Hunted

by William W. Johnstone

  “They’re racist,” Jack said.

  “Is that against the law?” Darry stood up. “Excuse me, I have to stir the stew. I hope you like stew.”

  “We have rations,” Jack said.

  “Keep them for an emergency,” Darry called over his shoulder as he stood under the dog walk. He stirred the rich-smelling mixture and returned to the porch.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Ransom?” Jack asked.

  “Darry. I keep telling you my name is Darry. I have a small monthly income that is sufficient for my needs.”

  That was true. A few decades back, Darry, working under an assumed name, had set up a fund for a fictitious nephew named Darry Ranson. The father of one of his present lawyers in San Francisco, now dead, had done the paperwork. That would stand a check, and Darry felt sure these federal people were going to check him out.

  Kathy was studying Darry in the faint light, but not studying him solely through agent’s eyes. She was a woman first. Darry Ransom was a handsome man, in a rugged sort of way. He was no pretty boy. It appeared that he cut and trimmed his own thick shock of hair and did so skillfully. But it was his strange eyes that fascinated her; she’d never seen eyes quite like them. They were . . . almost animal in appearance, except for the color. He was in excellent physical condition, and could move very quickly. She also noted that he appeared to have some knowledge of unarmed self-defense, judging by the way he had handled Jack’s move toward a gun. He was a man possessing some education, and he appeared to be about thirty years old. So why was he living out here in the wilderness as a near-hermit?

  She would request a background check on Darry Ransom.

  Such was the power of big government.

  * * *

  About two miles to the north of Darry’s cabin, Johnny McBroon sat near a hat-sized fire and cooked his evening meal. Less than a mile from where Johnny sat, Al Reaux was eating his dinner out of a cam. Just to the north of Al, Major Pete Cooper had made his camp and was settling in for the night. To the west of him, although separated by about a mile, Major Lew Waters was cooking his supper and Lt. Commander Jay Gilmore was dubiously feasting out of a packet of MREs—Meals Ready to Eat.

  Nearly all the principal players in this soon-to-be Orwellian tragedy were in place, but as yet unknown to each other, except perhaps by reputation.

  Come the dawning, all that was about to change.

  8

  The two FBI agents insisted upon sleeping outside that night, under the dog walk. While they slept, Darry went through their packs and personal articles. He found the copy of the fax ordering the two to investigate the report of the man who could not die, taken from the National Loudmouth. He put everything back as he’d found it and returned to his bed.

  After breakfast, he led them to the river trail to the pair of agents. “About four and a half miles down this trail, you’ll see a well-used and wide trail leading off to the northwest. It will turn to your right,” he added, blandly and straight-faced. “ ’Bout four and a half more miles and you’ll come to the ranger station.”

  “Perhaps we’ll intercept the rescue party,” Jack said.

  “What rescue party?”

  “Our horses returned to their stable yesterday afternoon. Riderless. Surely that was reported and a rescue party sent out.”

  Darry slowly shook his head. “Let me tell you two something: About thirty-five or so miles from here, there is a small town with a branch bank and a post office and a few stores. There might be some people in that town who care what happens to a couple of federal agents. A few people. That is, if Chuck reported your riderless horses returning. Which I doubt. But out here, you’re on your own. Most of the people who move into a wilderness area to live year-round do so to get away from government interference and meddling, snooping federal agents prowling around in their lives. Memories are still fresh about an incident that happened up in the northern part of this state a few years ago. A boy and his mother—who happened to be holding a tiny baby in her arms—were shot to death by federal agents. Most of the people who live around here don’t trust the federal government, and they don’t like federal agents. So don’t expect them to welcome you with open arms.”

  “Thank you for being so, ah, candid with us, Darry,” Kathy said. “Perhaps if the people knew the facts about that case, they might feel differently.”

  “Oh, they know the facts, Kathy. They know all the facts. That’s just one of the reasons they don’t like federal agents.”

  “We’d best be going,” Jack said. “Perhaps we’ll see you again, Mr. Ransom.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Darry said drily.

  When Darry returned to his cabin, he found a man sitting on the roof of the shed, holding a pistol in his hand. Pete and Repeat sat on the ground, looking up at him, not in a friendly manner.

  “Call off your dogs,” the man ordered. “Or I’ll shoot them. That’s the only warning I’m going to give you. I’m an agent of the federal government.”

  Darry got mad. He pointed at the man and said, “You just stay put for a minute.” He walked into the cabin and stepped back outside carrying a lever action Winchester. 375. “Screw you and screw the federal government,” he called to the man, levering a round into the slot. “The next move is up to you.”

  Al Reaux recognized the weapon in Darry’s hands, and knew one round from that big game rifle would blow an irreparable fist-sized hole in him. “Can we just calm down for a minute?” the NSA man called.

  “I am calm,” Darry said. “If I wasn’t calm, you’d be dead meat on the ground.” He called for his hybrids and pointed to the porch. They hopped up and lay down. “Now you can shove that pistol back in leather and climb down.”

  “Put that rifle away, mister.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Al was a brave man, but he sure wasn’t a stupid one. He knew he was in a no-win situation. He holstered his 9mm and climbed down. “Now will you put that cannon away?”

  Darry eased the hammer down and lowered the muzzle. Al breathed a bit easier. So far, he’d found the people around here the unfriendliest goddamned people he’d ever encountered . . . and that included the Viet Cong. What the hell was the matter with these folks?

  Al approached Darry cautiously. He didn’t like the look in the young man’s eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to shake hands and start all over?”

  “You suppose right. What are you doing on my property?”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I didn’t know you had wolves running around loose.”

  “One: they’re hybrids. Two: they wouldn’t have treed you if you hadn’t made the first hostile move. And finally, I don’t feel like answering any questions.”

  It was Al’s turn to get mad. “Hey, mister! Don’t get too damned cute with me. I can have your ass in a jail cell before you can blink.”

  “Get off my property and don’t come back,” Darry said.

  “I’d do what he says were I you,” the voice came from the north side of the men facing each other. “That .375 Winchester can drop a cape buffalo in its tracks.”

  Darry and Al cut their eyes to the man with the camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “Who the hell are you?” Darry asked.

  “The name is Johnny Mack. I’m a wildlife photographer. But I used to hunt with a rifle, and I know something about guns.”

  Al pointed a finger at Darry. “I’ll leave. But I will be back, hot shot.”

  “I’ll be around.”

  When Al had picked up his small backpack, shrugged it on, and walked off, Johnny said, “You made a mistake, my friend. You made a bad enemy there. I heard him say he was government. Big government can cause you a lot of grief.”

  Darry smiled. How well he knew the truth in those words . . . a truth that spanned centuries and dozens of kings. “You came along at a good time. I thank you. Would you like a cool drink?”

  “I’d love one.”

  Johnny and Darry intro
duced themselves and shook hands. Johnny met Pete and Repeat, and the dogs took to him immediately, allowing the man to pet them and scratch behind their ears. He drank a glass of cold water from the well and set the glass down on the porch. “Why the government interest in you, Darry?”

  “Oh, I don’t think they’re all that interested in me. But they might be getting ready to move in on Sam Parish and his survivalist bunch.”

  “He’s a bad one, huh?”

  Darry shrugged. “They’ve never bothered me.”

  Johnny asked no more questions, and after a few moments more of casual conversation, he lifted his camera in a gesture of “gotta go to work,” said his goodbyes and see you again, and left.

  When the man had disappeared from view, Darry said aloud, “He’s a fed, boys. A smart one, but still a fed. I guess it’s about to get real interesting around here.”

  * * *

  “Something’s up, Sam,” one of Reader’s men reported. “We’ve got strangers all over the area. And they don’t behave like tourists.”

  “That ain’t all we got,” another man walked up and reported in.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Reporters are in the area.”

  “Local people?”

  “No. Big shots, out of New York City. Stormy’s here.”

  Sam cursed aloud. He’d seen the interview Stormy had done with the leader of a survivalist group back a year or so. The bitch had made the guy look like a fool even though he was a reasonably intelligent man. Stormy was so liberal Sam didn’t understand how she could walk around without leaning to the left.

  Sam looked at Willis Reader. “Pass the word around the camp. No one, no one, talks to reporters. I’ll handle that end of it.” He was silent for a moment, his face a frown. “I think the government is finally going to move against us, people. They know we pose a real threat to them, and they’re going to wipe us out. Just like they did those people in Arkansas and Texas and up north of here, and God only knows where else.” He fell silent; then the frown was replaced by a smile. “Lynn, you go find the reporter. Invite her to our camp. If she accepts the invite, I want all weapons out of sight. Everybody cleaned up and shining and on their best behavior. Put the words ‘nigger’ and ‘spic’ and ‘kike’ and ‘wop’ and ‘slope’ out of your heads. Don’t even think the words, much less say them aloud. If we can pull this off, we can turn the tables on this goddamn rotten government.”

  “Sounds good to me, Sam,” Willis said. “Damn good.”

  * * *

  The next day.

  * * *

  Mike Tuttle and Nick Sharp lay on the ground, at the edge of the clearing on the east side of Darry’s acreage, and studied him through binoculars.

  “What do you think, mate?” Nick asked softly, lowering the binoculars.

  “He fits what little we know about him,” the team leader replied, lowering and casing his long lenses. “But so do ten other people, including some of those hippie types.”

  The two mercenaries were unaware that across the way, on the west of the clearing, Lt. Commander Jay Gilmore was studying them through binoculars. The ONI man was likewise unaware that he was being observed from the north side of the clearing by Major Pete Cooper from Air Force Intelligence.

  It was at that moment that Stormy and Ki came riding up and dismounted by the side of Darry’s cabin. The hybrids immediately came around to investigate, and the women got back into the saddle faster than they had ever done before.

  Darry stepped around the corner of the cabin and was amused at the antics of the women. “Take it easy, ladies,” he said. “They won’t hurt you. They’re just curious, that’s all.”

  “What are those damn things?” Stormy asked, not about to exit the safety of the saddle, as much as her butt would like for her to leave it.

  “They’re hybrids, ladies. Step down and let them smell you. They won’t hurt you.”

  Stormy and Ki exchanged glances and swung out of the saddles, allowing the big breeds to sniff them for a few seconds. Then the hybrids jumped back on the porch and lay down.

  “Come on around to the porch and have a seat,” Darry said. “What can I do for you?”

  Stormy was unaccustomed to not being immediately recognized, and she was a bit put out by the man’s casual air. Then she realized there was no electricity out here. She shuddered at the thought. Why would anybody choose to live under such primitive conditions? She was still amazed at the number of people she and Ki had found living in this area.

  The women sat down in chairs on the porch and accepted with thanks the glasses of cold well water Darry brought them. After they had drank their fill, Darry said, “I’m Darry Ransom.”

  “Ki Nichols. This is Stormy Knight.” She waited for the smile that always brought and was not disappointed.

  “My father has a weird sense of humor,” Stormy explained. “And so does my mother. She must; she married him,” she added drily.

  “What can I do for you ladies?” Darry repeated, knowing full well what they wanted.

  “We’re looking for a person,” Stormy said. “He would be about your age; someone who has lived around here for several years. We actually don’t know much about him.”

  Darry shrugged his shoulders. “Believe it or not, there are a lot of people who live around here. Many of them year-round. I don’t know ninety percent of them because we almost never socialize.”

  Stormy leaned forward. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Ransom?”

  “My name is Darry. No. I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m a reporter. Broadcast journalism.” She named the network and it was a biggie.

  “Congratulations. But I don’t have any TV.” He smiled. “No electricity. Some of the people who live out here—a few—have portable generators, and they do receive TV by satellite. I don’t.”

  “Don’t you miss it?” Ki asked.

  “Not really. I used to enjoy watching the cartoons as a kid, but that was a long time ago.” He hid his smile at that. Darry loved dark humor.

  “Now, you’re not that old,” Stormy said with a smile.

  Darry smiled and shook his head. “You’re right, I’m not. But watching TV is like so many other things. I used to play sports.” He remained straight-faced, thinking: sports that you never heard of. “But if you get away from them, after a time you don’t miss them.”

  That made sense, of sorts, to the women. But they had both been raised in the electronic age. Neither could visualize a world without TV and computers.

  * * *

  “The TV reporter,” Nick Sharp said. “And that must be her camera operator with her.”

  “Good-looking birds,” Mike said, lowering his binoculars. “But that blond bitch is cold-looking.”

  “I could warm her up.”

  “Now, that is interesting,” Lt. Commander Gilmore said to himself, lowering his binoculars. “The Ice Queen is here.”

  Stormy had the nickname Ice Queen hung on her after rebuking a number of sexual advances from other reporters—male and female alike—over the years. Stormy was anything but cold toward sex; she just had very definite ideas about the type of man she allowed in her bed.

  “The hot-shot reporter,” Major Cooper muttered, after seeing the women ride up. “Interesting.” Since he was on the north side of the cabin, the porch was obscured from view.

  * * *

  “Do you read the National Loudmouth, Darry?” Ki asked.

  “I’ve seen it in supermarkets. But I don’t ever recall actually buying a copy.”

  Ki cut her eyes to Stormy and received a slight nod. She dug in her knapsack and took out a copy of the National Loudmouth and handed it to Darry. The magazine was opened to the story.

  Darry scanned the article and chuckled. He lifted his eyes. “You have got to be kidding!”

  Stormy’s smile was a strange one. Ki picked up on that immediately. “I spoke at length with the woman who wrote that article. She did a lot of researc
h before writing it. The man in that story is real. Back in the sixties he was known as Dan Gibson. In the forties he called himself William Shipman. Between the years of 1914 and 1918 he was known as Billy Wilson.”

  Ki was thinking: she didn’t tell you any of this, Stormy. I was there, remember?

  “Billy Wilson served in the army during the First World War, first in the British Army, then in the American Expeditionary Forces. After the war, he vanished. In the forties a man fitting his description right down to the color of his eyes won a lot of medals as an American soldier in Europe. Then he vanished. There is no trace of him serving in Korea, but the military did launch a very extensive search for Sergeant William Shipman. They wanted to recall him. He was never found. Then during the Vietnam era, a man calling himself Dan Gibson served as an army ranger in ‘Nam. Same description as the others, the same color of hair and eyes. In 1969, he was discharged and vanished. Just dropped off the face of the earth. During the mean years of the Ceausescu regime, a number of agents from Romania were dispatched to this country to find a Rumanian national named Vlad Dumitru Radu. One of them sought political asylum; that was granted after he told a very interesting story. I have a good friend in the State Department . . . now retired. He told me the story. You want to hear it, Mr. Ransom?”

  “I enjoy a good tale, Miss Knight. It’s a way to pass the day. Go ahead.”

  Ki was sitting with her mouth hanging open.

  “Beginning about 1318, a bounty was placed on the head of Vlad Dumitru Radu. It was said he was a werewolf and those in power wanted him dead. It is documented fact that Vlad Radu lived with, ran with, and hunted with . . . packs of wolves. About 1350, Vlad Radu was almost captured by soldiers. He suddenly vanished right before their eyes and became a wolf. The men were so frightened they threw down their weapons and fled in terror. But one looked back and saw the wolf change into human form. He saw a young man, in his mid-twenties, standing there.”

  “Folklore,” Darry said, reaching down to pet Pete.

  “In 1375 he was spotted again, and once again, he shape-shifted into a wolf and ran away. The young man, before he turned into a wolf, fit the description of Vlad Radu ... to a T. He was now seventy-five years old, and had not aged. There were a dozen or more sightings of Vlad Radu, in both human and wolf form, over the next fifty years or so. Then, in the fourteenth century, Vlad Tepes, known as Vlad the Impaler, placed an enormous bounty on the head of Vlad Dumitru Radu. But he was never caught.”