Well, I don’t want to brag.”
Johnson 58
“Yeah, well I think I’m beginning to see what the problem may
be.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just kidding. The thing of it is, though, she’s a
lot of fun and I really like her, but nowadays everything I do seems to tick
her off, like she thinks I’m a real jerk.”
“Hard to believe, a fella as modest and unassuming as you,”
Flaherty said dryly.
“All right. Make fun if you want. But still. At this point, I don’t
think I even want to see her.”
“Well, in that case you better clear out in a hurry, son, because she
should be here any minute now.”
CHAPTER NINE
Sarah stopped her car in front of the imposing gateway that marked
the entrance to the Skolnick estate: a gate of peeled logs between ten-foot
fieldstone pillars bridged by an intricate latticework of birch saplings that
spelled out “The Birches.”
Sarah got out of her car to push the button embedded in the left
pillar, remembering her first visit to The Birches the previous fall.
Sarah had been more than a little nervous that day although she
told herself she was being silly. Horses were just horses after all, no
matter how much they cost and no matter how many millions their owners
might be worth. On the other hand, Harvey Skolnick was Harvey
Skolnick and Sarah couldn’t help but be a little intimidated. She had
pushed the button feeling like Dorothy at the door to the Emerald City of
Oz.
“Yes?”
The voice didn’t sound like Jim Flaherty’s―she learned later that
primary responsibility for the gate rested with Nelson Algren, the estate
manager, who wore a pager activated by the pressing of the button.
She stated her business. The latch buzzed and the gate slowly
swung open. A paved drive wound several miles through open pine
woods until it reached a broad meadow surrounded by a rail fence.
Quarterhorses grazed in the lush grass of autumn against a background of
flame-colored trees. Not surprisingly, the stallion, Texas Swing, was not
among them. He would be corralled separately.
She followed the drive toward a cluster of log buildings with green
tin roofs that she thought must include the stables. Jim Flaherty was
waiting at the head of the drive to greet her. Standing next to him was a
lean, tanned man of about thirty-five wearing aviator sunglasses and a
Boston Red Sox cap. Jim came to her window.
“Hello, Sarah,” he boomed in that ingratiating fashion he had.
“Welcome to The Birches. You can park right over there.” Born in
County Cork, Flaherty still retained a light brogue.
Johnson 60
A track rat ever since she was a child, Sarah had met him at
Belmont Raceway when she was a teenager. They had quickly developed
a bond, and Sarah, having lost her father to a traffic accident when she was
only three, had come to regard Jim with almost filial affection—an
affection the childless Flaherty readily reciprocated. Since she had moved
north, Sarah had made a point of stopping to see him each year during
Saratoga’s August racing season.
Then this past summer he had told her he was leaving Dunston
Stables to come work at The Birches and suggested that perhaps she could
do some work for him. A few phone calls and an ostensibly formal
interview later, she had been asked to conduct a baseline assessment of the
horses’ condition, including that of the thoroughbred, Texas Swing.
She parked where Jim indicated and got out. The contrast with the
other farms she visited was startling. The stables and other outbuildings
were made of peeled and varnished logs with freshly painted red trim.
Instead of mud and manure, the stableyard was surfaced with a sandy
loam obviously imported from elsewhere. The tractors and other farm
equipment were neatly housed in open sheds. The overall impression was
one of lavish attention to every aspect of farm management.
Jim and the other man walked over, Jim giving her a hearty
handshake while saying, “Sarah, this here’s Rick Benton, The Birches’
resident hot-shot flyboy. There’s no real reason for you to meet him or
remember his name since when he does do any work around here it’s with
machines and not horses, but he insisted on meeting you.”
Benton’s handsome face colored at what was undoubtedly an
exaggerated description of his desire to meet her. More likely, Jim was
the one who had suggested Benton come meet her. Jim was always
kidding Sarah about becoming an old maid.
Sarah held out her hand and did her best to rescue Benton from his
distress.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Benton. My mother always told me it was a
sign of good breeding to make newcomers feel welcome.”
In contrast to Jim’s gnarled and calloused hand, Benton’s was
slender and smooth, its strength concealed beneath a genteel exterior. He
took off his sunglasses to reveal startlingly blue eyes beneath dark brows.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Benton replied in a light drawl, then with a
glance at Flaherty continued, “It takes good breeding to know good
breeding.”
Sarah did her best Southern accent.
“Ah you from the South, Mr. Benton? Or Texas perhaps?”
Storm Front 61
“Well, ma’am, I appreciate the compliment implicit in that
suggestion, but I am sorry to say that the only south I’m from is south
Boston.”
They all laughed and Flaherty said, “You know, there’s more
manure out here than in the stables so maybe that’s where we should go.
If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Benton?”
“Why of course, Mr. Flaherty,” Benton said. He swept his cap off
his head while executing a grandiose bow and said to Sarah, “A pleasure
ma’am. A pleasure. May you visit us often.” Sarah noted the dark hair
combed back from his high forehead in gentle waves that were now
pleasingly tousled.
Her initial nervousness forgotten or perhaps rechanneled into
giddiness, she held out her hand limp-wristed for him to kiss.
“Ah. A gift for parting.”
He took her hand and bent to kiss it, then said, while bowing and
backing away, “A thousand thanks for such a privilege, ma’am. A
thousand thanks.”
Then he had walked away.
On the hour-long drive back to Spencer, she’d had plenty to think
about. Without a doubt, it had been her best day since she had moved to
the Park and she could not restrain a sense of elation that made the road
seem smoother, the colors of the trees more vivid, and the sky a deeper
blue. A stud thoroughbred, and the probability of more to come, to say
nothing of the quarterhorses and other miscellaneous pets and livestock on
the estate. All to receive the highest levels of care. And best of all she
would be working with a man she genuinely liked. It was a dream
account.
Not only that but she had met a man, a handsome man with a good
sense of humor for whom she had felt an instantaneous attraction. A man
who came with a seal of approval from someone she trusted—she was
sure Jim would not have thrust Benton at her were that not the case. Of
course, an hour was a long way to drive for a date but assuming a
reasonable number of visits . . .
You’re getting ahead of yourself, Sarah, she had chided herself.
But still, it had been a red letter day.
Eight months later, the promise of that day had mostly been
fulfilled. Her working relationship with Jim was all that it could be, the
Johnson 62
account was steady, and her bills were paid promptly. As for that
handsome flyboy with the dazzling smile, well, the results weren’t in on
that. He was every bit as charming as she had first guessed.
He had asked her out on her second visit, and taken her to the
rustically elegant Lake Placid Lodge for dinner, a perfect venue for
romance, with its low ceilings and soft, warm lighting and walls and
pillars decorated with tree branches sparkling with tiny white lights. They
sat at a window table and gazed out at the lights on the lake’s opposite
shore, feeling cozy against the autumn air outside while they drank fine
wines and ate exquisite foods and talked and laughed.
He regaled her with tales of his childhood in a tough Irish
neighborhood, his days as a Navy flier, his disastrous and hysterical stint
at the University of Colorado, and his career as a ski bum cum instructor
in Vail. She told him about her life too, about growing up in suburban
New Rochelle north of the City, fatherless from a young age, but living a
normal childhood thanks to a strong and caring mother who’d dedicated
her life to her only child. Too normal, Sarah had said, and laughed and
claimed she was embarrassed that her life was so dull compared to his.
“I mean, sure, I went to parties and dated and all that, but mostly I
was a good girl and a good student.”
“Sounds mighty grim,” Rick said with a smile. “Is your mother
still in New Rochelle?”
Sarah’s eyes clouded.
“No, she died a few years ago,” she said. “It was the worst thing
that ever happened to me.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Well, I was no kid anymore, but yes it was. She was my best
friend. I still think about her all the time.”
“She must have been proud of you.”
“I think she was.” She smiled a bittersweet sort of smile. “I hope
she still is.”
“She is,” Rick said and reached across the table and put his hand
on hers. “I’m sure of it.”
Their eyes met.
“Thank you,” she said—and in that instant something between
them clicked.
By the time they’d taken their after-dinner drinks down to the dock
and stood gazing at the stars in the so-black Adirondack night, Sarah knew
this relationship could be a special one.
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And it had been. They’d taken it slow, nothing but a light
goodnight kiss on her porch that first night, and on subsequent dates
letting things develop at their own pace. They’d dated regularly for
almost six months, and everything had been great. Although Harvey
Skolnick spent less time at The Birches in the winter―his wife absolutely
refused to come―Rick had access to the chopper frequently enough that
he was able to come to the Adirondacks on a fairly regular basis, flying in
to Oval Wood Dish Airport outside Tupper Lake where Sarah would meet
him.
Sarah was an avid outdoor enthusiast and so they’d taken
advantage of the activities the Park had to offer, hiking and cross-country
skiing and even camping one snowy weekend in November, Rick
participating enthusiastically in the end―there were, he discovered, some
very pleasant ways to keep warm in a chilly tent―although his own tastes
ran to less rugged pursuits. Other times, they’d engaged in more civilized
pleasures, flying to New York or Boston for a weekend, or dining at one
of the fine restaurants the Lake Placid region had to offer.
It wasn’t long before she found herself falling for him―hard. And
she was sure he liked her, too. But that was just the problem. She was too
vulnerable where he was concerned for just “liking her” to suffice. She
didn’t want to end up brokenhearted, another scalp on Rick Benton’s belt.
And she had the distinct sense that that was where quite a few women had
ended up before her. No, he would have to do better than that.
And so although it hurt her to do it, in the end she had pushed him
away, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would find out he needed her
more than he thought.
He was there with Jim when she drove into the yard.
CHAPTER TEN
Annie Crumb lived with her mother in a trailer on the county road
in Gilsum about four miles from the Sportsman Inn. The trailer was the
only thing Annie’s father had left her mother when he lit out ten years
earlier for parts unknown. Mrs. Crumb was a nurse and worked days at
the Adirondack Medical Center down in Saranac Lake. Creight knew she
wouldn’t be home at eleven in the morning.
Annie had just gotten out of the shower when he knocked. She
came to the door in a robe, tousling her hair with a towel. Creight grinned
as she peered at him between the frosted glass slats of the trailer door.
“Hi, Annie.”
“Creight.”
Her voice was guarded.
“Can I come in?” He grinned again. Annie was a cute little piece
of ass and this was one interview that might be fun. He liked small
women, liked the feel of them underneath him, so tiny and delicate, like
you could split them right apart if you were a mind to.
“What for?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I think you know.”
“If it’s about the Indian, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the cops:
I got nothin’ to say. Now leave me alone.”
“You’re a tough little cookie, aren’t you?” Creight said.
“Tough enough.”
“I like that. Now, why don’t you let me in so we can discuss
things civilized like.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“You’re wrong. Now let me in.”
On an impulse he reached quickly for the door handle and
depressed the button. Too late, Annie reached to switch the lock. The
door clicked open.
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“Now look at that. Somebody forgot to lock their door.”
He opened the door and heaved his bulk up the metal steps and
into the trailer. Annie backed away, clutching the robe and towel to her.
Creight closed and locked the door behind him.
“There. Now we can talk. Shall we sit on the couch?”
Annie continued backing away, fear in her eyes. The sight excited
him.
“Creight, you get out of here.”
“But Annie, we need to talk.”
“What about?”
“Now, Annie, don’t play games. You know what about. Have the
cops been here?”
“Yes.”
“Since the letter, I mean.”
“Yes. Day before yesterday.”
“And?”
“I told them I didn’t know nothin’, just like you said.”
“Yeah, but that was before the letter. Didn’t they think that was a
bit suspicious?”
“Maybe so, I don’t know. But that’s what I told them. I said if he
was there, I didn’t notice.”
Creight considered that information.
“What’d they ask you?”
“What do you mean? They asked me if he was there.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. They asked me if I was on duty that night and I said
I didn’t remember. Then they said they checked with Les and I was, so I
said then I guess I was but I didn’t remember seein’ no Indian.”
Creight didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Annie had
somehow gotten control of the situation again.
“And what about the letter?”
“What about it?”
“Didn’t they ask you about that?”
“Yeah, they did. They asked me did I know who sent it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Not even a guess?”
Johnson 66
“I got no idea.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Now, why don’t you get the hell out of my
house.”
“What are you bein’ so defensive about?”
“I’m not bein’ defensive. I just want you the hell out of my
house.”
“Does me askin’ you about the letter make you nervous?”
“Creight, I don’t know nothin’ about the letter.”
“I wish I could believe that. But I keep rememberin’ you huddled
up with that red nigger, makin’ eyes at him and such, and the big tip he
left you, and it makes me wonder.”
“Well, wonder all you want but get the hell out.”
“You see, Annie, it’s just that kind of thing that’s makin’ me
suspicious.” He took a step toward her. “Why don’t you try bein’ a little
more friendly?”
“Creight, stay away from me.”
“Why? You don’t like white men, only Indians?”
Annie had her back up against the wall by the door to the back
bedroom. Anders took another step toward her and held out his hand.
“Come on, now, Annie. Let’s you and me sit on the couch for a
while and see if we can’t get this thing straightened out. I’m sure you
don’t really want to make me suspicious.”
He took another step toward her.
“Creight, no.” She barely got the words out before he lunged for
her, moving quickly for all his size.
His grasp missed her but she slammed into the door frame in her
effort to escape and staggered. His second lunge got her around the wrist.
He pulled her arm up and twisted.
“Now let’s go sit down,” he said.
She relaxed and allowed herself to be led to the couch but as they
reached it attempted to jerk free. She failed. He grasped even tighter and
pulled her close to him then tried to wrestle her onto the couch.
Struggling frantically, she wrenched her right arm free and slapped
at his face with all the strength she could muster, once, twice, three times.
Anger exploded in Creight’s brain. The little bitch.
He raised his arm and struck, a solid punch to the face. Bitch. She
was screaming as blood spurted from her nose. He struck again, and then
again, his hand slick with her blood.
She was quiet.
Storm Front 67
He lowered her limp body to the couch. Stepped back and gazed
down at her. Her robe had fallen open to reveal her petite breasts and the
triangle of hair between her legs. She looked good even with her face a
little swollen and bloody, he thought. And he’d always liked them tiny.
He unbuckled his belt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Billy Swamp had called the meeting for six, but by the time he
pulled into Brian Porter’s yard at five-thirty there were already a dozen
cars and trucks scattered across the stretch of dirt and weeds that passed
for Brian’s front lawn. He walked around the side of Brian’s new pre-fab
house past a gaggle of silently staring dark-eyed kids standing in the
shadow of a gleaming black satellite dish. Having come straight from the
Mohawk Castle Casino where he was head of security, Billy was still
dressed in the jeans, white shirt and navy blue sport jacket he wore in that
role.
The men were gathered in the open doorway of Brian’s oversize
sheetmetal garage, built to house the tractor trailer of some prior owner,
but now used mostly as a sometime meeting place of the Rotiskenrahkete.
On the side of the building, a large painting memorialized the “BATTLE
OF KANESATAKE”, a reference to a 1990 sovereignty dispute with
Canada that had left one police officer dead. It depicted a Mohawk
warrior standing on an overturned police car and brandishing an assault
rifle, with the inscription, “WARRIORS 1, CANADA 0,” arrayed like a
sporting event scoreboard below it.
Billy joined the group, greeting each man by name and trying to
assess the collective mood, feeling awkward with his short gray hair and
jacket. Most of the men were in their twenties and thirties, and were
dressed with aggressive casualness in ripped jeans and t-shirts and high
topped sneakers. Many wore their hair long. Billy could not help feeling
very “establishment” by comparison, although he knew he was generally
liked and respected.
The news that the New York State Police were investigating
Rodney’s death as a murder had swept through the reservation in the hours
since Oren Tebo had received his call. It wasn’t so much that Rodney
might have been murdered. Rodney had been a blowhard and hustler with
few friends and many enemies among the tribe’s members. His passing
had caused little regret.
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But Rodney had been one of them, and there were two very
disturbing aspects to the report out of Tupper Lake. One, the distinct
possibility that the “massive blunt-force trauma” that killed Rodney had
been inflicted by a white or, more likely, whites. Two, the obvious fact
that the New York State Police had been all too quick to conclude that
Rodney’s death was accidental in the first place.
Rudy Cook, a thin man in his early thirties with a wispy mustache
and black hair shaved tight on the sides and hanging in a long braid down
his back, was talking excitedly with a knot of men to one side.
“It’s been a coverup right from the start,” Cook was saying.
“Indians will never receive justice at the hands of whites.”
“You think the police knew it was murder?” It was Wayne
LaFrance, one of the youngest members of the Warriors. Wayne had
graduated from the high school in Hogansburg two years earlier and was
now a short order cook at Connie Creek’s diner.
“How could they not?” Rudy snorted. “The coroner’s report said
he died of massive internal injuries. You saw Rodney’s car. You can
hardly tell it was in an accident. They must have suspected something was
fishy. And even if they didn’t, they should have. But they don’t care if
Indians get killed.”
Billy wondered where Rudy was getting his information. He was
going to have to speak to his sister Mary about that. Mary was the
dispatcher at Tribal Police headquarters and a good source of inside
dope―but he didn’t want her sharing it with just anyone, especially a
bigmouth like Rudy Cook.
“So why are they reopening the investigation now?” Wayne
persisted.
“Because they have to. Once they got that letter they had no
choice.”
“But why not hush that up too?”
Rudy gave Wayne a long look then said with barely concealed
impatience, “Because if they did, whoever wrote the letter would know it
and speak up.”
Wayne nodded.
“I guess you’re right.”
“There’s no need to guess. The only question is, what are we
going to do about it.”
“What can we do?” Brian Porter asked.
Johnson 70
“The first thing we can do is stop acting like a bunch of penned
sheep and start acting like Mohawk warriors. If we want justice we have
to go out and get it. We can’t sit back and expect a bunch of whites to
hand it to us. You would think we would have learned that by now.”
“How do we do that, though?” Harold Deer asked.
“How?” Rudy said. “We get off our fat asses and go down there
and find out what the hell happened.”
“What makes you think anybody will talk to us?”
“If we push hard enough, somebody will say something, I
guarantee it.”
“Could get ugly,” Harold said.
“It already is ugly,” Rudy said. “But at least we won’t be just
sitting back and taking whatever they hand us.”
From the nods of agreement that greeted the end of Rudy’s speech,
Billy knew it was going to be a difficult night. Much of what Rudy was
saying was right. Equipped with hindsight, it did seem hard to believe that
the car sitting in Rodney’s parents’ yard had been in a fatal accident. And
Billy agreed that a response by the Mohawk community was called for.
He was less sure that the Warriors were the right vehicle for that response.
As a young man in the sixties, Billy had left Akwesasne to join the
transplanted Mohawk steelworker community in Brooklyn. Working high
above New York City’s streets, he had developed a fierce pride in being a
Mohawk, a people who excelled at a profession requiring skill and nerve
in equal portions.
His stay in the outside world had also exposed him to the
radicalism spawned by opposition to the war in Viet Nam―a war he came
to see as just another chapter in the United States’ history of subjugation
of less technologically advanced peoples―and to Indian militancy in the
form of the American Indian Movement. He had manned the barricades at
Wounded Knee and established contacts with other militants, notably
Russell Banks, AIM’s founder (Billy was later instrumental in helping
Banks find sanctuary from South Dakota arrest warrants in Iroquois
territory).
Billy returned to Akwesasne a different man, one determined that
his people should no longer passively accept the mistreatment that had
been their lot since the coming of the whites. He had joined with a few
other like-minded young Mohawks to form the Warriors and in the
decades since had been at the forefront of the Warriors’ struggle for
Mohawk empowerment.
Storm Front 71
But privately, his zeal was fading―not for the struggle for tribal
dignity and prosperity―but for the recklessly confrontational approach the
Warriors frequently embraced. The Kanesatake killing had been bad. But
far, far worse had been the intra-tribal battles over gambling that had left
two members of the tribe dead and had led to the intervention of the New
York State Police. Billy had favored gambling as one of the only viable
paths for Mohawk economic success, but he understood the views of
those, including the Longhouse Council of Chiefs, who saw it as a
deviation from the very Mohawk traditions the Warriors sought to protect.
He did not feel violence was the proper solution to that debate and had
been horrified by the shootings.
And now that the tribe had casinos, he would like to see if the
prosperity they promised might provide a less destructive path to tribal
vitality, one more in keeping with the Great Law of Peace and the
teachings of Handsome Lake. It seemed to be working that way for their
brothers, the Oneidas. The Oneidas had money for schools, money for
land, money for hospitals, and jobs for tribe members.
In Billy’s view, this was not the time for a confrontation with local
white citizenry or police, particularly when the wheels of justice seemed to
be turning―however haltingly.
Billy searched for Loran Mohawk and spotted him leaning calmly
against the doorframe smoking a cigarette, wearing a sleeveless flannel
shirt and jeans, his long black hair tied behind his neck. To find Loran
alone and silent while others chattered excitedly was no surprise. Loran
was not a talkative man―but he managed to make his views known. And
once he did, more often than not the others fell in line. He was a good
ally, a bad opponent. Studying him, Billy wondered which he would be
today, but Loran’s chiseled features revealed no clue.
At five minutes past six, Billy called the meeting to order.
“We are here to discuss the news from Franklin County,” he
began. He was standing in front of a workbench cluttered with rusted
tools and engine parts. The men sat on wooden benches before him, with
the exception of Loran Mohawk and Simon Oakes who stood in back by
the now closed doors. Simon worked with Loran at JM Construction out
of Massena and was often Loran’s shadow, for some reason exempted
from Loran’s characteristic separateness. Loran at thirty-five seemed to
regard the twenty-five year old Simon like a younger brother. For his part,
Johnson 72
Simon idolized Loran and tried to emulate his every move―right down to
smoking the same Marlboro cigarettes. It was a relationship Billy envied.
“Earlier today, I spoke with Harold Powless,” Billy continued.
“He assured me that the Longhouse Council of Chiefs were evaluating the
situation to determine whether they should make some official response on
behalf of the tribe.”
The mention of the Council of Chiefs had been greeted by some
low hisses. Now, Rudy Cook stood up.
“The Council of Chiefs are a bunch of old women,” he said in a
loud aggressive tone. “We’ll be old too, before they make any decision.”
“The Clan Mothers would no doubt be interested to hear you
talking disparagingly of old women,” Billy observed dryly. In Mohawk,
as in all Iroquois culture, the Clan Mothers, the matriarchs of the
respective clans, were the source of ultimate power in that they designated
the males who would serve as chiefs.
“I meant no disrespect to the Clan Mothers,” Rudy said curtly.
“But you all know what I mean. If the Council of Chiefs had any balls we
wouldn’t need the Warriors. You know that better than anybody, Billy.”
“I still think we should wait to see what they decide,” Billy said.
“A response from the Council would carry more weight with the white
authorities than anything we might do.”
“I say the time for sitting around is over. Even if the Council does
by some miracle make a decision, what will it be? To write a letter urging
the New York police to make a thorough investigation? What will that
accomplish except to make the Mohawks seem foolish? This tribe was
once the fiercest of the Iroquois Confederacy, the Keepers of the Eastern
Door, feared and respected far and wide. Now what are we? The
Doormats of the Eastern Door.”
Billy had to smile at that one, although outwardly he remained
stern. Rudy was really rolling.
“Your wit is impressive, Rudy, but I hardly think you need to
lecture those present about Mohawk assertiveness. Personally, I’ve been
involved in the struggle to keep the traditions of which you speak alive
since you were in diapers.” Snickers greeted this remark. “The question
here is whether in this particular instance it makes sense to see what the
Council does before we do something. And although I too have been
frustrated by the old women on the Council,”―laughter again―“I say it
does.”
“But Rudy’s right,” Harold Deer said. “What can the Council
possibly do?”
Storm Front 73
Francis Benedict stood up. “What can we do?” Francis’ parents
owned the Bear Clan Gift Shop out on the state highway. Francis worked
with them, pumping gas primarily.
“We can go down to Gilsum and find out for ourselves what the
hell happened,” Rudy declared.
A chorus of “yeahs” greeted Rudy’s statement.
“Rudy, I heard you talking about this before,” Billy said. “I think
it unwise. The New York police are now investigating Rodney’s death as
a murder. Why not give that process a chance to work? Oren Tebo will
be working with them.”
“Oren should have been on top of this earlier,” Rudy said. “As
soon as Rodney’s car was returned.”
“You say that now, but I didn’t hear you saying it then. You also
say that the whites will talk to us if we push them hard enough. Maybe
they will. But more likely they won’t. More likely, they’ll be mad as hell,
just like we would be if a bunch of them came in here.”
“Who gives a damn if they get mad,” Rudy said heatedly. “I’m not
afraid of them.”
“It’s not a question of being afraid, Rudy―although a wise man is
afraid when there’s reason to be. It’s a question of bringing about a
situation that could easily result in violence with little chance of a positive
payoff.”
“You sound more and more like the clan chiefs every day, Billy
Swamp,” Rudy said. “Soon you’ll be telling us about Handsome Lake.”
“There’s much to be said for Handsome Lake’s teachings.”
Rudy snorted in disgust.
“Handsome Lake was a Quaker who turned Iroquois warriors into
women.”
“He wasn’t a Quaker,” Wayne LaFrance piped up in all innocence.
“He was just raised by them.”
“Right,” Rudy said. “And his teachings have more to do with
Quaker pacifism than the Great Law, although he pretended otherwise.
The Mohawk were never pacifists. They were warriors. And warriors are
what we’re supposed to be, too. I say, we go to Gilsum.”
The chorus of “yeahs” was even louder this time. Billy was losing
the battle. If only Loran would speak. Billy peeked hopefully at him over
the heads of the others―but Loran remained impassive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Although Raymond Butler invariably awoke at three minutes
before five each morning, he arose at four thirty on the day of Blondi’s
second appointment with the veterinarian, Sarah Williams. He had slept
poorly, going to bed at one as usual, but awakening at three and lying
awake, mind racing, until he finally had given up on going back to sleep.
He was sure Williams was not the source of his restlessness, but
he’d been unable to help thinking about her for much of the time he was
awake, running through the different ways their encounter might play out,
what he might say, what she might say, where it might all lead. It was
natural, of course. He hadn’t had many relationships with women in
recent years, what with the service and then his work. Before then, in high
school, he couldn’t be bothered, the girls were such morons, into their
cliques and the “in” crowd and going out with jocks who couldn’t think
their way out of a paper bag. So dealing with a female was something a
little different, something to think about. It was only natural that a mind
otherwise unoccupied might turn to it.
She was attractive after all and he had healthy urges―even if he
didn’t have the fixation on female flesh most men seemed to have―so it
was only natural that once he did think about her, sleep would be hard to
come by, that he would lay awake imagining her full breasts and soft skin
and the secret place where her smooth thighs met and what it would be
like if she was his.
Unfortunately, in most of the scenarios he envisioned, she was a
rabbit-brained harlot like most women, eagerly spreading their legs for
men he wouldn’t give two cents for, and unable to recognize a superior
man even if one was right in front of them. It was too bad really. He
could show her a thing or two if only she were perceptive enough to
recognize what he had to offer.
But she wouldn’t be, he was sure―and so the slut had just cost
him a good night’s sleep for nothing.
Storm Front 75
He arrived in Spencer almost forty minutes early, feeling wired
from too much coffee and too little sleep, driving around the smug little
town to kill time. Down the main drag bustling with people beginning
another workday. Past the tidy homes maintained by tidy people with tidy
little lives, so eager to show they were good citizens, living exemplars of
the American dream. Mindless conformists. Persecutors of those who
dared to be different, who spoke the truth. They sickened him. Shattering
their complacency would be a pleasure.
She was at her desk in the inner office when he entered the
vestibule at two minutes to nine, Blondi at his side on a light leather leash.
He could see Sarah’s left arm and shoulder and bowed head with its
curtain of sleek golden hair through the open doorway. She finished
writing and came to greet him, a welcoming smile on her face.
“Hello,” she said brightly. “Right on time.”
She held out her hand for his, shook it, then bent to pat Blondi.
“And how are you doing, young man?” she asked.
For an answer, Blondi licked her hand enthusiastically.
“I see,” she said, as if he had given her a perfectly plausible
response.
She stood and smiled again. “Shall we go in?”
As he placed Blondi on the examining table, Butler realized he
hadn’t yet spoken a word. It was hard to, of course, with her chirping
incessantly, but he had to do better. She would think there was something
wrong with him―and he had sworn to himself on the ride down that he
wouldn’t let her throw him off balance. He would treat her just as if she
were a man.
Before he could think of what to say, she spoke.
“So what is it you do out there in Smyrna?” she asked. She was
standing with her back to him examining a chart she had picked off the
counter.
“Do?” The directness of her question threw him. What did she
mean?
She turned. “Yes, for a living—or are you one of those fortunate
independently wealthy types.” Smiling.
“No, not independently wealthy. Retired. From the Army.”
“Retired? You must have joined young.”
“It’s a disability retirement.”
Johnson 76
“Oh,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry.” Her tone was full of sympathy.
“Were you overseas?”
“Yes. Somalia.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“It was anarchy. And no one willing to put a stop to it.”
“We tried, I guess,” she said.
Her response annoyed him.
“We didn’t try. It was Viet Nam all over again. Our hands were
tied by the one-worlders in Washington and men died as a result.”
As soon as he spoke he regretted it. His tone was too harsh, the
term one-worlders ill-advised. For all he knew she was a flaming liberal.
For people like that, truth was poison and those who spoke it suspect. He
would have to be more circumspect.
She was studying him speculatively, obviously taken aback by the
vehemence of his response. She looked good with her hair loose, not tied
back like the last time.
“There did seem to be confusion about what we were trying to
accomplish.”
An intelligent response, if not particularly forceful. Not hostile
certainly. Maybe there was hope for her yet―with proper education.
“Confusion is a nice word for it. When American troops are
illegally subjected to the authority of foreign commanders and die because
of it, I call it murder.”
“Illegally?”
“It’s against the Constitution for our draft-dodging President or
anybody else to tell our troops to take orders from foreigners.”
“You mean the U.N. commanders?”
“Absolutely. It’s a violation of a soldier’s oath of loyalty. The
President’s too, for that matter―not that he would care about that.”
“I never thought about it that way.”
“It’s not surprising. They don’t want you to. But think about it.
Our loyalty is supposed to be to this country, not some global shadow
government we didn’t elect. Did you vote for those U.N.
representatives?”
“No.”
“Neither did I,” he said.
His words had impressed her he was sure. There was no reason
they shouldn’t. He was only stating the obvious. But still, many people
were too blind to see the obvious even when it was clearly laid out. He
Storm Front 77
was glad to see she wasn’t one of them―that her mind was sharp and
open to reason.
“I can tell you’ve thought about this a lot,” she said.
“I have. This country is very important to me.”
“To me, too,” Sarah said.
“Important enough to fight for?”
He gazed at her intently.
“If necessary, absolutely.”
“Well, someday it may be necessary―maybe sooner than you
think.”
“Let’s hope not,” Sarah said fervently. Then realizing she still
held Blondi’s chart in her hand, she said in a light voice, “Wow. That talk
got kind of serious. And here Blondi’s been waiting for us patient as can
be.” She ruffed his neck. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Blondi
wagged his tail.
She prepared a syringe, then turned back to the table.
“Now if you would just hold him . . .”
She grasped Blondi by the ruff of the neck, wiped his fur with a
cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol and gave him the shot. She then
released him, her hand touching Butler’s as she did. He flinched as if he
had received an electric shock, but quickly tried to recover.
Had she touched him on purpose? It had almost seemed that way.
He stared at her, but she gave no sign, merely prepared another shot.
He needed to say something, but what?
“So what do you do out there?” she asked over her shoulder. “Are
you married?”
“No.”
“The self-sufficient type, eh?”
“You could say that. Maybe I’ve just never found the right
person.”
“Well, keep looking. She could be right around the corner.”
She turned, syringe in hand. He looked at her sharply. Was she
flirting?
“My standards are very high,” he said.
“They should be. Mine are too.”
“You’re not married?”
“Nope.”
There was an awkward silence. Was there an opportunity here he
was letting slip away? She seemed to like him. Dating was impossible, of
Johnson 78
course―or was it? If he was careful, maybe it could be managed. But
what if he asked her out and she turned bitch and said no? The
humiliation would be unbearable.
She leaned forward, grasped Blondi’s neck, and gave him another
shot. Her hands never touched Butler’s.
He must have misread her. What a fool.
“So what brings you to the north country? Did you grow up
around here?”
Questions again, always questions. Why? There was no way she
was an agent, although he knew from past experience that they could be
anywhere. But her constant prying was disturbing nonetheless. Was it
really just innocent small talk?
“No,” he said.
“Smyrna,” she said in a contemplative tone. “Doesn’t it get lonely
up there?”
He examined her appraisingly. If she had ulterior motives, she was
a very good actress. She seemed for all the world like a woman just trying
to engage in polite conversation, and maybe stock up on the kind of gossip
women loved.
“I have my dogs and the forest. That’s all I need.”
“No people, huh?”
“People often disappoint.”
“Some do,” she said after a moment. “As you can probably guess,
I’m partial to animals myself—and it was the woods that brought me here
in the first place. So you have other dogs?”
“Yes. Three.”
“Shepherds?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope I can see them some time―and no that’s not a pitch
for business, although I guess it might have sounded like one.” She
smiled.
“Well maybe you will,” Butler said. “Maybe you will.”
After Butler left, Sarah thought about their encounter. All in all,
she decided, she felt sorry for him. He was definitely a bit of an odd duck.
Living alone in the middle of nowhere, wrapped up in his dogs and
avoiding contact with other human beings. People often disappoint, he
said, and she had sensed an anger there. He had been hurt, and not just
physically―although come to think of it she didn’t know if his disability
was physical or not―but emotionally. She remembered how his dog had
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been shot. That alone could certainly make anyone bitter. But she got the
sense it went deeper than that. Well, it took all kinds and one thing was
clear: he loved and cared for his animals and that was worth a lot in
Sarah’s book.
Driving home, Blondi curled up in the front seat beside him,
Butler’s mind was in turmoil. In an echo of his exertions the previous
night, he replayed their conversation again and again.
Was she attracted to him? Bottom line, yes. There was too much
evidence for him to be wrong. The touch, the questions about his marital
status, the suggestion that he might be lonely. And why shouldn’t she be?
Although many women seemed intimidated by him, the discussion about
the U.N. showed her to have a mind open to the truth, one that could
appreciate his own clarity of thought.
And on the other hand, he was a man, and a man needed a woman.
He had never really pictured himself in the role of builder of the new
world. In his visions of the glories to come he was always the warrior, the
leader, the man who ushered in the new order. What happened after that,
was never clear. He would ride off into the sunset like some Western
hero.
But Sarah had sent his thoughts in a different direction. It was,
after all, the duty of the new man to help father the new generation. And
what stock could be better than his for that purpose? If he could find a
woman worthy, one strong and clear-headed enough, it would be almost a
shirking of duty to fail to help repopulate a cleansed world.
Could Sarah be that woman? Sarah. An appropriately Biblical
name. And she was strong. And clear-headed. And with a skill that
would be very useful. Was she someone who might cleave to him when
the new day dawned?
It was an interesting thought.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The three pickups moved steadily southward on the winding two-
lane blacktop under a ceiling of gray cloud, passing first through rolling
cow and corn farmland then crossing the blue line into the forested
mountains of the Park. The trucks were nondescript, neither new nor old,
and unlikely to be noticed.
Their human complement was more striking, two men in each cab
and three or four back in the bed, all beardless or nearly so with black hair
and dark eyes, a cargo that in another part of the country might be taken
for migrant workers. However, migrant workers were uncommon in the
north country and there was an aspect to the men’s appearance that belied
that status in any event, an aggressiveness marked in the shoulder-length
hair sported by some, the camouflage garments of others―cutoff t-shirts
revealing tattooed biceps, army fatigue pants, and head covering
kerchiefs―and the baseball caps turned backward hip-hop style.
With Loran Mohawk’s belated support, Billy had at last succeeded
in convincing his fellow Warriors to wait and see if the Council of Chiefs
would act on the new information about Rodney Boots’ death. At a
minimum, he had hoped, that would buy him time―time to talk with Oren
Tebo and get more information, time to do more lobbying, time for hot
heads to cool. But the Council had betrayed him, acting with
unprecedented rapidity―to state that they would simply let the
investigations of the New York State Police run their course, a decision
most of the Warriors believed was driven by Rodney’s association with
the Warriors and the casinos whose advent the Council had bitterly
resisted.
Billy Swamp sat huddled against the wind in the back of the
rearmost truck, filled with misgivings. He had argued against the mission
once again, at great cost to his credibility. His counsel had been ignored,
the younger men unanimous in their conviction that an activist stance was
critical to the preservation of the tribe’s dignity.
However, on one point, perhaps the most important one, he had
prevailed. They were going unarmed―at least as far as long guns were
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concerned. He was sure most of the men were carrying knives and if one
or two or three or more were carrying pistols that wouldn’t be exactly
shocking. But concealed weapons weren’t inflammatory and that was the
critical thing. Anything that could help reduce the risk of a confrontation
where things could go spinning out of control was to the good.
The lead truck slowed as it rounded a sweeping curve. Rudy
Cook, standing in the back, leaned over to the passenger side window
where Loran Mohawk sat, then waved his arm in a signal for the other
trucks to pull over. To one side, a mountain climbed steeply to the sky in
a fractured jumble of rock. To the other there was only open air and the
distant vista of the mountains marching off to the west.
Rudy stood at the end of the guardrail that divided the road from
the sky.
“This is the spot. The mile marker is right back there. According
to the police report, he was headed north, crossed the road, and went off
just before the guardrail.”
He plunged down the slope in a shower of bouncing gravel.
“He must have hit this tree,” he said, looking back up at the other
men. “The bark is messed up.”
He cast around briefly then climbed the embankment.
“It didn’t look like the tree had been hit very hard,” he said.
As the other men regarded him gravely, Cook walked fifty yards
down the blacktop, surveyed the scene, shrugged, then returned.
“Anything you want to see?” he asked Loran Mohawk.
“No,” Loran said.
Loran turned to Billy.
“Billy?”
Billy took a drag on his cigarette and shook his head.
“I guess we’ll move on then,” Loran said.
Jared Wright and Lon Bellard were sitting at the bar in the
Sportsman Inn near the window, their heads tilted back to see the TV
attached to the wall above them. Behind the bar, a beefy, florid man of
about fifty absentmindedly wiped a glass, eyes fixed on the screen.
A CNN retrospective on the O. J. Simpson trial and acquittal was
just concluding.
“All those millions of dollars just so those niggers could let that
scumbag go, when things could have been put right for the price of a
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cartridge if those cops had handled things right,” Jared Wright said,
frowning in disgust. “Thing is they were chickenshit, ’cause he’s a
celebrity.”
“Yeah,” his companion said, “We pay taxes so niggers can murder
white women and laugh at us.”
“Lon, when the hell did you ever pay taxes?” the bartender asked,
chuckling.
“I pay taxes, don’t you worry―every time I buy a goddamn
fucking thing.” He raised his glass and gulped at his beer.
“‘Course in a way, that whore got what was comin’ to her, fuckin’
a nigger like that,” Wright said.
“Yeah, you’re right there,” Bellard agreed. “But that don’t mean
that nigger should get away with murder. Besides, he killed a white guy,
too.”
“Yeah, but he was a Jew.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Name like Goldman, what do you think?”
Lon Bellard shook his head in wonder.
“Man, this country’s gettin’ fucked up.”
He swung around on his stool at the sound of truck doors
slamming.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.”
The men stared out the window in wonder as footsteps sounded on
the porch stairs and the Indians came streaming through the door, Billy
Swamp walking up to the bar as the others crowded in behind him.
“I’d like to speak to the owner, please,” he said to the bartender.
“You’re speaking to him.”
“I’m Billy Swamp. We are from the Akwesasne Mohawk
reservation.”
“I figured. Les Daly.” He held out his hand and Billy shook it
gravely.
“We’d like to speak with you about Rodney Boots.”
At the far end of the bar, Wright and Bellard exchanged glances.
Wright got up, threw a dollar on the bar and headed for the door.
“See you later, Les,” he said as the Indians moved to let him
through.
“Yeah, all right, Jared,” Daly said. He looked at Billy Swamp.
“Rodney Boots is the feller that got killed?”
Billy Swamp nodded.
“What do you want to know?”
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“Were you here that night?”
“No, I don’t generally work nights.”
“Who was working that night?”
Daly’s eyes drifted as he watched Jared Wright walk up to the pay
phone outside the general store and make a call. He frowned, then said,
“Why do you want to know?”
“We’d like to speak with them about Rodney.”
“Well, I don’t know. . .” Daly began.
“We know it was a woman named Annie Crumb, so there’s no
point in lying to us,” Rudy Cook interrupted from behind Billy’s shoulder.
Daly fixed a cold stare on Cook. Billy Swamp turned to look at
Cook too, frustration evident on his face.
“Who you callin’ a liar?” Daly said. He took a step closer to the
bar. The sound of a drawer being slowly opened was menacingly audible
despite the chatter of the television. At the end of the bar, Lon Bellard
stood up.
“He wasn’t calling anyone a liar,” Billy Swamp said quickly, with
a glare at Cook. “He’s sorry he spoke at all.”
Daly continued to stare at Cook who glowered back. Finally, Daly
turned back to Swamp.
“You seem like a reasonable fella to me,” he said, “so let me give
you some advice. I can understand your being concerned about the death
of your friend. And I know there’s been a ruckus stirred up by this letter
that was sent to the State Police. What it means, I don’t know. But the
cops are lookin’ into it now. Your best bet would be to let them do their
job. No good is gonna come of you paradin’ around these parts like
you’re doin’. People won’t take kindly to it.”
“But why didn’t anyone say Rodney was here?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know. I only know no one’s likely to tell you.”
“But someone sent the letter.”
“Yes they did and obviously they don’t want anyone to know who
they are.”
Daly and Swamp regarded each other.
Billy turned.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Rudy Cook started to protest but Loran Mohawk cut him off with a
raised hand.
“Billy leads here,” he said. “We go.”
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Jared Wright returned a short time later.
“They say where they’re goin’?”
He glanced down the bar to include Bellard in the question.
“No, they didn’t,” Daly said.
Bellard shook his head.
“The guys are comin’,” Wright said to Bellard. “Creight said to be
ready.”
“Now what are you guys gonna do?” Daly asked.
“We’re gonna make sure those Indians don’t go botherin’ people
around here anymore than they already have.”
“Why don’t you just leave ’em be?”
“We didn’t go driving up to their reservation did we?” Lon said.
“Besides you told them to get the hell out of here yourself.”
“I just gave ’em some advice is all. And I’ll give you the same,
same price. Just leave it be before you get yourself in a heap of trouble.”
“We’re not gonna get in any trouble. We’re just gonna see they
get home safe is all.”
“Yeah,” Daly said, “And Creight Anders is just the man to show
you how to do it.”
Wright and Bellard were standing out front when the men started
to arrive, Clay and Ronnie Brown first, then Charlie Stitchard, then
Creight himself.
Creight rolled down his window.
“You reach everybody?”
“I tried,” Ronnie Brown said. “Couple places there was no answer.
Ed said he couldn’t make it on account of his wife bein’ sick.”
“Fuckin’ pussy. Jared, you and Lon need guns?”
“No, we’re all right. We got some in our trucks.”
“Which way’d they go?”
Wright nodded down the road.
“Lon said they knew about Annie. We figure that’s where they’re
goin’.”
“We’ll find them,” Creight said.
The radio sputtered to life in Oren Tebo’s cruiser.
“Oren, there’s a call from the State Police in Tupper Lake,” Mary
Swamp said. “Lieutenant Garvey.” There was a hiss of static, then
Mary’s voice saying, “Go ahead.”
“Oren, you there?” Garvey asked.
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“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Oren, you missing some men up there?”
“Missing some men?”
“Yeah. Like maybe a dozen.”
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Oren said with a trace of
annoyance.
“I mean, I just got a call from the owner of the Sportsman Inn in
Gilsum, the bar Rodney Boots was allegedly in the night he died. He says
that a bunch of your boys were at the Sportsman asking questions about
Rodney Boots. Fellow name of Swamp’s doing most of the talking.
These guys official?”
“No.”
“You know ’em?”
“Could be. Swamp’s the head of the Warriors.”
“The guys that shot that policemen in Canada?”
“It was never proven who did it.”
There was a long silence while Garvey weighed Tebo’s response.
Tebo ended it.
“Lieutenant, you’re right to be concerned. Not so much with
Swamp, he’s a responsible enough guy. But if it’s the Warriors, some of
them can be hotheads. They armed?”
“If they were, they weren’t showin’.”
“That’s good. Look, I’ll get there as fast as I can, shouldn’t be
much more than half an hour.”
“There’s more. Daly says a couple of the local boys were in the
bar when these guys from the reservation showed up. He said they made
some calls and a bunch of them were going off after the Indians.”
“Great.”
“Best guess is your friends are going to see Annie Crumb. Daly
said they knew she was working there that night. I’ll send someone over
as soon as I can but there’s no one here right now. You might want to
head directly there. It’s closer anyhow. Any news, I’ll let you know.”
“Tell me where it is,” Oren said.
Sharon Crumb was in her daughter’s bedroom when the Warriors
arrived.
“Is that them, Mama?” Annie said. Her voice issued weakly from
her bruised and swollen lips.
Johnson 86
Her mother, an older version of Annie, stood and peered out the
window as the Warriors climbed from their trucks.
“Yes, honey. You just stay still. I’ll tend to them.”
She placed a cold washcloth on Annie’s head and walked out into
the living room. A twelve gauge shotgun leaned against the wall next to
the door. She picked it up and opened the door as Billy Swamp lifted his
fist to knock on it.
“You can hold it right there,” she said, holding the shotgun across
her body.
Swamp stopped and looked at her.
“The State Police warned me you were coming.”
“I’m Billy Swamp.”
“That don’t mean nothin’ to me.”
“Are you Annie Crumb?”
“Annie’s not here.”
“When will she be here?”
“She’s got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Are you her friend?”
“I’m her mother. Now, I’d like you to get off my property.”
“Maybe she would be willing to talk with us. We’re trying to find
out about the death of one our people.”
“I know what you’re doing and she’s got nothing to say.”
“But she was there that night.”
“Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t, but she’s got nothing to
say.”
“But why?”
“Mister, I told you to get off my property and I meant it.”
Billy Swamp stared at her with an expression of puzzlement and
frustration then with a quick gesture signaled the others to head back to
the trucks.
The sound of vehicles stopped them. They watched frozen as six
pickups raced into the clearing and came to skidding halts behind the
Indians’ own vehicles. The newcomers got out and sauntered toward the
trailer in a group, every man carrying a gun, Creight Anders at the fore.
They halted twenty feet from where the Indians stood, following
Anders’ lead.
“Well, lookee here, boys,” Anders said. “We found us a herd of
aborigines—or is it a flock?”
Billy Swamp made his way calmly through the Warriors, followed
closely by Loran Mohawk.
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“Aren’t you boys supposed to be on the reservation makin’ baskets
or something?” Anders continued. “What’d they do, let you out for the
day?”
“We were hoping to get some information on the death of one our
people,” Swamp said.
“One of your people―you sound just like some kind of TV Indian,
you know that? Don’t he, men?”
There was a murmur of assent from behind him.
“Sure do,” one voice said clearly.
“Well, look, Cochise. You’re not gonna find out any—what was
that big word you used?―information around here so why don’t you all
just get your red asses back to the reservation where they belong. I’d ‘a
thought even aborigines could figure out that these parts aren’t too healthy
for your people. “
“We were about to leave.”
“You were, were you? Well, that’s good. What do you think,
boys, should we just let ’em put their tails between their legs and run?”
“White scum.” It was Rudy Cook. “Big men when they’re
holding guns.” He stepped forward to stand next to Loran and Billy.
Anders laughed.
“Guns? We don’t need no guns. Did you think we were gonna
shoot ya?” He laughed again. “Hell, I wouldn’t waste the lead. ‘Course
if we did, it’s not likely anybody would blame us, you comin’ down here
lookin’ for trouble and all and us findin’ you here harassin’ these
defenseless women.”
He gazed at Cook mildly, a smile still on his face.
“You seem like a tough guy―almost as tough as your dead friend.
Want to have a go with me, boy?”
Rudy Cook stepped quickly forward and stood defiantly in front of
the much larger Anders.
“Say the word, white pig,” he said.
But Anders didn’t. Instead, in a move too fast to follow, he swept
the stock of his rifle hard across Cook’s face. Caught completely by
surprise, Cook staggered back to the ground as blood spurted from his
nose.
The Indians surged forward as one, Loran Mohawk in the lead, but
Anders immediately pointed his weapon at them.
“Not so fast, boys,” he said loudly. “I’d hate to panic under the
onslaught of all you brave men and have to start firin’.”
Johnson 88
Billy Swamp had grabbed Loran Mohawk to hold him from
attacking Anders. Now Billy raised his hand in a gesture of restraint then
knelt quickly beside the still-stunned Rudy Cook. After examining
Cook’s face, he stood once more.
“So who’s next?” Anders said.
“You are,” said a female voice from behind the Indians.
All heads turned toward the sound.
Annie Crumb stood on the trailer steps, the shotgun pointed at
Creight Anders.
“You are,” she repeated. She walked stiffly down the steps, gun at
her shoulder still pointed at Anders, her diminutive stature making the
weapon appear huge.
The Indians parted as she lurched her way forward.
“You’re gonna get your fat ass off this property now or I’m gonna
fuckin’ kill you.”
There was a murmur, first among the Indians then among the
whites, as Annie’s battered condition became apparent, both eyes
blackened, her fair skin a patchwork of bruises.
Anders’ spread his hands out from his body in a supplicatory
gesture, his rifle clasped in one meaty fist. Annie walked until she stood
two feet in front of Anders and pointed the shotgun at his face, the end of
the barrel inches from his eyes.
“Do you believe me, Creight?”
Anders stared straight ahead, his fear evident.
“I asked you a question,” she said. “The question was, do you
believe I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off right here if you don’t get your fat
ass off my property.”
Anders nodded and said softly, “Yes, I do.”
“I thought you would. I only wonder why I didn’t already,” she
said.
She stepped back keeping the gun to her shoulder, the strain
making the barrel waver in a way that served only to make it more
menacing.
“Now get the fuck out of here and don’t ever come back. And that
goes for the rest of you worthless pieces of trash too.”
No one moved.
“NOW.”
The whites backed toward their trucks then climbed hurriedly in.
The yard was briefly a flurry of slamming doors, starting engines, and
backing and turning trucks and they were gone.
Storm Front 89
Annie lowered her gun, her exhaustion plain.
Billy Swamp came quickly to her side.
“Are you all right?” he said gently, putting his hand out to support
her.
She spun and knocked his hand away.
“Yes, I’m all right,” she snapped. “Now you get out of here too.”
Billy gazed at her for a few seconds before nodding as if in
agreement with her position.
“Let’s go,” he said to the Warriors.
The men filed slowly past Annie, peering at her as they went by,
even Rudy Cook with his torn and bleeding nose covered by a hand.
“I’m sorry about your friend.” Annie said, as they climbed into the
trucks.
The Indians watched in silent tableau as Annie limped back to her
mother and together they entered the trailer. Then at a nod from Billy, the
men moved once more. In a few minutes, they too were gone.
Oren switched on his roof flashers and slowed to a halt as the
trucks approached. Simon Oakes was driving the lead vehicle. Beside
him, Rudy Cook sat holding a blood soaked cloth to his face. Loran
Mohawk stood up in the back as Oren got out of his car.
“What happened?” Oren asked Loran, gesturing at Rudy Cook.
“He got hit in the face with a gun.”
Oren frowned.
“Is Billy here?”
“Yeah, he’s in the back,” Loran said.
Billy hopped out of the rearmost truck.
“What the hell is this, Billy?” Oren said when Billy reached him.
“We came to get some answers to some questions.”
“Looks like you got some. Who did it?”
“Don’t know. A big guy. He and a bunch of others showed up
when we went to talk to the woman who was tending bar the night Rodney
died.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.”
Oren looked at Rudy Cook who sat watching from the cab.
“Too bad. Where you taking him?”
“The Medical Center.”
“At Akwesasne?”
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“Yeah.”
Oren nodded his agreement with that plan.
“Of all the stupid moves,” he said to no one in particular. “You
know, Billy, this surprises me. I thought you were smarter than to pull
this kind of stunt.”
“There are questions that need answering.”
“Oh, and you’re just the guys to get them.”
“No one else seems to be.”
“Yeah, well why don’t you give things a chance instead of going
off half-cocked.”
“Rodney died months ago.”
“That’s right, but there’s been new developments as you all know.”
“The white police don’t care about a dead Indian,” Rudy said, his
voice laughably nasal.
“Even if that were true, I do,” Oren said.
“But you have no power here,” Billy said.
“I have more than you.”
“The man who hit Rudy spoke as if he had met Rodney.” It was
Loran. “He said Rudy seemed like a tough guy, as tough as his dead
friend.”
Oren glanced at Billy who nodded.
“All right,” Oren said. “Simon, you head out and get Rudy to the
hospital. Rudy, I’ll stop by later and get a statement so we can file a
complaint. If nothing else, it may help us get a little cooperation from this
guy. Loran, you and Billy stay for a minute and fill me in on what
happened. Then you’re all going home, no stops, while I go down to
Tupper Lake to talk with the State Police.
“Now, what did this guy look like?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’m not staying.”
Harvey and Staci were in the library, the light of late morning
cascading through the floor-to-ceiling windows in massive shafts of mote-
filled light. With its book-lined walls, deep leather chairs, and modestly
proportioned fireplace, the library was Harvey’s favorite room at The
Birches. He would often retreat there after Davey and Staci were in bed
and spend a self-indulgent hour perusing rare tomes from Fripp’s
collection in the soft glow of the fire, a brandy on the Oriental side table
beside him.
He frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sick and tired of it. Because it’s d - u - l - l, dull.”
She took another gulp of her martini and pulled a volume at
random from the shelf beside her, a signed first edition of Cooper’s Last of
the Mohicans. She glanced at it briefly without opening it and put it back.
“But Davey loves it.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You always said you liked it up here.”
“When there are people here.”
“Your friends were just here.”
“And now they’re gone. So now what am I supposed to do, watch
birds?”
“No, our son.”
“You know, it’s always the same old song. I’m supposed to
babysit while you go gallivanting all over the world. If you’re so
concerned, you stay here with him.”
“I’m not going all over the world, I’m going to Mexico City. And
I have to go. You don’t decline a personal request from the President.”
“What does he need you for? He can’t find someone else to play
golf with him?”
“We’re not going to play golf. It’s a world economic summit.
You may find this difficult to comprehend, but he values my advice.”
Johnson 92
“Values your campaign contributions, you mean. So fine, go. But
I’m not staying here.”
“But you promised.”
“You promised,” she mimicked. “Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“But you agreed it would be best for Davey.”
“Fine. He can stay here with Bridget.”
“But he needs you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Staci, I don’t understand you. He’s your son.”
“I know. But I’m still a young woman and I mean to enjoy my
life, not waste it in some Boy Scout’s wet dream of a log cabin with a
bunch of moth-eaten animal heads staring at me all day. We have servants
for that.”
“But couldn’t you at least stay until Oliver gets here?”
“Oliver Slade?”
“Yes, he’s coming for the week. Remember?”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Davey needs friends.”
“With your money, he’ll have plenty of friends, don’t worry.”
“That’s just it. He needs to find out what friends are now, before
the kids are old enough to understand the money.”
“Harvey, you’re such a drip. That’s the whole point of money.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure I know what the point of money is
anymore—but I’m sure it’s not that.”
“Jesus, here we go. Harvey Skolnick, billionaire hippie.”
She finished her drink with a gulp then walked over and pushed a
button embedded in the paneling next to the fireplace.
“What about Lisette? Can’t she come keep you company while
I’m gone?”
“With everyone out in Southampton? Why would she come here?”
“Because she’s your friend?”
“I wouldn’t even ask her. Besides, the point is, I want to be in
Southampton too. And why shouldn’t I be? What’s the point of having a
house out there if we don’t use it?”
“We will use it. You’re going to be there all of August. But we
agreed that it would be good for Davey to spend some time away from all
that.”
“Well, I’m not staying.”
A discreet knock came at the door and a maid stuck her head in.
Storm Front 93
“Bring me another,” Staci commanded. “And not so much
vermouth this time.”
The maid withdrew.
“Aren’t you starting a little early?” Harvey asked.
“What else is there to do?”
Harvey took a deep breath as if summoning up the strength to be
patient.
“Staci. Please. I’m begging you. Just stay here with Davey and
be a mother to him until I get back. One week. I’ll make it worth your
while.”
Staci regarded him with interest. “How?” she said in a sulky
voice.
An hour later, Staci was awakened from her nap by the sound of
the helicopter roaring to life outside her window. Grabbing what was left
of her drink from the nightstand she walked to the window and watched as
the helicopter lifted slowly off the ground. Just outside the circle of
flattened lawn created by the whirling blades, Davey stood with Bridget,
his hand in hers and both of them waving frantically. A white hand
appeared behind the window of the chopper, waving in return, then the
chopper tilted and swung away to the south as Staci raised her drink in a
silent toast.
She found the new mechanic with his head under the hood of the
Land Rover. Refreshed by her nap, she had showered then put on a pair of
short white shorts that showed her long, smooth legs to good advantage
and a white blouse that she knotted under her breasts to let the tanned skin
of her midriff show―skin that to Staci’s great relief showed no stretch
marks from her pregnancy. A pair of open sandals finished the ensemble.
“You must be the new man,” she said by way of introduction.
Although he’d started two weeks earlier, with her friends here she hadn’t
had the chance to check him out.
Startled, Darren Latham―aka Daryl Higley―scrambled out from
under the hood and stood blinking in the light while wiping his hands
nervously on a greasy rag.
Staci took a slow sip of her drink. He wasn’t much to look at, with
crudely chopped graying red hair, pig-like eyes set in a fat face, and a
body like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Not like Marty, his predecessor, a
green-eyed, dark-haired stallion who’d made love like a jackhammer, but
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who had ultimately become a problem, insisting that she tell Harvey they
were in love and ask him for a divorce―as if she would ever even
consider leaving Harvey for a man with nothing but a sexy body.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said. His eyes met hers briefly before
darting away to settle on the ground at his feet.
The man was not at all what she had hoped for, a real peasant, too
intimidated to even look her in the eye. And if there was one thing she
didn’t like on a man, it was a beer belly.
Still, teasing a loser like him might be fun. Would he actually
believe that she would let him make love to her? She took a step closer.
“You know I’ve always wondered how you tell what’s what under
there,” she said, gesturing at the engine compartment with her drink. “I
mean, it just seems so complicated.”
She took another step and stood facing him across the expanse of
the Land Rover’s engine, rhythmically swaying forward to bump against
the fender with her hips as she surveyed him over the edge of her glass.
She was gratified to see him looking at her now, almost as if it was against
his will, his eyes fastening on her legs, her breasts, her
stomach―anywhere but her eyes―before he jerked them away.
Yes, this might be fun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The white house three miles out on Pittman Road is a late
nineteenth century survivor like many others in the region, with clapboard
siding and multi-paned windows, a wooden porch, and tin roof painted
silver. What sets it apart and impresses is its orderliness. The paint is
fresh on both walls and roof, the lawn is well-manicured and devoid of the
usual detritus of backwoods living—no rusted cars or farm equipment or
old tires—and the barn, also white, is in good repair, its sliding doors shut
and padlocked.
There are no gardens, no flowers. The only sign that the house is
lived in are the four chainlink kennels which stand at the woods’ edge.
Three of these are occupied—by massive black and tan German Shepherds
who begin barking excitedly when you drive your white minivan slowly
into the yard. The fourth is empty, its door ajar.
As you climb out of your car, your wife says, “Don’t forget to ask
if there’s a McDonald’s or something like that where we can eat.”
Acknowledging her with an impatient nod, you approach the house,
somewhat tentatively to be sure, because you’re sure now this isn’t the
house you’re looking for and you have after all ignored numerous Keep
Out signs and opened a shut gate to get here and you don’t know where
the occupant of that fourth kennel might be.
Halfway across the lawn she honks the horn and you cringe and
turn to see her shooing you forward with her hands and you resolve once
again that as soon as the kids are through college or even maybe as soon
as little Timmy, the youngest, is safely enrolled and away as a freshman,
you’ll divorce that woman. But for now you keep on.
Up the wooden steps of the porch, you notice first that the front
door is not the wood and etched-glass affair one might expect on a house
of this vintage, but a solid, steel-reinforced one of recent origin. You then
notice the alarm fittings on both doors and windows. The shades are
drawn. The dogs are in a frenzy now, leaping onto the sides of their
kennels. You are relieved to see that despite their frantic efforts, they fall
well short of the top of the eight foot fence.
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There is no bell, so you knock―but the only answer is silence.
You knock again then look back at your wife and shrug, hands out from
your sides. In the back seat behind her, the kids are acting up. It occurs to
you to walk around back, but as quickly as the thought comes, there comes
another―leave. Walk back to your car, get in, and drive away. You’ll
find your way back to civilization soon enough.
You hesitate a few seconds more, trying to tell yourself that the
unease you feel is just foolishness, a case of the vapors, but the feeling just
keeps growing, a wave swelling as it moves to the shore, until finally it
crashes around you, undeniable now.
Down the steps and across the lawn you try not to hurry―a grown
man on a sunny June day―but you do anyway, feeling somehow naked in
your polo shirt and khaki shorts and deck shoes with no socks.
And when you drive away and the neat white house and barn and
well-groomed yard are swallowed once again by the trees and the sound of
the dogs fades in the distance, you feel a sense of relief you’d be hard put
to explain.
Inside the darkened house, Raymond Butler watches the minivan
drive away through the viewing port masked by the letter holder to the
right of the door. He is holding an HK MP5 nine millimeter submachine
gun with a 30 shot banana clip. He flicks the safety on and visibly relaxes
from the taut state of readiness he has been in ever since your minivan
pulled in the drive.
He feels fairly confident there is no danger, that you are just what
you appear to be: a lost sheep who has wandered into the lair of the wolf.
Although the agents of ZOG are ruthless, he knows there is no protocol
that would permit the use of children in a potential free-fire situation. And
they were children, not midgets. He had made sure of that, scrutinizing
them carefully with his Zeiss binoculars.
He is glad. Although he is prepared and indeed expects to die in
violence, he did not want it to be this day when so many of his plans
remain unfulfilled. Leaving the gate unlocked in anticipation of Creight
Anders’ arrival was a mistake, one Butler will not repeat. Let the fat slob
walk, it will do him good.
He walks to a wall on which hangs the only artwork in the house, a
framed print of Jesus on the cross―hands and feet bleeding, eyes lifted to
heaven, pure white skin pale in the extreme of his agony.
A man’s voice. His father’s. On his knees before this very picture
in the front room of their cabin in Missouri. His mother looking wan and
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worn beside him. Both with their eyes shut and hands clasped in front of
them.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .”
Ten year old Ray was supposed to have his eyes shut too, but he
was tired of praying. They’d been praying all morning. For Bobby, his
little brother. Bobby and Ray had been playing in the junk cars by the old
Bassett place the week before, and Bobby had cut his leg open on a rusted
fender. It was Ray who pushed him, but he told Bobby he’d hurt him bad
if he told, so their parents thought it was an accident. Ray never told them
any different, even afterwards.
His mother had washed and bandaged Bobby’s leg and it seemed
like everything would be all right, but the leg had swollen and turned
purple and Bobby kept moaning and got the fever. They’d prayed and his
father lanced the swelling with his hunting knife, but the leg hadn’t gotten
better. And then his father had said it was in the Lord’s hands and they’d
started praying almost round the clock, with hardly even a pause to eat.
But it did no good. After a few days, the good Lord had taken
Bobby unto his bosom to be with Sissy in heaven and they’d buried his
body out back next to hers.
Later, there’d been other voices, and other trials and tribulations, in
the courtroom where his mother and father sat at a table in front with the
lawyer from Legal Aid while the Jew prosecutor with his three piece suit
paraded in front of them, performing for the jury like a monkey.
“Murdered, ladies and gentlemen,” he had said. “Murdered, by
criminal neglect, by a cold-hearted refusal to seek medical care for an
injured child. Like his poor diabetic sister before him. Sentenced to death
by the parents whose duty was to protect them. They say they were
following the Lord’s Word. They’ve cited Scripture they say supports
them in this evil. But where in the Bible does it say that parents should
watch their children die in agony without lifting a finger to help them?
You are good, God-fearing people. You read the Bible. Where does it say
that? I’ll tell you where: nowhere.”
And when the Jew was done filling the room with his lies, Ray’s
parents had been taken away to die broken and alone in their persecutors’
jails―crucified for their refusal to annul the judgment of God.
Ray had taken the picture from foster home to foster home and
found solace in it when the beatings and the gropings in the dark had
come, found strength in his terror and loneliness in the image of another
who had suffered―and risen to triumph in the end.
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Now he keeps it where he can see it often, a constant reminder of
debts to be repaid.
He fumbles with a molding on one side, and pulls the wall toward
him on concealed hinges. Glaring light leaps out from behind the
widening gap, illuminating the drab furnishings in the living room behind
him: a threadbare couch, a wooden chair, a powerful-looking radio
transmitter/receiver on a wooden table. He enters the light, pulls the wall
shut behind him, and the room descends into gloom once more.
The contrast between the shadowy desolation of the outer rooms
and the bright clutter of Raymond Butler’s inner sanctum is startling.
The “safe room” is approximately ten by ten. It is furnished with
an overstuffed chair with a standing lamp beside it and a work table with a
high stool. A large metal and plexiglass box filled with purple light sits on
one end of the table. On the other end, an open case the size of a briefcase
contains four semi-automatic pistols held to egg-crate foam cushioning
with Velcro straps. Two more cases sit closed on the floor. The walls
next to the table hold an impressive array of automatic rifles, combat
shotguns and submachine guns supported on pegs, almost two dozen in
all. In one corner, stands a steel cabinet, its doors ajar to reveal cases of
ammunition and other types of ordnance, hand grenades chief among
them.
In the corner behind the chair is a trapdoor to the cellar. There,
stacked neatly in the darkness against the stone walls, are boxes of canned
and dried foods, plastic barrels filled with water, and camping equipment
of every type and description. There are also wooden cases holding more
weaponry, half a dozen rocket launchers, several dozen Claymores with
wire and detonators, and even a flame thrower. Things he’s been
accumulating for years. He has more, lots more, in storage sheds all over
the country. In the corner, a dehumidifier hums softly, a generator sitting
quietly beside it, at rest for now.
Back upstairs, Raymond wipes the MP5 with an oiled flannel cloth
and pats it companionably before putting it back in its place on the wall.
Though he has weapons from many countries of origin, it is the German
ones that hold the warmest place in his heart (although even he would
have to admit that there were some better, for certain tactical situations at
least). The efficiency and strength of the great German nation seemed
embodied in their gleaming black surfaces, the nation that had produced
both the greatest armies and leader this world had ever seen. An M-16
like he’d used in the Somalia clusterfuck was a good enough
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weapon―he’d killed his share of negroes with them―but it just didn’t
have the menacing romance of a well-oiled G3.
He takes his seat at the table. A framed photograph of Adolf Hitler
stares down from the wall. It is surrounded by dozens of yellowing
newspaper and magazine clippings, reports from the front. Some are
good―MILITIA ENROLLMENT UP 200%; BURNING OF BLACK
CHURCHES CONTINUES; GAY SAILOR MURDERED; SENATE
SLAMS UN―others not―BRADY BILL PASSES CONGRESS;
MCVEIGH RECEIVES DEATH PENALTY; BRANCH DAVIDIANS
DIE IN INFERNO―but overall he is encouraged. Things are changing.
Patriots are rising to repudiate the New World Order.
On the floor beside him, a German Shepherd puppy rouses briefly
from sleep. He leans down and pets it, then lifts a small aluminum
canister out of the carton he picked up at the post office that morning.
Donning a pair of wire rimmed reading glasses, he reads the bright yellow
warning label one more time then carefully unscrews the lid and removes
a foam pouch. In the pouch is a glass ampule wrapped in bubble pack. He
raises the ampule to the light and studies it. The ampule is partially filled
with a greenish brown substance with the consistency of flour. Bacillus
anthracis. Bacillus anthracis spores to be exact, freeze-dried and sealed
under nitrogen. So harmless in appearance. So deadly.
Although he knows there is no risk with the ampule sealed, he
unconsciously rubs his arm at the spot where he received the vaccinations.
The vast Army patriot underground had come through again: a few quick
visits to a sympathetic Medical Corps technician over a period of several
months was all it took. The vaccinations were routine now for personnel
being shipped to areas where biological warfare was considered a threat.
He shakes his head in wonder.
So deadly―and so easy to obtain. Some letterhead for “The Small
Animal Microbiology Laboratory” dummied-up on a desktop computer, a
signed statement accepting all risks, and a money order for $180 and he
was on his way. Unbelievable. It was harder to buy a pistol.
There was more work to be done of course. Tricky work, although
the Terrorist’s Cookbook he’d ordered from American Patriot magazine
calls it child’s play.
He dips the ampule in a beaker of bleach to kill any bacteria
adhering to it and carries it over to the metal and plexiglass box. A flick
of a switch on the back of the box shuts off the ultraviolet sterilizing light.
Before he was interrupted, he had placed the implements he will need and
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four agar-filled petri dishes inside. Now, he opens a door in the side of the
box, and places the ampule inside. He shuts the door.
It is time. He places his hands into the long-sleeved gloves that are
attached to and penetrate the box through its front wall. Leaning over to
see through the viewing window, he grasps the ampule with his left hand.
The gloves, though thin, feel clumsy and he is glad that he has practiced
with them in anticipation of this moment. Reaching now with his right
hand, he grasps the elongated tip of the ampule, carefully snaps it off, and
places it to one side. He then lifts a bottle of deionized water and adds a
few drops to the powder, swirling the ampule gently to mix in the fluid.
When the spores are in suspension, he picks up an eye
dropper―struggling to get his cloaked fingers around it at first but finally
succeeding―inserts it into the ampule, and withdraws a portion of the
fluid which he applies to the agar in one of the dishes. He repeats the
process until all four dishes have been inoculated and the ampule is empty,
then places the lids on the petri dishes.
That done, he withdraws his hands from the gloves and stretches
his neck and back to relieve the strain of concentration. Step one
complete. He cannot repress a sense of satisfaction, although there is
much more to be done.
Incubate the spores at 98 degrees to produce starter bacteria
cultures (he has an incubator set up in the basement). Transfer the culture
to twenty liter carboys filled with BHI (brain/heart infusion) liquid culture
medium (purchased from the same supply house where he’d gotten the
glove box). Allow the bacteria to multiply and sporulate. Decant the
supernatant fluid and allow the spores to dry. Grind the spores into
powder.
Tricky work―and scary work too, even with the vaccination and
the glove box. He’d done some munitions work in his short stint with the
Rangers―before that nigger-loving Colonel fucked him over. He was
going to approach this work the same way: with extreme caution.
But once it was done, the fun could start. Just pick a dry breezy
day with no rain in the forecast, and the cleansing would begin. After
sunset was best so the sun’s UV rays wouldn’t degrade the spores. East
side, west side, all around the town. Times Square. Greenwich Village.
Wall Street. The Upper East Side. Harlem. The Bronx. Rich man, poor
man, beggar man, thief. You couldn’t go wrong. They were all scum.
Of course, they’d catch on sooner or later. But it would be too
late. Thousands dead in as little as a week. Thousands more deathly ill,
skin pustulated, lungs clogged with phlegm, brains fried by fever.
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Thousands of niggers, Jews, and homos dying in agony along with their
liberal white collaborators. It was almost too easy. That it hadn’t been
done before was a testament to the extent to which the minds and spirits of
once free Americans had been enslaved by their Zionist masters.
And all from one little ampule of Bacillus anthracis. He wishes he
could have risked ordering seven, like the seven vials of God’s wrath in
the book of the Revelation. That would have been fitting. Because wasn’t
that what it was all about? God’s work? The fight for righteousness
against those who were damned in the eyes of God?
And he was God’s angel.
Operation Sodom. He smiled. The code name was silly of course.
Only he knew of his plan. The fools in his little militia would never have
the imagination and strength of will to carry out an operation of this
significance. For them, an operation like Shylock was a big deal.
No, Operation Sodom was a solo mission. A holy mission. One
God, One Race, One Nation.
Amen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The pasture was hung in darkness. From milky pools of mist that
filled the hollows, wraiths slowly rose and formed then broke free to twist
and drift in obedience to currents too subtle for corporeal beings to sense.
At the edge of the pasture, the darkness was at its thickest, the pale
light of the stars completely without effect. And yet from that darkness
came something darker still, or rather two somethings, two figures that
moved stealthily to the rail fence that marked the pasture’s boundary.
A horse nickered down by the barn, breaking the silence.
“Do you think we can take the goggles off?” came a whispered
voice.
“Yeah, it’ll be getting light soon anyway.”
There was a shuffling in the darkness as the two men removed the
unwieldy nightvision goggles.
“Those things are hot,” said the first voice.
“Bunch of bullshit. Butler and his fuckin’ toys.”
There was a silence, then the first voice said, “I don’t see no light.”
“Me neither.”
There was another shuffling sound.
“It’s four-fifteen. If he was gonna signal he shoulda done it by
now.”
“I guess we’re a go, then.”
“I reckon so.”
“You nervous?”
“Fuck no. This’ll be a piece of cake.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. No problem. Why? You scared?”
“No, it’s not that . . .”
“Good, let’s go then―before you start pissin’ in your fuckin’
pants.”
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Fifteen minutes later, the two figures appeared under the stairs at
the side of the garage. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten and
the barns and other outbuildings stood in dark silhouette.
“No lights,” said the first man.
“That’s good. But where the fuck is Higley?”
“Right here, Creight.” A third figure separated itself from the
darkness. “Hi, Charlie.”
“Cut the fuckin’ chitchat, asshole,” Anders said. “Everything set?”
“Yeah. Benton’s in his room.”
“You give it to him?”
“Drank one glass. Couldn’t get him to drink any more.”
“How about the old man?”
“The fuckin’ lush drank most of a bottle. He’ll be out till
tomorrow. Benton’s the one we gotta worry about.”
“Nobody else around?”
“The mother and nanny at the house. Everybody else is at the
servant’s compound, half a mile away. We move fast, they’ll be no
problem.”
“The chopper ready?”
“Yup.”
“All right. Let’s pay Mr. Benton a visit.”
Rick Benton rolled over groggily, eyed the dim light outside his
window and then the windup alarm clock on the orange crate that served
as his nightstand. He groaned inwardly. He felt like shit.
He never should have had that wine Latham had brought over. He
didn’t drink wine as a rule, he was more a beer and whiskey man, but if he
was going to drink wine he wouldn’t drink heavy cheap stuff. But Latham
had said it was his birthday and he was feeling alone and blue and Rick
felt a little guilty about not liking him for no good reason and so had
agreed to have a glass.
Now he was awake―or at least in some foggy state of
consciousness―two hours early with a head that felt as if it was wrapped
in burlap. Amazing what one glass of lousy wine could do.
Sitting up cautiously in deference to his throbbing head, he put his
feet on the floor and gathered himself for a trip to the john―and felt
something hard and cold gently kiss his left temple.
“Move again and you’re dead, asshole,” a voice said.
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Rick froze while his brain scrambled to make sense of his
situation.
“Should I put on a light?” a different voice asked.
It sounded like Latham! What the hell?
“No, we can see,” said the man with the gun.
“What do you want?” Rick asked, willing his voice to sound
stronger than he felt.
“Shut up and maybe you won’t get hurt,” the man with the gun
said. Rick could just make it out in the gloom, looking like an oversized
pistol with a clip extending well below the man’s hand, an Uzi or
something like that. “Kneel down on the floor.”
“I’ve got to go to the john.”
“Kneel down on the fuckin’ floor. Now.”
The gun barrel jabbed his temple.
He slowly did, straining to see the men in the dim light. There
were three. The one he thought was Latham and two others, one large, the
other slight. Each wore some sort of apparatus on their heads.
Nightvision goggles, he guessed. All three carried submachine guns.
They were no burglars.
He put one knee on the floor, then the other.
But if not burglars, what?
Suddenly he knew: they were after Staci or the kid. Christ. He
was going to have to do something fa―
“Is he out?” Charlie Stitchard asked nervously.
Creight Anders knelt down beside Rick Benton’s inert body.
“Yeah, I clocked him good,” he said. “Give me the tape.”
A few minutes later the men made their way quietly down the steps
from Rick’s quarters. The light was milky now, sunrise only minutes
away. Over by the chicken house, a rooster challenged the day.
Standing at the corner of the garage, the men conferred briefly.
“All right,” Anders said. “Step one complete. Now for step two.”
He checked his watch.
“It’s five thirty. We’re on schedule. We’ll go grab the kid and if
all goes as planned we’ll be ready to roll in half an hour. You have that
chopper ready.”
“I’ll fire it up it the second you show.”
“The women in their rooms?”
“As far as I know.”
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“OK. Anybody shows while we’re up there you give a holler.
You got your walkie-talkie?”
Higley unhooked it from his belt and held it up.
“Ain’t nobody gonna show,” he said. “Not till six-thirty. And I
jammed the gate like we planned.”
“All right. Let’s do it.”
Staci cracked one sleep-weighted eye at the clock on the french
provincial cabinet she’d imported to serve as her nightstand―replacing
the twigwork monstrosity that had been there before―and reached out and
moved the champagne bottle so she could see the numbers. Five-thirty.
Why the hell were there people roaming the halls at five-thirty in the
goddamn morning?
She heard a voice. Davey. She loved the kid, she really did, but
he could be such a pain. If she’d told him once she’d told him a thousand
times never to disturb her while she was sleeping―and that included
making noise in the hall outside her room. And who was he talking to?
Goody-two-shoes Bridget, no doubt.
She considered getting up to give them both a piece of her mind
but decided against it. She was too tired. She hadn’t gotten off the phone
with Ian until after two and with two bottles of champagne under the
bridge, three hours sleep just didn’t cut it.
Ian. Without thinking she slid her hand down her naked body
under the satin sheet and touched herself between the legs. She was still
wet. Phone sex wasn’t anywhere near as good as the real thing, but it was
better than nothing and with Marty gone, nothing was all she ever got up
here in Harvey’s boondocks hideaway.
Not as good as the real thing but good anyway. She’d told Ian all
the things she wanted to do to him, all the places she’d touch and lick and
suck, and did everything he asked her to―just like when they were
together.
Ian. If only he was here now. She sighed and rolled over
clutching her pillow to her as if it were Ian’s hard, young body. Soon, she
thought. But now, sleep. In seconds, she was drifting away.
“Why did you cover my mouth?” Davey asked Charlie Stitchard as
they made their way down the stone steps to the lawn. Stitchard was
carrying him in the crook of his arm, Anders trailing behind to make sure
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no one was following. Stitchard had just released the hand he had
clamped over Davey’s mouth when he had gotten him out of bed.
“I didn’t want you to wake anyone up.”
“Mommy doesn’t like it when I wake her up,” Davey said.
“That’s why I wanted you to be quiet.”
“I’m not allowed outside in my pajamas either.”
“Today you are. Your Daddy said it was all right.”
Out on the helipad, the helicopter came to life with a hydraulic
whine followed by the popping roar of the engine, tentative at first, then
growing strong and steady as the blades whirled with increasing speed.
“Are we going in the helicopter?”
“Yup.”
“I like to ride in the helicopter,” Davey said. “I’m not afraid at
all.”
“That’s good, son, because we’re going to go for a nice ride.”
“And then we’ll see Daddy?”
“Yesirree, son. Yesirree.”
Jim Flaherty stirred and the steady growl of his snoring abruptly
ceased when the helicopter’s roar penetrated his room off the tackhouse.
He reached a hand shakily toward his face as if to ward off flies and
mumbled some incoherent words, then his hand fell back onto the
bedcover. He began to snore once more.
Rick had regained consciousness while they were still taping his
wrists, his brain reeling toward reality from the murky depths to which
Anders’ blow had sent it. His first instinct had been to protest the pain, to
tell the voices he was hurt. But a wiser voice told him to be still. He had
remained silent, while flexing subtly against his captors’ efforts to bind
him in the hope of creating some play in the tape.
Now he was almost free, sitting in a spray of broken glass with his
back to the jagged maw of the television he had knocked off its stand, his
hands in its guts as he sawed the tape against a shard of the screen still
fixed in place.
The pain and the sensation of fluid streaming down his hands told
him it wasn’t only duct tape he was cutting, but there was no help for it.
He had to get free quickly if he was right about what was happening. He
only hoped he would be able to use his hands once he got them loose.
Suddenly the tape gave and his arms pulled free, his hands
following in a spray of crimson. His wrists looked bad. Clutching them
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hard against his body to slow the flow of blood, he struggled to his feet
and bunny-hopped his way to the tiny kitchenette that occupied one
corner. He took a knife from a drawer and bent and freed his legs then
pulled the tape from his mouth.
The sound of his chopper coming to life reached his ears.
No, it was too soon!
Racing over to the foot locker that sat at the end of his bed he
threw it open, grabbed the pistol he’d “decommissioned” when he’d
gotten out of the service along with a loaded magazine, and headed for the
door at a run.
Staci couldn’t believe it. That bastard Rick Benton was starting his
chopper. At five-thirty in the morning! Wide awake now, she tossed off
the covers, grabbed her robe and strode to the window. He was doing it
on purpose just to piss her off, she was sure, positive Harvey would never
fire him. There was nowhere he had to go at this ungodly hour.
The chopper sat on its pad, its whirling blade glinting in the newly
risen sun. She couldn’t see Benton but that was no surprise. What was a
surprise were the two men moving purposefully across the lawn toward
the helicopter, one of them carrying something. A child. Davey.
Something was wrong―very wrong.
Someone had her baby!
With a shriek she ran for the door.
Rick staggered and almost fell as he lunged down the stairs. He’d
lost a lot of blood and was still bleeding now. He steadied himself and set
off at a lurching run for the trees at the edge of main complex lawn. There
he stopped and, leaning heavily on an ancient pine, surveyed the scene.
The chopper sat no more than one hundred yards away. Two men
were approaching it from the direction of the house, one of them carrying
Davey, the other, a large bearded man, sweeping the area with a snub-
nosed submachine gun. Rick could just make out Latham inside at the
controls.
He saw only one choice: to rush them before they lifted off and
either disable the chopper or shoot Latham, if he could do that without risk
to Davey. But with a pistol he would have to get close to have any
realistic chance of doing either―he had never been much of a shot―and
that meant he would have to run in the open in the face of at least one
submachine gun.
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He braced himself for what might be the last conscious act of his
life but paused as a new variable was added to the situation: Staci,
screaming hysterically and heading down the front steps of the house and
across the lawn at a run, her negligee billowing behind her. At her
appearance, Davey started struggling.
The men stopped, the armed one swinging his weapon toward
Staci. The other man wrestled with Davey.
Seeing his chance, Rick broke for the helicopter.
The man holding Davey had gotten control of him and was
handing him to Latham on the far side of the cockpit. The other man was
fixed on Staci’s approach, his gun held waist high and pointing at her.
Behind her, Bridget appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of terror.
What to do! Only a few seconds more and Rick would be at the
chopper, but Staci and Bridget might be shot in the interim.
He stopped, raised the pistol with both hands and fired three quick
rounds in the gun-wielder’s direction. The gunman went to the ground as
Rick ran forward again. Whether he had hit the man or not, Rick couldn’t
tell. Staci kept coming.
The kidnappers were shouting, their voices puncturing the din of
the chopper.
And then the bullets came. Rick heard the staccato pops of the
machine gun before the first bullet hit him. Pain blossomed in his legs.
He fell and lost his pistol, scrambled to find it, and looked up in
time to see the gunman disappearing into the chopper just as Staci arrived.
A brief commotion ensued, Staci struggling to climb into the cockpit,
screaming still, her kicking, naked legs visible below the chopper’s body,
until another burst of gunfire came and she staggered back and collapsed
onto the lawn, her face a mask of blood.
Horrified, Rick tried to stand as the chopper’s roar crescendoed in
preparation for liftoff. He couldn’t. He could ignore the pain, but his
muscles would not respond. He collapsed to his knees as the chopper
started to rise. Lifting his pistol, he sighted on the chopper’s tail rotor and
fired, emptying the magazine before sinking down into darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jack and his father were in the upper pasture checking the cows
when they heard the pneumatic thud of a helicopter far to the southeast.
As the sound grew louder, they raised hands to shield their eyes, trying to
find its source in the clear morning sky. Jack saw it first.
“There it is,” he said, pointing. “Not military. I wonder whose.”
“Maybe it’s WADK checking traffic,” the senior Dawson said
dryly.
“Yeah, right. Whoever it is, they’re heading somewhere in a
hurry.”
They watched as the chopper passed a half mile to the east heading
due north, following its progress until it was a mere speck in the sky and
its sound an uncertain whisper.
Dropping their hands, father and son looked at each other,
exchanged shrugs, and turned back to the business at hand.
Daryl Higley scanned the forest ahead of the speeding helicopter.
They were close now, the jigsaw farmlands north of the park visible in the
distance ahead of them, the sparkling blue expanse of Upper Chateaugay
Lake hard to their right. In the seat beside him, Creight Anders was doing
the same. In the back, Charlie Stitchard sat with Davey Skolnick.
Daryl snuck a look at them. The kid was nodding on Charlie’s lap,
the sedative they’d given him already taking hold. Charlie had his hands
locked around the boy’s tiny arms and chest like he was afraid someone
might try to take him away.
Charlie didn’t look good, his face pale and gleaming with sweat.
Still in shock over the shooting of the mother, Daryl guessed. Daryl
couldn’t blame him. That hadn’t been in the plans—and it wasn’t like she
was any real threat. He glanced at Anders. If blowing the woman away
bothered him in the least, he wasn’t showing it.
Suddenly, Anders pointed. Daryl saw it too, a cluster of three
blaze-orange balloons drifting above the treetops a half mile ahead.
Johnson 110
He slowed and headed toward them and a minute later was
hovering over a clearing barely large enough to accept the chopper’s
spinning blades. It was no problem though. He’d landed in spots just as
tight as this one in Nam, and with the added distraction of enemy fire. He
eased the sticks forward. A short time later, they were down. Higley
glanced at his watch: 7:15. Perfect. Butler would be pleased.
Four all terrain vehicles were parked at the edge of the clearing,
their mottled camouflage paint jobs blending with the dense vegetation.
Butler sat on one, dressed in camouflage, a jump suit he wore over civilian
clothes, the Beretta strapped to his side.
He climbed off the ATV and came toward them as Higley shut off
the chopper’s engine.
“Everything go OK?” he asked as Anders and Higley climbed from
the cockpit.
“No problem,” Anders said. “‘Though we had to do some
shooting.”
“Who?”
“The old lady.”
Butler peered into the back of the helicopter where Charlie
Stitchard still sat with Davey on his lap.
“The mother?”
“Yeah, she rushed us.”
“She was armed?”
“She was tryin’ to climb in.”
“So you shot her?” Butler said incredulously.
He shook his head in disgust. Excessive force was always a
calculated risk when one used men like Anders for this kind of work. On
the other hand, Anders was the one member of the militia Butler could
count on not to shirk violence when it was needed. Still, the shooting of
the mother complicated things. It meant that even if the child was
returned unharmed, the heat would be unrelenting.
“Benton was shooting at us.”
“Benton! What the hell was he doing loose? You were supposed
to secure him.”
“We did,” Anders said. “But he got free.”
“You didn’t kill him, I hope.”
“No, he was still shootin’ when we lifted off.”
“Did you hit him?”
Anders shrugged.
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“Could be.”
“We need him, fool.”
Butler turned to Higley.
“Is the bird all right?”
“I think it took some hits, but it flew all right.”
“Go check it out. And hurry up.”
As Higley shuffled off, Butler spoke to Stitchard.
“How’s the kid?”
“He’s all right, I guess. I sedated him like you said.”
“Good. Is he out?” Butler leaned into the doorway of the
helicopter and peered at Davey.
“Yeah,” Stitchard said.
“He see it?”
Stitchard nodded grimly.
Another complication.
“All right, bring him out of there.”
Higley returned.
“She’s all right,” he said. “Couple of holes in the tail cowling is
all.”
“Good. That’s one thing you didn’t fuck up, anyway. Is the radio
rigged?”
Higley nodded.
“You wiped everything down?”
Another nod.
“All right, let’s get out of here before you clowns screw something
else up.”
With a last glance inside the chopper, Butler headed for the ATVs,
followed closely by Stitchard and Higley. Anders watched as the others
walked away. When he was sure Butler couldn’t see, he surreptitiously
drew a small piece of beaded leather from his pocket and dropped it to the
ground. Then he too, headed for the waiting vehicles.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There were eight unmarked late model sedans with US government
plates, three blue New York State Police cruisers, two red and white
County Sheriff’s cruisers, four panel trucks also with US plates, and a
phone company van crowded into the circular drive in front of the main
lodge at The Birches. On the side lawn, three helicopters sat in a row near
the helipad. Grim-faced men and women, some in suits, most in blue
windbreakers with FBI emblazoned in yellow on their backs, swarmed
through the buildings and grounds, even in the farthest fields, searching
for evidence, any evidence, that might lead them to the captors of the only
son of Harvey Skolnick.
The glass-walled dining pavilion had been converted into a
command center with maps spread on one end of the thirty foot table and a
bank of twelve phones arrayed on the other. In between sat four desktop
computers, spaced evenly two per side. Chandeliers overhead provided
illumination, although they were hardly necessary in the brightness of the
afternoon light.
There were nine people in the room. Near the door, two uniformed
sheriff’s deputies stood uneasily, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups,
their function unclear perhaps even to them. Two men of the suited thirty-
something mold were talking on phones in low urgent tones. An intent
woman in her twenties was scanning the screen of one of the PC’s and
periodically tapping on the keyboard in response to whatever it was she
was seeing.
Against one wall, Harvey Skolnick’s parents, his mother gray-
haired and heavyset, his father bald but for a fringe of white hair, sat on a
brocade settee below an immense gilt-framed painting of a mountain vista,
watching the goings-on with bewildered eyes. The father’s arm was
wrapped protectively around his wife’s shoulders. Her face bore the traces
of recent tears.
At the far end of the room, Harvey stood near the massive stone
fireplace talking quietly with Special Agent Robert Ganz, agent in charge
of the Skolnick kidnapping. An impressively fit man in his fifties, Ganz
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wore his steel gray hair short. His blue suit was well-tailored, his white
shirt crisply starched, the Windsor knot in his maroon silk tie perfect.
Skolnick had arrived minutes earlier, having been whisked from
the Albany airport in an FBI helicopter upon his arrival from Mexico City
in his personal jet. Never a fashion plate, Harvey looked even more
disheveled than usual, still wearing the suit he’d had on when the urgent
message had been relayed to him at the conference—crumpled and baggy
now—his tie askew, one shirt button undone over his rounded belly.
“We’re working on the assumption that they’re holed up in the
woods somewhere, in a hunting cabin or something like that, not too close
to where we found the helicopter, but close enough that they could get
there without too much risk of exposure. We have some reason to believe
they headed back deeper into the Park after they landed. We know from
the tracks that they used ATVs to get from the chopper to the road, and we
think they must have loaded the ATVs, four of them as best we can
determine, onto a vehicle of some sort. We have a report that a horse
trailer was seen in the area that morning heading south. We’re still
following up but have traced it as far as Mountain View.
“Unfortunately, that still leaves a lot of ground to cover―but we’ll
do it. We’ve got thirty men up there working with the local
Environmental Conservation Officers—the ECOs know the Park the
best―in addition to the Franklin and Clinton County sheriffs’ departments
and the State Police. The Canadian police and all border crossings have
also been alerted.”
“But you could be wrong.”
“You’re right. We may be wrong. They could be anywhere.
Halfway across the country for all we know. It may have been them who
tipped us to where the helicopter was, to throw us off.”
“Why haven’t we heard from them? It’s been over ten hours.”
“I know. I’ve been involved in a number of these situations and
frankly that surprises me. It may mean they feel very comfortable with
their location―or that they’re travelling. But the bottom line is, we have
no reason to think Davey isn’t safe. They kidnapped him for a reason. If
they’d wanted to hurt or kill him they could have done that easily.”
“What about the Indian thing?”
“We’re following up on the amulet. Apparently, it’s Mohawk.
We’re checking with the tribal police in Akwesasne, that’s the reservation
up on the Canadian border. We’d rather work through them. We don’t
want to go crashing in there. That will just clam everyone up.”
Johnson 114
“Bob.”
One of the men on the phones waved urgently to Ganz.
Harvey and Ganz strode over in time to hear the agent say, “Find
what?”
Then, “The Land Rover? Which one?”
“There’s only one,” Harvey hissed.
The agent nodded impatiently and held up his hand to stave off
further interruption, but clearly the conversation had ended. He hung up
the phone.
“I just wanted to keep him talking,” he said to Harvey. Then, to
both of them, “He says there’s a letter of instruction in the Land Rover.
Said he was surprised we weren’t smart enough to find it.”
“Mr. Skolnick, this is Special Agent Kincaid,” Ganz said.
“I thought you searched the vehicles,” Harvey said, ignoring the
introduction.
“We did,” Ganz said grimly. He turned back to Kincaid. “Go get
it.”
It took them twenty minutes to find the note.
Josh Kincaid returned to the house bearing a plastic bag by one
corner, the note still sealed inside.
Ganz had resisted the temptation to go find out what was taking so
long and had remained with Harvey and his parents, displaying a patience
and equanimity he did not feel. He frowned his annoyance and an
unspoken demand for an explanation at Kincaid.
“The air filter canister,” Kincaid said.
“Pretty elaborate for something we were supposed to find,” Ganz
said.
“Why would they do that?” Harvey asked.
“Maybe they needed time,” Kincaid said.
“Could be,” Ganz said, “Let’s see what it says.”
They took it over to the table, followed by Harvey’s parents. Ganz
took a forceps from a case and used it to open the seal and extract the
paper, then carefully unfold it.
The note was typed on plain white paper.
“We have your son. He is safe and unharmed and will remain that
way if you comply precisely with these and subsequent instructions. Our
goal is funding, yours is presumably the safe return of your son. These
goals are in no way incompatible. It’s up to you.
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1. Government forces will be working to apprehend us. This must
stop. Their efforts are a threat to your son’s well being. They will tell you
only they can save your son. That is a lie. Only you can save him.
Instruct them to cease and desist from all efforts to locate us. We will be
watching to see that this happens.
2. Our need is for ten million dollars. You will obtain this amount
in used $100 bills and put it in the duffel bag left behind by the man you
know as Latham. The bills and bag will not be marked or doctored in any
way. We are not unsophisticated. If they are, we will know. The FBI will
tell you otherwise. Don’t believe them. They are incompetent fools.
3. You have until Thursday morning to accomplish 2 above. At
that time you will receive instructions on delivery which you will effect in
the manner described.
These instructions are simple. All you need to do to get your son
back is follow them precisely and in good faith. Do not believe the
government when they tell you we won’t return your son. We will. We
have no reason not to. He is a sweet, trusting boy who deserves to live a
full and happy life. Don’t let him down.”
“Intelligent,” Ganz said.
“ ‘Cease and desist’—a lawyer, maybe?” Kincaid suggested.
“Possibly. What do you think of the type?”
“Manual typewriter.”
“Let’s get the lab on it right away. Fax them the text then get the
document down there ASAP.”
“Hang on a second,” Harvey said angrily. “We’ve got some things
to talk about.”
“Granted,” Ganz said. “But that’s no reason not to get our people
cracking on this.”
“Yes, there is. We are not going to mess around with this. I want
to get the money and deliver it and get my son back.”
“I understand.”
“The money means nothing. If they’d asked for ten times that
amount I wouldn’t care.”
“An interesting point. They must know that too. It might mean
they couldn’t figure out how to deal with a larger amount. That may
suggest inexperience with this sort of thing.” Ganz glanced at Kincaid.
Johnson 116
“I don’t care if they’re Girl Scouts,” Harvey said heatedly. “They
have my son and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize getting him
back.”
“I understand. We’ll help you get the money together. But that’s
no reason not to pursue what we’ve got.”
“That’s exactly the reason. No efforts at apprehension. Didn’t you
read the note?”
“We’ll keep a low profile.”
“You’re not listening to me. I am not interested in playing cops
and robbers. There will be no efforts at apprehension while they have my
son. None. Do you understand?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes you can and yes you will.” Harvey glared at Ganz, the
threat to Ganz’s career unspoken but obvious.
Ganz gazed out the windows briefly, then turned back.
“Look, I understand your concern. The boy’s safety is absolutely
the important thing. But that’s the point. What if they don’t live up to
their end of the bargain? If we wait until then to figure out who they are
and where they might be, it could be too late. And much as I don’t want
that to happen, it’s a possibility. Returning the boy presents some risks for
them.”
Harvey stood silent, his mouth set in a firm line.
“What I’d like to do,” Ganz continued, “is do what the note says.
We’ll clear our agents out of this area. We’ve got pretty much all we’re
going to get here, anyway. If they’re watching, they’ll see we’re playing
ball. Meanwhile, we’ll be analyzing what we’ve got and getting the
money together.”
“What about your field agents? You said you’ve got thirty men
out there.”
“We’ll pull most of them.”
“Most?”
“I’d like to keep a few discreet inquiries going. Strictly low
profile. The ones that seem most promising. We need people on the
scene. But the kidnappers will see the difference.”
Harvey stood considering.
“We can’t put all our eggs in one basket,” Ganz said, “particularly
one we have no reason to trust. That wouldn’t be smart.”
He glanced at the senior Skolnicks for support.
Harvey looked too.
“He’s got a point son,” Harvey’s father said gently.
Storm Front 117
Harvey frowned.
“My son is the important thing, not catching them.”
“Agreed,” Ganz said. “One hundred percent.”
“All right, then.”
Ganz addressed Kincaid, “Go―but leave us a copy.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rick awoke to a blaze of white light, white light and throbbing
pain―his head, his arms, but more than anything his legs.
A hospital room, the window awash in late-day light, the door to
the hallway ajar. A nurse passed as he watched.
He was thirsty, so thirsty. He turned his head gingerly, feeling the
tug of bandages, to see if there was water on the tray beside him. There
was, a plastic container with a straw. He reached toward it, his arm
swathed in gauze, an intravenous tube held in place with tape.
A sensation of movement to the other side. He wasn’t alone.
Someone got up out of a chair with a creak of vinyl and circled the
bed.
“Would you like water? I’ll get it.”
A woman’s voice, familiar. He shifted his eyes to see, trailing up
the arm even now reaching for the water, to meet gray eyes under long
lashes, a tan face framed by honey-blonde hair.
Sarah.
She smiled.
“Welcome to the world.”
He struggled to return the smile, trying to frame a question as he
did, mind seemingly mired in mud.
“Where am I?”
“Glens Falls. The trauma center at Memorial Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“What do you remember?”
“Davey . . .” his voice trailed off. Something about little Davey,
something important.
“Kidnapped. They used the chopper. You tried to stop them and
were shot. Three times.”
“My legs?”
She nodded.
An image came with sudden clarity: Staci Skolnick running across
the lawn, screaming.
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“Staci?”
“Dead.”
He remembered now. He had failed. Utterly. Staci dead. Davey
kidnapped.
“Harvey?”
“At the house. They’re waiting to hear from the kidnappers. The
FBI is there. They’ll want to talk to you.” She paused. “Mr. Skolnick
asked us to tell you how deeply grateful he is and that he would be here if
he could.”
“Us?”
“Jim and me. Jim’s been here all day.”
Rick frowned in confusion.
“It’s Tuesday afternoon,” Sarah said. She looked at her watch.
“Well, actually, evening. Here, drink some water.”
He felt embarrassment at his helplessness but took the straw and
drank deeply. When he was done she took the container and set it on the
stand.
“How do you feel?”
“All right, I guess. A little groggy.”
“That’s to be expected. You were in surgery for four hours. They
had you doped up pretty good.”
She smiled again, tenderly, and grasped his hand.
“I’m glad you’re all right.”
He considered that statement, a natural thing to say, but she
seemed to be trying to say more—or maybe that was just the drugs.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said―and he had never said truer words
in his life.
When he awoke an hour later, there was a clean-shaven man in a
dark suit standing by the window, arms clasped behind his back.
He turned when he heard Rick stir.
“Hello, Mr. Benton,” he said. “I’m Special Agent DeVries of the
FBI. If you’re up to it, I’d like to talk to you about what happened. I’m
sorry to rush you but every minute may be critical.”
Rick nodded. He felt more clear-headed than before, but the pain
was louder too. The drugs were wearing off.
“Can I get you anything before we start?”
Rick reached for his water and took a deep sip.
“Fire away.”
Johnson 120
DeVries sat down and opened a blue spiral notebook with the FBI
symbol on the cover. He took a pen from his inside jacket pocket.
“All right. Do you know who the kidnappers were?”
“Darren Latham was one. The new mechanic.”
DeVries nodded.
“Did you ever meet him before he came to work for Mr.
Skolnick?”
Rick shook his head.
“He tell you anything about himself?”
Rick searched back.
“He said he was from Malone.”
DeVries nodded again.
“He wasn’t, at least not under that name, but we assume that was
an alias anyway. We don’t pick up any Darren Lathams that match
anywhere. Anything else?”
“He said he’d flown choppers in the Army and worked as a
mechanic for GHS Courier in Albany. He knew his choppers, that’s for
sure. Also he had a military duffel.”
“Surplus,” DeVries said, scribbling frantically. “What about the
other men? You get a look at them?”
Rick shrugged and told him what he could. It wasn’t much, but
DeVries took copious notes. When he finished that, he said, “OK. Let’s
take it from the top. I want to know everything that happened as best you
can recall it, and particularly who did what.”
Half an hour later, DeVries snapped his notebook shut and stood
up.
“That will do it for now, I think,” he said. “I want to thank you for
your cooperation.”
He turned to go.
“Hang on a second,” Rick said. “I want to know what’s going on.
I think I’m entitled, don’t you?”
“Sorry,” DeVries said. “I can’t help you. You get well, though,
you hear?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
A man’s voice.
“Hey kid. Wake up.”
Davey squinted at the voice, rubbing his eyes. A man was leaning
over him, holding a flashlight. The man who had carried him from his
house. Davey was in a sleeping bag in some sort of a box.
“Time to get up and have some supper. You gotta go potty?”
Davey did.
He sat up, the sleeping bag cocooning his legs. He remembered
now. They had taken him to go for a ride in the helicopter to see Daddy
and Mommy was mad. And then a bad man hurt her with his gun. He
must have fallen asleep.
“I want Mommy.”
“Not just yet. First we’ll go potty and have some supper.”
“I want Mommy.”
“I know, son, I know. But she’s not here right now. Let’s get you
out of there.”
The man leaned down and grasped Davey under his arms and lifted
him out of the box.
“Where are we?” Davey asked. He stood blinking at the only
source of light in the room other than the flashlight: the gray rectangle of
an open door. “Is Daddy here?”
“Not yet, son.”
The man switched the flashlight off and stuck it in his pocket, then
picked Davey up and carried him through the doorway into a room filled
with the dim light of dusk. It was the inside of a cabin, Davey saw, with
log walls like The Birches.
A wooden table with chairs occupied the center of the room. A
cookstove stood against one wall, a bed against the other. Several fishing
poles leaned in a corner. A shelf by the bed supported a two-way radio.
Windows to either side had curtains drawn. A door to the outside was
open.
The man carried Davey outside.
Johnson 122
The cabin sat in a sandy clearing surrounded by tall pines. Davey
could see the glimmer of a lake through the trees. Two ATVs were parked
near the cabin door. They had ATVs at The Birches, although they were
shiny red ones, not messy green ones like these. Davey liked to ride on
them.
“I thought you were makin’ dinner,” a voice said from behind
them.
It was the bad man, the big one with the beard, who looked like the
giant in Davey’s Jack and the Beanstalk book. The one who hurt his
mommy. A tremor of fear raced through him.
“The kid’s gotta go,” the nice man said. “Is it all clear?”
“Fuck the kid, I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get dinner going as soon as I get back.”
“The hell with that. Get it now. I’ll take the kid.”
The bad man set Davey on the ground.
“You gotta carry him,” the nice man said. “He ain’t got no shoes.”
“Fuck that,” the bad man growled. “He can walk. You just go get
dinner.”
The bad man grabbed Davey’s hand and pulled him toward the
back of the cabin where a tiny building stood near the dark trees at the
clearing’s edge. Sticks and pine needles poked at his tender feet. He tried
to walk carefully but each time he slowed the man jerked him roughly
forward. Tears welled in Davey eyes.
They stopped in front of the little building.
“OK. Go to it.”
Davey hesitated. Was he supposed to go in there?
“Well, go ahead. I ain’t got all day.” Creight chuckled. “And
neither do you.”
Davey took a few halting steps toward the door of the outhouse.
“Hurry up,” the man said, and reached out and yanked the door
open.
Davey stared into the gloom of the interior. There was no potty,
just a bench with a dark oval hole. It smelled bad.
“I have to go potty.”
“This is it. Get in there.”
Davey took a step back, staring at the dark hole. As he watched, a
large brown spider, disturbed by the commotion, scurried across the
wooden surface and down into the hole.
The man grabbed his arm and yanked him forward again.
“Get in there,” he said angrily.
Storm Front 123
“I’m afraid.”
“Look you little rich brat, get the hell in there.”
“No,” Davey said, panic rising in him.
“Yes,” the man snarled. He grabbed Davey’s arm and dragged
him to the door and up over the threshold, Davey whimpering and
resisting all the way, tears flooding his cheeks. “Now get in there and do
your business.”
“I want my mommy,” Davey said, his voice becoming a wail.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man said. He grabbed Davey’s pajama
bottom with one hand, his other around Davey’s wrist like a vise, and
yanked the pajamas down. “There. Now do your goddamn business.”
He thrust Davey toward the seat and slammed the door shut.
Sure that the spider was on his exposed skin in the darkness,
Davey screamed and threw his body against the door. It didn’t budge. He
felt the spider on him and screeched again in terror, his mind slipping
toward hysteria.
Suddenly the door flew open. Davey stumbled out into the light
and landed face down in the dirt.
The man’s beefy hand reached down and yanked Davey up by his
pajama top then slapped him hard with the other, snapping Davey’s head
back, “Shut the fuck up,” the man hissed, his face red with rage.
Davey had never felt such pain. He screamed again.
“Shut the fuck up, you little brat,” the voice said again, but Davey
was past hearing it. Another blow fell and then a hand clapped across his
mouth. Davey writhed with the strength of pent-up panic but the hand
held him firm.
“Shut the fuck up!” the man yelled and raised his hand to hit
Davey again—but suddenly let him go.
Tumbling to the ground, Davey blinked through his tears to see the
two men grappling, the nice man pulling at the bad man’s arm.
“Stop, Creight, stop,” the man yelled.
The bad man easily tossed the other away and Davey cringed in
anticipation of more blows, but the bad man simply stood glaring at the
other, chest heaving.
“What are you doing, man?” the nice man said.
“Fuckin’ brat won’t shut up,” the bad man said.
“‘Course not, with you hittin’ him. You can’t treat a kid that way.”
“He wouldn’t go.”
“So then let him be.”
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“Goddamn Jew bastard prima donna.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“Well, I don’t like them none neither.”
“Let’s just feed him and get him hid.”
The nice man came over and lifted Davey into his arms.
“Come on son, it’s all right now. You can go later. Let’s have
some food.”
An hour later, the two men entered the back room of the cabin,
Anders in the lead holding a Coleman lantern, Stitchard following
carrying Davey’s inert body. The glare of the lantern illuminated a
windowless log-walled room with a corrugated steel roof sloping down to
a low rear wall where a half dozen five gallon gasoline cans were lined up
on either side of a squat plank door. Bunk beds were built onto the side
walls, each with a black trunk at its foot. A few feet from the back wall,
the plank floor had been cut to accommodate a small coffin-like box built
below floor level. A “lid” made of the cut floor planks lay beside it.
“Goddamn beans and bread,” Anders grumbled, as he hung the
lantern from a wire hook hanging from the ceiling. “What kind of meal is
that for a man to eat?”
“Without a fire it ain’t easy,” Stitchard said. “That Sterno will heat
stuff up but you can’t really cook with it.”
“Why the hell can’t we have a fire? We’re supposed to be up here
fishin’ and if we were we’d have a goddamn fire in the stove, now
wouldn’t we?”
“Butler says we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves if we can
help it.”
“Butler,” Anders said with disgust. “Man thinks he knows
everything. Well, I’ll tell you somethin’. What if the FBI does find us? If
you ask me, it’ll look mighty suspicious if we don’t have a fire and hot
food.”
“Yeah. Well, when you see him you can tell him you think he’s
full of shit.”
Stitchard knelt by the opening and gingerly laid the boy in it, then
slipped the sleeping bag around his body.
“I sure hope he don’t wake up. He’ll sure enough freak.”
“Fuck him. Do him good to experience a little adversity in life.
Besides, he won’t. He’s got enough sedative in him to choke a horse.”
“I hope not too much.”
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“Man, you’re like an old woman. Butler figured it all out, based
on his age, body weight, all that. He should be out at least eight hours.”
“Yeah, but Butler’s no doctor.”
“So now who’s doubting the almighty one? And anyway, what do
we care? If the little fuck dies it’s less trouble for us.”
“I care. I ain’t bein’ a party to no murder of an innocent kid.
Takin’ him to get some money’s one thing.”
“First off, he ain’t innocent, he’s a Jew, a rich bloodsucker of a
Jew. Second, kidnapping’s just as bad as murder in the eyes of the law,
and if you think they’re gonna go easy on us for takin’ one of their own, I
want some of what you’re smokin’.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about that. I’m talkin’ about makin’ sure this kid
gets back safe to his family.”
“Family minus one, you mean,” Anders said with a smug smile.
“Yeah. That wasn’t supposed to happen neither.”
“You think this is a picnic we’re on?”
“Wasn’t nobody supposed to be killed, no women or kids,
anyway.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens. And one less Jew bitch ain’t nothin’ to
cry about.”
“She wasn’t even Jewish.”
“No?”
“No. She was raised Baptist in Texas. I read it somewheres.”
“Then she deserved to die, for breedin’ with a Jew.”
“I still wish it hadn’t happened.”
“You worry too much. Put the lid on the box and let’s get the hell
out of here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Seventy-five miles away, Oren Tebo sat in his cruiser outside
Paulette’s Kitchen on Route 37 in Hogansburg, the town just off the
reservation. Through the plate glass window he could see an assortment
of grizzled white men, farmers and truck drivers mostly, though judging
by the vehicles in the lot, a roofer and a septic company crew, too,
drinking their coffee and eating their eggs and bacon with hash browns
and white toast or maybe pancakes and sausage. A waitress in a white
blouse moved from table to table. There were no Indians that he could
see. They would be at Connie Creek’s.
A dark sedan pulled in and an authoritative-looking, clean cut
white man wearing jeans and a tan windbreaker got out. He was carrying
a briefcase.
Has to be my boy, Oren thought. No suit, thank God. Oren got
out as the man headed toward the cruiser.
“Tebo?” the man said.
“Agent Jenkins?”
They shook.
“Shall we go inside?” Oren asked.
“I’d just as soon get under way,” Jenkins said. “Every minute
counts.”
“Fine. We’ll leave your car here. You can brief me as we go.”
As they drove onto the reservation, Jenkins essentially repeated
what Oren had already been told. That an Indian amulet believed to be
Mohawk had been found near the helicopter used to kidnap the Skolnick
boy. That the kidnappers’ note suggested hostility to the federal
government.
“Have you got the amulet with you?” Oren asked.
“No, it’s at the lab. I’ve got a photo, though.” Jenkins produced it
from his briefcase.
Oren examined it while he drove.
“It’s Mohawk, all right. But it’s the kind of thing you can get
anywhere. We can check at the gift shop later.”
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“Where are we headed now?”
“The home of Billy Swamp. He’s the head of the Warriors.”
“You figure it was them?”
“Frankly, I don’t figure it was any of my people, but he’s a logical
person to talk to. Latham was no Mohawk, nor is there any evidence the
others were.”
“Well, loyalty is a wonderful thing, but these Warriors have shown
their willingness to be violent in the past. We’ve got a file on them a mile
thick. Including your friend Swamp.”
“In some circumstances and over some things they can be violent,
yes.”
“You mean, like gambling.”
The agent was looking at Oren. Oren stared straight ahead.
“I mean like self-determination,” he said, consciously keeping his
tone level. He found it hard to believe the FBI had sent this jerk to come
with him on the interviews―but then again, Custer was unavailable.
“We received a report they were up in arms over the death of this
Rodney Boots. I figure maybe Boots was down in Gilsum working on the
kidnapping and something went wrong. Maybe he had a falling out with
his fellow conspirators.”
“Rodney couldn’t conspire his way out of a paper bag.”
“Yeah, but the Warriors could, and he was one of them, wasn’t
he?”
“Yes, but they wouldn’t use Rodney to handle something heavy
like that. And what would the Warriors want with Harvey Skolnick’s
son?”
“Oh, come on, Tebo. Money, what else? These Warriors have big
plans to resurrect the glories of the Mohawk empire, don’t they? That
takes money.”
“It’s not their style. They’re more into open confrontation―and
wouldn’t be likely to work with whites on anything.”
“Times change.” He looked over at Tebo. “I just hope you’re
keeping an open mind on this thing.”
“Yes, one of us should,” Oren said.
Jenkins’ eyes narrowed, but he only said, “So is this Swamp likely
to talk to us?”
“If he’s approached properly.”
“Do you think he might resist? Is he armed?”
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“Of course he’s armed. Every man on this reservation is armed
one way or another, but that’s not the point. All he has to do to resist is
refuse to cooperate.”
“Can’t you lean on him?”
“That’s just what I don’t want to do.”
“Then let me. I’ll play the bad guy.”
“That would be a disaster.”
“You seem awfully intent on handling these guys with kid gloves.
I mean, I know they’re your people and all, but we’ve got a serious
situation on our hands. This is no time for community relations.”
Oren suddenly swerved the car to the side of the road and braked
to a halt. He fixed a steely stare on his companion.
“Agent Jenkins, that is exactly what it is time for. Because it is an
urgent situation and we’ve got no time for macho bullshit. The last thing
we need to do is get people’s backs up by throwing our weight
around―weight, incidentally, that you don’t have since this is sovereign
Indian territory.”
“That’s not entirely clear.”
“We have no time to debate or engage in showdowns over
sovereignty. If you’ve read the files you know the last one lasted over
three weeks with barricades and the whole bit. We need information, if
there’s any to be had, and fast. And the best way for us to get that is for
you let me handle things in the way I deem best. Capiche?”
Jenkins ground his jaw but said nothing.
“Agent Jenkins, are you with me on this?”
Jenkins stared out the windshield.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Billy Swamp and his wife Sally lived hard against the St.
Lawrence River in a new double-wide trailer he had purchased with his
salary from the Mohawk Castle. At Tebo’s knock, he came to the door.
He was dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Inside, the television
blared. He stepped outside when he saw who it was.
Oren introduced Jenkins and outlined why they had come, handing
Swamp the photo of the amulet when he came to that part, Swamp staring
impassively at Tebo throughout.
When Oren finished, Swamp handed the photo of the amulet back
to him.
“This means nothing. Anyone could buy this at the gift shop. I’ve
got one hanging on my truck mirror.”
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“I know.”
“And this is what makes you think the Warriors were involved in
the kidnapping of a child?”
The roar of a powerboat making its way up the river was suddenly
very loud.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t think that,” Oren said. “But the
possibility that members of the tribe were involved has to be investigated
under the circumstances.”
Swamp considered Tebo’s statement then said, “So what do you
want to know?”
“Where were you yesterday?” Jenkins asked.
Tebo frowned and held up his hand to foreclose any response from
Swamp.
“Excuse me, Agent Jenkins, but this is Mohawk territory and I will
conduct the interviews. That was the express understanding between your
office and mine. When I am done, if there are any points you think
haven’t been addressed you may feel free to bring them to my attention.”
He addressed Swamp again.
“Billy, what can you tell me?”
“The Warriors aren’t involved.”
“What about members of the Warriors or other members of the
tribe?”
“I don’t think so. I would have heard. It couldn’t be kept secret.”
Oren nodded.
“Ask him about the Boots thing,” Jenkins said.
Tebo frowned again, but said, “What about Rodney’s death?”
“What about it?”
“Could there be a connection?”
“Between Rodney’s death and the kidnapping?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe the reason Rodney was in Gilsum was to plan the
kidnapping and there was some sort of falling out,” Jenkins said.
“On the news, they said the Skolnick estate was near Indian Lake,”
Billy said. “That has to be at least seventy miles from here and fifty from
Gilsum. If Rodney was involved in the kidnapping why would he be in
Gilsum?”
“The helicopter used to transport the boy was found near Upper
Chateaugay Lake,” Jenkins said.
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“That’s still a long way from here.”
“But close to Ganienkeh.”
Oren looked at Jenkins in surprise. Ganienkeh was the name given
to a 700 acre Mohawk enclave in Clinton County, New York. Ganienkeh
had been established in the early 70’s when the Warriors had seized an
abandoned Girl Scout camp near Moss Lake that they claimed was on land
never legally obtained from the Mohawks. A settlement had been reached
whereby New York State traded state land in Clinton County for the
seized land. Billy Swamp had played a central role in the takeover and
settlement.
“Many things are near many things,” Billy said. “It means
nothing.”
“So you say,” Jenkins said. “But there’s more. We have reason to
think the kidnappers passed through the Gilsum area after they abandoned
the chopper.”
Billy shot Oren a look of ill-disguised impatience.
“You are wasting your time,” he said to Oren. “I know nothing
about this. The Warriors were not involved.”
“Fair enough, but I’d like to speak to some of the others.”
“Do what you want.”
“Do you know who’s around today?”
Billy Swamp’s face stiffened.
“I have no idea,” he said curtly.
“Well, will you tell them we may be coming around to speak to
them?”
“Helping whites investigate our people is your job not mine.”
“Billy, if the Warriors aren’t involved the best thing is for them to
talk to us voluntarily. We don’t need trouble.”
“Seems like we already have that. Seems like we always have
that.”
“Yes, well, we don’t need any more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sarah sat in her office, the morning’s fourth cup of coffee on the
desk in front of her, although two was her usual limit. The hours since she
had learned about the kidnapping at The Birches had been distressing
ones. She had called Jim Flaherty the previous day to give him the results
of some blood tests, only to find her call routed to an FBI agent who told
her that a serious incident had occurred and asked her to drive down for an
interview immediately. When Sarah had asked about the nature of the
“incident”, the agent had informed her that she was not at liberty to
discuss that over the phone.
“Please,” Sarah had said, “Is Jim hurt?”
There was no answer.
“Please,” she repeated.
“Jim Flaherty is fine,” the agent said at last.
She had canceled her appointments and driven to The Birches to
find that its bucolic quiet had been replaced by a maelstrom of activity. At
the gate, a uniformed deputy directed her to the main lodge where another
deputy met her and escorted her along one of the covered walkways to a
guest cabin. There, she was interviewed by a female FBI agent whose
inquiries focused on Sarah’s background and connection to The Birches.
The agent also asked about a man she had never met named Latham.
“But what’s happened?” she had finally asked.
“David Skolnick has been kidnapped,” the woman said. “Mrs.
Skolnick is dead.”
She had headed straight for the stables, pausing to note that Rick’s
helicopter was not on the pad. That surprised―and disappointed―her.
Walking back from the guest cabin, she had seen a man she thought was
Harvey Skolnick through the glass walls of the building they called the
dining pavilion. Usually, when Mr. Skolnick was on the estate, Rick was
too.
Johnson 132
Jim was nowhere to be found. Instead she found a man in an FBI
jacket searching Jim’s quarters.
“Do you know where Mr. Flaherty is?” she asked after explaining
who she was.
“He said he would be at the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“In Glens Falls. He’s waiting for the pilot to come out of surgery.”
“The pilot? Rick Benton?”
“Yes. He was shot.”
She drove to the hospital in a state of shock, at Staci’s Skolnick’s
death and Davey’s kidnapping to be sure, but even more at the thought of
Rick lying in a hospital bed on the edge of death.
Jim was in the waiting room of the intensive care unit, looking
haggard and worn, his usual welcoming smile replaced by an expression
of relief at finding a familiar face in the valley of his despair.
“Any word?”
He shook his head.
“He’s in surgery. That’s all they’ll tell me.”
“How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. He tried to stop them. He was shot. Several
times.”
Sarah was struck by how despondent Flaherty seemed.
“Jim, are you all right?”
“Just tired, I guess.”
“Maybe you should sit down.”
She led him over to a bench upholstered in garish orange vinyl.
“I should have been there,” he said. He spoke so quietly Sarah
could barely make out the words.
“Been there?”
“Yes. Been there. To help Rick. To help Mrs. Skolnick. And
little Davey.”
“I don’t understand. Where were you?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
Sarah shook her head.
“He―Latham―drugged me. In the wine. I drank it like an old
fool. Like an Irish drunk.”
“There was no way for you to know.”
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“I slept through it,” he said, his voice filled with shame. “They
didn’t even have to tie me up. And now little Davey gone, suffering God
knows what, Mrs. Skolnick dead, and Rick shot.”
“You couldn’t have stopped them. Rick didn’t.”
“At least he tried.”
“And you would have if you could. I know that―and you do too.
Now, let’s see if we can’t wrest some information from these nurses. All
right?”
He answered with a wan smile.
“Sure. Let’s. It’s about time I stopped feeling sorry for myself.”
He smiled again and stood up with an air of one who had put something
behind him.
It was a good show, Sarah thought―but not quite good enough to
convince. She suspected there would be many sleepless nights for Jim
Flaherty in the days ahead.
They hadn’t gotten any news then, but later when Rick had come
out of surgery the news had been good, very good. He had been shot three
times, all in the legs, the bullets almost miraculously missing
bone―causing tremendous loss of blood but little permanent damage. He
also had a concussion and a nasty gash on the side of the head where he
had been struck by one of the kidnappers, and his wrists were badly
lacerated, but nothing time and bed rest (and a few dozen stitches)
wouldn’t heal.
Still later, when Rick awoke and she and Jim had gone to see him,
Sarah’s joy at seeing him alive had almost overwhelmed her. And when
the nurse ushered them out a short time later, she had resolved that when
Rick was up and about there would be no more wasting time between
them. If he still wanted her, he could have her, and she would let the cards
fall where they might.
But now she sat at her desk, radio on for news about the
kidnapping (there had been no reported progress), trying to do some
billing but hopelessly distracted. She wanted to be back at the hospital
with Rick, but she had an appointment at the Dawsons later that morning
and another in Tupper Lake after lunch. And although she had been
tempted to cancel them, her sense of duty―and the knowledge that Rick
was out of danger―had pushed her to the more responsible course of
waiting to go to the hospital when her appointments were through.
Johnson 134
She pulled a map of the Park out of the drawer and stared at it.
Gilsum at ten, figure an hour, hour and a half there, then Tupper Lake at
two. Time to kill, but not enough to make it worth returning to the office.
Perhaps a drive. But to where?
If she turned right after she left Dawson’s, it would take her down
toward Loon Lake where she could pick up Route 3 to Saranac Lake. If
she turned left, it would take her west toward Smyrna where she could
take something called Deep Woods Club Road to Meacham Lake and
Route 30 and from there head south toward Tupper Lake.
Smyrna rang a bell. Why? Then she had it. The man with the
German Shepherd puppy, Raymond Butler, lived there. And his pup was
overdue for his next series of shots. She’d seen it on the tickler just the
other day, but had no way to reach him. She scanned the map more
closely. She didn’t remember the name of the road he lived on offhand
but she was sure she would recognize it if she saw it on the map. She did.
Pittman Road. A dirt road that came off the Deep Woods Club Road
about two miles outside of Smyrna and twisted its way through the
mountains for five miles before hitting another county road further to the
west.
Perfect. She could kill some time and get something accomplished
too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Davey was at the beach with his friend Oliver talking to Mr.
Giggles, the clown who’d been at his birthday party, when a hand shook
him awake.
“Wake up now, Davey,” a voice was saying.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He felt very sleepy. The skinny man
was leaning over him, kneeling on the floor of the cabin.
“Come on, son, it’s time for you to get up and get something to eat.
Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
He shook his head. He didn’t, but even if he did, he wouldn’t
want to go back to the house where the spider lived.
“All right, but I’m sure you must be hungry, so let’s get you out of
there.”
He reached out his hand and helped Davey into a sitting position.
“That’s it. Take it nice and slow.”
“Quit babying him,” a gruff voice said.
It was the bad man. He was standing in the doorway to the room,
like a great bear disguised in a man’s clothes.
Davey shrank back.
“It’s all right, Davey. He won’t bother you. His bark’s a lot worse
than his bite.”
“Believin’ that could get you in a whole lot of trouble, son,” the
bad man said.
Davey didn’t understand what the men were saying. Did the bad
man really bite? Davey stared at the bad man’s mouth trying to see if his
teeth were pointed and sharp―like a bear’s.
“Why don’t you take a walk or something?” the skinny man said.
“You trying to tell me what to do?”
“No, I just don’t see the point in gettin’ the kid all riled up. That
ain’t gonna help nothin’.”
“What ain’t gonna help nothin’ is you babyin’ him and makin’ him
think he can get away with anything like he’s still in his big mansion with
Johnson 136
his servants and all.” He suddenly walked over to where Davey sat and
leaned over the other man to shove his face near Davey’s.
“Hey, kid. Your mother’s dead, you know that? Ain’t nothin’
bringin’ her back.” He grinned at Davey―and Davey saw yellow teeth
like fangs.
The skinny man twisted and pushed the other away as Davey
started to cry. He wanted his mommy.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” the nice man said.
The bad man laughed.
“Just teachin’ him about the real world. She’s dead, he might as
well know it. He’ll get over it. Hell, my old lady died when I was six and
my old man didn’t have a billion dollars. I survived.” The smile dropped
from his face and he smacked the other man on the back of the head.
“And don’t push me. You do it again and you may not live to tell the
tale.”
He stared at the nice man.
“You read me?”
The nice man turned back to Davey.
“I said, you read me?”
The bad man gave the other a kick in the back.
The nice man nodded.
“I read you,” he said quietly.
The bad man started to leave but stopped.
“What the fuck is that smell?”
Davey smelt it now too, and fear shot through him. He must have
made tinkle in his pants. Even Bridget got mad at him for that.
The nice man reached out and felt Davey’s pajama pants.
“He wet himself,” he said. “I’ll have to change him.”
“Hell, no, you ain’t gonna change him. He coulda gone last night
but he wouldn’t, so now he can just face the consequences.”
““But he’s just a little kid.”
“A little brat is what he is. Leave him lay in it.”
“But I gotta get him up anyway. We can’t have him eatin’ his
breakfast like that.”
“Don’t feed him then. He won’t starve before we’re done with
him anyhow.”
“But . . .”
The bad man walked back and kicked the nice man in the back
again.
“Are you messin’ with me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The call came in at 8:32 a.m. and lasted exactly three seconds.
“Check the Land Rover again,” a male voice said.
Ganz’s mouth was a grim line when the message was relayed.
“God damn it,” he said to Kincaid. “Go get it. Then I want that
vehicle torn down.”
The note was in the windshield washer this time, in a plastic bag
taped to the bottom of the reservoir which had then been refilled.
Harvey was trying futilely to get some rest in his bedroom when
the agent came to get him, lying rigid on the four-poster bed that had once
been Ezekiel Fripp’s own. Amazingly, the bed’s posts were made of
whole stunted trees stripped bare of bark, their branches forming a
twigwork canopy overhead. A stuffed screeched owl sat on one of the
branches. In the past the owl had amused him, symbolic as it was of the
sometimes over-the-top fascination the owners of the Great Camps had
with all things rustic. Now, it seemed to glare at Harvey balefully, a
harbinger of doom.
“You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” Ganz said to Harvey.
“He’s trying to shake your confidence in us, so you’ll do what he says.”
“Yes, well, he’s doing an effective job of it. How did he know
which note you would find first? Or was the second one planted
afterward?”
“No, there’s no way they planted it afterward. It was there. He
just guessed we’d look in the air cleaner before the washer reservoir and
stop looking once we’d found it. Reasonable assumptions. Not a sign of
genius.”
“Smart enough.”
Ganz frowned, “Well, let’s see what smart boy has to say this
time.”
He extracted the note from the envelope and unfolded it on the
table.
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“For your son’s sake, you hopefully have the money situation well
under control. Delivery will take place tomorrow. If it does, your son will
be returned to you unharmed. Remember: this is strictly business. We
have no desire to hurt your son. Mode of delivery will be
helicopter―your helicopter, piloted by your pilot, Rick Benton, no one
else on board―leaving from your helipad. The chopper is to be fully
fuelled and equipped as is―no FBI additions, no tracking devices.
Instructions for delivery will be communicated at 0900 hours tomorrow.
The Adirondack region is to be cleared of all lowflying aircraft as of 0600
hours. Any aircraft seen will be assumed to be government, and your son
will die. Any tricks, your son dies. We are watching.”
Kincaid spoke first.
“He’s military.”
“Seems possible,” Ganz replied. “Maybe that’s where he met
Latham. Of course, maybe he just wants us to think that.”
“But what are we going to do?” Harvey interrupted. “Rick’s in the
hospital. We have to tell them somehow.”
“We could just do a substitution,” Kincaid said. “We must have
someone who could pass.”
Ganz nodded. “Could be.”
“But if they don’t know it and they see it’s not Rick, they’ll think
it’s a trick,” Harvey said. “We can’t do that.”
“I wonder why they want Benton,” Kincaid said.
“They want someone with no law enforcement training, would be
my guess,” Ganz said.
“Maybe we could negotiate a replacement.”
“First, we’d have to reach them.”
“We can do that,” Harvey said excitedly. “I’ll buy time on radio
and TV. Every station in the area.”
“The thing is,” Ganz said, “they undoubtedly already know
Benton’s in the hospital. The letter was drafted beforehand. We may hear
from them. They don’t want things to go wrong either. They want the
money. Benton’s injury may actually be a break for us. It messes up their
plans and gives us an opportunity to put a trained man in.”
The public phone in beautiful downtown Beaver Meadow was
outside what was once Smith’s General Store, an establishment
identifiable as such by the faded sign hanging crookedly over the rotting
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front steps. As its name suggested, Beaver Meadow was a town that had
seen its heyday, such as it was, one hundred years earlier, when beaver fur
was fashionable and the animals that had the misfortune to bear it were
still plentiful. Smith’s General Store had given up the ghost years earlier,
but the public phone still worked. It was one of several Butler used when
he needed to make calls. With a glance at the handful of run-down houses
that made up the remainder of the village, Butler pulled his van up next to
the ancient booth.
So far, things were going well, Butler thought with satisfaction.
The killing of the wife hadn’t been planned, but was a contingency well
within the parameters of the operation’s design. The wounding of the
pilot was more problematic but the reports from the hospital were
encouraging. Flesh wounds only, nothing to stop Benton from fulfilling
his appointed role.
The news was good on other fronts too. The reports from his men
were that the agents of ZOG had indeed withdrawn or at least scaled back
their investigation. And if those were the reports, it was undoubtedly true.
It was tough for outsiders to move around the north country unnoticed.
God knows they had been obvious enough before, despite their day-old
beards and the junk cars they’d gotten from somewhere.
Butler glanced at his watch. Jared’s call had presumably gone
through forty-five minutes earlier. Enough time for the FBI to have found
the second letter of instructions. Time for him make his call. It was a bit
of a risk, but he wanted to make sure they knew that Benton’s presence
would still be required.
The phone rang. Harvey picked it up as the recorder whirred. He
listened briefly, cried out, “But wait!”, then slowly put the receiver down.
“He said they know Benton’s well enough to fly. He said they’d
kill Davey if we substituted someone else.”
Rick was drifting with the painkillers and basking in the sun
streaming through his hospital room window. Thinking about Sarah.
Wondering when she’d return—she’d said sometime this afternoon. He’d
sensed a change in her attitude toward him. A relaxing of the guard she’d
put up between them. He hoped it wasn’t simply because he was hurt. It
had been an intoxicating feeling.
There was a noise at the door. Harvey Skolnick entered the room,
another man trailing behind, one Rick had never seen. An FBI agent, he
presumed.
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Harvey appeared to have aged ten years. There were bags under
his eyes and he somehow looked unshaved even though his jaws were
clean.
“Hello, Rick,” he said with an attempt at a smile that came out
more like a grimace.
“Hello, Harve.”
They regarded each other somberly.
“I was sorry to hear about Staci, Harve. I know how much you
loved her. Any word on Davey?”
“Some, Rick. That’s why I’m here―no, that’s not what I mean. I
mean―”
Rick raised his hand to stop him. “I know what you mean, Harve.
Davey’s the important thing now.”
“Yes, and the thing is, I’ve got to ask you something, for you to do
something for me and for Davey. But I need you to be honest with me
too, because if you can’t do it, you have to let me know, and then we’ll
deal with that somehow.”
“Harvey, you know I would do anything for you or Davey.”
“I appreciate that Rick, but that’s why you have to be straight with
me.”
“What is it?”
“They want you to deliver the money.”
“Me?”
“By helicopter.”
“Why me?”
The other man spoke. “Rick, my name is Ganz. Special Agent
Ganz, FBI, agent in charge of the investigation. We assume they want
someone with no police training.”
“They know I’m hospitalized?”
Ganz nodded.
“They’re convinced you’re well enough to fly.”
Rick thought for a moment.
“I think they’re right. When?”
“Rick, are you sure?” It was Harvey.
“I’m positive. I was looking for a way to check out of this fleabag
anyway.”
Ganz spoke. “The doctors say it’s possible, although they want to
check you again, but we have to be sure. Having you crash will not be
helpful.”
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“I haven’t crashed a bird yet. Will I be using my machine?”
“Yes.”
“Is it running all right? I seem to remember throwing some lead its
way.”
“It’s fine,” Ganz said. “Our people flew it back from where the
kidnappers left it.”
“When do I go?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When Sarah pulled in, Jack Dawson was standing in the barnyard
as if he had been waiting for her.
“Good morning,” she said, as she got out of her car.
“Good morning.”
He looked different for some reason, but it took Sarah a few
seconds to figure out why: he was smiling, his dark eyes shining.
“Is your dad around?”
A momentary cloud crossed Dawson’s face, but then he brightened
and said, “No, he’s down to the Agway. You’re stuck with me.”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to do,” Sarah said and smiled
broadly to make sure he knew she was teasing.
An hour later, they were standing in the barnyard again.
“Things look good, Jack,” Sarah was saying. “We’re not out of the
woods yet, but there’s reason to be optimistic. The disease doesn’t seem
to be spreading.”
“That’s good to hear―and Dad will be real pleased. He’s been
mothering these cows round the clock.” He hesitated as if he had
something more to say, but fell silent.
Sarah wondered what was on his mind. He hadn’t said much while
she examined the cows, just answered her questions and responded to her
comments, but there had been a different quality to their exchanges. He
seemed less tense, more at ease―or better, like he was intent on being
more at ease. As if he was determined to put their relationship on a
friendlier footing. Well, Sarah was all for that.
“Well, I guess I’ll head on down the road,” she said, opening the
door of the Jeep. “It was nice seeing you, Jack.” She said it in a serious
way, trying to make him see that she meant it.
“Uh, Sarah. I was wondering . . .” He faltered then started again.
“You know Sarah, what I was wondering was whether maybe you’d like
to go out sometime. I mean, I know I’m just a farmer and all and you’re
an educated woman, but there’s not so many men around these parts that
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are as educated as you and well, I just thought that maybe we could do
something sometime, it wouldn’t have to mean anything serious, you
know, like go to a movie or out to dinner or something like that.”
While he was speaking Jack’s face had slowly turned bright red.
He was now staring at Sarah with a fixed intensity that was almost painful
to see.
With a start Sarah realized that she was staring back in amazement.
Jack Dawson asking her out―fumbling about like a teenager, but asking
her out all the same. Sarah wondered what incredible reservoir of will
power he had called upon to bring himself to commit what Sarah was sure
he considered a painful act of exposure.
But there lay the problem. If she declined, Jack might take it as a
humiliation, one their relationship might never recover from. And yet
decline she must, given her newly acknowledged feelings about Rick. The
funny thing was, if Jack had asked her out just a week earlier, the situation
would have been completely different. For all his gruffness, she had
always seen him as attractive.
“I can’t, Jack. I’d love to but I’m already committed to another
relationship.”
“You’re in love with someone else?” He spoke as if this were a
possibility he had never considered.
“Yes,” Sarah declared. “I’m in love with someone else,”―and
thrilled at speaking the words aloud.
“Oh,” Jack said in a deflated tone.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said.
“Yeah, me too,” Jack said and once again Sarah was struck by the
sense that asking her out had been a big deal for him, something he’d been
working up to for a long time.
“And Jack, those things you said about being uneducated and just
being a farmer―that’s crazy. You’re not uneducated, you just didn’t go to
college and get a degree. And as for being a farmer―well, personally I
think being a farmer is one of the best things any man or woman can be.
And any woman who doesn’t see that isn’t worth having.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Jack said, blushing once more. Then obviously
eager to shift the focus off himself, said, “So, where are you off to now?”
“Well, I have an appointment at two in Tupper Lake, so I thought
I’d swing by a client in Smyrna. He’s got a German Shepherd puppy
overdue for shots but no phone so I can’t call him. Maybe you know
him―Raymond Butler?”
Jack shook his head.
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“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said.
“I’ll see you soon,” Sarah said.
When John Dawson arrived home, he found Jack working on the
baler in the equipment shed.
“Did the doc come?”
“Just left,” Jack said, straightening and grabbing a rag from the
workbench to wipe his hands.
“And?”
“Like we figured. No new cases.”
“I wished I’d gotten here sooner. There were a couple things I
wanted to ask her.” He looked at his watch. “Well, she should be back in
her office in a little while. How long ago did she leave, would you say?”
“No more than ten minutes. But she’s not going back to her office.
She’s got an appointment over to Tupper Lake this afternoon and on the
way she was going to drop in on a client in Smyrna whose puppy is
overdue for shots.”
“Smyrna?”
“Yeah. Some guy has a German Shepherd puppy over there but no
phone.”
The older man stared at Jack.
“A German Shepherd?”
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Did she mention a name?”
“Yeah, she asked if I knew him. A guy named Butler.”
Jack studied his father curiously.
“Pop, what’s wrong?”
“And she was going there from here? Does he know she’s
coming?”
“No, I got the impression she was just going to drop in.”
The older man frowned.
“Jack, we’ve got to stop her.”
“Stop her?”
“Yes. Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”
As they exited the barn, Jack was surprised to see his father head
for the house rather than the pickup that sat parked in the yard.
“Where are you going?” he asked, following.
“I think we had better take a gun, just in case.”
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“In case what?”
“In case there’s trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Jack’s father paused at the storm door that led to the kitchen.
“I’ll explain everything in the truck. Now let’s not get your
mother alarmed.”
How they were going to accomplish that was not clear to Jack.
Jack’s mother was in the kitchen washing dishes as they passed
through on their way to the office where the gun case stood.
“I thought I heard you drive in,” she said as they entered, turning
from the sink to give them a welcoming smile.
“Yeah, I just got back,” John said without pausing.
They went into the office where Jack’s father opened the glass
door to the gun cabinet and took out two twelve gauge pump shotguns.
He handed them to Jack before opening the drawer at the bottom of the
cabinet and removing a box of shells.
“This should do it,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Jack’s mother hadn’t moved.
“Where are you going with those guns?” she asked in wonderment.
“Bunch of crows in the corn,” Jack’s father said. “ ’Bout time we
sent ’em a message.”
“Crows?”
“Yeah, you know―large, black birds.” He smiled, then headed for
the door, Jack at his heels, eyes down, afraid to meet his mother’s eyes.
His father opened the door, but stopped so that Jack almost ran into
him and walked back to where his wife stood.
“We’ll be right back,” he said. He kissed her gently on the cheek
and walked quickly out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Smyrna wasn’t much of a town: a grocery store long out of
business, a bar that wasn’t much more than someone’s front parlor, and a
few dingy houses huddled together as if in fear of the mountains that
brooded over them. In a few seconds she was through it and the woods
closed in once more. She noted the mileage on her odometer so she would
know when she had gone two miles. She knew there would be no sign to
mark Pittman Road.
There wasn’t, but the road was easy to find, a dirt track going off
to the right 2.2 miles from the center of town. She turned onto it. It was
narrow but well maintained.
It soon became clear that the task of guessing which house was
Butler’s was going to be made easier by limited selection. She had
already driven a mile before she saw the first habitation, a rundown trailer
set close to the road with three junk cars drowned in weeds in front of it.
No way it went with the man with the neatly pressed khakis and spit
shined shoes.
The next candidate was a half mile further on, a log cabin set back
off the road in a clump of firs―a possibility until she saw the sign
identifying it as the Shattered Lake Hunting Club.
She drove on until she came upon a padlocked aluminum gate with
a Keep Out sign attached. She slowed to a halt. There was no evidence of
a house, just two sandy tracks going off into the brush at the side of the
road, but somehow she suspected she’d found what she’d been searching
for.
She sat gazing at the gate. Should she or shouldn’t she? It would
be difficult to say she was just passing by―although it was the truth more
or less―and the sign was less than inviting. And Butler did seem like a
man who valued his privacy. On the other hand, the puppy should have
had its shots.
She pulled to the side of the road and parked the car.
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There was no one home, she could tell that the instant she walked
into the yard. No green van, the house seeming still and empty. His, no
question. Four German Shepherds barking raucously in their kennel, one
of them the pup, Blondi.
She came to a halt on the grass in front of the barn, her medical
bag in her hand. She would knock but quiet the dogs first. She
approached the kennel, the dogs reaching a frenzy, angry territoriality for
the three adults, the pup merely joining in the excitement, tail awag.
Five feet from the first kennel she stopped, knelt down, and began
talking soothingly. The barking slowed then stopped. The dogs regarded
her questioningly.
“Now isn’t that better?” she said. Getting no response she
repeated, “Isn’t it?”
She stepped forward and held her hand to the fence. The first dog
stepped forward and sniffed. She continued talking. Moved to the next
kennel and repeated the process. Again at the next. Then the puppy. She
knelt and offered her hand, the pup sniffing then licking, rump moving
back and forth with the vehemence of his tailwagging.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. “Let me just go check to
make sure no one’s home and I’ll be back.”
She walked across the neatly mowed lawn, mounted the steps to
the house and knocked on the door. The house was silent, seeming not
only unoccupied but abandoned. Knocked again. Turned to head back
down the stairs but halted and walked to the window and peered in. She
could see nothing. A shade completely blocked the view. She went to the
next with the same result. He was a man who liked his privacy―or else
had a strong aversion to light.
A sound behind her.
She spun as Butler’s van pulled into the yard, a flush spreading
across her face. Had he seen her peeking in the window? He must have.
He parked the van and started across the lawn at a brisk walk. The dogs
were barking again. He silenced them with a quick command.
Sarah stepped down off the porch hoping the red had disappeared
from her cheeks.
“Hello,” she said.
Butler did not seem pleased to see her.
“I was in the area and thought I’d see how Blondi was doing. And
you too, of course.”
“How did you find this place?” he demanded brusquely.
“I just drove down the road until I saw your driveway.”
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“Drove down the road?”
“Yes, well, I had a call over in Gilsum and some time to kill before
my next appointment, and I remembered you said you lived on Pittman
Road in Smyrna so I decided to stop by. Blondi’s overdue for his next set
of shots, you know.”
He studied her appraisingly, weighing her words. His manner was
making Sarah uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on,
as if he didn’t believe her explanations of why she had come, and the more
she tried to explain the more he seemed to think she was just trying to
cover her real reasons.
She smiled uncertainly.
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
He hesitated then reached a decision. The tension went out of his
posture and he smiled.
“No, of course not,” he said. “I was just surprised that’s all. I
don’t get many visitors out here.”
The expression on Butler’s face was a strange one, Sarah thought.
Not exactly one of welcome, but not unfriendly either, more like one of
pleased but cautious surprise, a wish unexpectedly fulfilled.
“I met your dogs. They’re beautiful.”
They both looked at the dogs who stood watching expectantly.
“How’s Blondi doing?”
“I spoil him, I’m afraid.”
They walked over to the kennels. Butler opened the door to
Blondi’s kennel who raced out and jumped up on him. Butler petted the
pup then squatted down and commanded him to sit, forcing his wiggling
rump to the ground.
“Sit,” he repeated still holding his rump down. Finally, the dog
relaxed.
“Good boy,” Butler said and released him to race madly around the
yard.
Butler stood and opened the door to the next cage.
“This is Eva,” he said.
The dog stood frozen with anticipation inside the open door of the
cage.
He opened the next door.
“And this is Greta.”
Greta too stood without moving.
“And this is Hans.”
Johnson 150
“Release!” he said. All three trotted over to Sarah and sniffed her.
“They’re very well behaved,” Sarah said.
“Obedience is essential to their nature,” Butler said. “We do them
a disservice if we don’t provide them with order.”
“You know, you’re right. So many people seem to feel that if they
train a dog they’re interfering with its freedom. I don’t think that’s true.
Dogs are pack animals and need and want structure. And if you don’t
train them, it can be disastrous, I can tell you.”
“If you’ll forgive me for being sexist, I’d say it’s a rare woman
who understands that.”
“Well, I don’t know about rare, but I’d agree that women tend to
be a bit softer when it comes to discipline―although I certainly know my
share of male dog owners who can’t control their pets.” She smiled.
“Obviously, you’re not one of them.”
“Thank you. And you’re right. There’s no shortage of weak men
in this world.”
“I’m not sure it’s weakness, exactly―”
“It is,” Butler interrupted. “What else would you call those who
don’t have the will to do what needs to be done?”
“I don’t know. I think many pet owners are just misguided. They
think they’re being kind.”
“But you and I know they’re not.”
“Yes. But their hearts are in the right place.”
“And yours?”
“I hope mine is too.”
“It is, but you don’t allow it to rule your head. I respect that.” He
paused. “You know, I’m glad you came, Sarah,” Butler said. His voice
was softer.
Sarah hadn’t been focusing on Butler’s words. She had been
thinking about Rick, about how her refusal to let her heart rule her head
had driven her away from the man she loved and how she had almost lost
him. Now, she realized that something in Butler’s demeanor had shifted.
He was watching her intently, waiting for her response.
It was time to get their conversation on a more business-like plane.
“Shall we take a look at Blondi?” she said briskly.
Butler smiled as if at a private joke.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
“Now what’s going on,” Jack demanded as he drove them out to
the road.
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“It’s a long story,” Jack’s father said as if choosing his words
carefully. “And maybe nothing. But I think we had better check it out.”
“Something to do with Sarah?”
“Something to do with this guy Butler.”
“You know him?”
“He’s the head of that Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club.”
“Those militia idiots?”
“Yeah.”
“So what does that have to do with Sarah?”
John exhaled heavily. “I think something may be going on.”
“Like what?”
“You know about the Skolnick kidnapping?”
Jack nodded.
“It was on the news last night.”
“Well, a couple months ago, I was in the Sportsman and I heard
Creight Anders talkin’ about this plan Butler had for raising some big
money: they could kidnap a rich Jew and hold him for ransom.”
“The Skolnick kid?” Jack said, eyes wide.
“He didn’t name any names. He was just talking general-like. But
when I heard about this kidnapping on the radio on my way home this
morning, I began to wonder if maybe they really did do it.”
“And now you’re worried Sarah might walk in on something?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Jack said. He had been driving just slightly over the speed
limit. Now he accelerated until the speedometer stood at eighty on the
straightaways, the balding tires squealing on the sharper curves.
They rode in silence for a time before Jack said, “I don’t
understand. When you heard what they were planning, why didn’t you do
something?”
“I thought it was most likely hot air. You know Creight. And I
couldn’t imagine the other guys doing something like that. And what was
I going to do? They’re our friends—and they’d only deny it anyway.”
“Creight Anders is no friend of mine and frankly I wouldn’t put
anything past him,” Jack retorted. “Is that what you were talking to him
about that day you were plowing?”
John Dawson took a deep breath.
“No. That was about the Indian. They killed him.”
“Who, the militia?”
Johnson 152
“No, not exactly. Anders and some of the others. The Indian came
in to the Sportsman and was mouthin’ off and there was a fight and he
pulled a knife and they tried to stop him and they ended up killing him
accidentally.”
“You saw it?” Jack said incredulously.
The older Dawson reddened.
“Not exactly. I knew somethin’ was going on, but I was too far
gone to realize what. But then they told me to keep my mouth shut about
him being there that night.”
“And you did?”
“Jack, they’re our people and it was an accident, anyway.”
“How do you know? I thought you didn’t see it.”
“Well, that’s what they said.”
“And you believed them.” Jack said in a disgusted tone. His
father returned his stare with a pained expression.
“So you did nothing?”
“Jack, I felt terrible. So terrible I quit drinking after that night. I
just kept hoping the police would figure out what happened. But they
didn’t.”
They sat silently as the road unwound before them. They were
nearing Smyrna.
“You sent the letter, didn’t you?” Jack said at last.
His father nodded.
“I had to do something. I figured that way the sheriff would at
least know something wasn’t right.”
“Why didn’t you just go to them?”
Jack’s father did not reply.
“Butler’s place is up this next road,” he said finally.
“How do you know where he lives?” Jack asked as he slowed to
turn into the dirt road.
John Dawson hesitated before answering.
“I’ve been there,” he said.
“Been there?”
“Yeah,” the older man said heavily. “I went to a couple of
meetings here.”
“Militia meetings?” Jack said incredulously.
“I didn’t realize that’s what they were at first. They were more
like community meetings. It was right after Butler moved into the area
when he was just getting things organized. Somehow he’d met Creight
and Creight set up this meeting at The Sportsman. Creight said it was
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going to be about the bond act what was up then and how if the
government got the money they were gonna buy more land inside the blue
line and the more they did, the more they would regulate the private land
that was left and soon you wouldn’t be able to do anything with your own
land and, well, I’d been thinkin’ we might have to sell the farm and I
thought I ought to see what it was all about.”
“Sell the farm?” Jack said incredulously.
“Well, you know how things are. Anyway, Butler was there and
he did talk about the bond act and how the liberals were trying to run
every aspect of our lives and hell, Jack, a lot of what he said was right so I
decided to go to a couple more meetings.”
Jack’s father glanced over at him but Jack said nothing, just stared.
“After that first meeting, Butler organized smaller, private
meetings where he talked about setting up a militia so we’d be ready just
in case things came to a head―he said there was a lot of evidence that the
government was fixin’ to declare martial law―and some of those
meetings were held in Butler’s barn, invitation only. Now they’ve got a
place over to Lynx Hill.”
“I can’t believe you listened to that crap. So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not in the militia, right?”
“No. Because as time went on, I realized that this guy was just
crazy and filled with hate and after that I didn’t go any more.”
“Christ,” Jack said.
They rode in silence once again, the truck bouncing on the
unpaved surface, until, coming around a bend, they saw Sarah’s Jeep
parked at the side of the road.
“She’s here,” Jack said excitedly.
“That’s his driveway with the gate. Drive past it.”
“Why?” Jack asked.
“I think we should park up here a ways. It’ll be better if we walk
in through the woods and took a look-see before we show ourselves.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sarah was preparing a shot for Blondi using the porch as a table
when one of the dogs growled behind her. Turning, she saw that the three
adult dogs were standing at rigid attention, ears erect, staring into the
woods to the side of the house, growls rumbling in their throats. Butler
was staring in the same direction, while Blondi gnawed with puppy
ferocity at his shoe.
“Stay!” he commanded the dogs suddenly, then sprinted to the
house and disappeared inside.
Puzzled, Sarah laid the syringe down and stared at the open
doorway.
Butler reappeared carrying a rifle in his hands.
“I’ll be right back,” he said as he leapt down off the porch.
“What is it?”
“Guests,” he said over his shoulder as he headed for the corner of
the house. “Uninvited guests.”
Jack parked the truck around a bend from Sarah’s Jeep and the two
men headed into the woods, shotguns loaded, John Dawson in the lead.
Angling back toward Butler’s house, they placed their feet carefully to
minimize the noise of their passage over the bone dry duff on the forest
floor.
After a walk of several hundred yards, they at last caught a glimpse
of it, a gleam of white through the dense spruces. The woods were
preternaturally still.
The older man signaled for his son to come close.
“OK, there it is,” he whispered. “We’ve got to be real quiet. He’s
got dogs, and though the wind’s in our favor, they’ll hear us easy enough
if we’re not real careful.”
“All right,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
They crept slowly forward, moving from tree to tree, adrenaline
flowing and every sense alert.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
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In the stillness, the voice was so loud that both men jumped.
Butler stepped from behind a tree no more than thirty yards away.
He held a military-style rifle casually in his hands.
They froze.
“This is private property,” he said. “Well marked. What are you
doing here? Out for a stroll―or hunting perhaps? I see you’ve brought
guns.”
“Thought we’d see what we could see,” John Dawson said shakily.
“And what did you see?”
“Nothin’.”
“Too bad, but of course nothin’ is about all that’s in season.”
“I reckon you’re right,” John said. “We were just thinking of
heading home.”
“Were you now? The thing of it is, you’re on my property.”
“We’re sorry about that. We’ll get off.”
He made as if to walk back toward the car.
The barrel of Butler’s gun moved with him.
“Not so fast,” he said. The casual tone was gone.
Dawson halted.
“Get back next to your friend,” he said.
As the old man did, Butler walked forward.
“I know you,” he said. “You’re the farmer, the alkie. Who’s
this?”
“His son,” Jack said.
“I see. A father-son outing.” He had halted about ten yards away.
“So what am I going to do about you two?” he said almost
conversationally.
“Do?” Jack’s father said.
“Yes. Do.”
Jack spoke up. “What do you mean, what are you going to do?
You’re going to let us walk right out of here, unless you want to call the
police and report us for trespassing.”
Butler laughed.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said jovially. His smile faded. “Now,
put those weapons down.”
Neither Dawson moved.
“Do it.” Butler raised his gun to his shoulder and pointed it
directly at Jack’s face. “Now!” he barked. “Don’t make the mistake of
thinking I won’t shoot. We all know we’re not just playing games here.”
Johnson 156
Slowly, the two men leaned down and placed their shotguns on the
forest floor, watching Butler all the while.
“There,” Butler said, his tone light once more. “That’s better.
Now we can discuss this problem in a more civilized manner.”
Sarah stood dumbfounded after Butler disappeared into the trees.
The dogs were still in place staring into the woods. This visit had been a
strange one indeed. First, Butler’s almost come-on, and now this Rambo
stuff. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it―or what she should do.
Her first instinct was to leave. Pack her bag and walk right out of
there. Blondi could get his shots another day, in Sarah’s office, or better,
some other vet’s office.
On the other hand, that seemed like a ridiculous thing to do. She
was seeing a side of Butler she hadn’t seen, but he hadn’t done anything to
justify her not doing what she’d come to do and leaving in an
appropriately civilized manner.
There was the matter of the gun, but everybody had guns in these
parts and that didn’t bother her overly much even if Butler’s was a
particularly nasty-looking one. It didn’t mean he planned on using it on
whoever (or, more likely, whatever) might have gotten the dogs’ attention.
And lots of people in the north country took their privacy
seriously―paranoia and isolation made a natural partnership.
No, better to corral Blondi and give him his shots then wait for
Butler to come back and say her goodbyes. And truth be known, she was
a bit curious to find out what Butler might have snared.
Ten minutes later, Sarah was still curious. She had given Blondi
his shots, put the dogs in their kennels, and put her things back in her bag.
Now she stood peering into the woods where Butler had gone. Where on
earth was he?
She picked up her bag and headed up the drive but stopped. She
thought perhaps she had heard voices. The dogs were all facing into the
woods, ears erect. She listened but heard nothing, only the breeze in the
pines.
She took another tentative step up the drive and stopped again.
Listened. Still nothing.
She frowned.
Finally, she placed her bag on the ground, strode across the lawn
and entered the woods where Butler had disappeared.
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“Look,” Jack was saying, “We were worried about Sarah, that’s
all, and we came to see she was all right. If she is, we’ll leave and that’s
the end of it.”
“Why wouldn’t she be all right?” Butler stared at Jack, then his
father.
Jack shrugged helplessly, unable to formulate a response.
“Well, she’s fine,” Butler said with a sneer. “But that’s not the end
of it. Not by a long shot. You know too much. You’re being here proves
that.” He spoke as if thinking out loud. “No, I can’t let you go. The only
ques―”
A stick broke behind him with a loud crack. In the silence that
ensued, the steady crunch of footsteps in the dry leaves was clearly
audible. Jack and his father looked past Butler as Sarah’s form blinked
between the trees, Butler turning to follow their gaze.
Sarah slowly approached, picking her way along the rough ground,
oblivious to the men.
And then she saw them. She halted.
For an instant, everyone stood frozen―then Jack sprang into
action, rushing Butler an instant before he turned back toward the
Dawsons.
“Jack, no!” his father cried, but Jack was committed, hurling
himself at Butler as the gun’s muzzle swung toward him with a seeming
glacial slowness.
I’m going to make it, he thought, and prepared himself for the
impact of his body on Butler’s―even as he heard the roar of Butler’s gun
and felt the tug of the bullets pulling at his flesh―piling into Butler even
as darkness engulfed his consciousness, his last sensations the wet splash
of his own blood and the fading sound of Sarah’s scream.
Butler staggered under the weight of Jack’s body but kept his feet,
stumbling backward and struggling to maintain his balance.
John had picked up his shotgun and was now straightening up, the
gun waist high and pointing in Butler’s direction. As Butler watched,
transfixed, the gun bucked and a tongue of flame darted out of the end of
the barrel, followed by its booming roar. Butler flinched in anticipation of
the searing pain sure to follow, but none came.
The old fool missed, he thought in wonder, and quickly calmed
himself, watching as Dawson struggled with the pump mechanism,
drawing it back too fast in his excitement so that it jammed and he had to
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start again, finally getting a new shell chambered and bringing the gun
level―as Butler tore open his head and upper torso with three quick bursts
from the G3.
Sarah had just registered the surprising fact that the men Butler
was talking to were the Dawsons when Jack had hurled himself at Butler
and Butler had cut him down. In a total state of shock, she had stood
screaming, unable to comprehend the event.
But as John Dawson had picked up his gun, Sarah had gathered her
wits and rushed forward, intent on stopping the insanity unfolding before
her. When Dawson’s shotgun fired she stopped, expecting to see Butler
topple, a second casualty of the madness. But Butler didn’t fall. Instead,
he watched as Dawson sought to reload.
“John! No!” Sarah screamed—but it was Butler’s gun that spoke
once more.
“What are you doing!?!”
Sarah launched herself at Butler, pummeling him with her fists and
crying hysterically. “You’ve murdered them, you crazy bastard!”
Tossing his gun to one side, Butler briefly attempted to fend off
her blows then grabbed her arms and tossed her to the ground. He threw
himself on top of her, pinning her beneath him, his hands on her wrists.
Sarah struggled briefly against his weight and strength, then realizing it
was pointless, lay still, staring up into the ice of his eyes mere inches
above her, the horror of the Dawsons’ murders still fresh before her.
“Quite a little tiger, aren’t you?” Butler hissed, his breath coming
in gasps as he sought to recover from his exertions. “I thought you might
be.”
“Why did you kill them?” she said. “Why?”
“I had no choice. They were trying to interfere.”
“Interfere?”
“Yes, there are things you don’t understand―but you will.”
“Are you going to kill me too?”
He paused, considering the question.
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On you. On whether you have the ability to understand. I know
you’re shocked by what you’ve just seen. Rightly so. Death is never a
pretty thing. But sometimes it’s a necessary thing. I, and others like me,
are trying to build something.”
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“Build something?”
“A new world. A new way of life. One where women will once
again assume their rightful role as bearers of the nation’s seed, protected
by men free of the emasculating corruption of the old regime.”
Sarah didn’t really comprehend what Butler was saying, but one
thing was clear: it was exciting him. She felt him growing hard where his
abdomen lay against hers.
“There’s a revolution underway, a revolution by white Christian
men and women to throw off the chains of slavery to the minions of Satan,
and you can be in the vanguard. The new nation will need women,
women of good blood to bear the warriors of tomorrow.”
Sarah felt Butler’s erection pressing against her. Butler was crazy,
she realized―and suddenly she was no longer afraid.
“Get off me,” she commanded.
Butler looked startled but slowly complied, releasing her wrists
and pushing himself off her. He stood up then quickly turned to pick up
his gun embarrassed, Sarah was sure, by the obvious evidence of his
excitation.
She climbed to her feet as he turned back toward her.
“I know you don’t understand it all yet,” he said. “We’ll give it
some time.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. You’ve murdered two
people. Two innocent people. And no harebrained scheme for a new
world order can ever justify that. And if my life depends upon my playing
along with you in your insanity, you might as well kill me too right now.”
As she spoke, Butler’s face had colored with anger. Now he
glowered at her.
“Well, go ahead,” she said. “They can only hang you once.”
Butler continued to glare at her. Then he gestured with the barrel
of his gun in the direction of the house.
“Get moving,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Billy Swamp signaled for Brian Porter to close the doors to the
garage and for the group to come to order.
“I presume you have all heard what has happened,” Billy began,
“but I will repeat it so we all have the same understanding.
“The son of billionaire Harvey Skolnick was kidnapped from
Skolnick’s estate near Indian Lake. His wife was killed in the process.
The kidnappers escaped in Skolnick’s helicopter which was flown to the
Chateaugay Lakes area and abandoned. When the police arrived on the
scene they found a Mohawk amulet on the ground near the helicopter.
“Earlier today, Oren Tebo came to my house with an FBI agent to
ask me whether the Warriors were involved. They may have spoken to
you too. I know they spoke to Loran Mohawk and some others.”
Mohawk nodded as all heads turned toward him.
“I don’t think Oren believes we were involved, “ Billy continued.
“The FBI may. In any event, they must investigate. Each of you may hear
from them.”
There was a murmur from the group as they reacted to this
possibility.
“They have no right to question us,” Rudy Cook said angrily.
“They came to my place and I told them to get lost.”
Billy Swamp raised his hand to call for silence.
“The FBI has no right. Tebo does.”
“He works for the tribe.”
“Yes, he does,” Billy said. “And part of his job is investigating
crime.”
“Our crimes, not theirs,” Cook said.
“A crime has been committed against us,” Swamp said. “A
terrible slander. Unless, of course . . .”―he paused, surveying the
room―“one of us was involved.”
A murmur arose again.
Swamp continued.
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“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it could be kept quiet. I don’t
believe any one of us would be stupid enough to commit such an atrocity.
Nonetheless, the amulet was found.”
“What does that have to do with the Warriors?” Brian Porter asked.
“Nothing really, but the FBI apparently believes the kidnapping
might be an attempt to obtain funds for our activities. They seem to think
Rodney Boots may have been in Gilsum in connection with planning for
it.”
“Rodney?” Brian said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Apparently they have a lead that suggests that after they ditched
the chopper, the kidnappers passed through the Gilsum area on their way
into the Adirondack Park. I agree, it’s ridiculous. And since we weren’t
involved, I think it is important that we affirm that this act was not an act
of the Warriors or one we in any way condone, and cooperate fully with
Oren and the FBI, working through him, in investigating this crime.”
“Why should we help them?” Cook said. “Let the FBI think what
they want.”
As voices rose once more, Swamp said in a louder tone, “And I
think it important too that within this group each of us as individuals
swear on our blood oath that we had no knowledge or part in this crime.”
He fell silent, allowing the hubbub to crest then slowly abate.
“Who wishes to speak to this?” he asked finally.
Several men raised their hands immediately, but Swamp ignored
them.
“Loran?” he said.
Loran Mohawk had been leaning against the wall toward the back
as was his custom. He remained motionless for a few seconds more, then
thrust his weight off the wall and stood straight.
“Tell them the rest,” he said. “Then I will speak.”
Swamp nodded.
“I have also learned from my sister Mary that the FBI has
withdrawn most of their agents from the area at the insistence of the
kidnappers. Oren Tebo was informed of this several hours ago.
“It is my belief that this is an opportunity for us. If we were to find
where they are holding the boy, it would vindicate us and be a coup
worthy of our ancestors. I think we should organize into teams and search
likely places in the Park.”
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A hue and cry rose once again. Loran Mohawk stood watching for
a time then slowly strode to the front of the room where he turned and
faced the group. They fell silent.
“I believe we should do each thing that Billy Swamp has said,”
Mohawk said. “But let’s vote. I wish to see who does not agree.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Butler slid open one of the barn doors, grasped her by the elbow
and steered her roughly inside. The floor of the barn was concrete. A ten-
foot-wide central drive-through ran the length of the building to another
set of double doors at its far end. The drive-through was defined on each
side by a foot-deep manure trough notched into the cement to service the
milking stalls that flanked the drive-through along its length. The ceiling
was low, no more than seven feet, and supported by thick posts mortised
into equally ponderous crossbeams.
Butler guided Sarah over to the closest of these posts.
“Put your arms around it,” he commanded.
When she did, he leaned his gun against the wall and produced a
pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He cuffed her wrists together.
“There,” he said brightly. “Now, I have a few things I’ve got to
do, then I’ll be back. I assume your car is parked out at the gate. Where
are the keys?”
Sarah hesitated.
“Let’s not play games, Sarah. You’re too smart for that.”
“In my pocket.”
“Oops,” he said almost jovially. “We should have gotten them out
before I cuffed you. That’s how easily one can make a mistake. Well,
fortunately no harm done. Which one?”
She told him, then stood immobile as he reached into her pants
pocket, his hand like a thick and questing snake against her thigh.
“I’ll be back,” he said when he had retrieved them.
The barn door slid shut behind him.
Sarah stood in the darkness trying to come to grips with her
situation. It had all happened so fast: preparing a distemper vaccination
one minute, a witness to murder and captive of a madman the next. She
was lucky she was still alive. But she couldn’t count on her luck holding
out forever. She had to escape.
Soon.
Johnson 164
Now―while she still had the chance.
But how? She strained her wrists against the handcuffs.
Unsurprisingly, they remained locked fast. Unfortunately, there weren’t
many other possibilities for escape.
Break or open the cuffs.
Cut―no, it would have to be chew―off an arm. Trapped animals
did it all the time. She wasn’t prepared for that.
Cut or break the post. It was at least eight inches thick and she
couldn’t even use her hands. Use the handcuff chain as a saw? Maybe if
she had a week.
One other possibility. She squatted and brought her handcuffed
wrists down to where the post met the floor and twisted her hands back so
she could reach the junction. As she had feared, the post was imbedded in
the concrete. She ran her fingers along the surface of the wood. It felt
punky in places. Moisture from the concrete had rotted the base of the
post. She worked at it with a fingernail. A piece fell off.
Maybe she had a chance! She picked at the post some more,
grimacing in pain as she felt a splinter slide up under her nail. Another
chip came off. Then another. And another.
Her progress slowed as she penetrated the surface, each piece
taking more effort to dislodge. She sawed at the post with the handcuff
chain with little result. Frustration engulfed her. It wasn’t going to work!
Even if she had all day it wouldn’t work―and more likely she had a
matter of minutes.
She had ignored the growing discomfort that squatting had
produced in her knees. Now, in defeat, the pain was coming through loud
and clear. She stood and felt the burn of blood rushing back into her legs.
She lifted one to slow the blood flow. Then the other. Swung it back and
forth.
A thought occurred to her.
Pulling her leg back, she kicked the base of the post with all her
strength, grateful for the sturdy hiking boots on her feet. She kicked it
again. Dropping back into a squat, she felt the base. She couldn’t be sure,
but it felt as if the post had moved.
She stood and kicked some more, concentrating on one side now,
trying to twist the post in its moorings. She squatted again. The post was
definitely moving, the rotten wood slowly giving way under the onslaught
of her kicks.
She stood once more―and froze at the sound of a motor outside.
Her Jeep. Too late! The car door slammed and she waited for the barn
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door to open. Seconds passed. The door remained closed. He wasn’t
coming in yet!
In a frenzy, she started kicking the post again.
Ten minutes later, the post was wobbling in its moorings, half of
its thickness chopped away by her kicks. Sarah was drenched in sweat,
her breath coming in great gasps, but she was oblivious to her condition.
If she could only get it a little looser she might be able to angle it enough
to work the cuffs under it.
A sound outside. Another vehicle.
He was back!
She dropped down to check her progress. It might be enough.
She slid the handcuffs’ connecting chain under the base of the post
and sawed back and forth while pulling with all her strength―ignoring the
pain in her wrists, her labored breaths like sobs, sure at any moment he
would be there―pulling, pulling―until the cuffs came free and she
tumbled onto her back on the concrete.
She scrambled to her feet―and stood blinking in a widening bar of
blinding light. Butler stood in the open doorway, gun in hand, silhouetted
against the glare.
“Going somewhere, Sarah?” he said.
He marched her out into the yard at gunpoint. He had traded the
rifle for a snub-nosed submachine gun with an open metal stock and
protruding banana clip.
Her Jeep and the Dawsons’ pickup were parked just outside.
“Over to the van.”
Were they going someplace?
“Hold out your hands,” he said when they arrived at the driver’s
side door. He unlocked the cuffs. “Now get in.”
Sarah did. He shut the door and walked around to the passenger
side. Got in.
“Now start it―and Sarah, don’t do anything stupid. This gun will
saw you in half in a second.”
The key was in the ignition.
“Now, back it up to the porch. Nice and easy.”
She did―nice and easy. He took the keys.
“Put your hands through the wheel.”
He put the cuffs on her wrists and sat back.
Johnson 166
“All right. I have some more errands to run. You sit here and
please,”―his tone became mocking―“stay out of trouble would you? If
you honk the horn, no one will hear it but me but horns really get on my
nerves, know what I mean?”
He smiled. Sarah nodded.
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
She watched as he drove an ATV with a cart attached out of the
barn then drove her Jeep and the Dawsons’ truck into it and shut the doors.
Slinging his gun across his back, he climbed back onto the ATV, and rode
it across the lawn and into the woods.
She looked around the inside of the van. Clearly, Butler was a
man who believed in being prepared. A compass and a radar detector sat
side by side on the dashboard. A CB radio was mounted below, its mike
hanging from a clip on the ceiling. The door pockets were overflowing
with maps.
Behind the front seats, the walls of the van were lined with wooden
cabinets with labels neatly stenciled on them in black. Sarah could make
some of them out in the gloom: F/D FOOD, UTENSILS, TENTS AND
BEDDING, FLARES AND LANTERNS, TOOLS, AMMO, PAPER
GOODS, CLOTHING, FIRST AID. A pair of rifles hung in homemade
racks above the cabinets on each side. At the rear, a five gallon plastic
container labeled “water” sat on top of two others labeled “gasoline”. All
three were strapped to the wall with bungee cords.
Across from the containers, an ungainly apparatus was mounted on
a shelf halfway up the wall. Measuring about twenty-four inches across
and eighteen inches high, it had a housing of molded blue plastic, what
appeared to be a large handle on top, and below that on the main body, a
threaded cap about six inches across. A long power cord was coiled on a
hook protruding from the shelf. A black plastic hose about two inches in
diameter rose from the machine to penetrate the roof of the van. If
anything, it looked like a vacuum cleaner, but Sarah had no idea what its
purpose might actually be.
Butler reappeared less than ten minutes later. He had placed the
Dawsons’ bodies in the cart―Jack’s left hand and wrist hung limply over
one side. Butler pulled up to the barn doors, opened them and drove
inside. He reappeared a minute later on foot, holding a five gallon
gasoline can which he carried toward the house.
The van’s rear doors opened.
Storm Front 167
Sarah twisted around to see. He had set the gas can on the porch.
“Everything all right?” Butler said with mock concern.
She glared at him but said nothing. He went into the house and
returned a few minutes later carrying two plastic jugs which he placed in
one of the lower cabinets. Both jugs were labeled “POISON—DO NOT
OPEN” above a crudely drawn skull and crossbones. The way Butler
handled them, not so much carefully as reverentially, caught her attention.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“An excellent question,” he said. “That’s a little present I’m going
to give to some richly deserving people.”
“What kind of present?”
He smiled considering her question.
“I’ll tell you what. You’re a vet. Let’s try a little test of your
medical knowledge: Bacillus anthracis.”
“Anthrax.”
“Precisely. Very good. Characteristics?”
“Highly infectious. Frequently fatal.”
“Exactly. Highly infectious. Frequently fatal. Transmitted by
means of airborne spores. Almost 100% fatal after substantial exposure
with death occurring within seven days. A disease typically of cattle,
sheep and other ruminants but readily transmittable to humans.”
“That’s what’s in the containers?”
“Exactly. Two liters of Bacillus anthracis spores. An amount that
has been estimated to be enough to fatally infect many thousands of
people if dispersed within a sufficiently congested population center―Jew
York City, for example.”
“You’re not seriously considering doing that?”
“Oh, I’m not just considering it, the plans are all made. As of this
moment, they are now being put into motion. Prematurely, I would point
out, but your friends forced a change in my timetable.
He pointed to the apparatus Sarah had noticed earlier.
“Do you see this?”
“What is it?”
“An insecticide duster, available from any power equipment
supplier. All I have to do is plug it into the van’s electrical system through
this AC/DC converter, put the spores in the hopper, and let it rip. I’ve
even rigged up a remote trigger so I can operate it while I’m driving.
Who’s going to notice a van driving down Broadway at dusk with a little
dust blowing off the roof? Nobody.” He smiled with satisfaction.
Johnson 168
“You’re talking about murdering thousands of innocent people.”
“Innocent? Innocent?” His voice rose in indignation. “Who are
you talking about? The Jews? The Christ killers who pull every string of
government and business and whose sole goal is Zionist domination and
the destruction of the Aryan race? The homos who flaunt their perversion
and their repudiation of God’s laws? The black animals who rape and
pillage and prostitute their own children for vials of crack? Who? The
white liberal collaborators who aid and abet them? No, I don’t think
you’ll find too many innocent people in Sodom by the Sea.”
“But even you believe some people there are innocent.”
“Yes, some innocent people will die, but any goal worth achieving
requires sacrifice.” He paused, before continuing in a lighter tone,
“Anyway, enough of this. There’s work to be done.”
After Butler disappeared, Sarah sat considering her situation.
Clearly, Butler was insane. Clearly, he would kill her without a second
thought. Clearly, there wasn’t much she could do but play along and hope
a chance for escape arose. Or was there . . . ?
He came out of the house carrying a radio transmitter/receiver
which he set on a shelf just behind the driver’s seat, then continued
loading the van for almost half an hour, bringing out gun cases and boxes
of various shapes and sizes which he packed neatly in the van’s rear.
Finally, he climbed into the passenger seat, unlocked Sarah’s cuffs
and put the key in the ignition.
“Kindly drive us over to the end of the driveway, Sarah,” he said.
Sarah grasped the ignition key and twisted it. Nothing happened.
“Start the car, please.”
Sarah turned the key again and looked at Butler helplessly.
He reached over and turned it himself. Frowning, he tried again.
“Don’t move,” he said.
He crossed in front of the van to her door.
“Get out.”
She did. He cuffed her to the handle of the open door and got into
the driver’s seat. Twisted the key. No response. He examined the
steering column then got back out and bent to look underneath the dash.
He straightened. In his hand were several shards of plastic and
broken fuses.
Before she could react, he slapped her face with the debris with all
his strength.
Storm Front 169
“You fucking bitch.” He spat out the words.
Stunned, Sarah slumped against the van door momentarily, then
slowly stood erect. Through the pain, Sarah could feel blood running
down her cheek.
“Well, fine. Now we know where we stand.”
“I already told you where we stood,” Sarah said.
Butler smiled, in control once more. He inspected his hand. Like
Sarah’s cheek, it was bleeding. He raised it to his mouth and sucked at the
wound.
“Yes, I suppose you did,” he said lightly. “Well, fortunately, this
is no more than a minor setback. And fortunately for you, you still have
your uses so I’m not going to kill you―unless of course you force me to.”
He smiled grimly. “Now, do you think you can stay out of trouble while I
shift this cargo?”
Moving calmly, Butler drove Sarah’s Jeep out of the barn and over
to the van and began transferring the van’s load. Although he worked
hard at packing things tightly, Sarah was gratified to see that he was
unable to fit more than a small percentage of the van’s contents into the
Jeep. Unfortunately, the duster and containers of anthrax were among the
things he did transfer. He also removed and packed the van’s license
plates.
When he was done, he unlocked Sarah, guided her into the driver’s
seat and handcuffed her to the steering wheel once more.
“I’m going to push the van away from the porch then use the Jeep
to push it into the garage. You steer the van into the barn. It has power
steering so it won’t be easy with the engine off, but I’m sure you can do it.
You’re obviously a resourceful girl.”
He started to walk away, then stopped.
“And Sarah,” he said. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than
it has to be. You don’t want to make me angry, because sometimes when
I get angry I lose control―as you have seen.” He smiled. “Okay?”
Five minutes later the van was in the barn. Butler drove the Jeep
to where the driveway entered the yard then unlocked Sarah and led her
over to it.
“There now,” he said. “Almost done.”
Sarah flinched as he raised his hand to her face but he only turned
her head so he could examine her cheek, frowning at what he saw.
Johnson 170
“This won’t do.” He cuffed her wrists to the door handle and
trotted back into the house, returning with a damp towel, a tube of
antibiotic ointment and a flesh-colored bandage. He cleaned the wound
and wiped the blood from her face, then applied the bandage and ointment
with practiced efficiency.
He unlocked the handcuffs.
“Take your blouse off.”
Sarah hesitated.
“Now,” he commanded.
He watched gravely as she unbuttoned and removed her blouse
then tossed her a khaki shirt he had brought from the house.
“Put this on. We can’t have you walking around looking like an
accident victim.”
When she was finished he took her arm and guided her into the
passenger seat of the Jeep, handcuffing her wrists behind her thighs.
“The ankles too, I think,” he said producing another pair of cuffs.
Butler disappeared into the barn only to reappear a short time later,
backing out of the doorway as he poured gasoline from another five gallon
can. He emptied it and tossed it back into the barn, then returned to the
porch. Picking up the gasoline container he had left there, he pulled the
cap off the spout and went into the house, backing out the front door a
minute later, pouring gasoline onto the floor of the porch as he went.
“Now,” he said, producing a box of matches. “I think we finally
are ready. You see, Sarah, in some ways this is better. When they find
my van in the barn, they’ll think I died in the fire—for a while at least.”
“What about the dogs?”
“The dogs? People will come when they see the smoke.”
“It could get awfully hot with both these buildings burning. And
something might explode.”
Butler considered what she had said.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “We’ll release them.” He
continued gravely, “Thank you, Sarah. I wouldn’t want the dogs to
suffer.”
They drove slowly out the driveway, Butler at the wheel, as the
house and barn were consumed by roaring waves of flame. The dogs
trotted after them, Blondi nipping playfully at the older dogs. Butler let
them follow until they were out of sight of the burning buildings, then got
out of the car, ruffed the neck of each in turn, and commanded them to
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stay. When last Sarah glanced back, the dogs were sitting in the drive
watching their master drive away, billows of black smoke rising above the
treetops behind them.
CHAPTER THIRTY
At ten minutes to six, Rick was watching the clock like a
schoolboy, unable to suppress his excitement over Sarah’s imminent
arrival. Ridiculous. And disconcerting―this sense of being not quite in
control. Rick didn’t like it. And yet, there was something distinctly
pleasurable about it too.
He picked up the remote and flicked the TV on, surfed the
channels desultorily, then switched the set back off. There was nothing
on.
The sound of footsteps in the hall caught his attention. He looked
toward the doorway as the steps drew nearer, a smile winning the battle
for control of his face―but it was only a nurse pulling a dinner cart.
Get a grip, Rick, he chided himself. She’s just a girl.
But she wasn’t just a girl, and he knew it. She was the girl―all
right, the woman―he wanted with him from then on, whatever her terms
might be.
And, pride be damned, he was going to tell her that the minute she
arrived. It might, after all, be his last chance.
By seven, his frustration had reached maddening levels. She’d
said she’d drive down as soon as she was done with her two o’clock
appointment, arriving she thought, by five—no later than six. Even
allowing for some delay she should have been there or, if not, called at
least. Could she really care so little about him that she would just blow
him off? He couldn’t believe that. The Sarah he knew wouldn’t do that to
someone she despised.
He considered trying to call, but what would be the point? If he
reached her it would only be an embarrassment―to both of them. If she
was on the road, she’d be here soon enough. What if she’d had an
accident driving down? Not likely, with the weather dry. And if she had,
there was nothing he could do about it anyway. No, better to just sit tight.
He flicked the TV on again.
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Jim Flaherty arrived around seven-thirty.
“I thought maybe I’d run into Sarah here,” Jim said once he was
settled in the chair beside Rick’s bed.
“Yeah, well, I guess she had better things to do.” Rick knew he
was sulking but he couldn’t help it. “She said she’d be by but she didn’t
show.”
“If she didn’t come by, you can bet there’s a good reason for it.
She’s about as nice a person as there is in the first place, and in the second
I doubt there’s too many things she thinks are more important than you.
Maybe she got an emergency call. Why don’t you ring her up?”
“And what if I get her and she’s home doing her nails?”
“Tell her you were sitting here thinking about her and thought
you’d give her a call. Tell her the truth. Tell her you miss her like hell.”
“She doesn’t want to hear that from me. She wants her distance.”
“Bull hockey. She wants something and maybe she doesn’t even
know for sure what it is, but it isn’t to be distant from you. I’ll go get a
soda. You call her.”
But Sarah hadn’t answered her phone, either at home or in the
office.
“Bit of a mystery,” Flaherty said when he got back. He tried to
keep his voice light but Rick knew he was worried.
“What if she had an accident?”
“I’m sure she’s fine, but just to put your mind at ease, why don’t
we make a few calls. I’ll go down and check the Emergency Room and
you call the State Police. We probably won’t find anything out, but at
least we won’t have to worry about that.”
Twenty minutes later, Flaherty had returned.
“Anything?” Rick asked.
Flaherty shook his head.
“You?”
“No. I called the State Police in Ray Brook and Tupper Lake and
the Medical Center in Saranac Lake, too.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Flaherty said. “It’s a nice night. Why don’t I
take a drive up to Spencer and see what I can find out. Maybe she left a
note or something.”
“Would you? It would make me feel a lot better.”
“Sure. I’ll give you a call later.”
Johnson 174
Jim called two hours later to say that he had gone to Sarah’s house
and that the house and office were locked, no lights were on, and Sarah’s
car wasn’t in the driveway. He also said that he had gone to the State
Police in Tupper Lake and that they had made several calls but had gotten
no information on her possible whereabouts.
“Are they going to search for her?”
“No, they want to wait until tomorrow to see if she shows up.
That’s their standard procedure.”
“Great.”
“They pulled her plate number and vehicle description off the
computer, though, and said they’d put it out so if any one sees her car
they’ll follow up. They said all the police in the area are busy right now
what with Davey’s kidnapping and a house fire in Smyrna that killed two
then spread to the woods, but that also meant there were a lot of them on
the roads. Did you hear from the FBI about tomorrow?”
“Yeah. They’re coming to take me to The Birches at six.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Rick, don’t worry. She’ll
turn up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Billy was frustrated. Trapped in the cab of his truck with Rudy
Cook for two and a half hours with nothing whatsoever to show for it,
Rudy drinking from a flask he’d brought and bitching all the way. He
hoped one of the other teams had done better, but was that really likely?
As time had gone on, the idea of searching for the kidnappers―which had
seemed like such a good one when it first occurred to him―now seemed
like a colossal, and embarrassing, waste of time. The forest was simply
too vast for twenty-two men to search effectively for people who didn’t
want to be found―and that assumed they were in the area in the first
place.
After the Warriors had approved the motion to conduct the search,
they’d discussed how to go about it and decided to use the remaining
hours of daylight to split into pairs and cruise the roads, particularly the
back ones, in search of any signs of the kidnappers. Billy had stood back
as the men had sorted themselves out into teams and had been dismayed,
though hardly surprised, to discover that Rudy had been the odd man out.
They’d then studied the maps and picked routes to follow with any
news to be reported as soon as possible to Billy’s wife, Sally. In the
morning they were to reconvene at Brian’s where they would exchange
any intelligence they might have gathered and assign territories for further
search.
But was there any point? Not only had Rudy and Billy not found
any sign of the kidnappers, once they’d gotten into the remote area that
was the target of their efforts, they’d seen exactly two vehicles, neither
likely candidates for kidnappers: a lumber truck loaded with spruce logs
laboring its way south, and a Jeep Cherokee driven by a young couple.
Worse yet, Rudy had started complaining almost immediately,
sullenly at first but with increasing vehemence and vigor as the whiskey
took effect. Voicing misgivings about the venture that Billy had at first
impatiently resisted but now had come to share―although he wasn’t about
to tell Rudy that.
Johnson 176
And so as darkness slowly filled the valleys and stained the
spruces black, Billy headed back toward home, thinking about a cold beer
and bed―and wondering if there was any way he could call the whole
thing off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Where are we going?” Sarah asked. “New York City?”
They were driving along an obscure road, paved but potholed and
twisty, in the northern reaches of the Park, the trees close around them and
shutting out the light of the western sun. Escape was foremost on Sarah’s
mind, but she saw no opportunity. Manacled as she was, there was little
she could do but hope to attract the notice of a passing motorist by
thrashing around. But they had passed few vehicles and only one on this
road, a pickup with two men in it that had appeared as they went around a
bend and was past before Sarah could even react.
“Not just yet.”
“Where then?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Butler slowed to a stop and checked to make sure no one was
coming, then, moving quickly, got out and walked to the side of the road
where a strip of waist-high weeds―bracken and interrupted fern with
some buttercups, hawkweed and daisies mixed in―separated the
pavement from the dense spruces that formed the forest’s edge. He waded
into the ferns then bent and pulled something toward the shoulder of the
road. Straining to see, Sarah was surprised when an eight-foot section of
the roadside vegetation slid aside to reveal a sandy track angling back into
the conifers. A corresponding rectangle of vegetation sat on the
pavement’s edge. At the edge of the rectangle, Sarah could see a board:
the weeds had been excavated and replanted on a sheet of plywood. A
leather loop attached to one end of the plywood provided a handle.
Butler climbed into the Jeep and drove it into the opening, then
dragged the plywood back into place.
They had proceeded only a short distance down the trail when
Butler stopped, put the Jeep in reverse, and backed into a small cul de sac
hemmed tight by spruces. To one side, a green horse trailer sat chained to
a tree.
Johnson 178
“Here we are,” he announced gaily. “Now you just sit tight.”
Producing a key, he unlocked the trailer, pulled a ramp out from
underneath and attached it to the back, and went inside. An engine roared
to life and he backed a camouflaged ATV down the ramp. He shut it off
and started transferring things from the Jeep to the trailer. When he was
finished, he locked the trailer once more.
“Are you ready?” he asked, unlocking Sarah’s handcuffs.
“For what?”
“We have to take little ride to reach our accommodations for the
night.”
Butler steered the ATV out of the clearing and onto a narrow path.
Sarah was seated behind him, her arms manacled behind her back and to
the carrier rack between the rear fenders. He drove swiftly and efficiently,
around trees and rocks, through muddy swales, Sarah desperately trying to
keep her balance. After a time they began to climb, a series of
switchbacks along an impossibly steep slope thick with spruce, tamarack
and balsam, until the trees thinned out into hardwood forest and the
ground became level once more.
Suddenly, Butler brought the machine to a halt and climbed off.
He took a roll of silver duct tape and a pen knife from a waist pack. “I’m
afraid I have to blindfold you now,” he said. “Sorry to use tape, but it
works well.” He didn’t sound sorry. He cut a length of tape and placed it
over her eyes then climbed back onto the machine.
“But why?” she said.
“Just a precaution,” he said and started the engine.
A few minutes later they came to a halt once more.
“Everything all right?” a man said as the sound of the motor died.
He sounded nervous.
“Slight change of plans, but everything is fine,” Butler said.
“Everything all right here?”
“Yeah, everything’s all right.”
“Who’s she?” A different voice, deeper, hostile.
“A new recruit, albeit a reluctant one.”
Sarah felt Butler fumbling at the cuffs with the key and then the
cuffs were dangling from one wrist. But not for long. Butler guided her
off the ATV then locked her wrists together behind her again.
“Come along, dear,” he said, grasping her elbow.
Storm Front 179
He led her a short distance, then said, “We’re going inside now,
there’s a short step up.”
Sarah stepped up onto a wood floor, Butler guiding her a few steps
then twisting her around. Sarah felt something against the back of her
knees.
“Sit.”
She did, onto a bed, she guessed, a mattress on a wooden platform.
“Is the child put away?” Butler asked.
“Yeah. He ate a little while ago.” The first voice.
The child? Whose child? Butler’s? She wondered if he had
brought her to a survivalist compound where women and children awaited
Armageddon with their men. ÔIs the child put away?’—a strange
formulation.
She heard steps moving away, a door being opened, and more
steps.
“Is he out?” Butler’s voice, farther away. A back room.
“Should be. I gave him a full dose.”
“Open it.”
Sarah heard something being dragged across the floor, then the
clatter of wood on wood.
“What’s that smell?” Butler said.
“He wet himself.”
“Why didn’t you change him?”
“Well, Creight―”
There was a cry of pain, then the second voice―someone called
Creight apparently―hissed, “Watch the names, you moron.”
“Sorry,” the other man said. “I forgot she was there.”
“Shut up,” Butler snapped. “Now what’s this you were saying?”
“Well, the kid was afraid of the outhouse so he didn’t go last night
and I guess he had to go real bad and he just let loose. It wasn’t his fault,
though. The outhouse scared him.”
“And why didn’t you change him?”
The man hesitated.
“Well?”
“He told me not to,” the man said tremulously. “Said it would
teach the kid a lesson to lay in it.”
“What do you mean he told you not to?”
There was a silence.
Butler broke it.
Johnson 180
“That true?” His voice was low and menacing with an ugly edge.
“Well, we ain’t got no clothes for him and a little pee ain’t gonna
kill him,” the man called Creight said. “I don’t know why we’re keepin’
him around anyway.”
As they spoke, Sarah had been considering whether she had any
hope of making a break for it, when suddenly it came to her as clearly as if
she could see him who the boy lying asleep in that back room was, the
scared one who had wet his pants and had no clothes: the Skolnick boy,
Davey. Butler was involved in the kidnapping and had brought her to the
place where the Skolnick boy was hidden, a cabin or shack somewhere
deep in the forests of the Park.
“Not going to kill him, huh?” Butler was saying. “How would you
like it?”
“I wouldn’t but―”
Butler cut in, his voice rising in anger, “How would you like it,
you fat pig?”
“A-a-a-a-ah,” the man cried suddenly, in obvious pain.
“How would you like it, pig?” Butler repeated.
The man’s groan grew louder and more high pitched, heading
toward a scream.
“Do you like it!?!” Butler shouted. “Do you like it!?!”
The man’s cry of anguish peaked and ended.
In the silence, Sarah could hear low moans of pain.
At last Butler spoke, apparently to the third man, his voice tight
with newly regained control. “Put the boy in one of your shirts and flip
the mattress over.” Then in a softer voice, evidently directed at the beaten
man, “All right, now. You’re all right. Come on, let’s get you up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
For Rick, there was no sleep that night despite the painkillers and
his repeated attempts to relax and get the rest he knew he needed.
Between his anticipation of the coming day’s events, the nagging
discomfort of his wounds, and his concern over Sarah’s whereabouts―he
had called her house at two and again at four, letting the phone ring over
and over, picturing its sound echoing through the empty rooms―his mind
was kept alert and racing.
He was dressed and waiting when Tom DeVries arrived at six to
drive him to The Birches. A nurse was with him, pushing a wheelchair.
She had been in early to help Rick get dressed, aware that something
important was going on, but not sure exactly what.
“You ready?” DeVries said with a wan smile.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“We really appreciate you’re helping out like this, you know.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but to tell you the truth I’m not doing it for
you.”
“I understand. But nonetheless. . . Thanks.”
Rick addressed the nurse, “I don’t need that,” he said, indicating
the wheelchair. “If you’ll just hand me those crutches.”
“Sorry. Regulations.”
“Regulations be damned. If I can’t even walk out of here on my
own power we’re in a lot of trouble.”
DeVries spoke. “Maybe it would be better if you saved your
strength.”
Rick frowned but said, “I suppose you’re right.” Then to the
nurse, “Madam, I apologize.”
He sat heavily in the chair.
“Lead on, MacDuff.”
As they drove through the mist-shrouded mountains, DeVries
briefed Rick on their preparations.
Johnson 182
“The chopper is fueled and ready to fly. Despite taking some
rounds during the kidnapping it wasn’t seriously damaged.
“Instructions for the drop are supposed to come in at nine. We
assume they’ll give you a location, run you over there, then radio further
instructions. The money is in a duffel by the starboard front entry held in
place with two adhesion straps. You should have no trouble releasing it.”
“Ten million dollars, huh?” Rick mused. “Is it real?”
DeVries nodded.
“That’s more than I make in a week,” Rick continued. “Something
of a temptation when you figure the Canadian wilderness is only an hour
away.”
DeVries was silent.
“You don’t seem too worried about me bolting.”
“We trust you, Rick.”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet you’ve got pursuit craft stationed at every point
of the compass too. Will you be following me?”
“We do have some aircraft standing by, yes, and we have installed
a tracking device on board and we’ll be monitoring your radio
transmissions. But we won’t be following you per se. They’ll
undoubtedly have people watching and we don’t want to scare them off.
As they requested, all local air traffic is barred as of six this morning.”
“You’d think they’d figure you to be listening in.”
“Yes, no question. The operation is too well planned for them to
have missed something as obvious as that. Our guess is they’re going to
send you somewhere, then radio you when you’re passing over some
location they’re confident they can evacuate quickly and tell you to make
the drop.”
“And I’m just supposed to play it straight down the line?”
“Yes, absolutely. Just make the drop, and get the hell away. We’ll
take it from there. No cowboy stuff. You mess around and you could
jeopardize the boy.”
Harvey Skolnick and Special Agent Ganz were waiting on the
porch of the main house as Rick and Tom DeVries pulled up, Harvey
looking exhausted and scared, Ganz looking determined and angry. Jim
Flaherty was standing a short distance away. Across the lawn, a mechanic
in overalls was conducting a last-minute inspection of Rick’s chopper.
Two other choppers, Bell 212s, sat nearby.
Harvey came forward to greet Rick as he climbed awkwardly from
the car, hugging him briefly before asking, “How are you feeling, Rick?”
Storm Front 183
“I’m OK, Harve. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“No problem, Harve. All I’m going to do is sit. The bird’s going
to do the flying.”
Harvey seemed to take comfort from Rick’s expression of
confidence, a result Rick noted with satisfaction―he only wished he felt
as confident as he sounded. Not that he doubted his ability to do the
flying. He was up to that he was sure. It was the outcome of his efforts
that worried him.
“Why don’t we all go inside where we can monitor the call?” Ganz
said.
“Fine,” Rick said, as Tom DeVries handed him this crutches, “but I
need to talk to Jim Flaherty for a minute.”
Harvey signaled for Jim to come over then he and Ganz headed for
the dining pavilion.
“No word,” Jim said as soon as he stood before Rick.
“I know. I tried a couple times last night.”
“She may have spent the night at a friend’s.”
“Yeah.”
“Or like I said, maybe one of her clients had an emergency. I don’t
think you should worry about it. At least there’s been no report of an
accident.”
“You’ll keep checking?”
“Yeah, I will. You just worry about what you have to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sarah awoke and was swiftly brought back to the reality of her
predicament. She was lying on her stomach on the bed where she had first
been put. Whether it was morning or yet night she had no way of
knowing. The tape that bound her eyes had not been removed. To prevent
her from pulling it off, Sarah’s hands had remained handcuffed behind her
back. And to keep her from going anywhere (as if there was any point
trussed up as she was) her right ankle had been manacled to the bed.
In the other room, one of the men snored gently. She wondered if
that was what had awakened her. Something had, she thought. But no,
not the snoring. Something else, something nearer, near her still, more
presence than sound.
She lay without moving as it drew closer: someone trying to be
quiet. Butler? Although she tried, she had been unable to determine the
ultimate sleeping locations of her captors, although her best guess was that
Butler had remained in the outer room while the other two had retired to
the back.
Butler then. He was very close, close enough for Sarah to feel his
presence, his body heat perhaps, although he had not touched her. She
remembered his erection that afternoon, pressing against her stomach as
he lay on top of her, and prepared to react violently if he touched her. If it
was sex he wanted, she wasn’t going to make it easy.
But he didn’t. The sounds stopped and absolute silence reigned.
Then after a drawn out inhalation, as if he was taking in her scent, he
moved off. The door opened and shut and he was gone.
In the other room one of the men shifted and moaned in his sleep.
She thought about Rick. Wished he was here—no, check that,
wished she was with him, somewhere warm and safe. Her decision to
push him away seemed so pointless now. If only she were given the
chance, she would make it up to him. But she knew she wasn’t going to
be given any chances. She was going to have to take them.
Storm Front 185
Time passed. Outside, a hermit thrush gave song. Then another.
Dawn approaching. Butler had not returned.
Finally, he did.
“Rise and shine, people,” he said as he came in the door.
Sarah rolled awkwardly onto her side as the men in the back room
stirred.
“I trust you slept well?” Butler asked with the feigned solicitude he
had adopted ever since she had made her feelings about him clear.
Sarah said nothing.
“Well, let’s at least get the cuff off your ankle so you can sit up
properly.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“That’s understandable,” he said as he freed her ankle. “There’s
an outhouse outside.”
He grasped her elbow as if to guide her as she swung her feet to
the floor.
“I need these off―unless you’re going to do the dirty work.”
“I guess there’s no harm in that,” he said, “if you promise to leave
the blindfold on.”
“Why not just tell them to keep out of my sight while I go? It will
be a lot easier for both of us if I can see. Look, I’m not going to run.”
“Outside,” he said.
The fresh air was cool and moist, stirred by a light breeze. Sarah
could hear the sound of waves lapping on a shore. They were near a lake,
a lake at some elevation. Which one?
“If I take this off, it’s going to hurt. And I’m just going to put it
back on again. Are you sure you want it off?”
Surprised that he was honoring her request, she hurriedly said yes.
He picked at the edge of the tape, and pulled it quickly from her
face.
It hurt but Sarah didn’t cry out, concentrating instead on
memorizing the scene: the layout of the cabin, the location of the lake, the
path where they had come in, where the ATVs were parked. She
wondered if the keys were in them and strained to see.
Butler was observing her.
“See what you wanted to see?” he asked.
“Just glad to see the world again.”
“Let’s hope you have plenty more opportunities to do so.” He
gestured toward the outhouse. “Shall we?”
Johnson 186
Ten minutes later, she exited the outhouse. Butler was standing a
discreet distance away, holding a roll of duct tape.
“How about a mirror?” she asked. “I must look like hell.”
She had decided that playing to whatever attraction Butler had for
her could only help her situation and knew she didn’t look her best.
“No, you don’t, actually.”
Sarah smiled ruefully and said, “Thanks, but could I?”
Butler considered her request.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re fine the way you are.”
He peeled duct tape off the roll.
“That’s the Skolnick boy, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“I understand that you’re angry about a lot of things, but why
would you want to hurt a little boy? It’s not his fault.”
“Who said anything about hurting him?”
“You’re going to release him?”
“If his father is willing to pay.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“He will be.”
“But the boy’s being hurt anyway. You must know that. I gather
you’ve got him drugged and shut up somewhere. Is that right?”
Butler gazed off into the trees.
“He may never recover from that,” Sarah said. “Obviously, he’s
scared to death, especially of that one man. I’m surprised that you allow
him to be treated like that.”
Butler was still looking off into the distance.
“I know you’re not like that. The way you care about animals.
Davey is just as helpless and innocent as they are.”
Butler turned toward her.
“Children can survive more than most people know,” he said
softly. Then in a colder voice, “And besides, he’s not innocent. He’s a
Jew.”
Back in the cabin Sarah was led to a wooden straight backed chair.
She had been blindfolded but her hands were free. She felt the presence of
the other men in the room though no one said anything.
“Give her something to eat,” Butler commanded.
Storm Front 187
Something soft was placed in Sarah’s hand. A doughnut, she
realized, and found that somehow funny. She started eating it. Glazed. A
bit stale but good. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” Butler asked and at first she
was confused.
There was no response.
The voice of the gentler man said, “He’s scared.”
“I see that,” Butler said.
“Are you talking about Davey? Let me take him,” Sarah said
quickly.
There was a long silence before Butler said, “Bring him outside.”
“Davey, do you remember me?”
Sarah, Butler and Davey were standing in front of the cabin.
Sarah’s blindfold had been removed. Butler held the snub-nosed machine
gun. Davey, pale-faced and red-eyed, was wearing a man’s red check
flannel shirt that completely engulfed his tiny body. The other men had
remained in the cabin.
Davey nodded but kept his eyes glued to the ground.
“You’re the lady who takes care of the horses,” he said in a halting
voice so faint Sarah could barely hear.
“That’s right. Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
He nodded again.
“Will you go with me?”
He shook his head fearfully.
“How about if we go in the woods? Would that be all right?”
He hesitated then slowly nodded his head. She looked at Butler
questioningly. Butler shrugged his permission.
“I’ll be watching,” he said. “Take him right over there.”
When Davey was done, Butler blindfolded Sarah once more then
led them into the back room of the cabin, guiding Sarah to what felt like
another bed. He laid her down on the thin mattress and cuffed her hands
behind her back and her ankles to the bed’s foot.
“This is the story,” he said. “I have to leave for a time, to pick up a
delivery, as it happens. You will stay here. I would drug you, but we’ll be
leaving soon after I get back. Understand something: we don’t need you
or the boy. Your guard will be instructed to kill you both if you attempt to
escape. Cooperate and you may live.”
Johnson 188
“You’re leaving?”
“How touching. It’s almost as if you care.”
“Who’s going to guard us?”
“Who?” he echoed, puzzled.
“One of those other two?”
“What does it matter?”
“Davey’s terrified of the one.”
“Maybe that will encourage him to behave. You too for that
matter.”
It was frustrating being unable to see Butler’s eyes.
“Please,” she said.
“Oh, now it’s please, eh?”
“You despise him yourself.” She kept her voice low, unsure of
where the man might be.
“What if I do?”
“Don’t leave me with him.” She kept her face toward him, trying
to express pleading―and promise―despite her taped eyes. “Please,” she
said again. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
There was a long silence, broken finally by the sound of tape being
peeled off a roll. In a moment, her mouth had been taped shut too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The phone rang at 9:02, its electronic signal stilling an already
tensely quiet room. Harvey looked at Ganz who checked with the
headphoned agent monitoring the console then picked up another set of
headphones and put them on. He nodded at Harvey. Harvey picked up
the phone.
“Hello?” he said, as everyone listened spellbound.
“Harvey Skolnick?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes.”
“Is the pilot ready?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Put him on.”
“But what about Davey?”
“He’s all right.”
“How do I know?”
“He is. Put Benton on.”
“When will he―”
“Put Benton on. Now.”
“But―”
“Now.”
Harvey held the phone out to Rick.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Moving awkwardly on his crutches, Rick took the phone.
“Benton,” he said.
“Okay, pilot,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “This is
your chance to save the boy’s life. No heroics, just do as your told, and
we’ll all end up happy. First destination, Mt. Marcy. Get there by ten
hundred hours, and circle it tight at 3000 feet. Further instructions will be
radioed to you at 375 kilohertz. Screw up and the boy dies. Anyone
follows and the boy dies. Got it?”
“Mt. Marcy, ten hundred hours, 375 kilohertz.”
Johnson 190
“Good. See you then.” The line went dead.
“We get it?” Ganz said, removing his head phones.
“In a minute,” the agent at the board said. “Yes. Payphone in
Saratoga Springs. The Sheraton.”
Ganz frowned.
“All right. Send someone there.” He turned to Harvey. “Not
likely to be much help, but we’ll check it out. Are you ready?” he said to
Rick.
Rick nodded.
“As Tom told you, our guess is they’re going to bounce you
around for a while before telling you where to drop the money, to make
sure we’re not following.”
“And you won’t be,” Harvey said flatly.
“As agreed,” Ganz said. “We’ll be monitoring their transmissions
to Rick and we’ve got a tracking device on the chopper, with units
standing by to go airborne on a minute’s notice—but we won’t move until
we know the boy is safe. We’ve also got ground units spread throughout
the Park, but strictly on a low profile basis.”
“What if they fly me out of the Park?”
“They might. If they do we’ll follow―well out of visual range,”
he added for Harvey’s benefit. “All you have to do is follow their
instructions. Fly back here for debriefing once you’ve made the drop.
We’ll take it from there.”
“Will you be in contact with me?”
“We’ll be monitoring their transmissions to you, so there should be
no need, except for you to confirm that you’ve made the drop as
instructed. Our channel is taped on the console.”
“What about Davey? Have they said when they’ll release him?”
Harvey shook his head. “Only that he’ll be set free once they have
the money.”
“We’ve agreed with Mr. Skolnick that we’ll play it their way for
today and reassess the situation tomorrow morning if he hasn’t been
released,” Ganz said.
At 9:38, Rick lifted slowly off the helipad as Harvey, Ganz and a
number of other agents watched. With Mt. Marcy, New York’s highest
mountain, already visible in the distance as he rose above the shake roofs,
he would have no trouble reaching his destination on time. His wounds,
though aching dully beneath their bandages, were no real impediment to
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his piloting of the craft. There was no reason that things should not go
smoothly. And galling as it was, Rick had no intention of being anything
other than a good little delivery boy. To the extent it was within his
power, the kidnappers would have no reason to renege on their promise to
release Davey once they had the money in hand.
But would they release him? Obviously, Ganz had his doubts.
Who wouldn’t? But Rick couldn’t quarrel with Harvey’s insistence that
they play it straight, although nothing that had transpired suggested that a
regard for human life was among the kidnappers’ characteristics. The
brutal and pointless murder of Staci showed that. No, better to hope the
kidnappers’ self-interest would lead them to release Davey, that they
would conclude that the manhunt for them would be less intense if Davey
was returned.
He reached Mt. Marcy at 9:52 and circled as instructed at 3000
feet, a height that required him to fly at a distance of about a half mile
from the mountain’s 5000 foot peak, where four or five neon-clad figures
stood out against the dark gray of the windswept rock. He studied them as
he flew past but doubted they were the kidnappers. Hikers more likely.
Above him, a few puffy white clouds broke the otherwise solid blue of the
June sky.
Ten o’clock came and went with no sign from the kidnappers.
Rick continued to circle slowly, wondering whether something had gone
wrong already and whether even now FBI agents were ascending the
mountain’s slopes.
A mile and a half away, Lon Bellard stood leaning against a tree
high on the west face of Haystack Mountain. From this location, several
hundred yards from the trail, he had an unobstructed view to the west
where Mt. Marcy sat serene in the morning sun.
He lifted his binoculars. He could see the chopper plainly, a Bell
222, no question, its profile matching the picture in his pocket. There was
no way to tell if Benton was piloting it, but that wasn’t critical. Lowering
the binoculars, he glanced at his watch. It was time. Next to him, a field
radio hung by its strap from the stub of a branch. He checked the digital
frequency readout, then picked up the mike and held the send button down
for several seconds. Then he changed the frequency.
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“Benton, do you read me?” a voice in Rick’s headphones suddenly
said.
Rick picked up the microphone.
“Roger,” he said.
“Benton, do you read me?”
“I read you. Over.” Something was wrong. The mike seemed
dead.
“Benton, if you read me, dip the chopper to the left.”
Dip the chopper? With a sinking feeling, Rick manipulated the
pedals to cause the chopper to dip to the left.
“Good,” the voice said. “Now, listen and listen good. We have
remotely rendered your radio incapable of transmitting. We have also
rendered it incapable of receiving except on the channel chosen by us,
which is not, of course, the one we told you on the phone.”
Rick checked the frequency readout on the radio. It was no longer
set where he had put it before he lifted off, at the frequency supplied by
the kidnappers. He attempted to change it. It did not respond. He clicked
the transmit button on the handset several times. It was dead.
“You are on your own which is as it should be. Simply follow our
instructions and all will be well.”
Rick wondered at the FBI’s reaction when the expected
transmission from the kidnappers never came. Presumably, they would
merely follow his course via the tracking device. Nothing had changed
really, except that Rick wouldn’t be able to tell them where and when he
had dropped the money until he got back.
“Now,” the voice continued. “You have twenty minutes to reach
your next rendezvous point.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Loran Mohawk felt good. Experience had taught him that life
offered few situations where inarguable righteousness and a clear-cut
course of action coalesced as neatly as they did in the case of the
kidnapping of the white boy. Certainly not in the dismal circumstances of
the Mohawk tribe that had given rise to the Warriors in the first place,
certainly not in the bitter intra-tribal politics of the Warriors’ recent past.
Here, there was a chance for glory unblemished by moral
ambiguities: save the boy, capture the kidnappers, vindicate the tribe. To
succeed in the face of the failure of the white authorities would indeed be
a coup worthy of the name Warriors, worthy of the honorable name of
Mohawk which he wore.
And they would succeed, of that he was sure. He was no believer
in the old Spirits, of the tobacco-burning rituals of the past, but ever since
Billy Swamp had proposed that the Warriors search for the kidnappers, it
was as if Loran’s ancestors were stirring within him, urging him on,
assuring him of success and glory and honor for a people accustomed to
frustration and defeat.
He had tried to make the other men feel it too, quietly but
forcefully exhorting them to see the opportunity for what it was. Here was
an enemy that could be vanquished, a battle that could be won, a victory
that would never be sullied by the harsh realities of tribal life in late-
twentieth century America. A test of woodsmanship, ancient and
honorable, not a gangsterish squabble over gambling rights.
He glanced over at Simon Oakes. Simon sat gazing serenely out
the windshield as he drove, his handsome features in profile, his long
black hair loose and glinting in the morning sun, and his well-defined
muscles revealed by a tight sleeveless t-shirt. A true warrior in the first
flush of young manhood and in many ways a younger version of Loran
himself. The promise of the future.
Loran knew that many of the men had been dispirited over their
lack of success the previous night. Even Billy himself, Loran suspected.
But Simon remained resolute, asking no questions, expressing no doubts,
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driving confidently and calmly over the mountain roads as Loran
instructed. Loran had known Simon would. He had chosen him as his
partner for that reason. Together they would prevail. Together they were
unstoppable.
“Here,” Loran said, and Simon slowed the truck to a halt. “We’ll
go in here.” It was a spot Loran had chosen as he lay in bed unsleeping
the night before, its image appearing to him then clinging with compelling
persistence.
There was nothing to suggest this spot over a dozen others to
Simon’s eyes, the woods crowding thick and impenetrable to the road’s
edge. But he did not second-guess Loran’s instruction even to himself.
His respect for Loran’s judgment left no room for doubt. After years of
working by Loran’s side, Simon knew him as a man who embodied the
concept of competency, whether the task was executing an impossible
architectural design or picking up women at the local gin mill.
They locked the truck, shouldered day packs and rifles, and were
quickly swallowed by the forest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sarah lay motionless for a long time after the buzz of the ATVs
faded to nothingness. Davey had wept briefly when they were first left
alone but now was quiet. From time to time she heard noises in the front
room as their guard moved about.
How long would Butler be gone? He had said he was going to
pick up a delivery, the ransom money she guessed. But where? She had
no idea. But wherever it was, she figured it would take at least an hour,
given that it took twenty minutes simply to reach the road―assuming, of
course, that they were going out to the road.
A second question. Who had Butler left to watch them? It was her
guess that her pleas had not fallen on deaf ears, that Butler was still
interested enough in her to grant her wish. If so, the more compassionate
man was their jailer, the man Sarah had made it clear she preferred. If so,
that was all to the good. Perhaps Sarah could take advantage of that
compassion to effect their escape.
And an attempt at escape must be made, of that Sarah was
convinced. Although Butler had revealed no intention to harm Davey, she
was not prepared to put her trust in a psychopath who had already
demonstrated his willingness to snuff out innocent human life without
compunction. Escape would also be the most effective way to thwart
Butler’s insane plan—and that plan had to be thwarted at any cost.
Yes, an attempt had to be made. But how? Handcuffed as she
was, she could go nowhere. She needed their guard’s assistance. Play on
his sympathy, get him to uncuff her, and somehow overpower him. Grab
the key, release Davey, and run.
But how to do it? How could she even get his attention trussed up
the way she was? She didn’t want to wait to see if he would check on
them. Too much time might pass.
It was working, she was sure. She could feel the edge of the tape
catching as she rubbed the side of her face against the rough surface of the
log wall. She hoped the tape came free soon. Judging by the stinging
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pain, her face was coming off much more easily than the tape. Well, at
least her cheeks would be a matched set.
At last. A glimmer of light at the corner of her eye where the tape
had pulled free. Several more passes along the log and the opening was
larger. If she tilted her head to one side, she could see. She looked toward
Davey. He was lying on a bed across the room watching her in horrified
fascination, his mouth taped shut, his wrists tethered together above his
head and tied to the bed’s head, his ankles tethered to its foot.
She bent her head forward and tried to grasp the loose end of the
tape between her knees. It wasn’t long enough. She went back to work.
“Hey, we need help in here.” Sarah was a mess, the left side of her
face rubbed raw and bleeding, the shirt Butler had given her stained with
her blood. The strips of duct tape that had bound her mouth and eyes lay
on the bed where they had fallen. “Hey! Help!”
She heard the sound of a chair scraping on the floor followed by
the sounds of approaching footsteps and gathered herself to present her
most pitiable look, one sure to win the sympathy and trust of a man who,
whatever he had done, had demonstrated that the spark of humanity still
lived within him.
The door opened―and a large man with piglike eyes set in a fat
bearded face stuck his head in. When he saw she had her blindfold off, he
made as if to duck back but changed his mind and advanced into the room.
“Well, aren’t you a sight,” he chuckled. “You must want
something awful bad, to do that to yourself. And such a good-lookin’
woman, too.”
Sarah stared speechless, her hopes dashed. It was the wrong man.
Butler had ignored her wishes.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Sarah said icily, abandoning any
hope of winning the man’s sympathy.
“Again?” the man said with jovial incredulity. “And you just
went. You really should have your plumbing checked out―assuming you
live that long, of course.”
“I have to go.”
“Not that I believe you, but that’s too bad, particularly after you
went to all that trouble to get me in here, ’cause you’re not goin’.”
“You think he’s going to be happy if he comes back here and finds
that I’ve messed myself because you refused to let me go? I would think
you would have learned your lesson the last time.”
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The man stared at her for several seconds, then said with forced
conviction, “You don’t have to go, it’s just a trick. You just went, so hold
it.”
“But I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
“But I can’t and even more to the point, I won’t.” She gave him a
grim smile.
The man stared at her again, then swore quietly under his breath.
“You bitch. You would, too, wouldn’t you.” He took a deep
breath as if in resignation. “Well, I guess you’ve got me―except for one
little thing.” He smiled suddenly, yellow teeth showing through the pink
hole of his mouth. “I don’t have the keys. Your pal took them with him.”
He turned to leave but stopped with one meaty paw on the door.
“It was a nice try, though―bitch.”
The door closed behind him.
Sarah was crushed, the house of cards she had built on improbable
hopes dashed. Butler had the keys! She had miscalculated badly:
underestimated Butler’s sense of caution, overestimated her influence on
him. All that she had to show for her scheming was a badly scraped
cheek. Without the keys there was no hope. She could do nothing but
wait for Butler to come back―or hope that someone would come along in
the meantime. There was at least that. In his moment of triumph, her
guard had forgotten to gag her again. If someone came, she would be able
to call for help. But what was the likelihood of that?
Davey was staring at her.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be
all right.”
She forced herself to smile.
“Davey?” she continued, “Will you promise me something?”
Davey nodded solemnly.
“If we can, we need to get away from here. I need you to promise
me that if I tell you to do something, you’ll do it right away without any
questions. Will you do that?”
Davey nodded again.
“And if I tell you to run, you run into the woods as fast as you can
and don’t come back no matter what anyone says. Just keep going. Go
downhill, always downhill, do you understand? And if you hit a stream or
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brook, keep walking the direction the water goes until you find people.
Can you do that?”
His head bobbed once more.
“Good.”
There was a noise in the other room. Footsteps coming to the
door.
Now, I’ve done it, Sarah thought. He must have heard me.
The door opened and the man came in. Without a word he crossed
over to where Sarah was lying. Sarah cringed for a blow.
“Roll over,” he commanded.
Now what? she thought. Would he really dare?
She heard a metallic tinkle and felt him fumbling at her wrists. A
second later, one cuff was open.
“Sit up,” he said harshly.
Sarah struggled into a sitting position, luxuriating in the sensation
of freedom in her arms.
He tossed a key onto her lap.
“Undo your ankles.”
Sarah did.
“Now get up.” His gun looked like a toy in his hands, a very
dangerous toy. “Any tricks and you die. Understand?”
He grabbed the handcuff keys from her.
“Now get moving.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
As he flew over the forest-carpeted mountains, Rick continually
scanned the horizon for planes or helicopters that might be shadowing
him. He saw none. In fact, he saw no low-flying aircraft at all, a
testament, he supposed, to the FBI’s efficiency in complying with the
kidnappers’ demand that the area be cleared. Was the tracking device
working? There was no reason to think it wasn’t. The agents had said
they wouldn’t be following him and that was the right decision in Rick’s
view―it was just that he felt so alone.
From Mt. Marcy, they had flown him back south to Speculator, the
dark gray ribbon of Route 30 serving as his guide, then north and west to
the McCauley Mountain Ski Area near Old Forge, north to the
campground on Cranberry Lake, south again to the Lake Harris
campground near Newcomb, northeast to the state prison at Dannemora,
then west to the town of St. Regis Falls on the northern boundary of the
park. With each instruction, each from a different voice, had come the
airspeed he was to maintain on the way to each site, each one different,
from sixty to a maddening thirty.
As the river and then the town and falls came into view, a voice
came over the radio once more.
“Very good, Mr. Benton.”
This voice had a different quality than the others. More confident,
with a sarcastic undertone, the halting cadences of the other voices
replaced by smooth self-assuredness.
“We’re almost there now, ready for you to make your delivery and
save the boy. Are you ready? Good. Don’t fuck it up or we’ll have to
fuck up the boy. Now, listen and listen good: you are to follow 458 south
out of St. Regis until it hits Route 30 then south from there to the town of
Paul Smiths, at all times maintaining an airspeed of thirty miles per hour.
At Paul Smiths, you will turn to a heading of 250 degrees, still at thirty
miles per hour, a distance of five miles. There you will see three
fluorescent orange weather balloons at two hundred feet. That is your first
signal. Proceed past that without slowing―and this is important, a matter
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of life and death you might even say―one half mile where there will be a
pair of balloons tethered in a clearing. This is your drop site. You are to
pass over that clearing―once again without slowing―push the duffel out
the door as you do, then continue due west at the same speed until you hit
Route 56. There, you will receive final instructions. Follow these
instructions and the boy will be freed. Screw it up and he dies. Now go.”
Although the instructions were clear and seemingly easy to
execute, Rick couldn’t help but feel nervous as he flew slowly along the
wide open pavement of Route 458. What if he screwed it up and they
killed Davey because of him?
He reached the intersection of 458 and 30 and continued south to
Paul Smiths. There he turned hard to starboard until the directional
indicator pointed to 250 degrees, and headed out over the forest, passing
over the spectacular Great Camp of Topridge at St. Regis Lake, with St.
Regis Mountain rising in the distance to the south.
As the five mile mark drew nearer, he scanned the sky anxiously
for the marker. What if he couldn’t see it?
But he did, a bright orange blob in the sky tethered to a line that
disappeared into the trees. He reached over and undid the straps that held
the duffel bag in place. The pair of balloons that marked the target were in
sight now and he headed directly for them, scanning the treetops for the
clearing.
He was almost on top of it before he spotted the gap in the dense
foliage of the trees. He waited until he could see the dark brown of the
exposed forest floor through the viewports at his feet, then swung his leg
over and shoved the bag over the open transom with all his strength.
Grimacing against the pain of his reawakened wounds, he
continued to the west.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
By ten, Oren Tebo knew something was afoot. The Nation was
quiet―too quiet. Connie Creek’s diner was nearly empty, the streets too,
particularly of men, and particularly of men who were members of the
Warriors.
He drove by Brian Porter’s house but the garage was padlocked
and no vehicles were in the yard. He considered stopping―Brian’s wife
was probably at home judging by the kids playing in the yard―but instead
drove on to Billy Swamp’s house. Billy’s truck was gone but Oren pulled
in the drive anyway.
Billy’s wife came to the door in answer to his knock.
“Good morning, Sally,” Oren said, removing his hat. “Billy
around?”
Sally Swamp shook her head.
“Know where he might be?”
Another shake of the head.
Sally clearly was not interested in discussing her husband’s
whereabouts but Oren wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“What time did he leave?”
Sally hesitated.
“Early,” she finally said.
“You know when he’ll be back?”
She shook her head once more.
“Well, you tell him I’d like to talk with him when you see him,
would you?”
Although Sally Swamp had told him nothing, her responses were
enough to confirm Oren’s suspicions that something was going on,
something secret, something the law was not supposed to know about.
But what?
“What are you doing back?” Mary asked as he walked through the
double glass doors of tribal police headquarters.
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“Something’s going on.”
“Going on?”
“Yeah. Do you know where Billy is?”
“Billy?”
“Yes, he’s your brother. Remember?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Mary said teasingly. She busied
herself with some papers on the desk in front of her.
Oren was having none of it.
“I’m serious, Mary. The Warriors have disappeared and if there’s
anyone who knows where they are, it’s you.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Come off it, Mary. You think I don’t know that you pass
information to Billy?”
She stared at him blankly, at a loss for a response, her dark eyes
wide.
“Please, Mary. It doesn’t have to do with Rodney’s murder, does
it? This is not a good day for them to be driving around off the
reservation, not with what’s going on down there with the Skolnick
kidnapping. There’s police and FBI all over the place, embarrassed and
mad as hell, with their trigger fingers just itching. All somebody has to do
is look the wrong way at the wrong person and there could be trouble, big
trouble, and I’m not talking about a bunch of white trash hoodlums either.
Hell, the Nation was even implicated in the kidnapping.”
Mary sat staring at him silently.
He made an effort to calm himself.
“Mary, where are they?”
“In the Park.”
“Doing what?”
“Searching for the kidnappers.”
“Searching for the kid . . .” he let the sentence trail off. It made
sense in a crazy way. That the Warriors would attempt to vindicate the
Nation’s name by finding the kidnappers―and embarrassing the white
authorities.
“We’ve got to stop them.”
“It’s too late. They left hours ago. They’re spread all over by
now.”
“What made them think they had any hope of finding the
kidnappers?”
“Well, Billy and Loran had this theory that they were probably still
somewhere in the northwest part of the Park. They divided everybody
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into teams and are searching likely spots. They figured there was no harm
since the FBI was keeping a low profile anyway.”
“And how did they know that? That’s not public information.”
Mary’s dusky skin took on a reddish hue.
“God damn it,” Oren said.
CHAPTER FORTY
Walking to the privy in front of the man called Creight, Sarah’s
mind raced. Should she run, and hope that somehow she avoided the hail
of bullets that would surely follow?
She wasn’t afraid to die, she didn’t think, but if she was going to,
she’d rather do it in an attempt that had more promise than that one. Her
original thought had been to overpower her guard, but that was when she
thought her guard was going to be the gentler man―and before she had
been confronted with the reality that her keeper outweighed her by at least
one hundred and fifty pounds.
To have any hope against him she would have to have the
advantage of surprise. Sex? She had never viewed herself as the Mata
Hari type and with her face turned to hamburger her sex appeal had to be
at low ebb―but sex was a tool that seemed to work under almost any
circumstances, with some men at least.
But would it? If she came on to him would he really be stupid
enough to think it was anything other than the ploy it was? It was hard to
believe―even without crediting him with a great deal of intelligence.
“Hurry it up and no tricks,” the man snapped when they reached
the outhouse door. The door shut behind her and she stood in the gray
light admitted by screened gaps between the walls and the roof. Only a
few minutes to decide.
She studied the openings. No hope there. They were too narrow
even if she could manage to dislodge the screens without attention. She
looked about for something to use as a weapon. The outhouse interior was
bare but for two rolls of toilet paper and a dog-eared girlie magazine.
Go back and wait for another opportunity, then?
No, this was as good a chance as she was going to get. When
Butler and the other man came back there would be just that many more
eyes―and guns―to thwart any chance of escape.
Storm Front 205
It took him several seconds to respond to the sound―Sarah
repeatedly kicking the box that formed the seat of the toilet―but finally,
he did.
“What are you doing in there?”
Sarah stopped, then started once more.
“What are you doing? Stop it.”
Sarah continued banging, louder now.
“Stop it or I’m coming in.”
She kicked the box again.
“All right, bitch. You asked for it.”
Shadows crossed the crack between the door and the frame and
then the door rattled. Sarah grabbed the door handle and leaned her
weight back, wedging her feet against the door frame and locking her legs.
She knew that neither she nor the door latch would hold out for long
against the man’s strength but she had to at least make it difficult.
Another tug on the door, harder this time. Sarah strained to hold it
tight against the frame. Another, sharper this time. The latch, a simple
wood spinner on a heavy screw, pulled away from the doorframe slightly.
The pressure on the door ceased and the shadows disappeared.
That’s it, put the gun down so you can use two hands, Sarah
thought.
The shadows reappeared and the door rattled. Sarah braced herself
again. Another tug―and the spinner pulled halfway out of the wood.
Now, she thought. She stood up, twisted the spinner, and as the
man pulled once more, let go of the door handle.
The man stood before her clutching the door, surprised and thrown
off balance. No gun.
Her foot lashed out with every ounce of her strength behind
it―and struck gold. With a cry of anguish, the man bent over, clutching
his groin.
Sarah leapt out of the outhouse, dashed past the disabled man, and
picked up the gun. She pointed it at him, desperately trying to stop her
hands from shaking.
The man slowly straightened, hands raised, eyeing the weapon.
Was there a safety? Could he see if it was on or off? Sarah didn’t
want to find out.
“Into the cabin,” she barked.
The man hesitated.
Johnson 206
“Now! Don’t think I won’t use this. We’re not playing games
here. And in case you’re wondering, my father was a policeman and
taught me how to use a gun when I was still in diapers. Now, move.”
Davey stared wide-eyed as Sarah and Anders entered the cabin’s
back room.
“Stop,” Sarah said. “Reach into your pocket and slowly bring out
the key to the handcuffs.”
“Drop it on the floor.”
“Now, lie down on the bed on your stomach.”
Anders ponderously lowered himself onto the bed.
“Hands together behind your back.”
Keeping a wary eye on Anders, she picked up the key, removed the
remaining cuff from her wrist, and cuffed Anders.
“Now your feet. Down by the footboard. You know the routine.”
In a few seconds, Anders was manacled as she had been. She
switched her attentions to Davey, untying him, then enfolding his frail
body in her arms as he hugged her tight.
After a brief time, she separated herself from him.
“We’ve got to hurry. They may be back at any minute. I’m going
to take the tape off now. It may hurt a little, OK? Can you be a brave
little boy for me?”
Davey nodded his head solemnly.
“That’s a good boy. I’ll do it fast and it will be over in a second.”
Struggling to remain calm, she picked at the corner of the tape
until she could grasp it.
“Are you ready?” she asked gently.
Davey nodded again.
With a quick jerk she yanked the tape free. An involuntary yelp of
pain escaped Davey.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.
“You’re a brave boy.”
“I want my mommy.”
“Yes, dear, I know you do. That’s why we’re leaving. Right now.
Do you have shoes?”
He shook his head.
That was bad. If she had to carry him it would really slow them
down. And she wasn’t sure how long she could do it. But in bare feet . . .
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As she stood considering her options, a faint buzzing sound crept
into her consciousness. Intent on her dilemma, she brushed it away. But
it returned, more insistent.
The ATVs! Butler was returning.
“Let’s go,” she said. She grabbed the gun from the bed where she
had laid it.
The sound was much louder now, the engines rising and falling
with the contours of the terrain.
How far away were they? Not far enough.
Should she hold them off with the gun? And even if she could,
what then? She looked down at the weapon, panic rising within her.
Oh God, they were close.
“Davey, come with me. Hurry.”
Grabbing his hand, she pulled him into the other room even as the
ATVs slowed.
“Davey, I’m going to lift you to the window and drop you outside.
When you get on the ground I want you to run. Don’t let the men out
front see you, and run. And don’t stop no matter what.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No, there’s no time. Just go. Downhill until you reach water,
then follow that. Just like I told you.”
She laid the gun on the table then grabbed Davey’s hand and led
him to the window. The ATVs were right outside now, one engine
shutting off then the other. She fumbled at the catch of the window, fear
turning her fingers to wood, listening for the sound of the door behind her,
her nerves so taut she wanted to scream. She wasn’t going to make it!
She bent and grabbed Davey around the waist and roughly lifted him up to
the sill, twisting him so his feet were in the air. Pushing the window open
with his feet, she shoved him through the opening, holding onto his hands
until her arms could stretch no more before finally letting go.
The door opened behind her.
Sarah whirled to see Butler standing in the doorway. He stared at
her briefly in surprise, then drew his pistol as Sarah sprang for the gun on
the table.
“Stop or you’re dead,” Butler said quietly. He surveyed the room
sizing up the situation, then keeping the pistol trained on Sarah, walked to
the door to the back room.
“The kid!” he shouted. He spotted the window through which
Davey had disappeared. “Around the side!”
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There was a commotion at the door and a scrawny, unshaven man
stuck his head in the door.
“What?”
Frowning with impatience, Butler strode across the room, thrust
the pistol into the man’s hands. “Watch her,” he said, and dashed out the
door.
Confused, the man stood pointing the pistol uncertainly at Sarah.
Seconds passed. Then a minute. Still no Butler. Another minute.
Finally, he was in the doorway once again—alone. Sarah breathed
a sigh of relief.
“He’s gone,” Butler said.
“What are we going to do?” Stitchard asked.
“Nothing,” Butler said. “What difference does it make? It’s miles
to the nearest road. He’ll never make it.” He smiled grimly. “Our lovely
guest has just sentenced him to death.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
They had been walking steadily for hours. How far, it would be
difficult to say. The terrain was such that reckoning the distance covered
was almost impossible, with bogs, streams and lakes on the one hand and
nearly vertical mountain slopes on the other. Terrain that ate up time and
energy while the peaks loomed seemingly unchanged around them.
Loran glanced back at Simon and smiled inwardly. The younger
man marched on without complaint, hot and soaked and muddy like
Loran, his faith in Loran’s judgment unmoved by their lack of success.
And there had been a total lack of success, even Loran had to
admit that. Not one sign that promised to lead them to the kidnappers.
But Loran’s confidence was undiminished. They simply had not come to
the right area yet. When they did, the signs would be there and they
would see them. It was as simple as that.
How he knew it, he could not say. He simply did.
They were trudging along a willow-choked stream that connected
two valleys ringed by densely forested slopes, slipping on the slick banks
and plunging into seemingly bottomless muck holes that stunk of decay.
Mosquitoes hovered in clouds around them, attracted by the heat of their
exertions.
It was Simon who saw it first, stepping up to Loran and tugging
silently on his sleeve, then pointing when Loran looked back.
Loran followed Simon’s arm: a flash of red low to the ground
about fifty yards ahead. As they watched, it moved, the color winking out
behind foliage then reappearing as whoever it was moved slowly toward
them along the stream.
Without speaking, Loran unslung his M-16 and signaled for Simon
to circle around to the left. He then started forward in a crouch, eyes
straining to determine the nature of their quarry.
Whoever it was, was wearing a red shirt or jacket and moving
close to the ground, crouching or injured perhaps and dragging himself
along.
Loran saw no sign of others.
Johnson 210
Finally, he got a clear view. It was no kidnapper. It was a boy,
mud-covered, and wearing a man’s flannel shirt.
The boy gaped up at Loran dazedly when Loran arrived at his side,
his eyes and face puffy and red with tears and exhaustion.
“Are you alone?” Loran asked quietly, crouching beside him.
The boy nodded.
“What are you doing here? Where are your parents?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said in a weak voice.
“Were you camping?”
The boy shook his head.
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran away,” came the halting response.
“From your parents?”
“No, from the bad men.”
The bad men! Could it be?
“What is your name?” he said.
“Davey.”
Davey. That could be right.
“Davey what?”
“Davey Skolnick.”
It was just as he knew it would be! Simon had arrived while the
boy was speaking and Loran glanced up at him to confirm that Simon
understood. He turned back to the boy.
“Are they following you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Loran doubted it too. By the boy’s looks he’d been wandering in
the woods for hours. If they were following, they probably would have
caught up with him long before.
Loran stood up.
“He’s probably right,” he said to Simon, “but go upstream a couple
hundred yards and see what you can see.”
By the time Simon returned, Loran had made up his mind about
what had to be done. He had debriefed the boy as much as possible,
learning little about his wanderings except that he had come down a
mountain, then followed the stream, and that he had probably escaped
several hours earlier. About his captivity, Loran had learned more. That
he had been kept in a cabin near a lake, where he had been guarded by
Storm Front 211
three men and helped to escape by a woman Davey knew, someone named
Sarah who took care of their animals. That the men rode ATVs.
Loran had spread a topographic map on a bush and he and Simon
studied it.
“Here is where we are,” Loran said. “Here is where we parked.
Take the boy there as quickly as possible and get help. You’ll have to
carry him, his feet are a mess. I think the fastest way to get there is to
head straight out to the road from here then walk east along the road until
you reach the truck. Find a phone and call the FBI. From what the boy
says, I think the kidnappers are here.” He pointed to a small lake that had
no name on the map. “I’ll follow the boy’s backtrail, but if I lose it, that’s
where I’ll go. I’ll take the guns. You take the map and compass. I’ll hold
them if I can.”
Simon frowned, concern in his eyes.
“Perhaps it would be better if you came with me and let the police
deal with the kidnappers. The boy’s safe, that’s the important thing.”
“But the woman isn’t. Even if she was originally one of them, she
helped the boy, and is now at risk. We owe it to her to do what we can,
and besides,” he paused and looked Simon directly in the eyes, “we would
be less than men if we didn’t do what we could to catch these scum.”
Simon held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll bring help,” he said.
The boy’s trail had been easy to trace along the stream, the prints
of his small bare feet readily visible in the streamside mud. But after a
time the prints disappeared. Loran searched the firmer ground that sloped
up and away from the stream, walking slowly but purposefully in ever
widening arcs, hoping to catch a sign of the boy’s passage. He saw none,
however, and soon gave up the effort. The location of the last tracks
Loran had found supported his guess about the kidnappers’ hideout. He
checked the sun so he could use it as a guide, and headed up the mountain.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rick flew due west as directed until he crossed Route 56, circled
there for awhile, then followed it north all the way to Potsdam before
turning around and following it back to his point of first intersection.
There, he circled a few more times, then continued south to Cranberry
Lake.
There were no further instructions from the kidnappers. Given that
the money had been delivered, he was not surprised. It had already been
well over an hour since he had dropped the bag―plenty of time for the
kidnappers to evacuate the area.
He headed for The Birches, hoping to be greeted with the news
that Davey had been released.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“So now what? You kill me and head off to New York?”
Sarah had not moved. Stitchard had released Anders while Butler
continued to stand guard.
Now, all three stood staring at her.
“It’s an idea,” Butler said. He spoke to Stitchard. “Go get the
bag.”
Stitchard left and Butler continued, “But, no, I don’t think so. You
may still have your uses.”
“As what, queen of your sicko new world?”
“No. After further consideration, I decided that wouldn’t work. A
hostage may turn out to be useful, however.”
Stitchard reappeared with the duffel.
“Dump it out on the table,” Butler said. He picked up Anders’ gun
and set it on the bed behind him.
No one said anything as Stitchard shook the contents of the bag
onto the table―hundreds of neatly bound packs of bills, labeled as to
amount.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Butler announced when the bag
was empty.
Both Anders and Stitchard tore their eyes from the money to look
at him.
“We’re splitting the money. My time here is through and I have
other projects to pursue.”
“Splitting it?” Anders said.
“Yes, I’m going to take a portion to fund my further activities.
You will take the rest so that you can continue the organization in my
absence.”
“But―” Stitchard began.
Anders cut him off.
“How much?”
“Right to the point, eh, Creight? Well, that’s fine. I’m taking
eight million.”
Johnson 214
“Eight?” Anders said. “And leaving us here holding the bag with a
measly two? No way.”
“As they say, ‘way’. And as for two million dollars being measly,
I’d venture to say that’s more than you or any other member of our little
army will make in your entire pathetic lifetimes. Certainly enough to fund
the organization for decades.”
“Fuck the organization,” Anders said heatedly. “We took a lot of
risk to get this money and you ain’t just walkin’ off with it.”
“Tough words, but I don’t think you are in a position to back them
up.”
He pointed his pistol at Anders as Anders looked longingly toward
the gun on the bed.
“Easy now,” Butler said. “You know I’ll shoot you. In fact, it
would be a pleasure.”
“Double-crossing bastard.”
“Such words. You truly hurt me. But the fact is, this was always
the plan. Only the timing has changed.” Butler directed his gaze at
Stitchard. “Split out two million.”
Stitchard moved quickly to comply.
“Now put the rest back in the bag.”
“What about her?” Anders said.
“I told you, she’s going with me.”
“But she’s seen our faces.”
“You’re the fool who let her see you.”
“And you’re the one who brought her here in the first place. That
wasn’t in the plan.”
“Improvisation is at times necessary.”
“Yeah, well, if she goes free, she can identify us. I say we kill her.
Now.”
“And I say she goes with me.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
Butler regarded Sarah contemplatively.
“Let’s just say you won’t have to worry about her identifying you.”
He spoke to the smaller man again. “Secure the bag to my machine,
please.” To Anders and Sarah he said, “You two, outside.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
By his reckoning, Loran Mohawk was less than a mile from the
lake that was his destination when he heard the growl of an engine
starting. An ATV, he was sure, revving then falling to an idle. One
machine, as best he could tell.
He sprinted straight up the hill toward the sound, leaping over
boulders and logs, ducking under low branches, ignoring the pain as
Simon’s gun jabbed at his back and brambles and branches tore at him,
intent on getting to the vehicle before it moved.
But then it did, the sound of the motor telling the tale. Loran
stopped and listened, trying desperately to hear above his labored
breathing. The vehicle was moving to his left, not directly away. There
was still a chance.
Changing to a course he hoped would head it off, he ran again.
The engine was louder now, the sound rising and falling as the
machine made its way toward him. If only he knew exactly where it was
going he could hide and check it out without showing himself. As it was,
he would be left with trying to catch up to it and assess the situation on the
run.
He was moving so fast he almost missed the trail, then stopped so
fast he almost fell. A narrow two rut track―a trail formed by ATVs. He
faced the direction the machine would come, even as he caught a glimpse
of motion through the trees one hundred yards distant. An ATV, he was
sure now. And only one, driving steadily over the uneven terrain but
without undue haste.
It wasn’t the best place for an ambush―flat rather than precipitous
and open rather than closed in―but there was no time to choose a better
one. The ATV was only seconds away. And although there was still a
slight chance the rider was not involved in the kidnapping and an awkward
situation would ensue, Loran was willing to take that chance.
Johnson 216
Struggling again to calm the heaving of his chest, he switched the
M-16’s safety to auto, dropped to one knee, and aimed the weapon up the
trail. The rider would be unable to see him until he came over a small rise
no more than thirty yards away: he had him.
Loran peered through his sights and picked a spot that would be
chest high on the driver, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Seconds later, the ATV was there, appearing over the rise, the
driver in a camo jump suit, the machine painted mottled green, an Uzi or
similar submachine strapped to the handlebars. There was a passenger, a
woman.
The driver saw Loran and slowed abruptly.
“Stop,” Loran was about to shout―but the driver gave him no
chance. He gunned the engine and veered left. Caught by surprise, Loran
tried to follow his target as the machine rose on two wheels, slammed
back to the ground in a spray of dirt and leaves, and tore off back the way
it had come.
Loran was left with a view of the woman’s rapidly receding back,
her head turned as she looked fearfully in Loran’s direction.
“Stop!” he yelled, and fired a burst into the trees over the speeding
vehicle. But the vehicle never slowed, bouncing over logs and rocks until
it regained the trail then speeding back up the mountain.
Loran stood and watched as a few leaves, severed by his bullets,
drifted slowly to the ground, then followed the ATV up the trail.
Billy Swamp froze as the report of distant automatic fire bounced
off the mountains, the echoes lapping over one another in diminishing
waves.
“That was no hunter,” he said. “Could have been Loran or Simon.
They’re over in that direction. How far away do you think it was?”
“Hard to say. A mile, maybe two.”
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Simon Oakes had never felt so tired in his life, not even in those
first days with JM Construction, when he had been literally and
figuratively at the bottom of the ladder, hauling eighty-pound bags of
cement for ten hours a day with muscles unused to anything more
demanding than high school lacrosse workouts, strenuous though those
were. Despite the intervening muscle-hardening years, the boy sleeping in
his arms, at first so frail and light, was now a dead weight, turning
Simon’s arms to fire and causing rivers of sweat to course down his body.
He gave no thought to stopping. Speed was critical. Not so much
for the boy’s sake, although he clearly needed medical attention, but for
Loran’s. Loran would find the kidnappers, if they were there to be found,
of that Simon had no doubt―and that was what had Simon worried. If
Loran found the kidnappers, he would not hesitate to do what he deemed
necessary to stop them, regardless of the risk to himself. The sooner
Simon got back to Loran with help, the better it would be.
Ahead through the trees, he saw an area lit by sunlight: the road at
last. He stumbled toward it at a half-run, almost falling as a log hidden in
the ferns reached up and grabbed his foot, gripped by a sudden fear that
even a few seconds delay could cause him to miss a passing car―on a
road where passing cars would be few and far between.
Fifty yards away, his worst fear was realized. There was a car
coming! He could hear the whisper of its passage, see it glinting through
the trees.
Calling upon every reserve of strength and will he possessed, he
scrambled up the embankment at the road’s edge and into the glaring
brightness of the roadway even as the gold Ford Taurus swept by,
staggering out into the middle of the road as the car proceeded north, its
driver wrapped in a cocoon of air-conditioned comfort and stereo sound
and oblivious to the desperate man shouting behind him.
Simon stared as the car disappeared around a bend, his heart and
lungs working frantically to feed oxygen-starved cells. He looked the
Johnson 218
other way. The road sat silent and unblinking in the sun, mocking him. If
only he had been a few seconds faster!
But he stopped that train of thought. Such thinking was foolish, a
sign of weakness. He had done the best he could. Now there was more to
do. Loran was depending on him.
Hitching Davey up higher on his shoulder, he headed down the
road at a trot.
Oren Tebo sat in his cruiser on the shoulder of Route 458 a few
miles south of St. Regis Falls studying a map of the Park. If the Warriors
had set themselves an impossible task in trying to find the kidnappers,
Oren had at least set himself a difficult one. He was only one man. And
although there weren’t that many roads in this area, there were certainly
enough to keep one man busy for a long time searching them.
And what could he hope to find anyway? A truck he recognized
parked by the side of some lonely road? What good would that do him?
None really, if the men were deep in the woods as they likely were by
now.
But still, he had to do what he could. If nothing else, he would be
on hand if something developed. He studied the map again. Question:
Where would they go? Answer: Where they thought the kidnappers
would go. But where was that?
Simon was sure he was getting close. Another mile, maybe a little
more. He was less sure he could make it. His body was at its limit. Back
when he could still think, he had remembered scenes from triathlons of
runners staggering to the finish, careening all over the track as their body’s
guidance systems shut down, legs covered in filth as they lost control of
their sphincters, with nothing but sheer will driving them on. It hadn’t
happened to him yet, but it was coming. His vision had been reduced to a
gray haze, sufficient only to keep him moving forward.
Davey had ceased to exist as anything more than a burden Simon
was for unknown reasons sentenced to bear. Earlier he had been seized
with panic at the sudden thought that Davey was no longer there, that he
had dropped him unknowingly along the way. Such concerns were
beyond him now.
That he was no longer capable of driving his truck was also a
thought beyond the capabilities of his exhaustion-dulled mind. He only
knew he had to reach it. To get help for Loran. It was up to him.
Storm Front 219
Oren took his foot off the accelerator as he came around the bend.
There was someone walking along the road ahead, someone with long
black hair and dressed in camouflage clothes. Was it one of his? He
unsnapped his holster and laid his gun on the seat beside him.
He drew closer. As he watched, the man veered off of the shoulder
and onto the roadway then back again. He gave no sign of having heard
Oren’s approach.
Oren saw no gun, but the man was carrying something, a bundle of
some sort. It seemed as if it could be a child. The man still showed no
sign that he had heard Oren’s cruiser. If he was one of the kidnappers, he
was remarkably careless.
It was a child―and an Indian was carrying it! Could the Warriors
be involved in the kidnapping after all? Oren picked his pistol up and laid
it on his lap.
Ten yards now, and still the man gave no sign that he had heard the
car.
Oren slowed to match the man’s pace as he brought the cruiser
alongside him and flicked on his rooftop lights.
The man was Simon Oakes.
Oren popped the siren. No reaction. Simon staggered ahead, eyes
doggedly fixed on the road before him.
Oren hit the siren again, longer this time―and finally Simon
shambled to a stop, staring dully at Oren’s car.
Putting the cruiser in park, Oren scrambled out and moved quickly
to where Simon stood.
“Simon,” he said. “What’s wrong? Is that the boy?”
Simon gaped at him then awkwardly tried to lift the boy off his
shoulder. Oren stepped forward and took him. As he did, Simon
collapsed onto the roadway.
“Loran,” he croaked. “Got to help Loran.” He passed out.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Charlie Stitchard and Creight Anders had been loading their ATVs
when the shots had come, Creight putting the money into his duffel,
Charlie watching without comment.
Now they stood frozen in the dooryard of the cabin as the sound of
an ATV moving at high speed drew steadily nearer.
“What the fuck,” Anders said. He unslung his Uzi.
“You think it’s Butler?”
“Yeah, I think it’s Butler. Somethin’ must have gone wrong.
Shit!”
“You think that was him shooting?”
“How the fuck do I know? Whoever it was, it ain’t good. Get
your fuckin’ gun.”
The ATV roared into the clearing. Butler killed the engine and got
off, leaving Sarah chained to the vehicle.
“Someone was waiting,” he said. “A guy in camo.”
“A cop?” Anders asked.
“He didn’t look it. He looked like an Indian actually.”
“An Indian? Do you think he was just hunting?”
“He had a gun pointed at me when I came down the trail. No, I
don’t think he was hunting―at least not for animals.”
“You think he was looking for us?” Stitchard asked fearfully.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve got something going up here
they’re trying to hide. The point is, we’ve got to get him. Creight, you
come with me. Charlie, you cuff her to the bed then get the gas cans out
and in position. When you’re done with that take the windows out and
close the shutters. Just the way we practiced. Anybody comes, you let
them know you’ve got her and you’ll kill her. We’ll be back as soon as
possible.”
He turned to Anders. “Let’s go.”
Storm Front 221
Loran paused mid-step, his body in a crouch, eyes straining to see
through the undergrowth. Had he actually heard something or was it just
his keyed-up nerves? Something ahead and uphill to the left.
He had come several hundred yards up the trail from where he had
encountered the ATV, moving more cautiously with each step, alert to the
possibility that he could be walking into an ambush. The ground was
more broken here, the trail traversing a steep and wooded slope interrupted
by rock outcroppings.
He guessed that the spot where the ATV’s engine had cut off was
still several hundred yards ahead. Was that where the cabin was? It
seemed likely. But that didn’t mean they were there waiting patiently for
him to come.
And how many were there? Three men plus the woman the boy
had said. But there might be more.
He briefly considered whether he should simply turn around and
go back for help. But he couldn’t. They might escape in the meantime.
But even more important, his pride wouldn’t let him. Loran was a
Mohawk, fiercest of the Iroquois tribes, and he would do nothing to betray
that proud heritage. Mohawks didn’t run for help. They fought their own
battles—and this was now his battle.
If his shots had been heard and his fellow Warriors came, all to the
good. But he wouldn’t count on that.
Time to get off the trail. He considered moving to the right, away
from the sound, to avoid whoever might be stalking him, but decided
against that. Better to confront the danger head on, eyes open―and gun at
the ready. Placing each foot with extreme care, he moved off the trail to
his left, body in a crouch, using trees for cover.
A stick cracked ahead. He froze. The sound was not his
imagination. Something heavy was moving slowly through the woods. A
deer or even a bear perhaps―but after all the racket, more likely a human.
Another stick broke. Loran saw him: a large bearded man, not the
one from the ATV, dressed in worn, ill-fitting camo pants and shirt and
walking with attempted stealth through the woods, eyes toward the trail.
Loran placed his sight squarely on the man’s chest. It would be so
easy to pull the trigger. One less opponent in an instant. He moved the
sight down the man’s body to his knees. Or maybe not a kill shot, just a
disabling wound.
Johnson 222
But tempting as it was, it didn’t make sense. He didn’t want to
give his position away―at least not until he had a better idea what he was
dealing with.
He watched as the man moved slowly past him, then crept away in
the direction the man had come.
Butler examined his watch. It was time to go back. Thirty minutes
had passed since his encounter with the man on the path. Thirty minutes
in which the man could have covered a lot of ground. He could already be
returning with reinforcements.
Butler gave a short, sharp whistle, heard Anders whistle in return,
and turned back toward the cabin.
From his hiding place in a jumble of boulders near the lake, Loran
watched as the men returned to the cabin. The bearded man, then the
driver of the ATV. There was at least one other man, inside now. Loran
had watched while he removed the cabin’s windows and closed the
shutters—shutters, Loran noted, that had gun ports cut in them, as did the
front door. They had obviously been prepared for siege. The woman was
presumably inside also. Three ATVs were parked by the cabin, all heavily
loaded.
It added up. Three men and the woman.
As the men walked into the dooryard of the cabin, the third man
came out to meet them. Loran watched as they talked for a few seconds,
then perhaps realizing the vulnerability of their exposed position, hurried
inside.
What to do. He guessed they would be on their way shortly.
Should he wait until they came out and shoot as many as possible? There
were problems with that. One or more might escape and he might hit the
woman.
No, better to keep them holed up in the cabin and hope for
reinforcements. Simon should have reached the road by now.
The door to the cabin opened. It was now or never.
He swung his gun quickly to the right, sighted in on the nearest
ATV and sprayed it with several bursts of fire before moving on to the
other two. As the man jumped back into the cabin and slammed the door,
automatic fire erupted from the cabin, spraying the rocks where Loran was
hidden and sending rock chips flying.
Loran ducked down out of sight.
“Check,” he said out loud as he tried to quiet his hammering heart.
Storm Front 223
But was it checkmate? He was sure he knocked out the first ATV
and maybe the other two, although they were partially blocked so it was
hard to say for sure.
In any event, as long as Loran stayed where he was, it would be
difficult for the men to reach them. A thought occurred to him. What if
there was a back door? If there was, there was no way for him to keep
them bottled up from this position. He should have picked a spot to the
side of the cabin where he could see anyone coming out, front or back. He
could see what appeared to be a good location to his right, only about fifty
yards from the cabin, a large log a short distance from the edge of the
clearing.
He scuttled back from his position on his hands and knees, being
careful to keep the rocks between him and the cabin, then circled back
through the trees to the edge of the clearing. There, he stopped.
This was the critical stretch of his journey. He had to cross several
yards of open ground to reach the log. There was no sign of life at the
cabin, except for one gun barrel projecting slightly from the port in the
front door. No threat there. Whoever it was couldn’t see him. The gun
slit in the side window was dark. There was an outhouse behind the cabin
but it was empty, its door ajar.
It was time to make his move. Dropping to his belly, he crawled
across the open ground, his gun clutched in one hand, Simon’s on his
back.
Five yards.
Ten yards.
Fifteen.
Suddenly, there was movement at the back of the cabin where the
roof sloped back to a low wall: a door opening. Loran froze. He was
totally exposed and in no position to fire.
The driver of the ATV cautiously opened the door about a foot,
stuck his head out, and systematically surveyed the woods behind the
cabin, apparently trying to get a better view than the gunport in the door
afforded.
As the man’s head turned toward him, Loran thrust himself to his
knees and threw his rifle to his shoulder. There was no time for fine
shooting. The man had already stepped out and was bringing his gun to
bear. Loran’s sight touched on the man’s chest and he pulled the trigger,
sure that he would hit him.
Johnson 224
He did. The man was yanked out away from the cabin by the force
of the bullets. Loran watched as the man staggered, expecting him to
collapse. But impossibly, the man steadied himself and swung his gun
toward Loran.
Loran scrambled to regain firing position―but the bullets tore into
him before he could even raise his gun.
Body armor, he thought as he fell forward into the dirt. He must
have been wearing body armor.
It was Loran’s last thought.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Billy Swamp and Rudy Cook had been less than a half mile away
when the sound of automatic fire ripped through the woods a second time.
The pattern was different this time. First one gun. A few seconds later,
others―possibly returning fire. They had headed toward the sound at a
run then slowed to a cautious walk as they drew nearer.
When the firing started a third time, it was so close and so loud
that both men jumped.
They crept forward, Billy in the lead.
There was a structure ahead. A cabin. Billy dropped to a crouch
and motioned for Rudy to do the same.
The cabin was still. Three ATVs parked in front. No sign of the
shooters. Something on the ground near the cabin caught Billy’s eye. He
couldn’t make out what it was at first, but finally he did. A body, clad in
camouflage. Long black hair tied back. Gun in the dirt beside him,
another on his back.
An Indian.
“Billy, that’s Loran,” Rudy said excitedly.
Billy nodded. Loran! The best of them. Was he dead? He was
obviously badly hurt if he wasn’t. Even at this distance, Billy could see
large dark stains on his shirt.
“Where’s Simon?”
Billy shook his head.
“Around, maybe.”
The front door of the cabin opened suddenly and a man and a
woman came out, the man holding the woman in front of him, a
submachine gun under her chin. Two other men crowded out behind him,
their guns at the ready as they scanned the woods.
Billy and Rudy dropped onto their stomachs.
“A woman!” Rudy hissed. “They’ve got a hostage.”
Johnson 226
The first man walked the woman over to one of the ATVs and sat
her on it, then produced something silver from his pocket. Billy squinted
to see. Handcuffs. He was manacling her to the ATV.
Billy raised his rifle, a bolt action Remington .30-.30 with a four
power scope that he used for deer, and nestled the crosshairs on the man’s
back.
“You sight in on the big one,” he said evenly. “I’ve got the one
with the girl. If he steps clear, I’ll shoot. Then you do too. Then we’ll
both concentrate on the little guy. Be careful of the girl, though.”
Beside him, Rudy raised his M-16.
Seconds passed with nightmare slowness. The man finished
cuffing the girl and stepped back. Billy started to squeeze the trigger, but
the man moved back alongside her gain. Too close. Billy wasn’t that
good a shot even with the scope.
He waited again. Now the men were talking, the big one
examining the other machines, and saying something to the one with the
girl.
An argument of some sort. The big one sat on the machine nearest
him and turned the key while the others watched. The girl was still too
close.
The starter whined but the engine didn’t catch. The big man tried
again. Said something to Billy’s target—and the man stepped toward the
machine to give it a try.
The recoil of Billy’s gun cause him to lose sight of the scene
momentarily. As he tried to determine the results of his shot, Rudy’s rifle
boomed in his ear, a three shot burst.
The girl sat frozen on the ATV. All three men had disappeared.
He and Rudy had both missed or at least failed to kill.
The silence was total―but then it wasn’t. A sound was growing
in the distance, the percussive beat of chopper blades against the air. The
cavalry was coming―only this time it was coming to help the Indians
against the cabin bound whites.
The sudden crack of a rifle broke his reverie. He and Rudy both
cringed involuntarily then were knocked to the ground as the world
exploded not twenty yards away.
“All right, let’s blow the others,” Butler said to Charlie Stitchard as
he withdrew his rifle from the gunport. He glanced at Anders. Anders
was sitting slumped over the table, blood from a gaping wound at the base
of his neck soaking his shirt and dripping into a growing pool on the
Storm Front 227
table’s scarred surface. His face was pale and he interrupted his heavy
wheezing periodically to erupt with a liquid cough.
“What’s that sound?” Stitchard asked nervously.
Butler stopped and listened.
“Choppers,” he said. “Time to move. The fires will give us
cover.”
“But what about Creight?”
Butler contemplated Anders again.
“He’s not going to make it.”
Anders had lifted his head at the sound of his name and now stared
dazedly at Stitchard and Butler. He tried to speak but only managed a
choked gurgle.
“We can’t just leave him,” Stitchard said.
“No, we can’t. You’re right.”
“But his machine doesn’t even work.”
“He’d never make it out to it anyway.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
“There’s only one thing to do,” Butler said unsnapping his holster.
Anders’ eyes grew wide. He raised his hands as if he could block
the bullets―then fell heavily forward onto the table as Butler’s pistol
barked three times.
Sarah sat unmoving on the ATV. She had ducked when the shots
had come but it was clear that whoever lay in ambush at the edge of the
clearing had no interest in killing her. If they did, she would have been
dead already.
So she sat, feeling naked and exposed but oddly relaxed. Her
fate―for the moment at least―was out of her hands.
A shot had rung out from the far side of the cabin and a ball of
flame and black smoke had erupted near where the ambushers lay hidden.
She had watched as flames had spread quickly from the point of the
explosion, racing along the needle-covered ground and up into the parched
conifers, which cracked and popped and burst into towers of flame that
shot off fountains of sparks.
She watched as two figures heaved themselves up off the ground a
short distance from the fire and retreated deeper into the woods.
She heard the helicopters then, the plangent thud of their rotors
growing louder each second.
Johnson 228
There were more shots from the cabin, three quick muffled ones
and a short time later, three louder, spaced shots that each resulted in new
explosions of flame at the woods’ edge. The heat was growing more
intense with each second, as curtains of black smoke drifted across the
clearing.
The choppers arrived, whipping the smoke and flames with the
wind from their blades, then possibly recognizing that or intimidated by
the heat, backing off, four that Sarah could see through gaps in the smoke,
hovering now in the distance.
The door to the cabin opened and Butler ran for the machine on
which Sarah sat, a rifle slung over his back and an Uzi in his hands, the
small man behind him, spraying the woods with automatic fire.
Butler leapt onto the seat in front of Sarah, started the engine, then
began shooting too, strafing the smoke shrouded woods as the other man
struggled to start his machine, his panic apparent when it wouldn’t catch.
Shaking his head with despair, the man lifted his hands out from
his sides in a gesture of terrified futility―as Butler turned his gun on him
and ripped him apart.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The first thing Rick noticed was that the FBI’s birds had flown.
The second was that The Birches was relatively deserted. The choppers
and most of the cars were gone. Only one lonely late model sedan and the
communications van sat in the drive in front of the main house. And
where earlier seeming hordes of agents scurried about, now only one
person was visible, watching as he set the chopper down gently on the
macadam pad.
Jim Flaherty came to the cockpit door as the helicopter settled to
the ground.
“Did they release Davey? Is that where everyone’s gone?” Rick
asked as soon as he had shut the engines off.
Flaherty shook his head.
“No, but Davey’s safe. He escaped. He was found wandering in
the woods.”
Rick grinned.
“That’s fantastic. So where is he?”
“They took him to the hospital. Harvey and his parents are there
now.”
The grin disappeared.
“He’s not . . .?”
“He’s OK. They just want to check him out.”
Rick studied the other man.
“So what’s wrong? Where’s the FBI?”
“They think they’ve found the kidnappers, holed up in a cabin in
Franklin County near Santa Clara. The report just came in on the radio.”
“That makes sense. I made the drop near there. Well, I hope they
nail those bastards.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “Rick, there’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“Davey said Sarah helped him escape.”
“Sarah?”
“He said she was there and helped him escape.”
Johnson 230
“She’s up there?”
“We don’t know. She might have escaped too.”
“But how did she get there?”
“They’re not sure. They’re not even sure Davey’s right. But with
her disappearing . . .”
“I’ve got to go there.”
The smoke was visible before he was within ten miles of the spot,
a dark pall hanging low over the forest. As he drew nearer, he could see
the FBI choppers hovering above the orange glow of the flames. Rick
flew to within a half mile of the farthest reaches of the fire and circled
slowly.
The roads below were a welter of activity. Fire trucks sped to the
scene from all directions, lights flashing, moving to do battle with the
blaze raging in the bone dry woods. Lines of cars and trucks waited
behind police roadblocks as their credentials were checked, news crews
prominent among them. Rick recognized the call letters of two of the
local stations.
Jim had told him he shouldn’t go, that he would only be in the
way, that he would be better off staying at The Birches where they could
hear the reports coming in—and he hadn’t even known about Rick’s radio.
Now, Rick saw that Jim had been right. There was no place to land and
without communications he would only be in the way.
As if to confirm his conclusion, one of the choppers broke toward
him. As it drew nearer, a man, Special Agent Ganz he was almost sure,
raised a megaphone and said something that was lost in the roar of the
choppers and gesticulated forcefully with his arm, waving Rick off.
Reluctantly, Rick waved acknowledgement and pulled away,
heading back toward The Birches.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The ride from the cabin had been a frenetic blur, as Butler raced
through the smoke-filled forest at high speed, flying over bumps, roaring
through brooks, and careening around bends in the path, Sarah struggling
to keep herself seated as the vehicle bounced and jerked and swayed,
knowing that if she fell off the machine while handcuffed to it her injuries
would be extreme.
In less than half the time it had taken to make the trip in to the
cabin they had arrived at the clearing where Sarah’s Jeep and the horse
trailer were hidden. Butler shut off the motor and stood listening
attentively. In the distance, Sarah could hear the sounds of the helicopters
circling over the cabin. There was no sound of pursuit.
Butler unlocked the trailer and emerged carrying the duster and the
jugs of anthrax, which he placed carefully in the back of the Jeep. These
were followed by several gun cases and a few more boxes. When he was
finished he threw a blanket over the load and shut the hatch.
He stopped to listen. Still no sound of pursuit.
He went into the trailer and came out carrying another khaki shirt,
a tube of anti-bacterial ointment and some bandages. Applying the
ointment to one of the bandages, he used it to scrub the caked blood from
Sarah’s cheek, then took a clean bandage and covered her wounds. He
unlocked her handcuffs and handed her the shirt. Wordlessly, she stripped
off the old one and put the new one on. He led her to the Jeep and
handcuffed her as before, ankles to the frame under the passenger seat,
wrists together beneath her thighs, then took the license plates off the Jeep
and replaced them with the ones from his van. That done, he stripped off
his camo jumpsuit and a padded vest to reveal street clothes and climbed
into the driver’s seat.
A minute later, he eased the Jeep onto the pavement of the main
road and headed south at moderate speed.
Johnson 232
Butler drove steadily, calmly, five miles over the speed limit, no
more, no less. It seemed impossible to Sarah that they would be able
simply to drive away―and yet it was happening.
When first they set out in the Jeep, Sarah had tensed with
expectation every time another vehicle approached, certain that this was
the one that would stop them, stop him. Surely, they had a description of
her car and were on the lookout for it. She knew it would be dangerous
for her if they were intercepted, with wild flight in the Jeep at high speeds
or a desperate shootout very real possibilities. But Butler would be caught
or killed, and his insane plan would be foiled. Sarah’s life was a little
enough price to pay for that.
But the vehicles had passed, police cars, fire trucks, volunteer
firemen, moving at speed with lights blazing, heading for a scene of fire
and violence where their help was urgently needed. Paying no attention to
the young, middle class couple heading south.
And now as the miles dropped away, the passing cars were few
and far between, and simple travelers, little suspecting that death had just
passed them wearing the face of a clean-cut young man with a
pretty―though somewhat battered―woman at his side.
A helicopter approached moving fast, the cacophony of its passage
clearly audible even in the closed confines of the car. She glanced at
Butler. He had heard it too, gripping the wheel just a little more tightly,
she thought. But the helicopter passed overhead without pause and soon
its sound faded away.
She began to realize that the impossible might yet occur. She
knew it happened, that desperate men did elude the police despite the odds
seemingly stacked against them, despite radios, and APBs, and all the
technology of modern law enforcement. Knew that it was only solid
citizens like herself who believed the police to be invincible. And yet
because she was one of those solid citizens, she had believed.
And maybe she and Butler’s intended victims would yet be saved
by the guardians of public safety. It was a long way to New York. But
she was no longer counting on it. The only person who was really in a
position to stop Butler was her. The question was how.
CHAPTER FIFTY
As Rick put the scene of the fire behind him, the frenetic human
activity below slowly died away, replaced by the relentless tranquility of a
sunny summer afternoon in the mountains, peaks rising majestically into
azure skies, the forest a blanket of green broken by the gleaming sapphire
of lakes and ponds, the roads travelled only by the occasional car loaded
with hikers, canoeists, campers or sightseers.
But the tranquility was a lie. Sarah was in trouble. Precious Sarah.
Davey was safe but Sarah was not. Frustration rose in him bitter and
sharp. And here he was flying away, when every part of him wanted to be
back there doing something, anything, to help save her. But what could he
do?
A vehicle moving on the ribbon of road below caught his eye. A
red Jeep Cherokee, heading south. A Jeep Cherokee. Like Sarah’s―like
thousands of other people’s. He watched it. It was proceeding at a
moderate pace, with nothing to suggest that it was other than vacationers
out for a drive. There was no way the kidnappers could have slipped
through the cordon the police had thrown around the cabin. Every road
was blocked. And why would they use Sarah’s car and run the risk that
the police were on the lookout for it?
But still. He changed course to follow it, got the binoculars out of
the storage compartment next to his seat and stared at the Jeep’s license
plate, willing the vibration caused by the chopper to be still.
Just as he thought. It wasn’t hers. He was letting his imagination
and concern for Sarah get the better of him.
He swung around to get back on course for The Birches―and saw
a familiar dent in the Jeep’s right front fender.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Sarah wasn’t sure at first, but soon she was. Another helicopter.
Behind them this time. Following them. It had seen the car, heard the
APB, was now checking the plate and discovering it didn’t match the car.
The call would go out, the blockades would form―a dragnet from which
Butler couldn’t possibly escape. Butler heard it, too. He accelerated
slightly and took his pistol out from under his thigh and laid it on his lap,
its muzzle gaping at Sarah.
The back road they had been travelling would soon end, joining
Route 28, a main route that led to the congestion of Lake George and
Glens Falls, areas where eluding pursuit would be far easier and the risk to
innocent bystanders far higher than on the limited roads of the Park
interior. Much better that they should cut him off here. But could they act
fast enough?
Rick was in a quandary. He had no way of confirming that the
Jeep was Sarah’s other than swooping low in front of it and seeing if he
could see her.
He was reluctant to do that. If he didn’t see her it didn’t mean it
wasn’t hers for one thing. And in either case, he would have risked
spooking the kidnappers with who knew what result.
But what options did he have? Only one, that he could see: to
follow at a discreet distance and see what developed. He dropped back
and hovered for a few seconds while the Jeep proceeded onward. When it
was a mile or so in front, he started to follow.
For Sarah, minutes passed in eternities. She couldn’t hear the
helicopter now. Dropping back so as not to spook Butler, she supposed.
Ready to move in when the ground forces cut him off.
STOP. The sign loomed in front of them, marking the end of
Route 28N and the junction with Route 28. Butler coasted to a halt.
Looked both ways. Turned left. Sarah looked for the trap she hoped
would be there―there was nothing but open road.
Storm Front 235
One opportunity missed―but there would be more. It was at least
twenty miles to Lake George. They still had time to cut Butler off while
his options were limited. But where were they? Could they have failed to
check the plate?
There was more traffic now, although the road was still only two
lanes. Cars whizzed by. Rush hour commuters on their way home on just
another busy day, fresh from their jobs in Albany and Troy and
Schenectady.
Sarah’s hopes faded. Too much time had passed. The helicopter
hadn’t been the police. It was up to her after all.
It was getting more difficult to keep track of the Jeep. Traffic had
increased dramatically as they approached the Northway and the tawdry
clutter of Lake George. Rick had closed the gap between the chopper and
his target, but still it wasn’t easy. He had never realized how many sport
utility vehicles there were on the roads. And of those it seemed that three
out of four were red, although he knew it couldn’t be the case.
And then the Jeep had gotten on the Northway with its limited
exits and things had gotten a little easier, the Jeep heading south at a
steady pace that made it easy to follow. He was able to drop back once
again.
He checked his fuel gauge. A little less than half of capacity. He
could still go a long way.
Near Saratoga Springs, he passed over a state trooper barracks and
was tempted to stop. The parking lot was mostly empty and he would
have no trouble setting the bird down. He could tell them he was
following a suspicious vehicle that might be involved in the Skolnick
kidnapping.
He decided against it. By the time the confusion subsided, the Jeep
might be long gone. Better to keep following.
Butler slowed as they approached an exit ramp.
“I thought a little sustenance might do us both good,” he said.
“Hungry?”
Actually, Sarah was. She nodded.
“Good.”
Johnson 236
He drove down the ramp. A McDonald’s sat a short distance from
the end of the ramp. He pulled into the Drive Thru lane. A car was in
front of them, the driver giving his order into the intercom.
“What will you have?” Butler said brightly.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Yes, well, you’re not going to do that here. You’ll just have to
wait.”
“I really have to go.”
“Number one or number two?” he asked with a smirk.
Sarah stared at him.
“It will be almost as unpleasant for you as for me if you don’t let
me go.”
“I’m sure. That’s why I’m going to. Not only that, but I’m not
going to make you go in the woods. We need gas anyway. Now, what
will you have?”
They sat in the car in the rear of the parking lot while they ate their
hamburgers and french fries and drank their colas, for all the world an all-
American couple―except for the fact that Sarah’s ankles were still
manacled to the seat frame.
When they finished, Butler collected their trash and deposited it in
the trash receptacle at the edge of the lot before returning to the passenger
side door. He opened it, and after a quick glance around to make sure no
one was watching, produced the key and unlocked Sarah’s ankles.
He got back in the driver’s side.
“Now, listen carefully,” he said. “We’re going to drive next door
to get gas. I will pump it and pay for it. While I do, you will sit quietly in
the car. When I’m done, I’ll pull the car out of the way and you can use
the ladies’ room. When you are done, I will check it to make sure you
haven’t done anything silly then we will drive away. You will make no
attempt to escape or make contact with anyone. If you do, I will kill you
and everyone in the station. Is that clear?”
He stared at Sarah.
“Is that clear?” he asked again.
Sarah nodded.
“I hope so, because a lot of people could get hurt if it isn’t.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Hovering at a distance, Rick watched as the Jeep took the exit
ramp and pulled into the McDonald’s. It was beginning to seem as if he
had come on a wild goose chase. Stopping for Big Macs didn’t exactly
seem like the move of desperadoes on the run. Thank goodness he hadn’t
landed at the state trooper barracks.
The Jeep went through the Drive Thru and parked at the rear of the
parking lot. Although it was hard to tell through the glare of the
windshield, it looked as if someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Ten
minutes went by with Rick growing more frustrated with each passing
second, sure he was wasting his time.
Finally, the driver side door opened and Rick prepared to catch his
first glimpse of his quarry. Keeping one hand on the controls he lifted his
binoculars as a man got out: not an obvious member of the criminal class,
but a respectable-looking man of about thirty-five responsibly disposing of
his trash.
The man put the trash in the receptacle, then walked to the
passenger side of the Jeep. After glancing quickly around, he opened the
door and squatted next to it. After a few seconds, he got back in the
vehicle. Except for that one glance―which could have signified almost
anything―there was nothing about his actions that suggested that he was
anything other than what he appeared to be: an innocent traveler stopping
for an early dinner.
Rick considered turning back. While he was out on his wild goose
chase, Sarah’s fate was hanging in the balance. Even if he couldn’t help,
he could at least be there.
On the other hand, he had come this far. He decided to wait and
see if the man would get back on the highway and continue south or
whether his exiting here had some other significance.
The Jeep pulled into the Exxon station next door, a low slung
white building with a glassed-in office a pair of garage bays. Two sets of
blocky, state-of-the-art pumps sat out front under a broad roof. Rick
Johnson 238
watched impatiently as the man got out, pumped his gas, went inside to
pay, then pulled the Jeep away from the pump and parked to one side.
But then a woman got out of the passenger side of the vehicle―a
woman with a slender build and honey-blonde hair wearing a khaki shirt
and jeans.
A jolt of adrenalin surged through Rick’s body. Was it Sarah?
Sarah wore jeans all the time, but that meant little and the shirt was not
familiar.
He lifted his binoculars in time to see the woman disappear into the
ladies’ room.
The man had gotten out of the car and was standing by its rear as if
keeping an eye on the ladies’ room. Rick raised the binoculars again to
get a better look―and discovered the man was staring right at him.
Rick was saved from having to make a decision about what to do
when the door of the ladies’ room opened and the woman reappeared. The
man strode toward her, grabbed her arm and pulled her briefly into the rest
room with him, then walked her to the car. As he did, Rick had a clear
view of the woman’s face―a face he knew well, only partly obscured by
what appeared to be bandages.
Rick put the binoculars down and moved the helicopter to put the
pump overhang between him and the Jeep. He wasn’t sure what to do
next but knew he would be better off if the man wasn’t alarmed. The man
had been looking at the chopper but there was yet hope that he wasn’t
spooked.
The Jeep didn’t return to the highway. Instead, it proceeded east
on a narrow two lane road. Rick was forced to close the gap between
them as trees overhanging the road obscured his view and the availability
of myriad turnoffs made losing his prey a real risk.
Finally, he did lose him. The Jeep disappeared beneath an
extended canopy of trees and didn’t reappear on the other side. Wary of
approaching too closely, Rick circled the point of his last visual contact,
thinking that the Jeep had perhaps turned onto a side road. He saw none.
The Jeep was still under the trees. He scanned the area with his
binoculars, trying in vain to penetrate the thick cover. Should he set the
bird down? There was a small field a short distance from the road.
He saw movement at the edge of the field. He stared through the
glasses.
It was a man―the man. Looking at him through binoculars. As
he watched, the man disappeared into the undergrowth.
Storm Front 239
A short time later, the Jeep reappeared on the road on the far side
of the trees. Rick followed, wondering what to do. He was spotted, that
much was certain. But with what result?
Something had changed. The cocksure jauntiness that had
characterized Butler’s attitude had shifted subtly at the gas station, taking
on a quality that, if not desperate, certainly had a tinge of uncertainty in it.
Their course had changed too, as Butler opted to pass up the speed
of the interstate for the flexibility of back roads, stopping briefly as they
passed under the highway overpass to secure her with handcuffs once
again. It wasn’t anything she had done, of that she was positive.
Although she had considered a score of possible plans as they sat eating at
the McDonald’s, Butler’s threat, and her steadfast belief in his willingness
to make good on it, had ultimately left her his obedient captive.
And then came the sudden stop, Butler veering to the side of the
road as it passed through an area of alternating fields and woods, then
running binoculars in hand through the trees to an adjacent field where he
disappeared from view.
When he came back, the change was no longer subtle. Something
had shaken him. The pistol reappeared on his lap and his driving had an
edge to it that wasn’t there earlier.
Were they being followed? By whom? Not someone on the
road―Butler’s actions didn’t support that―but in the air. Sarah’s hopes
shot up once more. She steeled herself to do whatever she could to help,
hoping for a roadblock or the sound of pursuing sirens at every turn.
But there was nothing. At the first opportunity, Butler had turned
off the road they were on and onto a dirt road that snaked its way along an
obscure river valley. He next turned onto another dirt road that had
climbed up and over a series of low ridges before tracking along another
valley. Twice Butler had stopped, standing by the open door, engine off,
binoculars in hand, listening and looking. In the silence, Sarah could hear
the thud of helicopter blades. They were still being followed. But where
was the help?
Finally, back onto paved roads, past farmhouses and sleepy
villages, heading south.
Miles passed and still no ground pursuit. It made no sense―a
view Butler apparently shared. Without warning, he pulled over once
again and got out. This time he made no attempt to remain hidden,
Johnson 240
stopping as the road passed through open farmland and standing in full
view on the shoulder.
The helicopter was close now. Although Sarah couldn’t see it, its
sound was deafening. Butler studied it for a long time before he finally
climbed back into the car.
“What is it?” Sarah asked at last.
Butler didn’t answer, merely started the car and drove on.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Improbable as it seemed, his analysis of the facts pointed to only
one conclusion. The helicopter following them was the one used for the
drop, probably piloted by the Jew’s pilot, Rick Benton. How else to
explain the dogged pursuit but failure to enlist support: the radio was
inoperative. The clincher had been the bullet holes in the tail—nice of
Benton to come close enough for him to see them.
It was an interesting situation: Benton obviously afraid to set
down for fear of their escape so instead following along and doing
nothing. Would he follow them all the way to New York? No, he must be
waiting for the right opportunity to take action. And what would that
opportunity be? Hard to say―but in the meantime, as long as Benton was
following along behind them, Butler knew they were safe.
It was ironic. Although the temptation was to lose him, if that
happened, Benton would have no choice but to set down and sound the
alarm. Butler didn’t want that. No, far better to move along at moderate
speed, avoiding limited access highways obviously, but also avoiding a
route that made their destination obvious. A more circuitous route. An
annoyance, but well worth the trouble.
Yes, that was it: to keep driving, with Benton in helpless pursuit
until Butler could find the right spot to eliminate the problem.
He turned left at the next intersection, heading east toward the
mountains of western Massachusetts.
Rick had to make a move, he knew that. He had waited too long
already. As the countryside grew more rural, the likelihood of finding fast
and efficient ground pursuit grew increasingly remote. And his fuel was
running low.
But what was he to do? Follow and wait seemed his only viable
option―wait until they reached civilization once more and Rick would
have some chance of getting help before Butler could escape.
The follow part was relatively easy now. As the number of roads
radically decreased, the driver of the Jeep had few options short of
Johnson 242
abandoning the car. Although the Jeep would disappear periodically
under the dense foliage of overhanging trees, it was easy for Rick to pick
out the road’s path and wait for the Jeep to reappear.
And then it didn’t. Suspecting a course reversal, Rick swung the
chopper around in a sharp arc that placed him over the route they had
come. Nothing.
The Jeep must have stopped again. Descending to a level that put
him only fifty or sixty feet over the treetops, he proceeded slowly along
what he guessed to be the road’s path, peering through the floor viewports,
until he reached the point where the road came out of the trees once more.
There he turned and hovered, trying to see into the dark tunnel of the road.
A mistake. He saw the muzzle flash then heard the tin can sound
of bullets striking metal. Starbursts appeared in the windshield, the sound
of gunfire strangely absent. A silencer, Rick thought, otherwise he would
hear the gun even over the roar of the helicopter.
He hauled frantically on the sticks, struggling to gain altitude while
moving forward over the trees, straining with his body as if he could will
the chopper to respond.
“Come on, baby,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
But the tin can sound came again, in the rear this time, and now
something was wrong. Instead of accelerating and rising, the chopper was
slipping sideways, losing altitude. Rick struggled to steady it. It
responded for a few tantalizing seconds, then slipped away from him
again.
Trees rushed at him, there was a sound of breaking branches, then
all was still.
This was it. As soon as Butler had stopped, even before he had
gotten the rifle out of its case, she had decided. There might be other
chances down the road but it was time to act.
Overhead the roar of the helicopter filled the air as its rotorwash
whipped the trees into a frenzy, sending leaves swirling across the road in
front of them.
Butler shut the rear hatch and walked swiftly down the road toward
the end of the tunnel of trees in which they were parked.
Sarah was alone. But helpless. Tethered hand and foot. The
fuses―the answer once before―beyond her reach.
The rapid thud of muffled automatic fire sounded through the roar
of the chopper. Sarah looked to see Butler standing in the road firing up
into the canopy of trees above him, leaves showering down around him.
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He fired again and then once more, the helicopter’s engine racing
hysterically until the ripping sound of the crash ended in silence.
Butler was back at the car seconds later, tossing the gun onto the
back seat, putting the key in the ignition and the car in gear.
Escaping.
The Jeep started to move, gaining speed, Butler’s calm gone now
as he sought to put distance between himself and the site of the crash.
No! The thought rose in Sarah’s mind, without form, without
idea―but strong. No!
They were moving faster. He was getting away.
No!
The thought was like a scream. Riding its emotion she acted,
launching herself head first like a rocket at Butler’s face. Striking him
flush in the cheek with the top of her head before falling heavily on her
side against the console between the seats, her arm pinioned against her
side by the handcuffs.
She felt a sharp crack then a stab of pain as her arm broke, felt
Butler pushing her away as she launched herself at him again, in a frenzy
now, writhing out of his arms as he attempted to restrain her, feeling his
blows rain down as she forced her body onto his, knocking his arms with
her head, then feeling the sudden halt of the vehicle as it slammed into a
tree, bounced once, hit another, and was still.
“You fucking bitch!”
Butler pummeled her now still body in a fury, striking her head,
her side, her face, the impacts sending lightning bolts of pain through the
arm pinioned beneath her.
After a seeming eternity he stopped, his breath coming in heavy
gasps.
Sarah lay inert on the edge of consciousness, pain washing over
her. She didn’t care. She had done it. The car was wrecked. He was
finished.
He pushed her off him and climbed out of the car. Sarah lay still,
her cheek crushed against the console, her eyes already beginning to swell
shut from Butler’s blows.
How much time passed, Sarah had no idea, but eventually Butler
got back in and sat heavily in the driver seat. Sarah braced for more pain
but none came.
Instead, she heard the whine of the starter. In her fog she couldn’t
understand it. They were wrecked. Why was he trying to start the motor?
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But as Butler continued to try to coax life out of the engine, the thought
grew clear: he must believe he can move the vehicle.
The engine caught, coughing with excess gas and backfiring, then
steadied. He put the car in reverse.
No! Sarah tried to raise herself. No!―but Butler’s pistol crashed
down onto the side of her head. She subsided back into the seat, slipping
toward unconsciousness as he rocked the car back and forth with the
accelerator.
No, she thought. No.
I’m not dead―that was Rick’s first thought. He knew that because
his body was screaming with pain from a seeming thousand places.
His next thought: there was something wrong with the world.
Gravity was pulling in odd ways, at his head instead of his feet.
He opened his eyes: to a world gone crazy, where tree branches
grew in helicopters, and pilots hung like bananas in cockpits of shattered
glass and twisted metal.
What hurt? His wrists and legs from his prior wounds; his left
arm, no doubt broken; his right hand, a bloody mangled mess; his chest,
where a vise seemed to have him in its grip.
What had happened? He had crashed, the gig was up. He had
failed, failed miserably. Sarah’s captor, free to escape. Little hope of
stopping him now, even if someone were to find Rick soon.
He fumbled with his safety belt. Still, he had to get help as soon as
possible.
He released the belt and in an anguish of pain let himself down
into an upright position. After a pause to catch his breath and will the pain
into submission, he leaned over to the edge of the cockpit.
Luck was with him. The nose of the helicopter was resting on the
ground. Moving gingerly, he eased himself out and stood woozily on the
forest floor.
The silence was preternatural. No birds, no chipmunks, only the
sighing of the trees. But suddenly there was sound. The unmistakable
whine of a car’s starter. A few hundred yards away.
He staggered over to the helicopter, retrieved his pistol from the
storage compartment and headed toward the sound.
There was pain, pain, pain. The pain of his broken arm, the pain of
his gunshot wounds and lacerated hands and arms, ripped open again and
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bleeding profusely, and the pain of his breathing, great gasps that filled his
chest with fire but never brought him the oxygen he craved.
He was staggering through the trees, pistol clutched in his good
hand, blindly following the sound of the car. That sound had changed
now, the whine of the starter replaced by the explosive bang of a backfire
and the growl of an engine―an event that had filled Rick with despair
until the growl turned into the rhythmic revving of a car stuck and
struggling to break free.
He strained to see it but couldn’t, his vision a dance of black
blotches against a sea of undifferentiated green. But it wasn’t far, of that
he was sure. He just had to keep going.
The sound changed once more, the motor sustaining a roar for
several seconds before steadying back to an idle. A car door slammed.
The car had made it!
Rick froze, waiting for the purr of the engine as the car accelerated
and drove away, but the engine remained at idle. There was hope yet.
The door opened and Sarah felt the faint touch of Butler’ hands at
her ankles.
“Get out,” he said.
Sarah heard him as if from a great distance.
“Get out.”
Sarah lay still. She was much too tired.
Her arm shrieked in pain as Butler lifted her wrists by the
handcuffs.
“Get out, bitch.”
Sarah struggled into a sitting position―anything to stop the
pain―and tried to clear her head. She was having trouble seeing for some
reason, unable to open her eyes to more than slits.
“Move.”
She did, lifting her feet out the door and onto the ground, then
leaning her upper body forward until she could push herself upright. She
swayed as she stood. Butler was standing in front of her, gun in his hands.
“Over there,” he said, and waved the gun toward the side of the
road.
Sarah staggered until she stood unsteadily where the forest floor
fell away from the road’s edge. She knew what was coming next. It
didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
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“I’m afraid you and I have reached the end of the line,” he said.
“It’s been fun though.” He raised his gun. “Sayonara.”
Sarah had always heard that you never heard the bullet that killed
you, but it wasn’t true. She did. She heard the gun go off once, twice,
three times, the sound oddly distant―a tough way to find out you’ve been
operating under a misconception, she thought.
EPILOGUE
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows―windows
designed and constructed by Louis Tiffany himself and presented to
Ezekiel Fripp in August of 1905 on the occasion of Tiffany’s first visit to
The Birches—casting rainbowed illumination over the guests crowded
into the simple wooden pews of the chapel. The solemn tones of an
ancient pump organ drifted up to the polished spruce logs of the chapel’s
vaulted roof. Banks of flowers surrounded the simple twig and birch bark
altar where a black clad minister somberly awaited the commencement of
the service.
Harvey Skolnick stood in a shadowed corner at the rear struggling
with his emotions, his eyes rimmed with tears. It had been a difficult year.
Time had done little to ease the pain of Staci’s death. Their
marriage had not been a perfect one, but Harvey had loved her deeply.
Her passing had left him with an aching emptiness no amount of activity
seemed to abate.
And he had been active. Putting his business affairs in the hands
of his advisors to the greatest degree possible, Harvey had concentrated on
filling the void in Davey’s life created by the loss of his mother and
helping him put the trauma of her murder and his kidnapping behind him.
It hadn’t been easy. Harvey could be there for Davey and fill their days
with people and events, he could make sure Davey had the best of
therapists, but he couldn’t be Mommy.
Although some might have said that Staci wasn’t the best of
mothers, Davey had worshipped her with all the intensity his little heart
could muster. Too often Harvey would tiptoe into Davey’s room late at
night to find that his caution was unnecessary, that Davey was awake,
sobbing into a pillow soaked with tears. It seemed as if things had begun
to improve lately, but Harvey knew Davey’s recovery from those
nightmare days would be a long process―and one that would never really
be complete.
He looked around the chapel, his eyes sweeping over the
assembled throng, the flowers, the stained glass windows, the altar, and
behind it the log cross. He had considered selling The Birches, fearing it
held too many sad memories to ever bring him joy. But in the end, after
consultation with Davey’s doctors, he had decided against it. Putting the
site of Staci’s death into some stranger’s hands was something he felt
would be wrong somehow. Instead, he had turned the east lawn into a
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memorial garden. Where once the helipad had sat, flowers now bloomed
amidst statuary and stone benches. It was a place he and Davey visited
often.
There was another memorial garden on the Mohawk reservation at
Akwesasne―for Loran Mohawk, the man who died battling Davey’s
captors. Harvey had paid for the garden, of course, but felt that his debt
ran much deeper than that. After much discussion with representatives of
the tribe, Harvey had established an education fund in Loran’s name, with
one portion dedicated to teaching Iroquois culture, another to scholarships.
He had also tried to help Simon Oakes, the man who had carried
Davey to safety, offering him financial help and a job, but Oakes had
politely refused, saying he had done nothing more than what needed to be
done.
Other lives had been destroyed by Butler’s madness, too, of
course.
A volunteer fireman, a fifty-year-old father of three, had died of
smoke inhalation while fighting the fire the kidnappers had started to
cover their escape, a fire that ultimately claimed 20,000 acres of prime
woodland. Harvey’s gift to the man’s family was much appreciated.
Irma Dawson had not survived the year. The murders of her
husband and only son had taken away all she had to live for, and with her
will to live gone, she had quickly succumbed to a variety of ailments. She
died alone in the farmhouse in Gilsum on a gray March day, congestive
heart failure the official diagnosis, a broken heart the real cause. There
was nothing Harvey could do for the Dawsons.
A difficult year.
The militia members―other than the two found dead at the
mountain hideout―had all been arrested and now awaited trial. Daryl
Higley had been the last, found pumping gas and working as a mechanic
in Yuma, Arizona, turned in by his boss when America’s Most Wanted did
a feature on the Skolnick kidnapping and Higley’s photo was shown.
Convictions were almost a formality. When rounded up at their homes,
not one of the survivors put up a struggle and soon all were confessing in
hopes of leniency. Harvey wanted them punished, but it was clear that
they were more dupes than fiends, simpleminded putty in the hands of the
psychopath they knew as Raymond Butler.
Raymond Butler―aka Lester Holman, Robert Fisher, Kerry
Johnson. Born Raymond Palmer in Sabetha, Missouri. Parents arrested,
tried, and sentenced to ten years imprisonment for criminal neglect of
Raymond’s younger brother. After their arrest, Raymond, age twelve,
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placed in the first of nine foster homes he would live in until he enlisted in
the Army. Increasing involvement in various extremist groups from the
age of fourteen on. Found responsible for the deaths of eight Somali
civilians while on assignment there with the Army and discharged on
disability after psychological evaluation. Suspected involvement in
racially motivated murders in Providence, Rhode Island, Richmond,
Virginia, and Tulsa, Oklahoma, and the murder of a rabbi in Miami,
Florida.
The music changed suddenly. Harvey was snapped from his
musings as the organist shifted to the familiar fanfare and the crowd
twisted in their seats in expectation. Harvey looked toward the doors, and
the tears that had danced in his eyes flowed in earnest as he watched his
son, dressed in a black tuxedo and with his blond hair slick against his
head, walk solemnly down the aisle, the blue velvet cushion on which the
rings rested held before him, a brave little man for all his youth, survivor
of horrors no child should ever endure.
Waiting in the anteroom off the chapel’s foyer, Sarah heard the
music shift and knew that Rick would soon be making his way down the
aisle.
Rick had arrived just in time to save Sarah on that day almost a
year ago, staggering out of the roadside bushes as Butler raised his gun to
execute her. Rick had summoned the last wisp of his strength and resolve
to bring his pistol to bear on the unaware Butler, missing him cleanly with
two of the three rounds he got off before he collapsed, but hitting Butler
squarely in the temple with the third, killing him instantly. They had lain
unconscious in the road for over an hour before a traveler came upon
them, Butler’s lifeless body in the dirt beside them.
The healing process, both mental and physical, had been slow for
both of them. But they had each other to lean on and the recognition of
what they had almost lost to goad them on, each determined to make the
most of this chance they had been given to build a life together.
Now they were on the threshold of that new life.
She regarded herself in the ornate full length mirror one last time,
turning slowly to admire the white lace dress her mother had worn on her
wedding day some forty years before.
She leaned closer to examine her face.
The bruises were gone, of course, along with the wires that had
held together her broken cheekbone, but she couldn’t help feeling that her
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experiences had aged her, that despite the blush of excitement that
suffused her face, she looked older than the mere passage of time would
explain. She had expressed this sentiment to Rick but he had scoffed,
saying that to him she looked younger―and more beautiful―than she
ever had. She wanted to believe him―but he always had been a flirt.
There was no question the ordeal had aged Harvey. There was a
haunted look in his eyes that persisted even on the rare occasions when he
laughed.
When Harvey first suggested that the wedding be held at The
Birches, she worried that it would bring to the fore memories of the loss
Harvey had suffered, to reopen wounds that had not had sufficient time to
heal. But Harvey had been adamant, insisting that the joy of new
beginnings was the best way for the pain of the past to be put to rest.
There was a gentle knock on the door and Jim Flaherty’s lilting
voice said, “It’s time, Sarah.”
“I’m ready,” she answered, and with a final look, lowered her veil.
She opened the door and took Jim’s arm.
“All set?” he asked gently.
Smiling behind her veil, Sarah nodded as the triumphal tones of the
processional began.
They entered the chapel and walked down the aisle as the guests
rose beaming. Rick stood before the altar, a proud smile on his face,
looking heartbreakingly handsome in his tuxedo, Harvey and little Davey
at his side.
She looked at Harvey’s face―and was dismayed to find that it was
tracked with tears. I knew we shouldn’t have held the wedding here, she
thought. But then she looked again. Yes, there were tears, but they were
clearly tears of joy, bittersweet accompaniment to the broad grin that was
now dawning. The haunted look was gone.
Harvey had been right about the wedding after all. The healing he
hoped for had come to pass. Yes, there was death and pain and loss, but
there was happiness too, and the promise of the future and joys yet to
come, not just for her and Rick, but for all of them. Together, they would
discover what that future would bring.
The End