Hunted

by William W. Johnstone

  “I am,” Ki said.

  “Can you use the weapon?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The free-lance writer smiled. “But will you use it is the big question.”

  “I’ll use it if I have to,” Ki said.

  The woman studied Ki’s face for a few seconds, then chuckled. “Yes. I think you would. All right, girls, let me show you something.” She spread a map out on the coffee table, after shooing the cat away. “Here we are.” She pointed to their location. “You go over to this junction and cut south—that means you turn right . . .”

  “I can read a compass,” Ki said, just slightly annoyed at the woman’s condescending attitude.

  “I’m sorry,” the writer said. “But over the years I have been involved in dozens of search and rescue missions... most of them looking for city folks who got lost. Before you leave, I’m going to give you very detailed maps of that area. Maps that I helped draw up. They feature landmarks and creeks and so forth. Now listen up, I want to tell you a few things that just might save your lives . . .”

  * * *

  The twelve mercenaries hired by Robert Roche to capture Darry Ransom took different routes and methods of transportation getting to Coeur d’Alene. There, they picked up four four-wheel drive vehicles to be driven in and stored—two Ford Broncos in that small city, two Broncos over in Spokane. The vehicles had been prepacked with supplies and all the equipment the mercs had requested . . . which was considerable. Since this mission would not involve killing, the men would carry only side arms. Each carried the side arm that he was most comfortable and familiar with. The pistols ranged from .44 mags to 9mm.

  The mercs pulled over at the first rest area and gathered for a chat. The Englishman, Nick Sharp, said, “First time in my life I ever went on an op with only a pistol.”

  “Guns are no good against this man,” Billy Antrim said, opening a soft drink.

  “If he exists at all,” Tom Doolin spoke the words that lay in the back of the minds of all but one of the meres.

  “He is real,” George Eagle Dancer said. “Believe it. He is the man my people have been singing and telling stories about for centuries. And this man is dangerous. Probably the most dangerous man on earth.”

  “We all have tranquilizer rifles,” Mike Tuttle said. Mike was the leader of the bunch. “The drugs will neutralize this dangerous person. Then we put him in a cage, call in for a chopper, and our job is over. We collect the balance of our money and then go our separate ways.”

  George Eagle Dancer smiled at how easy Mike made it all seem. George sensed—no, he knew—this job would be anything but easy. And he did not believe they would succeed in capturing this legendary shape-shifter. Besides, George wasn’t at all sure he wanted to capture the man.

  Mike said, “We’ll stop at the first decent-looking motel we find and spend the night. Shove off at first light and get in the general area and set up camp.” He looked up at the sky. “Tomorrow promises to be a fine day.”

  A good day to die, the Indian in George Eagle Dancer sprang to the surface.

  * * *

  Sam Parish faced the ranger and Darry. Darry sensed very quickly that there was no back-down in the man. The federal badge on Rick’s chest did not intimidate him at all.

  “I’ve got a ninety-nine-year lease on this property,” Sam told the ranger. “And you’ve got no business snoopin’ around here. We’re not breaking any laws, so why don’t you and your pissy friend here”—he jerked a thumb at Darry—“just haul your asses on away from here.”

  Darry immediately thought of a dandy place to stick Sam’s weapon, a semiautomatic, legal version of the famed Russian AK-47. But Sam probably wouldn’t like that very much—it would be awkward moving about.

  Darry learned something about Rick, too. The ranger said, “I can go anywhere I damn well please to go, Mr. Parish. If I suspect you’ve been poaching, I can enter your cabin and search it from top to bottom. So don’t get too damn lippy with me.”

  Sam Parish relaxed, and a grin wiped the scowl from his face. “Okay, Ranger. Okay. We’ve both blustered at each other and found that neither one of us is afraid of the other. You want to come into our camp and have something to drink?”

  “Some water would be nice,” Rick said.

  “Come on. I can’t offer you anything stronger. I don’t allow liquor in the area.”

  Smart move on his part, Darry thought—if he’s telling the truth. Guns and liquor are a bad combination.

  Darry’s experienced eye noticed that every man and woman in the camp looked very fit and very healthy. The men and women smiled as they were introduced and shook hands, but the smile did not reach their eyes.

  “No poached game here, Ranger,” Sam told Rick. “We send someone into town once a week for fresh vegetables and milk and meat. Most of the time we eat field rations.”

  “There are no minorities in your group,” Rick pointed out.

  “Is that against the law?” Sam asked with a faint smile.

  “No. Not at all. I was just curious about it.”

  “We’re separatists, Ranger. All of us here are. That’s the reason for our being here. We believe in the purity of the white race. We don’t want to see it contaminated with the blood and genes of inferiors. We’ve never denied our beliefs and never will. Is that against the law?”

  “Not that I am aware of, Mr. Parish. Not unless you’re planning to wage war against those not of your race.”

  “We plan no such thing. We wish no harm to come to anyone. We believe the government of the United States is on the verge of total collapse. We’re training to survive after the collapse. That’s all.”

  Darry noticed that the weapons being shown were all legal ones. They were military look-alikes, but all semiautomatic and legal. The ones the press and the liberals liked to call “assault rifles,” a term that always amused Darry. When George Washington’s troops assaulted a British position with weapons, the muskets they carried were assault rifles.

  As he stood by Rick, listening to the exchange, Darry quickly picked up on the close scrutiny he was being given by the members of the camp. For several mornings running he had found boot tracks at the edge of the clearing near his cabin and knew someone had been circling his cabin and checking him out. Of course he knew it in other ways, as well. During those nights when someone had prowled around the edges of the clearing, he had awakened at the same time his hybrids had, alert and listening.

  “This a new ranger?” Sam asked, his eyes flicking over to Darry.

  “No,” Rick said. “Just a friend. I imagine you know where he lives.” He introduced Darry.

  “For a fact, I do. For a fact. You live out here year-round, don’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Darry replied.

  Sam Parish stared into Darry’s pale eyes for a moment and felt a slight chill run up and down his spine. Something about those eyes was very disturbing to the man. After a few seconds, Sam dropped his gaze and concluded that this young man—Darry looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty; hard to tell—was a man who knew how to take care of himself.

  Sam was sure right about that.

  A man who had been introduced as Willis Reader said, “Those dogs of yours are hybrids, aren’t they, Ransom?”

  “That’s right, Reader,” Darry said.

  “You ought to keep them things penned. I don’t like dogs. They wander over here, they’re gonna be dead dogs.”

  Rick tensed as Darry shifted his feet, facing the man. “My dogs almost never leave the clearing unless they’re with me. Sometimes they will chase a rabbit a few hundred yards into the timber. But they don’t go far. I have a ninety-nine-year lease on all that acreage around my cabin. And the acreage is considerable. Don’t you ever let me find you on my land. And you can consider that a warning. And I’ll tell you why: I don’t have much use for people who don’t like dogs. I think it’s a severe character flaw. Now, as to my dogs, I wouldn’t like it if someone h
armed my dogs. I would probably become very irritable and hostile. And you wouldn’t like me should I become hostile.”

  Willis Reader was taller and heavier than Darry. A man in his late thirties who looked to be in excellent physical condition. Indeed, he was a man who had done hard physical labor all his life. He was also a bully, and had been a bully all his life. Willis poked Darry in the center of his chest with a thick, blunt-ended finger. “Don’t threaten me, sonny-boy. And you don’t insult me. You got all that?” He poked Darry again. Bad mistake on his part.

  Darry hit him, the blow coming with rattlesnake speed. Darry struck just below the V of Willis’ rib cage with stiffened fingers, nearly paralyzing the man. Before the sickening thud of the first blow had faded, and just as Willis was bending over, making horrible retching sounds on his way to the ground, Darry struck again, this time with his open left hand. The palm impacted over Willis’ ear and sounded like the crack of a rifle. Willis Reader screamed in pain and hit the ground, the hearing gone on one side of his head and his stomach feeling as if it were on fire.

  The whole thing had taken one second.

  Then Darry growled, and Rick and those standing close by were shocked to hear the menacing animal sound coming from a human throat. Sam Parish didn’t realize he was doing it, but he took a step back from Darry. Rick had never heard a human make such an authentic animal sound.

  “Easy now!” Sam found his voice as the members of his bunch moved toward Darry, menace in their eyes. “Just stand easy.”

  “You really don’t want to assault a federal officer.” Rick quickly defused the situation. “Willis Reader initiated the first physical move against Darry, and I am a witness to that. So don’t do anything stupid.”

  Sam pointed at two men. “You two pick Willis up and carry him over to the cabin. The rest of you back off and go on about your business. It’s over.” He turned to Rick and Darry. “You boys better leave.” His eyes shifted to Darry. “Don’t come back here, Ransom. You made a bad enemy with Willis. But I give you my personal word that nothing will happen to your dogs. He had no right to say what he did.”

  Darry nodded his head and turned around, walking out of the camp. Rick hesitated for a second, then nodded at Sam and caught up with Darry.

  “Darry, Parish was right back there. You did make a very bad enemy.”

  “Willis Reader doesn’t worry me. None of that bunch really worries me. But if they harm my dogs, there will be trouble.”

  “I think Parish will keep his word, Darry.”

  “He better.”

  “Where did you learn to fight like that, Darry?”

  Darry smiled. Where? How about Korea in the fifteenth century? How about in France learning savate in the 1600s? How about Japan before any other white man ever set foot on their island?

  “I’ve knocked around a bit,” Darry said, smiling that strange smile.

  “I believe you have, Darry,” Rick said slowly. “And I also think you’re a lot better educated than you would like people to think.”

  Darry did not reply. But he did recall the time in Paris when Nostradamus told him the same thing.

  5

  Jack Speed read the fax and handed it to Kathy Owens. “You’re not going to believe this one,” he told her.

  She read the order and looked over at her partner. “The Man Who Could Not Die?”

  “That’s what it says.” The fax machine clanged. “That would be a copy of the article. This should be real interesting reading.”

  The small field office, located on the western side of Idaho, near the Washington state border, had not been open long. The agent-in-charge was due to retire in just over a year. He came out of his office, read the latest fax, and smiled at the two agents.

  “You young people enjoy camping?”

  “Oh, I just love communing with nature,” Kathy said.

  “Me, too,” Jack said, very unenthusiastically.

  “Wonderful!” the older man said. “How I envy you both this assignment.” That was said very drily. “You’re going into rough country, so get outfitted.” He handed them a map. “The area is circled. Good luck.” He went back to his office and closed the door. Then he started laughing.

  “I’m glad he thinks it’s so damn funny,” Jack said. He looked at Kathy. “Do you like camping?”

  “I hate camping!”

  “Me, too,” he said glumly, then stood up. “You ready to go exploring?”

  Kathy said a very ugly word.

  * * *

  The mercenaries left their vehicles miles north and east of the ranger station and, shouldering heavy packs, began marching into the designated area just about the same time Stormy and Ki arrived at the ranger station. Since the National Loudmouth was one of the newspapers he’d taken up to Darry’s place, Rick had a pretty good idea why the reporters were in the area. Rick didn’t believe a word printed in the Loudmouth, and he certainly didn’t believe that Darry was almost seven hundred years old; but somebody obviously thought the story worth investigating.

  Still, Rick wasn’t about to give the reporter Darry’s location—not without Darry’s permission. Rick shook his head. “This story sounds pretty far-fetched to me, miss. I don’t know of anybody living in this area who is, ah, seven hundred years old.” He chuckled. “Although there are some mighty crotchety old characters living back in the wilderness.”

  Stormy shook her head. “This man would look about thirty years old.”

  Rick smiled. “All I can do is wish you good luck and give you the names of some local guides. There is a man who can helicopter you in, or you can rent horses and go in that way.”

  “Horses sound good,” Ki said. “I used to ride every day back on the farm.”

  Stormy was city born and reared. She gave Ki a very dark look. Then she sighed and nodded her head. “All right. We’ll do it that way.”

  Rick wrote out the man’s name and gave the women directions to his place. They thanked him and left.

  Rick immediately closed up the ranger station and set out for Darry’s cabin. This time he saddled up and rode. Much faster that way.

  “You’re just in time for lunch,” Darry told him, holding up a string of fresh-caught trout.

  “Sounds good to me. Let me loosen this cinch and I’ll help you clean them.”

  When the fish were battered and sizzling in the pan, Rick said, “There is a well-known reporter and cameraman—camera-person, I guess—in the area. They’re here about that article in the Loudmouth. The Man Who Could Not Die.”

  “A major network is wasting its money on stuff like that?” Darry questioned.

  “Darry? If there is anything in your past you don’t want uncovered, I’d suggest you head for the wilderness and lay low for a time.”

  Darry turned the fish. “I’m not a criminal, Rick. I have a bank account, a social security number, a valid driver’s license, and a current hunting and fishing permit. You know all that. Why should I run?”

  “Because there are things about you that don’t add up, Darry. And if I can sense that, you know damn well a skilled reporter can, too.”

  Darry smiled. “What is it about me that doesn’t add up, Rick?”

  “Even though you’ve tried to hide it, you’re a very well educated man. I’ve seen your library, remember? Everything from Voltaire to William Buckley. You’re somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old, a young and handsome man, yet you live like a hermit, with very little outside contact. Old Buckskin Jennings saw you playing with a wolf pack last year, Darry. He watched you for the better part of an hour. When you finished playing, you lay down with them and went to sleep. I’m the only one he told about it. You want me to go on?”

  Darry pointed to the skillet and then to a plate. “Eat your lunch.”

  They ate in silence for a time. Darry said, “So I have a way with wolves, so what?”

  “A way with wolves? You lay down in the middle of a pack of wolves and went to sleep, for Christ sa
ke! Darry, I’ve watched you from time to time . . . through binoculars. You move through the woods like a ghost. I’ve lost sight of you a dozen times when you were out in the open not a hundred yards away from me. Darry, I don’t think for one moment that you’re a criminal, or that you’re wanted for anything. But there is a hell of a lot more to you than you’ve admitted thus far—at least to me. And this Stormy person is going to zero in on you like radar. And if you can’t account for every minute of your back trail, she’s going to cut you to pieces. So you’d better get ready for it.”

  Darry said nothing. He speared another piece of fish and spooned more fried potatoes onto his plate. Pete and Repeat lay on the porch, snoozing in the shade. “Maybe it’s time for me to move on,” Darry finally spoke.

  “Run again?”

  Darry shrugged.

  “Darry, where were you born?”

  “My birth certificate says I was born in Illinois.”

  “Would it stand up to a thorough check?”

  Darry smiled.

  “That’s what I thought. Darry, have you ever leveled with anyone about . . . whatever it is you’re hiding?”

  “A few people, over the years.”

  “How many years?”

  “Oh, as near as I can figure it, pretty close to seven centuries.”

  Rick’s plate suddenly fell out of numb fingers and clattered to the ground. He sat and stared at Darry.

  * * *

  “There has to be something to it,” the air force general said. “The CIA is on it and so is the FBI. By God, we’re not going to be left out in the cold. Isn’t Pete Cooper winding up an investigation in that area?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s close. Out at Mountain Home.”

  “Tell him to get on it ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you suppose there is any truth to it at all?”

  “I don’t know. But if there is, do you realize what kind of a weapon this man would make?”

  “Of course.”