Watchers in the Woods

by William W. Johnstone

  “All right, Susan,” he finally said. “We’ll play it your way.”

  “Dennis has a gun, Matt.”

  “Dennis. What kind of gun?”

  “A .44 magnum. He’s been taking lessons for a couple of weeks and Milli says he’s pretty good with it.”

  “I hope to God he declared it in his luggage.”

  “We all had our supplies shipped to the airport in Idaho. They’re in storage. We’ll pick them up when we rent the cars.”

  Matt nodded. “I’m driving over right after the dance. You want a nightcap?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m tired. How about meeting for breakfast?”

  “Sounds good. Eight o’clock all right?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  He sat in the hall and watched her walk toward the elevators. A very lovely, mature woman. He put her out of his mind as best he could and walked outside for some air. He had checked out of the motel and into the hotel where the reunion would be taking place. But right now, a class reunion was the furthest thing from his mind. Deep in his guts he felt this operation was going to be a screw-up.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  * * *

  Susan stood him up for breakfast and that did not surprise Matt. After giving it some second thoughts she had probably decided she did not want to put further strain on her already shaky marriage. And she probably wanted this vacation to go as smoothly as possible, for her sake and for the sake of the kids.

  The kids. They kept popping back into Matt’s thoughts. Last night, after Susan had gone to her room, Matt found the others in the bar and talked to them again, trying to impress upon them the dangers they faced if they persisted in heading into a remote area of the wilderness.

  After a time, he began to realize he was wasting his breath. These people simply did not believe that the government would send one man into an area to face such danger as he was describing.

  Matt finally said to hell with it, had a nightcap, and went to bed.

  “May I join you?” The question broke into his thoughts.

  Matt looked up. Tom Dalton. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Tom ordered coffee and breakfast and when the waitress had left, asked, “Why are you trying to frighten us into changing the location of this little . . . outing, Mr. Jordan?”

  “The name is Matt. I am, or was, just trying to point out that this group we’re investigating in the Primitive Area is big and dangerous. I think it’s irresponsible to subject children to danger when it can be avoided.”

  “Ummm.” Tom sugared and creamed his coffee. “Very commendable of you, I’m sure. I came down for a drink last night and when I passed by their table overheard the others talking about why you might be overplaying the dangers we face. Since I did not join them, I caught only a small part of the conversation.”

  “I assure you, I did not overplay anything. But I’ve had my say and I won’t bring up the subject again.”

  “I’ve a good mind to check out and head back East.”

  “Take Susan and the kids with you when you go.”

  Tom paused in the lifting of coffee cup to mouth. “You’re not kidding, are you, Matt? About the danger, I mean.”

  “No.”

  Tom sipped and sighed, then shrugged. “Well, I have no leverage whatsoever with this group,” he smiled thinly, “nor with my wife. I suspect we shall be parting ways shortly after this . . . vacation—if that is the correct terminology for one’s observing the mating habits of moose and cavorting about the wilderness and communing with nature.”

  Matt had to chuckle. Tom was a stuffed shirt and a pompous ass, but he was trying to find some humor in all of this.

  The men had little else to say to one another and Tom ate his breakfast and excused himself. Matt noticed that Tom’s bill came to five dollars and fifty cents and the man left a quarter tip.

  Matt wandered around the huge hotel until he found the registration area for the Denver class of 1967 and signed in. He did not know any of the people working the registration desk and they welcomed him with about as much genuine enthusiasm as a checkout clerk after a long day. The class of ’67 had been a huge one, and all around the hotel little groups of middle-aged people were gathering, renewing old friendships, boring each other with pictures of their kids, and lying about how much money they were making.

  Matt had a picture in his wallet of a dog he had once had while chief of station in a country in South America. A husky, naturally. Terrorists had learned Matt’s real employer and had killed the dog. It takes a real brave person to kill someone’s pet. There had been twelve of them in the group. Over the years Matt had found and disposed of ten. He was still looking for the other two. It had been a very nice dog.

  “I feel sort of lost,” Norman said, walking up to stand by Matt in the hall.

  “I do know the feeling. Where is the rest of the crew?”

  “Having breakfast, I guess. You look, well, fidgety, Matt.”

  “I am. I think I’m going to wait until the others come down, and pull out of here. I don’t like these kinds of things. I don’t have any old girlfriends in the group. I never was really close to anyone except for you and Susan and those in the group. So I think I’ll just say to hell with it and shove off.”

  Like Matt, Norman had worked all during his free time in high school and had not taken part in any extracurricular activities. And, like Matt, he was no sports fan and had little patience with the rah-rah types. “I wish I could go with you,” he said.

  “Did you bring a piece, Norm?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s with my luggage.”

  “What’d you bring?”

  “A .32 automatic.”

  “I’ll pick up a couple of boxes of ammo for you along the way. I also picked up some heavier firepower you can use. Just in case.”

  “You think it’s going to come to that, Matt?”

  “I tried to warn you all yesterday, partner. The smartest thing you and Polly could do is gather up your kids and go on back home.”

  “You’re not telling us everything, are you, Matt?”

  “I’ve told you all I can. You and me, buddy, we’re the only ones in the group who ever heard a bullet whine in anger. It’s going to be up to you to look after the rest of them if any kind of shitstorm flares up and I’m out of camp. Which I will be a lot of the time.”

  “How do you know that none of the others ever saw combat?”

  “I pulled their personal files from various departments, state and federal.”

  “The government has that much power?”

  “Oh, man. Wise up, Norm. If you’ve got a social security number we’ve got you. I’m told the IRS can access state drivers license records by computer and the state won’t even know it.”

  “Jesus, that’s unconstitutional!” The lawyer came out in the man.

  Matt chuckled. “If you only knew, buddy. But I’ll defend the system because it has to be. See you in Idaho, Norm.”

  “See you, Matt.”

  * * *

  Matt drove straight through. He caught a few hours sleep and then began going through the supplies he had left at the lodge. Someone had carefully inspected each article and replaced them exactly as Matt had packed them. But Matt had taken tiny pebbles and put them in folded clothing, on the top of weapons and other equipment. When the pebbles fell off, there was no way the searcher could know exactly where the tiny rocks had come from.

  Matt field-stripped his Mini-14 and smiled, but it was a grim smile. The firing pin was gone. He laid that one aside and went out to his Bronco. He had called Simmons in Denver and had him round up two more Mini-14’s from bureau stock . . . along with some other goodies Matt felt he might need in the way of weapons. If the camp was attacked, the attackers were going to be very unhappy with the surprises Matt had in store for them.

  Matt had locked his ammunition securely in metal boxes and placed tiny traps that would tell him if the boxes had b
een tampered with. They had not been opened. Still, he checked his ammo by going through and breaking open every tenth cartridge and pouring out the powder, checking the crimp, the case, and the primer. Everything was secure.

  He checked his ropes and found tiny cuts that would break if too much stress was put on them. He had bought extra rope in Denver. He checked everything and replaced anything that had been tampered with.

  It had been Dan Watson, of course. He had given himself away that afternoon he had talked at length with Matt. The old man’s hatred of hunters and trappers was not a normal thing for a man in the business of renting rooms to hunters. He had talked a bit too much of his father’s sorrow at having to go in and cull out the tribe. That meant, to Matt’s way of thinking, that the tribe had been, and probably still was, producing normal-appearing offspring who would leave the wilderness to become productive citizens on the outside, but always, in most cases, probably maintaining a fierce loyalty to the tribe. They were ranchers, farmers, people in all walks of life, involved in local politics, and active in state and federal government. That was the only logical answer for the pressure being put on to leave the Unseen alone.

  Should he confront Dan now? Matt thought about that for a time and decided he would not. But there were people who needed to know. He took a small but very powerful high-band radio out of his Bronco and went for a walk in the woods. He strung his antenna and gave his backup people a bump on scramble.

  After he had finished, the operative many miles away said, “Jesus Christ, Matt! Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. Let the DCI and Simmons know. Advise them I think it’s going to be big and ugly.”

  “That’s affirmative, Husky. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Tell Simmons to let the sheriff know. He’ll know which one I mean. I’ll monitor at regular times when I go in.”

  Matt shut his radio down and went back to the lodge. Dan was waiting for him.

  “How was the reunion, Matt?”

  “All right, I suppose. I didn’t stay for the dance. Drove straight through getting back here.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Maybe I missed your company?”

  Something flickered in the old man’s eyes and was gone as quickly as it came. “You find everything all right in your room?”

  “Exactly as I left it. Thanks for looking after my gear. I appreciate it.”

  “No sweat. The others ought to be pulling in anytime. Nick called. Said he’d be here at dawn in the morning to check the people out.”

  “Yeah. They’re looking forward to camping in the great outdoors.”

  “I peeked in the back of your Bronco. I see you brought in some more equipment.”

  “Yes. I’ll need two more pack animals.”

  “I’ll have them for you. You’re a damn fool, Jordan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why don’t you just take your little band of high school friends and go north instead of east in the wilderness? Tell the goddamn CIA you couldn’t find anything, that it was all a hoax?”

  “It’s gone too far, Dan. There’s been too much killing of innocent people. And you know it. You personally know it.”

  Dan’s face became almost savage in appearance. He visibly calmed himself. His face returned to impassiveness and his fists unclenched. “I don’t know what in the hell you mean, Jordan.”

  “It means cover your ass, Dan. You could kill me now; it wouldn’t change a thing.” He lifted the canvas bag containing the radio. “I just bumped my backup people. Kill me, and they’ll come in. Kill them, and the government will send ten thousand troops in. It’s over, Dan. I put it together. I wasn’t going to let you know, but you just gave yourself away—again. So why keep it a secret? Some of you appear normal. I don’t know how many. Over the years, maybe hundreds. You’re in all walks of life. You’re a good example of it. You . . .”

  “You can’t prove a goddamn thing, Jordan. You’re guessing. You’re farting and standing in your own stink. I suspect, Jordan, that nothing is going to happen to you or to your friends while you’re camping. And you can search to your heart’s content. You won’t find a single member of the tribe.”

  “You got word to them, huh? Good for you, Dan. I’m glad. And I mean that. For the sake of the campers’ kids. What did you do about the ones in the tribe who have gone bad?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This is the way you’re going to play it, huh?”

  “Leave it alone, Jordan. Just leave it alone. You want to start a nationwide bloodbath? Is that it?”

  “You’re that big? There are that many of you? Is that what you mean?”

  “Keep talking, CIA man. You’re doing pretty well, so far.”

  “You’re trying to breed the animal out, Dan. You don’t kill and eat the people you kidnap; not right away. You breed the kidnapped men with your females, the kidnapped women with your males. It must be working. I’m looking at a member of the tribe, right?”

  “You’re the one flapping your gums. Go ahead. Say it all.”

  “Then in order to keep the bad ones happy, once a kidnap victim is no longer productive, or is injured, or becomes a problem, you give them to the cannibals among your tribe.”

  The look on Dan’s face told Matt he had hit home.

  “What do you call those people, Dan?”

  “Sataws.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a word in their language, Matt. It means crazy.”

  Matt took note that the old man said “their” instead of “our.” “I hope you noticed that even though some of you are in high government positions, the pressure they exerted didn’t stop me from returning.”

  “Goddamn CIA! You’re too powerful. I hate you people. You’re not untouchable, but very close to it.”

  “And you hate hunters and trappers because hunters have killed some of the tribe and others have been crippled by traps.”

  “You’re very smart, Matt Jordan. Don’t get too smart, though. It might be your downfall.”

  “Did the one I shot die, Dan?”

  The man’s jaw muscles bunched in thinly disguised hatred for Matt. “Yes,” he finally managed to say. “After suffering for several days.”

  “They attacked me, Dan. Not the other way around.”

  “But now you’re back to kill them.”

  “Not necessarily, I think something might be worked out.”

  “Like putting the people on a restricted reservation, under guard, poked and prodded by doctors? Gawked at and made fun of? Turned into sideshow freaks?”

  “It’s better than what they’re facing, and you know it.”

  “I might be able to get word to them.”

  “I hope so. I’ve never hurt a soul who wasn’t trying to do me harm. Oh, Dan? I replaced my Mini-14 with one that will fire. I also bought new rope and other gear. The firing pin must have fallen out and the mice must have gotten into my other equipment. But I’m a nice guy. I won’t hold you responsible for the damage.”

  The look Matt received was one of pure savage fury.

  9

  The others pulled in during the middle of the afternoon and they were all, even Tom, awed into silence by the quiet grandeur surrounding them.

  “I feel like I’m in the middle of nowhere,” Frank said.

  “You are,” Matt told him. “Come on, I’ll show you all the horses and you can start to get acquainted.”

  Dan must have called Nick immediately after talking with Matt, for the guide was over within the hour with the packhorses Matt had requested. Matt took one look at the man and knew that he, like Dan, was a normal member of the tribe. His eyes flashed hate at Matt. And it was the eyes that gave them away. They were animal eyes. That’s what Matt had noticed about Dan, and it didn’t register at first.

  Dan came out and began assigning horses to people. He gave the oldest and gentlest animals to the women and children, and Matt was amazed at
how the animals took to the man, and then to the kids. It was as if he was silently communicating with them, in their language, and, Matt thought: maybe he was.

  Matt leaned against the corral rails and watched as Dan showed them all how to saddle up and rig the packs on the pack animals. Dan watched them all fumble around getting into the saddle and managed not to laugh at their awkward attempts. The kids caught on quickly, and Dan let them ride out into the pastures around the place. Susan had ridden often as a youth, and it did not take her long to get back into the swing of it. Tom bobbed up and down like a cork with a catfish on the line when he rode, as did Norman and Dennis. Frank had had some experience with riding, and he handled himself pretty well.

  Nancy and Milli and Polly and Cathy made a game of it and soon were able to stay in the saddle with some ease.

  “You folks will be all right, I’m thinking,” Dan finally said. “Nick will set a very easy pace and you’ll be surprised how many miles you’ll cover in a day. I’m goin’ back in and start supper. You folks ride a while longer; quit when you get ready.”

  Matt called a halt to it a half hour later. “You don’t want to get too stiff and sore your first day. We have a lot of miles to cover in the next couple of days.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Frank asked him while stripping the saddle from his mount.

  “I know the general area.”

  “And? . . .”

  “Don’t get lost.”

  * * *

  “I’ll be poking along behind the group,” Matt told the guide the following morning. The sun had not yet risen, and neither had the campers from the city.

  “Don’t get lost,” Nick warned him. The guide was in his fifties, Matt guessed, but lean as a piece of rawhide, and probably just as tough. The warning, Matt figured, was an automatic response from the man, since he was 99 percent certain Nick was of the tribe and Dan had told him everything he knew about Matt.

  “I know how to go in, I know how to get out,” Matt replied in an easy tone of voice.

  “So I been told,” was Nick’s response. He turned and walked out onto the porch, taking his mug of coffee with him.

  Strong, silent cowboy type, Matt thought. With the blood of savages coursing hotly through his veins.