Prey (15 page)

His wife ducked her head to hide a quick smile. But when she looked up, her expression was sober. “There's going to be trouble here, isn't there, Clarence?”

“Yeah. And I don't want to be anywhere near when it blows.” He shook his head. “I should have never given this land to William. I had it leased out and we were making a nice profit. But no. William wanted it. I thought he was going to farm it. Instead he turns it into a home for wanna-be King Farouks. Let's go, Ophelia. ”

The front door to the old farmhouse opened, and a young man stood there, dressed in brightly colored robes. “I arrived late,” he said. “Can you tell me where I can find Abudu X?”

The elder Washington frowned, then slowly nodded his gray head. “Yeah, I can, boy. You go back to the highway, turn east, and start walkin'. It's about sixteen thousand miles.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“It's called the continent of Africa, boy. And this ain't it!”

Stormy and Barry had changed out of their party clothes and into jeans and were sitting on Barry's porch. Stormy reached over and took his hand.

“You're disappointed that Ravenna didn't pull something at the party tonight, aren't you?”

“Not disappointed. But I was sure he'd do something. I wish I could get into his mind.”

“That would be like taking a stroll through hell,” Stormy said. She shuddered, then cut her eyes to him in the darkness. The night was surprisingly cool, with very low humidity. “Barry? Do you believe in the Hereafter?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Heaven and hell?”

“Yes. But not as the preachers describe those places.”

She waited; finally stirred impatiently. “Well?”

“I believe there are levels of rewards and levels of punishment. I also believe that when the day of judgement comes, there are going to be a lot of very disappointed people. I heard a preacher say one time that heaven is going to be a very sparsely populated place.”

“And you, Barry?”

“Me, what?”

“Heaven or hell?”

Barry smiled in the darkness. “None of us knows that, Stormy. For a mortal, I would think that a person would want to spend eternity with close family members, all the pets he or she has owned and loved over the years, good friends.”

“And for an immortal?” Stormy asked softly.

“Peace, I think. Rest.” He chuckled. “Could you get along with all the women I've known in the past, Stormy?”

“Ummm,” she said. “I think we'd better drop this subject.”

Pete and Repeat suddenly sprang to their feet, ears laid back, fangs glistening white in the night, growling low.

“Get in the house, Stormy,” Barry said.

“Oh, no need for that.” John Ravenna's voice came out of the gloom. “I'm not here to cause trouble. Just to talk. May I open the gate and take a seat on the porch, cousin?”

“Come on, John. But let me put the dogs up before you do. Once you're seated they'll settle down. I don't think they like you very much.”

“So much for a dog's ability to judge character. Oh, all right. Put those hounds away. I can wait.” He laughed softly. “I've had years of practice.”

The dogs in the house, and told to calm down, Barry stepped back onto the darkened porch. “Come on up, John. Can I get you something to drink?”

“A large glass of water would be nice. I ran all the way over here.”

“You ran ten miles?” Stormy blurted.

“As his Other,” Barry told her.

“I'll get the water,” Stormy said, standing up.

John walked up the steps and took a seat. “You always choose the quaintest places to reside, cousin. I live in a castle.”

“You would. Do you commiserate nightly with the ghosts?”

John chuckled. “Would it surprise you if I said yes?”

“Not at all. Did you have anything to do with the bombing of the jail, John?”

“Heavens, no! That was done by some local boobs. Vic Radford's neo-Nazis. They didn't know their leader had already been released. What a pack of nitwits.”

“That's one thing we can agree on.”

“Surprised that I didn't turn up at Roche's party this evening, cousin?”

“Actually, yes. You must have been tired after killing that local the other day.”

Barry felt Ravenna's eyes on him. “What local, Vlad?”

“Oh, come on, John. The man was ripped to shreds. I've seen your work before.”

Ravenna was silent for a time. “I haven't killed anyone in this area, Vlad. I have been leading those silly federal agents on several wild goose hunts, for my own entertainment, but I have killed no one.”

“Then . . . ?”

Stormy opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, a large glass of ice water in her hand.

“Cousin,” Ravenna said slowly, “I think we have another cousin in the area.” John stood up and took the glass of water. “Thank you, dear. You're very kind.” He drank deeply, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket, and said, “I gather you know all about me, Ms. Knight?”

“I know only what Barry has told me.”

“Ah! Well, I suppose that is quite enough. Please, sit down. Let's be comfortable. We have much to discuss.”

The phone rang, and Barry left the porch to answer it. He was back in a moment and took his chair. “That was Sheriff Salter. The body that was found was not a local. It's been identified as an escaped prisoner from an Arkansas penal institution. The hair samples came from a large panther . . .” Barry smiled. “The scientists agree that the hair samples came from a species that has been extinct for thousands of years. They are on their way here to investigate. The first team will arrive in the morning, others to follow from various university anthropology departments.”

“Shit!” Ravenna swore softly.

Barry again smiled. “What's the matter, John?”

“Don't try to be funny, Vlad. You know very well what's the matter. Jacques Cornet.”

Barry chuckled. “Ah, yes. Dear Jacques. I haven't seen him since 1917. He doesn't like you very much, does he, John?”

“Am I missing something here?” Stormy asked, looking from Ravenna to Barry. “Who is Jacques Cornet?”

Both men were silent for a moment. Barry glanced at Stormy and said, “Jacques is an immortal. You probably gathered that much. Jacques has been on the side of the law for centuries . . .”

John Ravenna muttered an obscenity under his breath.

“He's also been after John. Back in the thirteenth century, John picked the wrong side in a fight: he chose the English over King Philip Augustus. Augustus won, and John had to flee to England. Then, during the Hundred Years' War, John again chose the English side and ultimately lost. A few years later, John was hired to kill Charles VII. He failed, and Jacques has been after him ever since.”

“Charles VII,” Stormy muttered. “That was . . .”

“He was crowned July 17, 1429.”

Stormy leaned forward, her expression incredulous. She stared at Ravenna. “Jacques Cornet has been chasing you for over five hundred years!”

“More or less. He's persistent, if nothing else,” John grumbled. “Vlad, this man that Jacques killed . . . he was in prison for doing what?”

“Murder, among other things.”

“Is that all? Well, still, Jacques would have no way of knowing that. Jacques may have been in his Other and overheard some mumblings from this miscreant. Knowing how he feels about law and order, he killed him.”

Barry was not at all convinced of that. Jacques had never been entirely stable. Really, the only difference between John Ravenna and Jacques Cornet was that Ravenna would kill anyone for money and Jacques had roamed the world for centuries, killing anyone he perceived to be a criminal . . . whenever the mood struck him.

“Don't you agree, cousin?” Ravenna pressed.

“I don't know. I do know this area is certainly getting crowded.”

“Yes, it is. Why don't you leave and reduce the population?”

“Oh, I think I'll stick around for a while longer. John, what did you want to talk about? You didn't run all the way out here just for exercise.”

John finished his water and set the empty glass down carefully on a low wicker table. “Your adopted country is falling apart, Vlad.”

“I certainly won't disagree with that.”

“It won't be long—perhaps only a few years—before men like me will be in great demand.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, come on, Vlad. You know I'm speaking the truth. This nation has had it. It's fragmenting, breaking up, coming apart at the seams. Armed groups representing this, that, and the other thing are forming in every state. Hundreds of thousands of people are stockpiling food and guns and ammunition. Race relations are worse than they've been since the civil rights movement of the 1960s. Morals and values have reached an all-time low. There is nothing but rot and drivel on television. For the most part, Hollywood is cranking out mindless slop. People are killing each other over a pair of tennis shoes or a jacket. Drive-by shootings are commonplace; drug abuse is up. Have you noticed any of which I speak, Vlad?” The last was said with a great deal of sarcasm.

Barry ignored the derision and said, “Get to the point, John.”

“Pick a side, cousin. The war is coming.”

Barry did not reply, but he agreed with the assassin. The United States of America was facing open revolt if the politicians did not get off the backs of its citizens, and do so damn quickly. Actually, everything that Ravenna had said was true. It was only a matter of time before a few armed citizens got angry enough to start shooting. And as with all revolutions, it only took a spark to start it.

Ravenna rose to his feet. He looked down at Barry. “Think about it, cousin. And think about Crazy Jacques while you're at it. With him in the area, we both have something to worry about.”

“If it is Jacques.”

“Cousin, you are the eternal optimist. You know it's Jacques. The man is insane and you're fully aware of that. You're also well aware that while he hates me, he isn't exactly filled with love for you.”

Sitting in his chair in the darkness of the porch, Barry slowly nodded in agreement. Jacques' dislike for Barry went back more than two centuries, back to the American colonies' fight for independence. Jacques had wanted to hang a young British soldier who had been captured by Washington's troops, a boy, really, about sixteen years old. Barry had spoken on the boy's behalf and the lad had been spared the noose. Then, during the Indian wars on the American frontier, Barry had again gone against Jacques' wishes, successfully arguing to spare the life of a young Cheyenne boy. Jacques had disliked Barry ever since.

“And you are suggesting what, John?” Barry asked.

“That in dealing with Jacques, we work together. It's to our mutual benefit.”

Barry had to admit that was certainly true. The thought of Jacques Cornet padding around as his Other, killing whenever the mood struck him, was disconcerting. “I'll think about it,” he told John.

“Well, that's something,” John said. “If this trend continues, think of the progress we might make during the next thousand years.” The last was said with no small amount of sarcasm.

Barry looked up. But Ravenna was gone, having shape-changed into his Other and blended silently into the night.

* * *

“Mr. Washington stopped by to see me before he and Ophelia pulled out for home,” Chief Monroe told Sheriff Salter and federal agents Van Brocklen and Robbins as they sat at a table in Nellie's Cafe. “Told me he and his wife raised seven kids. Six successes and one idiot. Said if we have to put Willie in jail, don't call him to go his bail.”

“You knew this man well?” Van Brocklen asked.

“All his life. One of the finest men I ever knew, and you won't hear me say that about many black folks. Even Jim Beal would sell Mr. Washington supplies . . . on the QT, of course.”

“Why are there no minorities in this area?” Robbins asked.

“Klan ran them out. That was, oh, hell, ninety years ago, I guess. Maybe longer. Those that didn't leave were hanged. Just east of town, ‘bout three miles, to the south of the highway, there is a large hill with a stand of timber. That used to be known as Ku Klux Hill. That's where the hangin's took place. Over the years people have forgotten about that. All of the people who took part in the hangin's are dead. Includin' my father.”

“Your father was a member of the Klan?” Van Brocklen asked.

“Yes. So was I until I was about thirty years old,” the chief admitted. “But when this local bunch got all involved in the American Nazi movement and all sorts of weird-assed other philosophies, I got out. I ran for chief of police the next year and won, and I've been chief of police ever since. The Klan walks very light around me.”

“There is still an active chapter here?” Van Brocklen asked, surprise in his voice.

Chief Monroe smiled. “You betcha there is. But they, like so many other antigovernment resistance groups, went hard underground. Posse
comitatus
is very strong around here. But they went deep underground after Gordon Kahl was killed. The posse is stronger than ever.”

“How come you never told us any of this?” Van Brocklen asked.

“None of you boys ever asked me.”

“Why were the blacks run out of this area?” Robbins asked. “Or hanged,” he added.

“According to my daddy, it all started with a robbery and a killing. That much is documented. A young colored fellow got himself all juiced up on Sweet Lucy one evenin' and decided to rob a store. Durin' the robbery, the owner of the store, a white man, was killed. As the colored fellow was runnin' out the store, the constable showed up, and the two of them exchanged shots. The constable was killed. The young colored fellow ran down into colored town and hid in his mother's house.” Chief Monroe shook his head. “From this point on, it gets a little vague. I don't think there is anyone alive today who really knows the truth. I sure as hell don't. I do know that my father was involved in it. He told me so. My daddy was an older man when I was born. He's been dead fifty years. He was born about 1880.” The chief finished his glass of iced tea and waved to the waitress for a refill.

When the waitress had come and gone, Chief Monroe said, “Well, it didn't take long for the Klan to get cranked up that night. I have a suspicion they'd been waiting for something like this to happen. They rode their horses down to where the young colored fellow was holed up and demanded his mother turn him over. She refused and they shot her. Right there on her front porch. Killed her. That much is, again, documented. What happened next may or may not be what really occurred. The masked riders pulled the colored fellow out of the house and hanged him. Right then and there. There was a riot. I don't know who started it, and there is no one living who does, but colored town was burned to the ground. Every building destroyed. There were a lot of colored folks killed. Men and women, and I suspect, some kids, too. Those that didn't leave that night were hunted down and hanged, right out there on Ku Klux Hill. The next day, folks went out there and cut down the bodies and burned them. By the time word got to the governor about what happened and he sent people in here—you have to understand there were no telephones back then, and it probably took weeks or months for the governor to learn of it—there was not a trace left of colored town. What was left of the charred buildin's had all been removed and the ground worked clean, usin' mule teams and road scrapers. My daddy said there wasn't a board or a nail left. The governor's people looked around, talked to some people, and went back home, and that was the end of it. The Washington family lived way out in the country and wasn't involved in it in any way. Course, like me, Willie's father wasn't born when it happened. We've never talked about it.”