Barry noticed that Stormy had clicked on her small cassette recorder and was getting his words on tape. He did not object. She would probably use it as an anonymous “man on the street” interview.
“We’ve been all through this several times,” Barry continued. “You both know how I feel. I’ve seen governments rise and fall, and most of the time it’s because those in power did not listen to the people. But”—he held up a finger—“it’s not necessarily those in the majority that should be listened to; it’s those who can do the most damage. The left-wingers in this country know this, and that’s why they’re so intent on disarming the American public. But all they’re doing is making criminals out of thousands of heretofore law-abiding gun-owning citizens and setting the stage for dozens or perhaps hundreds of resistance groups to form. And these democratic left-wing extremists are so naive they don’t, or can’t, understand why Americans won’t just willingly and happily hand over their guns, agree to more government control of their lives, and consent to higher personal taxes and a never-ending national debt so the left-wingers can fund more unworkable and unpopular social programs. The balloon has to pop one of these days, and in my opinion that day is not far away.”
“Do you think the majority of Americans support an armed revolution?” Stormy asked.
Barry shook his head. “No. But when it comes down to the nut-cutting, many will hold their noses and champion the revolution as the lesser of two evils. It all depends on how the revolutionaries put it all together.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Don’t forget, I’ve seen it happen before. Americans won’t support racist or hate groups, but many will support groups attempting to return to a more common-sense-based form of government. A government where the law-abiding have more rights than the criminals. Where a citizen can protect his or her property without fear of arrest, prosecution, or civil lawsuit should the criminal get hurt or killed. Where the tax system is more evenly established and millionaires pay their share. Americans have advocated a flat tax rate for years, yet Congress won’t do a damn thing toward setting that up. And the fault lies on the shoulders of both political parties. Neither wants to give an inch on their favorite programs. So ... many Americans have decided that if elected government officials won’t get this mess straightened out, they, as citizens, are going to have to do it themselves. And more than one great American leader has stated that the citizens have the constitutional right to do that. Hell, revolution has happened all over the world at one time or another. Why should America be immune?”
“You’re convinced of some sort of civil uprising, aren’t you, Barry?” Ki asked.
“Yes. And sooner than later.”
* * *
The four of them walked into the office to face the man, sitting behind his desk, a pistol in front of him. Van Brocklen had asked Stormy to wait outside.
“I know you didn’t put it together,” he said, looking at Van Brocklen. “You people are too goddamn stupid.” He cut his eyes to Barry. “You did, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. Almost from the very first.”
“How?”
Barry smiled. “Let’s just say you were careless.”
“I don’t believe that. Let’s just say you got lucky.”
“Whatever it was, you’re finished.”
The man smiled, his eyes drifting to the pistol on his desk. “I might be, but the movement isn’t.”
“You’re probably right about that,” Van Brocklen said. “But why would you people plot to grab the president and the Speaker?”
“We didn’t. Even if we did, you think I’d admit it? But I have . . . ah ... shall we say people highly placed in and around Washington. Planted so deep you’ll never find them. They told me late last night the plot to kill Hutton and Madison came from the halls of Congress.” He grinned. “How about them apples, boys?”
Neither Van Brocklen nor Chet Robbins replied to that. They already knew it. They also had been informed early that morning of the bizarre deaths of three very prominent senators.
The man behind the desk grinned up at those standing before him. “Aren’t you forgetting something, boys? Aren’t you going to read me my rights?” Then his grin changed to a laugh. “Oh, I see. You don’t have enough proof to arrest me, do you? Well . . . you must be close or you wouldn’t have chanced coming to see me.” He looked at the serious expressions on the faces of the feds. “No? Then . . . I don’t understand.”
“We’re not here to arrest you,” Chet said. “Just to tell you that you’re all finished in this area. You’ve had a lot of people fooled for a long time, including us, I have to admit that. But no more. You’re through.”
The man behind the desk looked first at the two federal agents, then at Barry, then at the man standing beside the immortal. “Well, I’ll just be damned. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“I talked to Barry about you late last night,” the man said. “We agreed it had to be you.”
“I always figured you for the dumb sort. Guess I was wrong. ”
“We’re open for a deal,” Chet said, a hopeful note to his words.
The man shook his head. “No way. No deals. Why should I? You just admitted you don’t have enough on me to arrest.”
“You know the answer to that,” Van Brocklen said.
“Sure. The IRS is going to be all over me now. You guys are going to start investigating me, word will quietly leak out about it, and that will finish me in politics. Am I getting warm?”
“Your words, not ours,” Van Brocklen was quick to speak.
Jim Beal sighed audibly and said, “Man, you’re the sheriff. The most powerful man in the county. You had it made. Why get mixed up with Vic Radford and Bubba and the others?”
Sheriff Don Salter leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Who says I was?”
“The deal Chet mentioned is still open, Don,” Van Brocklen said. “We could use a man like you in this area. You know it’s only a matter of time before we close in on you. We’re going to sweat Bubba and a few of the others. We’ll lean on them so hard they’ll think they’ve been hit by a truck. One of them will break. You know what happens to cops in prison, Don.”
Don’s grin didn’t fade. “You’ll never put me in prison. The movement’s too big for that to happen. I’ll just go underground and help run operations from there.”
“I’d start sweating Vic Radford first,” Barry spoke to no one in particular. “He’s the weak link and he’s still alive.” He looked directly at Don. “The Bureau found the tunnel under his house, Don.”
“We’ll get him, Don,” Chet said. “His kind can’t keep their mouths shut. You know that. That’s why you planted that automatic weapon in Vic’s house and blew up your own jail trying to kill him. Barry told us about you not knowing he had made bail that evening.”
Don’s grin faded just a bit. “Prove it!”
“Oh, we will,” Van Brocklen told him. “In time, we will.”
“You want to work with us, Don?” Chet asked.
“Turn against my own people?” the sheriff replied. “No way. Movements like mine are the only thing that’s going to keep America strong. We’ve got to knock the Jews out of power and slap the niggers back down where they belong and we can keep an eye on them. You boys know damn well crime didn’t start to skyrocket until the nigger civil rights bill became law and we couldn’t roust them. Niggers have virtually destroyed this nation and you know it. They’re nothing but savages. Work with you? No way. Go to hell. And get out of my office. You boys got nothin’ on me.”
Outside the sheriff’s office, Jim Beal said, “Your bluff didn’t work.”
“It was no bluff, Mr. Beal,” Chet replied. “He’ll be under arrest by noon. We have federal arrest warrants on the way now. We just would rather have had him working for us, that’s all.”
“Am I free to go?”
“You were never being detained, Mr. Beal,” Van Brocklen said. “We don’t like militias, but you haven’t
broken any laws. We think your philosophy is all cockeyed, but you’re not a suspect in any plot to subvert the government. Thank you for your cooperation.”
As Jim Beal walked away, Barry said, “Don will never be taken alive. You both know that.”
“Yes,” Chet replied with no change of expression. “We know.”
As if to punctuate that remark, the sharp crack of a pistol came from inside the sheriff’s office.
Barry met the eyes of both federal men. “If I was a suspicious type, I’d think you boys planned it this way.”
Something moved behind Van Brocklen’s eyes. “You’ll play hell proving it.”
Thirty-five
Barry parked on the side of the winding mountain road, got out of his truck, and looked down at the town he would soon put behind him. Pete and Repeat showed no inclination to leave the comfortable bed of the truck. Barry stared at the picturesque scene for a moment. Really, the town was no different from dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other small communities scattered throughout America. It was quietly being torn apart by philosophical differences about what was best for the nation.
He heard a whisper of sound behind him and turned to face Jacques Cornet.
“Leaving, Vlad?” the man asked.
“Yes. And so should you.”
“Oh, I am.”
“What in the hell ever prompted you to come here, Jacques?”
“John Ravenna.”
“But you didn’t confront him. And what would have been the end result if you had? Both of you maimed and torn . . . and for what? You both would have been healed in twenty-four hours.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders expressively. “No matter. I have much work to do in this nation.”
“Oh, Jacques! Give it up and go home. Why stick your nose into the internal affairs of a nation in which you have no interest?”
“Because France is hopeless, that’s why!”
Barry chuckled. “Well, I won’t argue that with you.”
“Why do you suppose John killed the politicians? And we both know he did.”
Barry shook his head. “Who knows why John does anything?”
“True. Vlad, John would work with us if for no other reason than the adventure of it. Just think, the three of us could change the course of this nation. I’ve given up on France, but there is still hope for America.”
Barry shook his head. “No way, Jacques.”
“But this is your adopted country!”
“It’s going to have to work out its own problems without my help.”
For a moment, the French immortal looked reflective. Then he sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I might go down to Central America and organize against the hunters and poachers.”
“I’m sure the environmentalists would love you for it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Several rental trucks rattled by, the occupants waving at the two men standing by the side of the road. The scientists and their assistants, off on yet another adventure.
“I had fun with them,” Jacques said.
“I’m sure you did.” Barry’s reply was decidedly dry.
Jacques smiled. “I have an idea, Vlad.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“Why don’t you tell your Mr. Roche about me? Let him chase me for a while. I can promise him a much more exciting time of it.”
“I don’t know that I want to wish you on him, Jacques.”
The Frenchman nodded, and his expression turned serious. “You know how we French feel about liberty and freedom, Vlad.”
“Yes. So?”
“When the time comes for this country’s second revolution, I shall be on the side of the libertarians. I felt you should be advised of that.”
“You think I won’t be, Jacques?”
“I don’t know, Vlad. Sometimes you’re very difficult to predict.”
“You’re not.”
“Thank you. Well, I won’t keep you. I, ah, just wanted you to know that, ah, any hard feelings I might have held toward you are, ah, no more. Au revoir, Vlad.”
Before Barry could reply, Jacques stepped off the shoulder of the road, trotted into the timber, and was out of sight.
Barry looked back at the town, Norman Rockwellish in the sunlight. “Very interesting little town,” he muttered. “I wonder if the next one will be as interesting.”
He got into his truck and stared at the winding road for a moment. He sighed, thinking of the long journey ahead of him. He pulled out and headed northeast. A few moments later, when he had settled into the rhythm of the road, he began to relax.
Stormy and Ki had interviewed several people about the suicide of Sheriff Don Salter, then packed it up and pulled out for the Memphis airport. Barry and Stormy had said their goodbyes earlier.
Barry had met with Van Brocklen and Chet Robbins one more time before pulling out.
“Any way I can reach you?” the Bureau man had asked.
“I’ll get in touch with you,” Barry told him. “It’ll be a couple of months, at least.” He stared into the eyes of both federal men. “Why did Don eat a pistol?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” the Secret Service man replied. “I think the organization Don was a part of—whatever it is—is so hard underground, and so committed to their beliefs, the members would rather take their own lives than be taken prisoner and risk giving anything away.”
“They’re that dedicated?”
“I think so,” Van Brocklen said. “And I think they’ve been around for a long time.”
“Then . . . the people who grabbed the president were part of Don’s group?”
“Maybe,” Chet picked it up. “But I think not. I think they took their orders from a group in Washington. The people who attacked the Speaker . . . well, that’s another story.”
“Victor Radford’s people?”
“No,” Van Brocklen said with a strange smile. “Jim Beal’s people.”
“Jim!”
“Oh, yeah. That’s a smart man, Barry. I think he was Don’s boss for this cell ... maybe for the entire state or region. We’ll probably never be able to prove it. But I’ll go to my grave believing it.”
Barry glanced at Chet. “That’s your thinking, too?”
“Yes. The strangest thing is, in his own way—and Van and I are in agreement on this point—Jim Beal is a nice guy. He loves America, doesn’t want to see any harm come to minorities, but he is firmly convinced that they are inferior to the white race. He’s a man fighting his own personal demons. We think Don engineered and pulled the kidnapping without Jim’s permission—with some breakaway members, and those members probably not from this cell or region. When the kidnapping attempt failed, and this now becomes pure guesswork, he knew Jim Beal would nail him. Rather than disgrace the movement, he took his own life. Something silently passed between the two men while we were in the sheriff’s office, some hidden signal. Don got the message and knew it was over for him. So he ended it then and there.”
“And left you people with a very cold trail.”
“Yes,” Van Brocklen said. “Hell, Barry, we know we’ve got people with racist or subversive or militia or survivalist ties within our organization. You can’t turn around in D.C. without bumping into one of them. We know that. Hell, we know who some of them are! Not many, but a few of them.”
“The military is full of those types of people,” Chet continued. “If, or I should say when, this second revolution starts, the military really can’t be counted on to do much. They’re going to be busy fighting among their own ranks . . . at least for a time, and God only knows who’ll win. And all this organization wasn’t done overnight. It took a long time and some very careful groundwork. This thing is much, much bigger than most people think.”
“Members of Congress know how big it is?” Barry asked.
“Some of them,” Van Brocklen said. “They’re the ones who are really concerned about it. Others refuse to admi
t we’ve got a real problem growing in this nation. Still others realize we’ve got a problem, but think it will work itself out.”
“It’s gone too far for the latter to happen,” Barry said flatly.
“Of course it has,” Chet said. “We know that. But the liberals in Washington still cling to the notion that disarming the American public is the way to go. They can’t see, can’t or won’t understand that type of action only adds to the problem.”
“Then they’re idiots!”
“The term is liberal,” Van Brocklen said sourly.
“Barry, do you have any idea how many cells of militia, survivalist, or groups, some armed, some not, of alternate political philosophy there are in the United States?”
“I have no idea.”
“As of right now, ten thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine that we know of. That is approximately two hundred and twenty groups per state. Many of them have only five or six members and they’re completely harmless, but others can field five or six hundred heavily armed members.”
“And to say that many, if not most, of these groups are very unhappy with the direction the government has been heading for the past three or four decades would be the understatement of the century,” Van Brocklen said. “Pissed off, would be a better way of describing their mood.”
“And dangerous,” Barry added.
“Oh, hell, yes!” the Secret Service man said quickly. “There are some out there who would make Jim Beal and Don Salter look like choir boys. This nation is facing a rough and rocky ride. And how it will eventually turn out is anybody’s guess. Guys like Van and I are in complete sympathy with that little Dutch boy with his finger in the hole in the dike. He just doesn’t have a long enough reach or enough fingers to keep up with the new holes that keep breaking through.”
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