Watchers in the Woods

by William W. Johnstone

  When they had eaten their fill, brother and sister loped into the house, packed a few things, and rifled the huge house for cash and credit cards. They found plenty of both. They locked the house up and then shoved their father down onto the floorboards of the Mercedes.

  “Your car or mine?” Rory asked.

  “We’ll take your four-wheel in case we have to leave the road.”

  “Let’s go find the pack.”

  * * *

  The press corps had pretty much run out of steam by the time they returned to the safety of the compound. Many had come into the area thinking this to be some kind of joke or hoax. Now they knew better.

  Ron Arnold almost crapped his jeans when he saw Ty, standing in the center of the camp. “Holy shit!” he said.

  “Amazing,” Donna said.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Obviously he wants to meet with you all. He’ll probably regret that decision after he talks with Ron.”

  “It really doesn’t bother you about those people getting killed back there, does it, Matt?”

  “Nope. They were warned. Ty, this is Donna Gates. She’s a network reporter. I’ll let her introduce the others coming at a run.”

  “You don’t like these people, Matt?” Ty asked.

  “Not especially.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a long story. I think once you’re on the outside and seeing and listening to their reports you’ll understand.”

  “Umm,” Ty said as Matt walked back to his tent. “That’s unfortunate, for I value Matt’s opinion.”

  “Matt Jordan works for one of the most despicable government agencies anywhere in the world,” Ron said. “They engage in illegal covert activities around the world, usually aiding some right-wing group. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Ron snapped his fingers a couple of times in Ty’s face. “Is that a mask you’ve got on there?”

  “Only the one the gods gave me, you impudent pup!” He took Donna’s arm. “Come, Miss Gates. I will speak with you and only you.”

  “Now see here!” Ron blustered.

  “I have spoken!” Ty roared. Seconds later the area was filled with tribe members forming a line between the departing Ty and Donna and the confused and badly shaken press corps—a line no one wanted to attempt to breech.

  “Sir?” Ken Caney called. “Mr. Ty, sir?”

  Ty stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “Do we have your permission to take pictures?”

  “A polite one,” Ty said. “Yes, you do. But only with the permission of the people. If they do not wish to have their images duplicated, put your cameras away.”

  “We have the permission of the United States government to take pictures, buddy!” Ron hollered. “We don’t have to have your permission.”

  For a moment there was a puzzled look on Ty’s face. Ty left Donna’s side and walked over to Ron Arnold. Ty was far from young, but even the most unobservant could tell he was still immensely powerful. He put one hairy hand on Ron’s shoulder and pushed, forcing Ron to his knees. From the expression on Ron’s face, he was in some degree of pain.

  “We are a polite people, loudmouth,” Ty told him. “We respect the privacy of others. And we expect outsiders to do the same. I’m the elder of this tribe. My name is Ty, not Buddy. People do not raise their voices to me. And when I speak, they listen and obey me.”

  Ty slowly lifted Ron Arnold from his knees. With one hand, his muscles bulging, he lifted the reporter completely off his feet and put his animal’s face close to Ron’s. “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir!” Ron said, his voice breaking from fear.

  Ty gently lowered Ron to the ground. “I hope so. Because if you don’t, you’ll be ordered from these lands. And you’ll go, one way or another.”

  He returned to Donna, and they walked over to a secluded area and began to talk, her crew taping and filming it all.

  “Do me a favor, Ron,” Lee Peterson said. “From now on, stay away from me. I don’t want Ty to get the notion that I’m a friend of yours.”

  “Yeah, that goes for me, too,” Jerry Kaye said. “What are you trying to do, screw it up for the rest of us?”

  Ron was so scared he sat down on a log, afraid his legs would not support his weight. He chose not to reply to his colleagues. “No damn . . . creature threatens me,” he muttered. “Every dog has his day.” Ron was not known for his originality. “You just wait and see.”

  Ron looked around him. The others were talking with tribe members and the tapes were rolling, audio and video. A small boy, almost perfectly human in shape, walked up to him.

  “You made Elder Ty angry,” the boy said.

  “Yes, I suppose I did.” Ron suddenly realized he had a goldmine right in front of him that would probably tell it like it was. For he knew that children could be brutally honest. “I’ll have to apologize to him. Would that be a good thing for me to do?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “My name is Ron. What’s your name?”

  “Charles.”

  “Are you afraid of having your picture taken, Charles?”

  “No. Why should I be afraid of that?”

  Ron waved his crew over and introduced them to the boy. “Charles here is going to talk to us, tell us all about the tribe and the way they live, aren’t you, Charles?”

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  The crew had worked with Ron for a long time out in the field. They knew what he was up to. They didn’t like it, but they also knew they wouldn’t like drawing unemployment, either. The camera began rolling as Ron led the boy into questions about tribal life and customs, laws, and methods of punishment and how they were handed out.

  You sorry son of a bitch, the cameraman thought. How damn low can one person get?

  After the interview, Ron signed off and thought: Gotcha, Ty. I’m gonna cream your ass, you goddamn savage!

  4

  “Those with connections to the tribe are striking all over the United States,” Richard told Matt by radio. “It’s turning very bloody.”

  “It isn’t all those with connections, Richard,” Matt corrected. “There are thousands on the outside who are living good, decent lives. It’s the ones who can’t control the urge to kill who are causing the problems.”

  “The public doesn’t see it that way, Matt. And that broadcast by Ron Arnold only added fuel to the fire.”

  “What broadcast?”

  “He aired a special last night, interviewing some child of the tribe. I suspect he deliberately scheduled it late, knowing you people would all be asleep. The boy meant no harm; he was just answering questions truthfully. My people tell me there was a lot of very skillful cutting and editing done. The boy talked about the harsh punishment for thieves among the tribe, how the Elder Ty had ordered the deaths of a lot of tribe members for what Americans would consider very minor crimes. I won’t say that public sentiment has turned against the tribe, but that interview sure didn’t do their cause any good.”

  “My fault, Rich. I should have kept a better eye on that son-of-a-bitch.”

  “No one expects you to do everything, Matt. You’re doing a good job in there. Oh, I have some bad news that hasn’t been released to the press: the FBI found the body of Frank Nichols. They believe he was killed shortly after he gained the release of his kids from a mental hospital outside of Denver. They, uh, killed him and ate him—at least parts of him.”

  “Damn! Where are the kids? Have they been spotted?”

  “No.”

  “The Bureau can’t sit on his death forever.”

  “That’s right. They’ll release the news later today.”

  “I’ll get a phone patch into Susan and the others and break it to them.”

  “All right. Matt, wind it up in there and get ready to pull out. We need you out here.”

  “Ty and the tribe?”

  “The rangers will stay in place. I spoke with Captain Fargo. He seems to be genuinely fond
of those . . . people.”

  “We all are, Rich. We could learn a lot from them.”

  “I’ll tell this to you now, Matt: Emmett Trumball has been buying air time and newspaper space around the nation. We can’t prove it’s him, but we know it is. He’s calling for a bounty to be placed on the heads of tribe members. I don’t have to tell you that there area a lot of nuts in this country who just might heed that call.”

  “God damn it, it’s federal land here. Can’t Congress send in more troops?”

  “Congress is walking a tightrope on this, Matt. It’s election year, you know. The senators and representatives are getting a lot of heat from the folks back home. A large percentage of their mail is saying that if a bunch of animals—meaning the tribe—is the cause of all this bloodshed, then get rid of the root source.”

  “God damn it, Rich!”

  “I know. I know. But my hands are tied. I can only make suggestions to the President.”

  “I have a suggestion for Mr. Emmett Trumball: take him out.”

  “Very well, Matt. Why don’t you?”

  * * *

  Matt did not minimize the danger when he spoke with Ty and the other elders. When he had finished, Ty said, “One bear goes bad and becomes a man-killer, so many of your people conclude that the only way to deal with it is to kill all bears. That is a very, ah, interesting way of looking at the problem.”

  “It’s a very stupid way, Ty, and you know it. So I have to go back outside and help deal with the problem.”

  “I will miss you.”

  “And I’ll miss you. The rangers will stay in place, Ty. And the doctors and scientists will be here. Don’t be too hard on the boy, Charles. He was just being truthful.”

  “Oh, he will receive no punishment. He did nothing wrong.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You are going to kill this Emmett Trumball, Matt Jordan?”

  Matt stared at Ty. “You’re very astute.”

  “You and I, Matt, we think alike. For any type of society to exist, there must be laws and rules. And those who break those rules must be dealt with swiftly and often harshly. It appears to me, and has for some years, that there is a breakdown in your society.”

  “Like you said, Ty: we think a lot alike.”

  * * *

  Back at the lodge, Matt shampooed the dye out of his hair and carefully trimmed his beard. He put a call in to Susan and told her about Frank.

  “Horrible!” she said. “Is Cathy still in the wilderness?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And you, Matt?”

  “I have work to do. Have you had any contact with Tom?”

  “He started divorce proceedings the day after he got back to New York. It’s going to be uncontested and very fast.”

  “Good. Any post-wilderness syndrome among the kids?”

  “Some, but they’re dealing with it well. They’re going to be all right.”

  “Susan, I want you and Dennis to hire private security. Around the clock. I don’t mean to scare you, but I’ve got to think that you’re targets.”

  “Why, Matt? And by whom?”

  “The breakaways. Why? Because they’re crazy and they might place part of the blame for their exposure on you and the others who were in the wilderness with me. Call this number, Susan.” He gave it to her. “That group is made up largely of ex-spooks. They’re very good at their jobs. Call them. Tell them I recommended-them. Will you do that for me?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. I miss you, Susan. I want very much to be with you.”

  Her very personal reply—and Matt hoped no one else was listening—probabry melted some lines along the way. He hung up with a grin on his face and an aching in his loins.

  He packed up, loaded his Bronco, and pulled out. He didn’t tell Susan that he was heading for the Los Angeles area, and the home—one of many—of Emmett Trumball. He wanted to get to the man before the breakaways did.

  He pointed the nose of the Bronco southwest and drove for ten hours before pulling over at a motel and resting for a few hours. Then it was back behind the wheel and looking at the road. He listened to the radio a lot, mostly news programs. And the news was not at all good for the tribe.

  Advocates for one group or another were screaming about the money being spent on a bunch of savages rather than spending it on them.

  “Who the hell cares about a bunch of half-breeds?” hollered another loudmouth. “Let us go in and take care of them.”

  “Everybody in the United States should take a blood test!” yelled another one. “Everybody who has a drop of tribe blood in them should then be exterminated. And do the same thing for queers and drug addicts and liberals, too.”

  “Jesus!” Matt said.

  “Declare open season on the tribe members!” squalled another. “Issue us hunting licenses and we’ll go in and take care of the problem.”

  “Assholes!” Matt said. Somebody better come up with something, he thought, and do it damn quick.

  The news commentator was saying, “. . . Sporting goods stores cannot keep enough rifles and shotguns and pistols in stock. The nation is arming itself at an alarming rate.”

  Matt turned up the volume.

  “... Authorities are fearing many will start shooting at shadows and killing innocent people. The panic and fear that has gripped the United States, Canada, and Mexico is unprecedented in this reporter’s memory. The cannibalistic group called the Unseen is striking daily. To date, more than two hundred people nationwide have been attacked and eaten by these inhuman savages, and that figure is expected to soar. So far, not one of these murderers has been apprehended by the authorities. All across the nation vigilante groups are forming and are prepared to take the law into their own hands.”

  Matt turned off the radio. The reporter was beginning to get emotional.

  He checked into a small motel in LA and showered and shaved and watched the news on TV while eating a sandwich. The radio reporter he had listened to earlier had been correct in his assumption that the death count would rise. It had now topped three hundred nationwide. He turned off the light and was unbuttoning his shirt, preparing to lie down.

  He rebuttoned his shirt at the sound of a slight scraping on the motel sidewalk. Matt screwed a silencer on his 9mm and walked quietly across the carpet to the double drapes, cracking them just a bit and looking out. He saw the room clerk, standing with several men, facing in his direction. The eyes! Matt recalled that the man had been wearing tinted glasses, although it had been completely dark when he checked in.

  The man was one of them who would not fight the urge, and he was pointing out a late supper to his friends.

  These damned people seemed to be everywhere.

  Not wanted to be someone’s meal, Matt stuck his feet back into his shoes, slipped into a light jacket, and jerked open the door. Something came silently hurtling at him from the bushes in front of the row of rooms. Matt shot it. The silenced 9mm made a huffing sound, and the slug struck the man in the center of his forehead, stopping him. He pitched forward and fell motionless on the sidewalk. The desk clerk and the others had heard nothing.

  Now the tricky part: taking one of them alive for questioning—or two, preferably two. Matt quietly closed the motel room door and slipped around the back of the office, working his way close to the group of men standing by the side talking.

  “That’s his Bronco,” the desk clerk was saying. “I checked the license plate through Ken at the sheriff’s office. Good thing the Idaho cell told us what to look for. I got Roger over there watching the room.”

  “I hope Roger controls himself and doesn’t try to entice him to come out.”

  “Look,” the desk clerk said, “traffic will begin to thin in a couple of hours. I got four singles and eight doubles registered in. We can get it done and have the rooms cleaned out and the cars gone by daylight. Get the others and let’s hit them at midnight.”


  “What about Roger?”

  “I’ll check on him in a few minutes. The switchboard is buzzing. You guys get gone and get the others. I’ll see you back here in about an hour.”

  When the desk clerk had entered the office, Matt ran back to his room and dragged the body of Roger around to a pickup with the motel’s name painted on the door and dumped him in the bed of the half-ton truck. He ran to a pay phone off the small swimming pool and called in to the LA office, bringing the voice up to date and telling him to get him some help out here and do it fast. He looked toward the office. There was no sign of the desk clerk.

  Matt dialed Richard at home and got him on the second ring.

  “Take one alive if you can,” Richard told him. “I’ll alert an interrogation crew and have them standing by with drugs. I’ll be by the phone, Matt.”

  Matt sat in one of the poolside chairs, after pulling it into the shadows, watching the office. The desk clerk appeared to be irritated by the constant buzzing of the switchboard. He probably was anticipating a late-night snack.

  The clerk finally walked out and over to Matt’s room. Matt watched him walk back and forth, looking in the bushes and softly calling out Roger’s name.

  “You’ll meet him soon enough, creep,” Matt whispered. “I assure you of that.”

  “Roger, you son of a bitch” the desk clerk called softly. He shook his head. “Well, maybe he went to take a piss.” He put his ear to the motel room door and listened. “Sound asleep,” he said, then walked back to the office.

  The men and women from the LA office were quick in responding. Matt recognized the car that had been described to him by the voice on the phone. They began coming in shortly after the clerk returned to the office, checking in as singles or as man and wife. Six of them—four men and two women. Matt left his chair and intercepted them.

  “Let’s get in your room,” he told the man. Inside, he faced the group and said, “I don’t know how many will be coming over. Probably quite a bunch. They plan to wipe out the entire motel list. Let’s do this quick and let’s do it quietly, taking as many alive as we can. The desk clerk seems to be the leader. I’ll take him out first, and you people drop the others.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got about half an hour. Let’s get in place.”