PROLOGUE

February 16, 1998

The snow had stopped, six inches for the day on top of three feet

already down. Outside the bar, the mounds of dirty snow surrounding the

unpaved parking area were white once more, although they wore a yellow

cast in the light thrown by the bar's frosted windows. The general store

across the street was dark, the gas pumps standing lonely vigil in the harsh

glare of an arc lamp.

The bar was busy, a half-dozen vehicles out front, all wearing a

mantle of fresh-fallen snow, gun-racked pickups mostly, but a few cars

too, one a late model Firebird, the others tired sedans bearing the ravages

of hard time in the mountains. Three snowmobiles sat near the sign that

spelled out "Sportsman Inn" in bark-covered sticks. The blare of the

jukebox echoed tinnily out into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

Inside, several men sat at a wooden bar presided over by a

prettyish woman in her twenties, her bleached hair attempted blonde but

instead brass-orange, homepermed in strained-looking squiggles. Behind

her, a dusty mount of a white-tailed deer gazed out over a meager

collection of liquor bottles arrayed as if for target practice on a shelf of

unfinished plank. A plastic holly wreath, ghost of some Christmas long

past, dangled jauntily from the deer's right antler. A lone man, older than

the rest, unshaven and dressed in a dirty canvas coat and coveralls and an

Agway Feed cap, sat hunched over his drink at the bar's end, obviously

drunk. The rest of the room's occupants were ranged around the pool table

where a large-bellied, bearded man was leaning over to take a shot.

Balls clacked and one dropped to murmurs of approval.

"Nice shot, Creight," a voice said.

Creighton Anders studied the array of balls, then leaned his bulk

over the table for another shot, his faded flannel shirt lifting above a wide

leather belt to reveal an expanse of flabby white flesh. He stroked, then

watched the nine head for the corner pocket but bang off the cushion to the

left.

Storm Front 3

“Shit,” he said. He grabbed his beer from the hand of a scrawny

man who stood at his side.

“Don’t worry, Creight, he’s got no shot,” the scrawny man said.

Another leaned down to take a look.

“Charlie’s right. He’s blocked.”

“Where’s he at?” Anders growled.

“The jukebox,” Charlie Stitchard said.

They watched a slender man with glistening, shoulder-length black

hair punch buttons on the jukebox, swaying drunkenly as he did. He wore

tight jeans and a fancy western shirt in red and white satin.

“Hey, Cochise, you’re up,” Anders said.

The long-haired man made a last selection and grabbed his cue. In

the smoky brightness of the table it was clear he was not one of them, with

dusky beardless skin and dark eyes set above high cheekbones.

“Tol’ you,” he said. “Name’s Rodney, Rodney Boots, Wolf Clan

Mohawk. Cochise was ’n Apache.” His speech was slightly slurred, his

accent not Indian, the nasal flatness of upstate New York.

The men snickered.

“Well, Rodney Boots, you’re up.”

“But you got no shot.”

The Indian stood staring at the table.

“Let’s go, Rodney. We ain’t got all day,” Anders said.

Boots leaned over and addressed the ball, cigarette dangling from

his lower lip.

“Cue off the rail into the two,” he said, his voice more controlled

now. “Two into the five. Five in the corner.”

He shot, running the cue down to the far rail and back almost the

same distance to tap the two softly into the five. The five rolled slowly

toward the corner pocket, hung briefly on the lip, and tumbled in.

Absolute silence, even the jukebox pausing to change songs.

Boots walked unsteadily around the table, stabilizing himself on it

with one hand along the way. The jukebox started again, Patsy Cline

going to pieces. Boots joined her in falsetto, his voice soft and girlish, as

he considered his shot.

“I . . . go . . . to pieces. . . each time I hear you call my name. . .

Two ball straight in.”

He shot, the two flying into the corner pocket while the cue ball

came to rest in position for a point blank shot at the eight. The eight fell.

Johnson 4

“I win,” he said. “That’s ten more you owe me.” He held out his

hand palm up.

Anders stared red-faced.

“I wanna play again,” he said.

“I’m gonna go have a drink,” Boots said.

“You ain’t walkin’ away with my money.”

“I’m havin’ a drink.”

Boots made his way to the bar and tossed a $100 bill down on it.

“Hey, miss,” the Indian said in a loud voice. “Drinks for everyone.

I’m buyin’. Rodney fuckin’ Boots is buyin’.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? That’s gonna cost you twenty,

twenty-five dollars.”

“Well, this will cover it then, won’t it,” he said gesturing at the

bill.

“There’s plenty more where that came from too.” He held up a thick wad

of bills for her to see. “A thousand buckaroos.”

The other men had crowded around Boots in anticipation of free

drinks.

“That casino money, Rodney?” one asked.

“‘S my money.”

“Yeah, but from the casino, right?”

“That’s right. From the casino. Made it in jus’ one week and all

tax free.”

“It’s all under the table, huh?”

“Under the table, top of the table, makes no difference. ‘S’all tax

free. Sovereign Indian land. ‘Course, this is all sovereign Indian land.”

He gestured broadly with his arm. “All stolen. But we’ll get it back.

You’ll see. Then maybe we’ll put you on reservations.” He laughed, his

dark eyes glittering. “‘S’in court right now. But meantime I’m buyin’

‘cause I got the world by the fuckin’ balls.”

The bartender was still standing in front of him, pouring beers one

after the other and handing them to the men. As the crowd thinned, Boots

leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Wha’s your name?” he asked.

“Annie,” she said.

“You know, Annie, I could spend some of this money on you,” he

said.

“Sorry, I’ve got to work.”

“No, I mean some other time.”

“I don’t think so. Thanks.”

Storm Front 5

“What’sa matter, you don’t like Indians?”

“I don’t know any.”

“Well, wouldn’t you like to?”

“Look. I’m not interested, OK?”

Boots looked downcast.

“All right,” he said.

“There some kind of problem here, Annie?”

The voice came from over Boots’ shoulder.

“No, Jared, not at all,” she said.

Jared Wright was neatly dressed in a heavy red flannel shirt, jeans

and cowboy boots, with red hair and beard cropped close. His blue eyes

glittered in a face flushed from drink.

“He botherin’ you?”

“Nope. We’re just talkin’.”

Boots twisted on his stool to face the interloper.

“What’s it to you?” he said.

“What’s it to me? I’ll tell you what. ‘Round here we don’t take

kindly to people hasslin’ our ladies. That’s what.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t hasslin’ her. I was just tellin’ her I could

show her a good time, is all.”

Wright’s eyes grew hard.

“Well, maybe you should just stick to your own kind. Or are you

Indians like niggers and only like white women?”

Boots stood up.

“You better watch your mouth.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll shut it for you.”

Wright stiffened and stepped forward clenching his fists. Although

of only average height and build, he was much larger than Boots who was

small at 5’8”, 140 pounds.

Annie spoke.

“That’s enough, now, Jared. He wasn’t doin’ nothin’. Go sit down

and leave him be. He’s had too much to drink is all.”

“Well, maybe he should do his drinkin’ elsewhere,” Wright said.

He turned to go. “Goddamn Indians can’t hold their liquor.”

“I’ll drink where I want,” said Rodney.

Jared stopped as if to come back.

“Jared,” Annie said. “Just go sit down.”

Johnson 6

Jared paused, considering his options, then went off down the bar

where he engaged in low conversation with the other men sitting there.

“You best watch your step,” Annie said quietly to Boots. “This

can be a rough place.”

The Indian downed his drink.

“Fuck ’em,” he said. He got up and lurched his way over to the

jukebox. “Fuckin’ Lynyrd Skynyrd,” he said to no one in particular as the

chorus of Sweet Home Alabama filled the bar. “Redneck shit.”

He pushed away from the jukebox without making any selections

and turned to the pool table where Anders and a sparsely bearded man in

his twenties were playing.

“Who wants to play?” Boots said loudly. “Who wants to get his

ass whipped?” He staggered as if he might fall but regained his balance.

Anders and his opponent exchanged looks.

“I’ll play you,” Anders said quickly. “Lon, you don’t mind, do

you?” It was framed as a question but wasn’t.

The younger man shook his head.

“No, Creight. That’s fine,” Lon Bellard said.

“OK, Cochise. Rack ’em.”

“Tol’ you, I’m not Cochise. Rodney Boots. Wolf Clan Mohawk.”

He lurched his way to the end of the table. Squatted down. Stared blankly

at the balls in their compartment.

“Ya gotta put quarters in, chief.”

Boots stood up, dug deep in his pocket, and retrieved some change.

Three nickels and a quarter.

“I don’t have enough,” he said plaintively.

“That’s all right,” Anders said. “I’ll lend you three quarters, since

you and me is such good friends.” He tossed the coins on the table.

“Now, rack ’em.”

Boots struggled to pick up the quarters, then struggled equally to

put them in the slots, holding on to the edge of the table with one hand to

keep his balance. He worked the slide. The balls fell.

Anders took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the

floor.

“Fifty dollars, this time,” he said. “That all right with you, chief?”

“Fifty?”

“Yeah, fifty. That’s nothin’ to a big man like you, or are you

chickenshit?”

“No, I’m not chickenshit,” Boots said, racking the balls.

Anders gazed around at the assemblage and smiled.

Storm Front 7

“Get ’em, Creight,” Clay Brown said.

“Yeah, skin his red hide,” Clay’s brother Ronnie added. Although

they were fraternal, not identical, twins, Ronnie shared Clay’s pale blond

hair, blue eyes and six foot frame still lean and hard at thirty.

Anders leaned over, ran the cue back and forth against his bridged

hand, then gave a mighty stroke. The cue ball glanced off the side of the

pack and flew into the corner pocket. The racked balls shifted only

slightly.

Anders stared in shock.

“Scratch on the break. I win,” Boots said.

“That was a bad rack,” Anders said.

“Was not.”

“Was so. It was loose as shit. I’m takin’ the shot over.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m doin’ it over or the bet’s off. You want me to break again or

not?”

Boots hesitated then shrugged.

“Lon, you rack ’em,” Anders said. “Cochise here is too fucked-up

to do it right.”

Bellard pulled out the rack and corralled the balls once again. He

rolled the rack forward and back several times then lifted it carefully.

“Tight as a virgin’s pussy,” he said.

Anders broke again. Several balls fell. He shot. Shot again. Shot

again. Missed.

“You go, chief,” he said with satisfaction.

Boots shot, missing the object ball completely.

“Little too much firewater, Rodney?” Anders said.

“Looks like you got yourself fifty bucks, Creight,” Bellard said.

“Just a matter of time,” Anders said smugly. He shot. A ball

dropped. Then another. “Last one,” he said. It dropped. “And I got a

shot at the eight. It’s tight, but it’ll go. Straight in. Side pocket.”

He aimed. Stroked. Shot. The eight rolled slowly toward the

pocket, passing neatly between two intervening balls with only a fraction

of an inch to spare on each side, and dropped in to cries of congratulation.

But the cue was still rolling toward the far corner. Looking like it

would never make it. It fell. Silence.

Boots broke it.

“Scratch. I win again. Fifty bucks.”

He held out his hand.

Johnson 8

Anders’ eyes were still fixed on the table, his face blotchy with

rage. He shoved his hand into his pocket and came out clutching nickels

and dimes.

“Somebody give me quarters,” he demanded. He glared at Boots.

“We’re playin’ again. Double or nothin’. That was my game.”

“I want my money.” Boots’ hand was still out.

“You’ll get it after we play again.”

“No way. I want it now.”

“Rodney, if I were you, I’d put that hand down right now, before I

break the fuckin’ thing off.”

Boots considered his hand, then looked at Anders. He shrugged.

“OK. I’m done.”

He headed for the bar.

“What do you mean?” Anders said to Boots’ back.

Boots flung a twenty on the bar, grabbed his fringed buckskin coat

from the deer hoof coat rack, and headed for the door.

“Where the fuck you think you’re goin’?” Anders demanded.

“Not playin’ anymore. We had a bet.”

“You callin’ me a cheater?”

“Good night and thank you for a very nice time,” Boots said.

Boots was fumbling with his keys at the door of the Firebird when

Anders reached him. He grabbed Boots’ shoulder and spun him so they

were face to face.

“You callin’ me a cheater, you fuckin’ Indian piece of shit?” he

said.

The crowd had tumbled out behind Anders. They fanned out

around the two men, watching silently.

Boots was still struggling with his keys.

“I’m goin’ home,” he said.

“Goin’ back to the reservation with my fuckin’ money and callin’

me a cheater? No, you ain’t.”

Boots found the right key and pointed it toward the lock.

Anders slapped the keys out of his hand. They hit the snow-

covered ground with a muffled jingle.

Boots bent to pick them up.

“I just want to go home,” he said.

“Oh, now you just want to go home. You come in here with your

fancy car and your roll of money and get drunk and try to pick up our

Storm Front 9

women and then you call me a cheater and now you just want to go home?

Is that it?”

Boots was bent over looking for his keys in the snow. Anders

shoved him with both arms. Boots staggered but didn’t go down. He kept

searching for his keys.

“Is that it, you fuckin’ red nigger piece of shit?”

Boots found his keys and started to straighten. Anders shoved him

again, hard this time. Boots struggled to maintain his balance, but

couldn’t and went down. He sat staring, then reached for his pants pocket.

A click, and silver flashed.

“Watch out, he’s got a knife!” someone yelled.

Boots was scrabbling to his feet but Anders stepped forward

quickly and kicked him, connecting cleanly with Boots’ face. Boots went

down again.

“Lousy bastard,” Anders grunted.

Boots tried to rise, blood gushing from his nose, staining the snow

crimson. Anders kicked him in the ribs this time. There was an audible

crack and a moan of pain from Boots. He dropped back down to the

ground and curled into a fetal ball, arms protecting his head, as Anders

kicked him repeatedly, his heavy workboots thudding against Boots’ body.

Finally Anders stopped. His labored breathing was the only sound.

Boots lay motionless. Anders turned toward the bar.

“Time for a drink.”

He started for the steps, the crowd reluctantly following.

There was a commotion at the rear then a cry of warning as Boots

rushed after Anders, his knife descending towards Anders’ back even as

Anders whirled to block it with an upraised arm and shove Boots away.

The crowd surged back, leaving Boots alone and encircled, slowly

turning in a slight crouch, knife pointing outward.

“Get the bastard,” a voice said.

Ronnie Brown stepped forward. “I’ll get him.” He held a cue

stick, fat end out. He advanced toward Boots, swinging the cue slightly.

Boots backed away, waving his knife. A figure separated from the crowd

behind him and lunged, swinging a cue in a whistling arc that ended at

Boot’s head. The men swarmed as Boots went down, pushing for

position, kicking him again and again and again—until at last they were

still.

The bar door banged as Annie withdrew from her post on the

porch.

Johnson 10

“Is he dead?” It was the scrawny man, Charlie Stitchard.

“Serves him right, pullin’ a knife,” Lon Bellard said.

“Somebody check.”

“Ed, you’re ambulance. Check him.”

A clean-shaven, gray haired man with wire rimmed glasses knelt

beside the body. He wore a green work shirt with pens in the pocket.

“I think he’s dead,” Ed Matson said.

Anders shoved his way to the front. He looked at the body, then in

measured tones, said, “Car accident, slippery road at night, too much to

drink. Damned shame.” He surveyed the faces around him. “Damned

shame. You got that?”

There was silence.

“You got that?” he repeated. “Car accident. Slippery road at

night. Damned shame.”

No one spoke.

“Good. We don’t need nobody else gettin’ hurt. Now, where’s his

keys at?”

“Here they are, Creight.” Charlie Stitchard held them up and

jangled them.

“All right, Charlie. You drive his car. The rest of you put him in

the back of my truck. And Charlie, don’t touch nothin’ with your bare

hands.”

“Creight, let’s call the police.” It was Ed Matson.

“Yeah, Creight. It was self-defense.”

“What, are you simple? You want the goddamn nigger State

Police crawlin’ all over here? You want to take a chance they see things

the right way?” He glowered at the crowd. “It was a car accident.

Damned shame. Now get him in the back of my truck.”

A caravan of vehicles pulled over where the road made a sharp

bend along a steep ridge. Men got out.

“Charlie, point the car toward the edge then stall it in fourth so it

looks like he was drivin’,” Anders said. “You guys get the body. And

hurry it up before somebody comes.”

“But how we gonna get it over?” Stitchard asked.

“Push it.”

“In gear?”

“We can push it in fourth. What do you want to do? Leave it in

neutral so they know it’s a setup?”

Storm Front 11

They put Boots’ body in the car then massed behind it and pushed

it toward the road’s edge. It rolled slowly, engine chugging lifelessly,

until it hit the bank of snow that lined the road and stopped. The men

pushed again. The car didn’t budge.

Anders studied the car then walked swiftly to his truck.

“OK. Everybody out of the way,” he said.

He climbed into the cab, nosed the truck forward so it was kissing

the rear bumper of the Firebird, and revved the engine. The truck’s tires

spun without effect. Anders backed up a few feet then drove forward and

banged into the car’s bumper. The Firebird lurched into the snow bank,

and stopped. Anders backed up. Banged the car again. It lurched further

still, almost free. Again, and this time the Firebird shot over the edge of

the hill and slid down the embankment, bouncing off one tree and then

another before coming to rest.

Anders got out and peered down at the car.

“That oughta do her,” he said. “Now everybody get home. I’ll go

back and make sure they got it straight at the bar. And remember, we was

all there just like it happened, only no Indian. We had a few beers, shot

some pool, then went home. No problem.”

“You think they’ll be askin’ questions?”

“No. But just in case. You got it?”

“Yeah.”

“OK. Let’s get out of here.”

CHAPTER ONE

On a glorious day in May, Sarah Williams, D.V.M., locked her

office door and walked toward the red Jeep Cherokee parked on the far

side of the freshly paved parking area. An athletic-looking woman in her

young thirties, she was dressed in her usual workday attire of jeans, denim

shirt and hiking boots. In deference to the demands of her job, her

shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair was pulled back in an efficient single

braid to reveal a tanned face with long-lashed gray eyes above a

determined mouth and a delicate nose lightly dusted with freckles.

Although not beautiful, she was attractive in a natural, unaffected way—

an active, competent woman comfortable with herself and her place in the

world.

Sarah’s office was the rear wing of her two-and-a-half-story

Victorian home in Spencer, a small but relatively prosperous lakefront

town of two thousand some odd souls located in New York’s Adirondack

Park. Sarah had purchased the house several years earlier with the

proceeds of her mother’s estate. She’d had the wing added and an area

cleared and paved to provide parking for the bustling veterinary practice

she hoped would quickly materialize. It didn’t. The locals were wary of

newcomers, the young, and women professionals; Sarah had three strikes

against her from the start. Despite the fact that her nearest competitor was

Doc Lester over in Saranac Lake, clients had been few and far between.

Luxuries like repairs to the residential portion of the house and the dented

right fender of her car had gone waiting while her financial reserves ran

low.

At her most desperate, she even considered pulling up stakes and

returning to her suburban, downstate hometown to set up practice there.

But a rural practice was the dream that had motivated her as she earned

top grades at Cornell’s College of Veterinary Medicine and served her

internship and residency at the prestigious Animal Medical Center in New

York City and she wasn’t about to give up that dream short of bankruptcy.

She had hung on through one cold winter and then two. And

finally things had begun to change. Doc Lester’s retirement had helped,

Storm Front 13

along with his recommendation that his clients couldn’t do better than to

use Sarah’s services. And, undeniably, landing the Skolnick account was

a big plus. But also, she’d slowly built trust, particularly among the

farmers for whom veterinary services were not luxury but lifeblood. And

that was important to her. There was more money in pets but a greater

sense of purpose in livestock and poultry, despite the slow pay and need to

make calls.

Her first stop was the post office a few blocks away in the center of

town, an imposing Georgian edifice of red brick with white columns and

trim that stood out among the wooden storefronts that predominated in the

three blocks that passed for Spencer’s business district.

Spencer owed its existence to tourism. Little more than a

collection of rough woodsmen’s cabins for the first fifty years of its life,

Spencer was transformed by the completion of the Adirondack & St.

Lawrence Railroad in 1892, becoming a waystation for the Gilded Age’s

upper crust who came to the mountains each summer seeking relief from

the heat of New York City. Arriving at the train station (now a museum)

after the long, hot ride from the City, they revived in Spencer before

embarking by wagon, carriage or steamboat for the so-called “Adirondack

Great Camps”—the baronial wilderness estates of their high society peers.

The Depression ended the age of the Great Camps, but the allure of

the Adirondack Park lived on. For contemporary vacationers, as for their

Gilded Age forbears, Spencer was a jumping off place, a tidy outpost of

civilization at the wilderness’ edge.

Spencer had changed some over the years, but basically it was the

same quiet village it had been at the turn of the century, with well-kept

houses (a number of them now bed and breakfasts supplementing the

accommodations of the venerable Adirondack Hotel) nestled on a few

blocks of tree-lined streets.

“Mornin’, Pearl,” Sarah called out as she crossed the polished

marble floor of the lobby. Although the post office was an impressive

structure, it far exceeded the needs of Spencer which were easily met with

the services of one full-time employee. For the past twenty-three years,

that employee had been Pearl Beckwith.

Pearl turned from the brightly-lit carrel where she stood sorting

mail and waddled over to the barred service window, her stout form

covered in a print dress from another era.

“Mornin’ Sarah. That package you was waitin’ for come in. From

Cabot Lavatories.”

Johnson 14

“Oh, good,” Sarah said, suppressing a giggle. Pearl could be

counted on for at least one malapropism per conversation.

“Also, you got a letter from American Express, first class, your bill

I expect, and another from the bank. The rest is catalogs.”

Pearl believed that an important part of her job was examining

mail as it came in so she could ease the shock that unannounced delivery

to the addressee might entail. She brought a parcel and other

miscellaneous pieces of mail over to the counter.

“Here you go. I guess that’s somethin’ about the Indian, huh?”

Sarah had no clue what Pearl was talking about but knew that was

all right. Pearl would have been disappointed if Sarah had already heard

the news.

“Indian?”

“Yeah. The one what went off the road over to Gilsum. You

know, during that big storm in February.”

“Oh yes. What about him?”

“Well, the State Police over to Tupper Lake got a ’nonymous letter

sayin’ his car was parked at the Sportsman Inn in Gilsum the night he

died.”

She peered at Sarah expectantly. Sarah didn’t understand the

significance of this informational tidbit and looked it.

“Anonymous?”

“That means unsigned.”

“Yes, I know. But didn’t they already know he’d been drinking?”

“Yeah, but nobody come forward to say it was at the Sportsman.”

“Maybe the owners of the Sportsman were worried about liability

and asked whoever else was there to keep quiet about it.”

“Maybe. And to be sure a lot of the kind of folks who might go to

the Sportsman would just as soon spit as help the police and don’t like

Indians neither.”

“But?”

“Then why’d somebody write a letter?”

The Dawson farm lay just inside the so-called “blue line”―the

Park boundary―at the Park’s northern edge, nestled in the softly

undulating folds of the Adirondack foothills. Four hundred and fifty acres

total, two hundred arable, two hundred pasture, the rest woods. The elder

Dawson’s great grandfather Ezra had purchased the land in 1833, built the

ten room farmhouse and barn with the help of his brothers, then fetched

his wife and two young boys, John and William, from Albany.

Storm Front 15

At that time there was no blue line and no Park, just a howling

wilderness populated with trappers, hunters and loggers, with a few

subsistence farms like the Dawsons’ thrown in. Times changed, however.

With the late nineteenth century transformation of the Adirondacks into a

summer destination for the well-to-do, a market emerged for farm goods.

For a time the Dawsons thrived, supplying milk and eggs and vegetables

to the hotels and those Great Camps that did not have their own farming

operations.

But that had been long before. The Dawson farm was not thriving

now.

Rising expenses and flat prices had combined to make modest

dairy operations like the Dawsons’ increasingly uneconomic. Repairs and

improvements had fallen by the wayside as the current patriarch, the

fourth John Dawson, struggled to hang on. It was a battle he was losing.

Unless something happened to change things, the Dawson farm would

soon be no more.

And now Sarah was bringing tidings of another blow to the fragile

finances and psyche of clan Dawson. The test results had come back from

the State’s Department of Agriculture and Markets: Mycobacterium bovis.

Bovine tuberculosis. Incurable. Untreatable. Highly contagious.

Destruction of infected animals, quarantine of the entire herd and

cessation of milk sales mandated pending further testing, with the survival

of the herd uncertain. A crushing development.

John Dawson came out of the barn wiping his hands on his

coveralls as Sarah parked her car under one of the towering cottonwoods

that framed the barnyard. He was haggard, his cheeks unshaven, eyes

bloodshot. Looking every bit of his sixty years plus some.

“Mornin’ Sarah.”

“Morning, John.”

He took off his greasy Agway Feed cap to reveal sparse gray hair.

“I tried treatin’ ’em the way you said, but I can’t see that it’s made

much difference.” He spoke with apology in his voice, as if embarrassed

by his failure to produce results with the procedure she had recommended.

That failure was no surprise given the test results.

“Yes, well . . . I’ve got bad news, John. It’s tuberculosis.”

Dawson stood head down, cap in his hands, pushing a stone back

and forth in the dirt with a manure encrusted rubber boot. He looked up

and turned slightly away from Sarah, staring out across the fields,

moisture forming in his eyes.

Johnson 16

“I’ll get my bag,” she said.

When Sarah returned, Dawson had regrouped. He led the way into

the barn where fifty black and white Holsteins stood at their stanchions in

the semi-darkness. Sarah sniffed as the rich not-unpleasant smell of

manure enveloped her.

“I was just milkin’ ’em,” he said, as he knelt to detach the suction

nozzles from the udder of the nearest cow. “Gotta do that whether we can

use the milk or not.”

“Of course,” Sarah said gently.

“You don’t, they’ll sure enough let you know. For bein’ as dumb

as they are, they sure know how to communicate.”

He brushed the next cow’s teats with disinfectant and struggled to

force her leg down when she raised it as if to kick.

“Easy now,” he said patting the cow’s flank with a badly chapped

hand. Then to Sarah, “Dobbin here gets ideas when there’s folks around.”

He stood up.

“So, it’s quarantine then?” he said.

“For those that test negative.”

“And the rest?”

“They’ll have to be destroyed.”

“There’s no way to treat ’em?”

“I’m not even allowed to try. Agriculture and Markets will be

sending a vet to oversee the removal of the infected animals.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“John, there’s an indemnity program. It won’t make you whole or

even close, but it’s something.”

He shook his head in dismay.

“What about the rest? Are we gonna lose them?”

“I’m not going to lie to you. You might. It’s highly contagious.

But there’s things we can do to discourage its spread. Split the herd.

Monitor them closely for symptoms. Segregate and test any that show

symptoms. I’ll work with you. With luck, we can keep further losses to a

minimum. There’s a chance, anyway.”

“I guess that’s all anybody’s got a right to ask for.”

Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed but said nothing, busying herself with

examining the cows while Dawson looked on.

They walked back into the sunlight in time to see Dawson’s son,

Jack, wheel into the yard on a green and yellow John Deere tractor. Jack

Storm Front 17

was a dark haired, dark eyed man in his late twenties whose natural good

looks were undermined by a seemingly perpetual scowl. He shut off the

engine and climbed down out of the cab.

“Sarah’s brought bad news, Jack,” John said. “The cows got

tuberculosis. We’re on our way to check the ones in the pasture.”

“So that’s it,” Jack said to Sarah. “They have to be destroyed,

right?” There was, as always, an undercurrent of hostility beneath the

younger man’s words that rankled.

Sarah nodded.

“The ones that test positive. The rest will have to be quarantined.”

Jack looked at his father. “That means no cash comin’ in, with the

corn three months off.” He spoke as if this were yet another point in a

longstanding argument. “And we gotta pay her on top of the rest.”

“I can wait,” Sarah said quickly.

The father ignored her. “We can sell the first hay cutting. It’s

good hay.”

“And then what? Buy it back this fall for twice as much? That’s a

hell of a business.”

Looking intimidated, the old man concentrated on the ground.

Jack focused on Sarah again.

“I guess you must be doin’ pretty well, you don’t need your bills

paid.”

He almost made it sound as if her generosity were evidence of

profiteering on other’s misery―and the way he talked to his father!

Despite her sympathy for their position, she felt anger stirring within.

“I do need my bills paid,” she said. “But I can work with you if

you’re having some hard times, that’s all.”

Jack stared at his father.

“Yeah, well, we’ve been havin’ some hard times for a long time

now.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“How long do they have to be quarantined?” Jack asked. His tone

suggested that the quarantine was a whim of Sarah’s rather than a

necessary response to an unfortunate development.

“Until the disease is gone,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide

her annoyance.

“Or the cows are, you mean.”

He turned and walked toward the house.

Johnson 18

It took Sarah an hour to inspect the remaining hundred cows.

When they were done, she stood stretching to get the kinks out of her

back. They were in a pasture high on a hill under a clear sky dotted with

pure white cumulus clouds, a spectacular vista before them: emerald

fields crossed by stone walls and surrounded by woods just showing

green, the house and barns neatly laid out, mountains rising dark and

strong in the distance. It was warm in the sun.

“It sure is a beautiful day,” Sarah said. “And no black flies, yet.”

“Yeah,” Dawson said without enthusiasm.

“It’s a beautiful place you’ve got here.”

“We like it.”

The sentence betrayed an unfinished thought. A statement of fact

tinged with loss. Sarah decided to change the subject, saddened that even

the beauty of spring was depressing for a man in Dawson’s position.

“Did you hear about the Indian?” She felt foolish gossiping but

gossip was after all a prime source of news in the backcountry. Besides, if

it would help Dawson get his mind off his troubles . . .

Dawson looked at her sharply.

“Indian?”

“Yes, the one that died in the car crash on Route 30 this winter.

The State Police received an anonymous letter claiming the Indian’s car

was parked at the Sportsman Inn right here in Gilsum that night.”

“Do they know who it was from?”

“Apparently not. The thing is, if the Indian was there, it’s a little

strange that nobody came forward to say so.”

“There’s nothin’ says a witness has to come forward if they aren’t

asked any questions. The world would be a better place if more people

minded their own business.”

“Then why’d they write the letter at all?”

He looked as if he was about to say something then shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you ever been to the Sportsman?”

“I have, yes.”

There was a hesitancy in his voice Sarah could not understand.

She studied him trying to read his thoughts. He seemed nervous. Or

perhaps it was just his worries about the farm casting a pall over every

subject.

“Well, I suppose the police will be checking into it now.”

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Jack was working on some fence by the road as Sarah drove out.

He stepped out into the roadway and raised his hand to flag her down as

she approached.

“What was the count?” he asked.

“No further symptoms for now. Let’s hope we’ve got it

contained.”

“Yeah,” he said.

He looked down at the road’s dirt surface. Sarah waited, sensing

he had something more to say, but not eager to engage in conversation.

Finally he said, “I’m sorry if I was rude before. We appreciate

your help.” He did not raise his eyes. Then, as if deciding to take it like a

man, he met her gaze. “We really do. It’s just . . .” He shrugged

helplessly.

“You weren’t rude, Jack. It’s a tough situation.”

He stared into the distance.

“Yeah, it is,” he said and Sarah sensed he was talking about more

than just the cows. “Yeah, it is.”

She decided to drive past the Sportsman Inn on her way home.

The bar was open, for lunch she supposed, although it was only eleven-

thirty and not a place she would have chosen to eat at any time. A neon

Genesee beer sign glowed red in the window. Several mud splashed

pickups sat in front. A depressing place, even on a glorious spring day. A

dark stop on the road to an untimely death.

She drove on.

CHAPTER TWO

To get to the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club you drove four miles

south out of Mason Flow, turned right on Harrington Road, drove 2.3

miles on that and then turned left onto a dead end track some called Lynx

Hill Road, some called Valkyrie Road and still others maintained had no

name. By whatever name, that road snaked its way three quarters of a

mile up the nearly vertical slope of Lynx Hill, quickly becoming little

more than a pair of washed-out ruts, and ended abruptly at a padlocked

aluminum gate with a large “Keep Out” sign bolted to it, on which

someone had added in red spray paint, “Or Else”.

One hundred yards from the gate sat a squat barn-like structure of

recent vintage with unpainted sheet metal walls and roof, a single metal

door, and windows that could be shuttered and locked. The shutters were

open now and smoke streamed from the stovepipe at the back. A

Confederate flag flapped angrily on the flagpole out front in a raw wind

more reminiscent of winter than spring.

To the right, a low grass-covered berm looked across one hundred

yards of cleared land at a wall of dirt that served as a backstop for ten

human silhouette targets suspended from a wire about five feet apart.

Pickups and utility vehicles were scattered on the grass that

surrounded the building.

Creight pulled in next to Ed Matson’s battered Chevy Blazer and

hurried toward the door. He hoped Butler hadn’t already called the

meeting to order. Butler was going to be pissed off enough as it was.

He opened the door and stuck his head in cautiously. He’d lucked

out. In the bright light of Coleman lanterns spaced strategically around

the cavernous room, a dozen men in camouflage fatigues sat on a motley

assortment of folding chairs facing a low stage. Mounted on the wall

behind the stage was a large wooden cross. Beneath it, a long white

placard bore the heading, “The Second Amendment” with the words,

“The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. . .”

inscribed below in stylized script. Stage left were two flag poles in

Storm Front 21

stanchions, the one Confederate, the other red with a black bent-armed

cross on a circular field of white.

In the back of the room a pair of tables held an assortment of

firearms, some relatively benign-looking with long barrels and wooden

stocks, others far more sinister, like weaponry from a science fiction

movie, with open metal stocks, pistol grips, short snoutlike barrels, and

large clips.

The men were speaking in low whispers when Creight opened the

door but watched silently as he lumbered toward them.

“Ed. Ronnie. Clay.” Anders nodded to each in turn. “Lon.”

“Creight.”

“Where’s he at?” Anders whispered conspiratorially.

“In the back.”

“He say anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Shit, Creight. He’s gonna be pissed as hell. Merlin ain’t even

showin’.”

“That ain’t smart. Butler’s gonna thi . . .”

Anders stopped in midsentence as the door in the back of the room

opened and someone hissed “Butler”. Anders sat down hurriedly as a man

walked toward the stage, a large black and tan German Shepherd at his

side. Raymond Butler was tall and lean with acne pitted cheeks, close

and deeply set blue-gray eyes, and dark hair receding to a peak on a high

forehead. He too was dressed in camouflage fatigues, the pants tucked

into black combat boots polished to a mirror-like shine. A green beret was

folded under the epaulet on his left shoulder. A U.S. Army issue M9

Beretta 9mm pistol was fastened to his hip with a black leather holster.

Man and dog mounted the short steps to the stage. When he

reached its center, Butler stopped, the dog sitting beside him without

evident command. He patted the dog then stood regarding his audience

which had remained locked in silence since his entrance.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, “We have a problem.” His gaze

swept over the men, causing eyes to drop and bodies to squirm. “A

serious problem.”

He continued to survey the group before him then, as if distracted,

patted the dog again. It lifted its head to gaze adoringly at its master and

licked the lowered hand. The man smiled absentmindedly.

He looked up.

“Where is Merlin Barrows?”

Johnson 22

No one moved or spoke.

“Was he contacted?”

“Yes,” a voice said from the second row.

“Stand up when you report, soldier!” Butler barked.

A biker type with a full beard, long graying red hair tied back in a

ponytail, and a half-moon scar by his left eye scrambled to his feet.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Daryl Higley reporting, sir. I contacted

Merlin the day before yesterday as instructed. He said he didn’t think he

was going to make it.”

“Is that all?” Butler’s eyes bored icily into Higley’s.

“Pretty much,” Higley said, lowering his eyes.

“Did he say why?”

“Not really.”

Butler turned partly away from his audience and gazed at the

ceiling as if digesting this information. Higley remained standing, shifting

awkwardly on his feet.

After long moments, Butler turned back.

“Mr. Stitchard.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlie Stitchard stood up hastily, his uniform ill-

fitting and hanging loosely on his skimpy frame.

“Did you contact Mr. Barrows?”

“Yes, sir,” Stitchard said, wringing his fatigue cap nervously. “I

did. He told me the same thing.”

Butler considered that response. “Is anyone else not present?”

Silence. Higley and Stitchard cautiously sat down.

“Very well. We will deal with the subject of Mr. Barrows later.”

He paused, then barked, “Anders!”

Creight had attempted to prepare for the moment of reckoning he

knew would come but still was unprepared. He stood up shakily. For all

his bullying of others, Creight was deathly afraid of the skinny man with

the death’s head grin. Butler’s anger when he had first heard about the

killing of the Indian had been frightening to behold. Creight was sure he

had been only an eyelash away from a beating―or worse. And that was

when the sheriff’s department still considered the death an accident.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Front and center.”

Anders walked slowly to the front of the room and stopped five

feet from the stage. The dog whined and was patted once more. “It’s OK,

Blondi,” the man on stage said in a soothing tone. “It’s O-K.”

Anders kept his eyes on the floor.

Storm Front 23

Butler looked out at the gathering over Anders’ head, his hand

resting lightly on the dog’s neck.

“I assume you have all heard the news. Someone has written an

anonymous letter to the State Police telling them the dead aborigine was at

the Sportsman Inn in Gilsum the night he died.” He paused for effect then

stared down at Anders.

“You don’t have to be overly bright to know what that means, do

you Mr. Anders? That means more investigation, investigation of the

morons who were in the bar that night, of the morons who have

jeopardized the existence of this organization and all our plans through

their stupidity.”

The men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

“That alone is bad enough. But we also have to consider the

possibility that the letter writer is one of us, someone who was there that

night even, someone who might be tempted to bargain for leniency with

the minions of the government. Discussing not only that night but every

detail of our organization and all our plans. That, of course, we must

prevent at all costs.”

Butler started slowly pacing the stage, hands behind his back, like

a professor considering a thorny problem. The dog watched, its head

swiveling to track his master’s motion.

“Yes, a problem,” he said, addressing the air. “What should we do

about it?”

He stopped and faced Anders. “Eh, Mr. Anders? What should we

do about it?”

Anders stood speechless, looking glum.

“No answers, Mr. Anders? I thought you were the idea man

around here. You were smart enough to mastermind the clusterfuck that

created this problem, why aren’t you smart enough to get us out of it?”

He walked to the front of the stage. Anders kept his eyes

steadfastly averted.

“You were smart enough to know that my directive that all

members keep a low profile was a foolish one, one to be ignored if you

were stupid enough to be hustled at pool by a drunk Indian. You were

smart enough then, weren’t you Mr. Anders? You were the big man, the

ringleader. Giving orders. Fucking up.”

Creight stood frozen.

“Mr. Anders, I’m talking to you. Do you hear me?”

Johnson 24

Creight tried to respond but all that came out was an affirmative

sounding croak, his only thought the image of Al Jessup being pistol-

whipped by Butler, blood streaming down Al’s face and mixing with his

tears—and that because Jessup had accidentally pointed a loaded AR-15 at

Butler’s dog. What Creight had done was far worse.

“What shall we do, Mr. Anders?”

A cogent thought suddenly came swimming out of the fog.

“Find out who wrote the letter?”

“Wonderful. Very good. That’s very good, isn’t it men? Now I

see why you look to Mr. Anders here for guidance.”

He turned back to Anders.

“And just how do we do that, you stupid sack of shit?”

Anders stared at the floor, Al Jessup’s bloody face before him once

more. Al had taken his family and moved downstate shortly after the

incident.

“Look at me.” Butler’s voice was full of menace.

Creight lifted his eyes but withdrew far back into his mind—just as

he had as a child when his father beat him in one of his drunken rages―so

that Butler seemed small and distant. Too far away to hurt

Creight―whatever he might do to him.

Butler smiled grimly.

“That’s good Creight. Very good. Because that’s how we are

going to get out of this mess that you and these other fuck-ups have

created, that’s how this organization is going to survive and thrive, that’s

how we’re going to make our plans succeed: through obedience.” He

glanced down and patted his dog once more. “Now, come up here.”

Creight stared at Butler in terror. Butler’s tone was engaging but

Creight knew that meant nothing. Butler held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said gently.

Creight took the offered hand and Butler helped him up onto the

stage almost daintily, as if they were partners at a ball. He turned Creight

to face the audience.

“We’ve already discussed one essential ingredient of

organizational success. Obedience. But there is another, equally as

important, that we must all embody if we are to prevail against the forces

of darkness that beset us. And that is sacrifice. Through obedience and

sacrifice we can save the world.

“And what does sacrifice mean? It means putting the organization

first. It means recognizing that our struggle to save this land is more

important than anything else. It means total commitment so we can build

Storm Front 25

a better future for our families and race, a future free of the contaminating

influence of the Jew-inspired one worlders, the miscegenists, and all the

others who would take away the rights which are our birthright. It means

doing whatever is necessary to free our nation of the shackles of the

Zionist Occupancy Government that now holds it in its thrall.”

He stood frozen, head cocked, as his words faded. When he

resumed speaking, his voice was more intimate.

“Sacrifice, gentlemen. Sacrifice.”

As if a casual idea had just occurred to him, he unsnapped his

holster and pulled out his pistol.

The men in the audience shrank back as Butler brandished the gun.

Creight cringed, his intestines awash in fear.

“Sacrifice.”

He turned to Anders.

“Take this.” He offered the Beretta to Creight butt first.

Creight hesitated.

“Remember, Creight. Obedience. Take it.”

Anders reached out and grasped it gingerly. Butler stepped back.

“Now shoot the dog.”

Anders gaped at Butler in confusion.

“Shoot Blondi, Creight.”

“But . . . he’s your dog.”

The dog was watching the men intently, gazing at Creight as he

spoke, then looking at Butler as if to divine what he could do to please

him.

“Sacrifice, remember? That is what is required if we are to defeat

ZOG—of all of us. Me included. And you all know how I feel about

Blondi.”

They did. They remembered the loving attention. The constant

companionship. The only signs of warmth from a man who radiated

coldness like a glacier. That he could intend Anders to shoot the dog for

no reason was beyond comprehension.

Anders shrugged helplessly, terrified to disobey but terrified even

more at the prospect of destroying Butler’s only love.

“But . . .”

Butler stared a moment more then said, “All right, give me the

gun.”

Anders did, visibly relieved, hoping he had somehow passed the

test.

Johnson 26

Butler holstered the gun.

“Kindness and loyalty are also positive traits,” he said.

He squatted down in front of the dog and ruffed its neck.

“Good boy,” he said then in one quick motion pulled the Beretta

from the holster, put it to Blondi’s ear and pulled the trigger. Blood and

flesh exploded from the dog’s ruined head, splattering Anders and Butler

with gore. The dog collapsed.

Butler stood and calmly holstered the pistol again.

“Now go sit down,” he said gently to Creight.

Creight hopped quickly off the stage while Butler gazed out over

his stunned audience. The dog’s legs began to twitch rhythmically, then

slowly subsided. Butler ignored the commotion, waiting patiently while

Anders took his seat.

“Men, what I hope I have showed you by my little demonstration

is that this is no game we’re involved in. If we are going to survive the

coming Armageddon and defeat ZOG we must be prepared to do whatever

is necessary. There will be no room for sentiment. That will have to

await the dawning of the future. Most of you have read The Turner

Diaries and you know how the hero is forced to confront the necessity of

doing that which is painful to achieve the ultimate good. Others have

already done so, the brave souls of Ruby Ridge, and Waco, and Oklahoma

City, men and women who did not hesitate to do what needed to be done.

We must be willing to do no less.”

“Now, let us bring the meeting to order . . .”

The meeting lasted almost two hours. Two hours spent listening to

Butler go over the version they would give of what happened that night in

Gilsum, giving them their explanation of why they didn’t report the

Indian’s presence to the sheriff, emphasizing the need for absolute

solidarity, hinting at the fate that awaited anyone who broke ranks—

although the blood-soaked corpse of the dog lying on the stage made that

part of the presentation unnecessary. They next moved on to the reports of

various “operational cells” on their progress with respect to Operation

Shylock . . .

Through it all the men sat numb, speaking only when called upon.

If before the activities of the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club had seemed a

game, an adult version of playing army, that illusion was gone now. As

for Operation Shylock, most hadn’t really believed it would ever happen.

Planning it was just something to do, a fantasy that helped lessen the pain

Storm Front 27

and anger of being who they were. But Butler shooting Blondi, that was

something else. Butler’s lesson was understood by all: he wasn’t kidding

around.

The meeting drew to a close. As always, the final act of the

session was a prayer led by Butler. They bowed their heads as he recited,

“Lord Yashua, who guides us in all things, lead us on to victory in your

name and the name of your people, the true people of Israel, and give us

victory over those who seek to defile and corrupt and destroy us in the

name of Satan.” By motion duly made and seconded, the meeting was

adjourned.

But it was not over. Butler asked for two volunteers to dig a grave

for Blondi. All raised their hands. While the chosen two went outside to

prepare a grave, Butler chatted inside with the other men in an atmosphere

of unreality that left the men even more unnerved than the violence itself.

They huddled graveside in the chill wind while yet another prayer

was offered, Butler praying for the soul of a comrade fallen in battle while

tears slid slowly down his cheeks. They stood silently after the prayer

ended, listening to the flag flapping on the pole and the whine of a

chainsaw somewhere down the mountain until finally one brave man

asked if there was anything he could do and was blessedly brushed away

by a Butler unable to speak, and all knew they could drift safely away.

CHAPTER THREE

It was raining when Sarah rose and made her way down to the

kitchen for coffee then into her gleaming examination room to set up for

the day.

Tuesday was an office day for Sarah, a day on which she was

much more likely to deal with pets than farm animals, and town folk

instead of farmers. This day promised to be no exception.

Mrs. Beemis would be by with her Persian cat whose lethargy and

incontinence were the non-remediable products of advanced old age. If it

was Sarah’s cat she would have relieved it of its suffering long before.

But the cat was Mrs. Beemis’ life and she simply couldn’t let it go.

Old Burleigh Harris would be by with his mutt Esther. Esther was

scheduled to have her cast removed—the result of an encounter with a

moving car, her second in two years. Sarah had suggested leashing Esther

in the future but Harris believed that dogs, like men, should run free.

Sarah hoped Esther didn’t pay the ultimate price for her freedom the next

time around—or that Harris moved away from the main road.

Paul Pritchard, who owned the hardware store in town, would be

by with his beagle, Candy―Paul was an avid rabbit hunter―due for her

annual shots.

In the afternoon, a new client would be coming in―always a

welcome development―bringing his eight-week-old German Shepherd

puppy for a general checkup and shots. Anxious, he said on the phone, to

get Blondi off to a good start in life.

A nice array of clients, and she would use the rest of her time to

catch up on some long neglected billing. And the fact that it was so dark

and dreary outside made the notion of spending the day snug in the bright

warmth of her office much more appealing than it might otherwise have

been.

The new client, Raymond Butler, arrived promptly at two as

scheduled, bearing his puppy, a squirming black and tan bundle of energy

and affection. Puppies never failed to move Sarah, despite her constant

Storm Front 29

contact with them. She found them adorable, a view she considered

thoroughly unprofessional but that persisted nonetheless.

Raymond Butler on the other hand would never be called adorable.

Although attractive in a wolfish sort of way, with his gaunt features and

pale blue eyes he was a daunting figure, an impression his reserved

bearing did nothing to counteract.

And he was reserved, at least at first, introducing himself formally

with a grave handshake. None of the flirtatious banter that Sarah had

come to expect from the local men, married or not, who crossed her path.

Instead he seemed nervous, as if Sarah made him uncomfortable. She

suspected his relationships with the fair sex had been few and far between.

Certainly there was no ring on his finger.

And his clothes! He appeared as if he’d just come from a military

inspection, all crisp and ironed and polished, with pressed khaki pants and

shirt and shiny black shoes.

But he came alive when he interacted with his puppy, petting him

and murmuring soothing endearments, his affection evident, the warmth

that lay under all the reserve clearly shining through.

And there was nothing wrong with a little reserve, after all. Sarah

resolved to do what she could to bring him out of his shell and show him

women were nothing to be afraid of.

“Is this your first dog?” The terrified puppy stood quivering on the

stainless steel examination table, paws splayed and tail between its legs,

while Butler tried to soothe it.

“No,” he said.

Not much of a conversational gambit, but she could work with it.

“Have you had one recently?” she asked as she gave the pup a

shot.

“Yes.”

Something there, she sensed.

“Was that one a Shepherd, too?”

“Yes, he was.”

Regret, she was sure. A recent loss perhaps and this one a

replacement. Very common.

She gave the puppy another injection as Butler held it firm.

“Did something happen to him?”

Butler’s face darkened as if at a painful memory.

“Yes,” he said, in a tone laced with bitterness. “He was shot.”

Johnson 30

Shot. How awful. It happened though, particularly up in the

mountains and particularly during deer season, when hunters unable to

locate legitimate quarry sometimes took out their frustrations on other

things.

“How terrible.”

“Yes,” he said, and she could hear in that single word a world of

pain.

“How did it happen?”

He didn’t say anything for a time, then said finally, “It’s a long

story,” and smiled apologetically, his message clear: he didn’t want to

talk about it. She was prying but he was too polite to say that.

Sarah kicked herself for prodding memories that were obviously

still painful to him. She smiled to show she understood.

“Well, you’ve got a fine pup, here. And he’s all set for now.

Bring him back in three weeks and we’ll do the next series of shots.”

Butler picked the puppy up and rubbed its belly while it squirmed

with delight and tried to lick his face.

“If you’ll just come into my office, we can get the paperwork

squared away and you can be on your way.”

She led the way into her business office and sat down at her

computer.

“OK,” she said, typing on the keyboard. “Raymond Butler.

Address?”

“Pittman Road, Smyrna.”

“No street number?”

“No.”

“RFD number?”

“No. General delivery.”

She looked up.

“I don’t get much mail.”

Just as she’d thought, a loner.

“Is that where I should send the bill?”

“I’ll pay cash now.”

“O.K. How about a phone so I can call you with the fecal exam

results?”

“Sorry. I don’t have one. I’ll have to call you.”

“Wow. I guess you’re pretty much off the grid, as they say.”

“I could just never see paying for things I don’t need.”

Sarah inputted the vaccinations she had administered and printed

out the invoice.

Storm Front 31

“That will be twenty-five dollars,” she said. “And I’ll see you in

three weeks, right? Oh, and don’t forget to call about the fecal exam. I

should have the results early next week.”

She took the money, smiled, and held out her hand.

“It was nice meeting you.”

They shook.

“And you too, Blondi,” she said, taking the puppy’s paw.

She watched as Butler climbed into his van, a recent model

modified for off-street driving with oversize all-terrain tires and a raised

suspension. Smyrna was out in the boonies. And for all she knew Pittman

Road might be a goat path.

She wondered what he did for a living way out there. He didn’t

seem like your typical backwoodsman. She wished she’d thought to ask.

He drove away from the veterinarian’s office angry with himself.

It had been a mistake to give her his address. A stupid mistake. He’d let

down his guard, distracted by her attentions. Of course, it wasn’t as if she

would be turning her files over to the FBI for no reason, although no doubt

she would in a second if they were to ask. People like her were the source

of ZOG’s power, unwittingly helping the government obtain information

and control on behalf of its Zionist masters, mindlessly recording,

registering, filing and complying. Sheep ripe for the slaughter. Well, he

wasn’t going to be one. They might slaughter him, but it wouldn’t be

without pain for them. Big pain. Bigger pain than even the idiots in his

ragtag militia could conceive of.

But giving out information about himself was not the way to

accomplish his goals. And the way she kept looking at him. Asking him

all those questions. Trying to figure him out, to see inside him. The nosy

bitch. Well, maybe he’d have a look inside her before all was said and

done. He stirred at the thought.

CHAPTER FOUR

Operating at full throttle, the thirty-inch Stihl chainsaw ate steadily

through the thick trunk of the spruce, throwing off an aromatic plume of

sawdust that covered the man’s gloves and boots and the ground on which

he stood. When the man judged the cut to be close enough to the felling

notch, he withdrew the guide bar from the kerf and hit the kill switch, then

stepped away. Removing his battered yellow hard hat, he wiped the sweat

from his forehead with the wear-slick sleeve of his canvas coat.

Inside the trunk, the narrow hinge he had left was starting to crack

under the intense weight of the tree, the wood fibers snapping with

increasing rapidity as fewer and fewer were left to bear the strain. The

tree started to lean as the cracking became a popping roar, growing louder

and louder as gravity slowly won out, joined now by the rush of leaves

and branches ripping through the air, until the crash came and suddenly

there was silence.

Merlin Barrows was thirty-four and had been logging almost since

he was old enough to walk. His perpetually ruddy face was nicked with

scars from flying splinters, his left hand was minus its two outer fingers,

and x-rays would have revealed the evidence of arms and legs once

broken.

His mother died of cancer when Merlin was three and as a child he

had worked the woods with his father whenever he wasn’t in school,

hauling branches at first but quickly graduating to hand and then power

saws. By the time he dropped out of high school at the age of fifteen,

Merlin knew as much as any man about the art of logging, and with a six-

two frame wrapped in rock-hard muscle, was physically capable of more

than most.

When his father died three years later, killed by a falling tree in an

uncharacteristic moment of carelessness, his death had hit Merlin hard.

His father had been a tough and taciturn man but he was the center of

Merlin’s life. His passing left a hole that Merlin had no way to fill but

with work. He had carried on, bidding contracts from private landholders

Storm Front 33

and felling the timber for sale to the mills just as his father had, hiring on

with one of the timber companies or larger independents when cash got

short.

It was a hard existence that left little money for luxuries and little

opportunity for a social life, but it was an honest one and the only one

Merlin knew. He accepted it as his lot without complaint.

Which was why he wondered what had ever possessed him to join

the Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club. It was Charlie Stitchard’s idea, which

only went to show how out of his mind Merlin must have been. Charlie

was a nice enough guy, but truth be known he had the brains of a rabbit.

Merlin had been working some Champion International land in

Santa Clara with one of Bill McConnell’s crews. Charlie had hired on too

and one night after work, he and Charlie and a bunch of the other guys

stopped to have some beers at the Timberland out on Route 458.

As was typical, talk got around to how hard it was to make a living

logging anymore.

“It’s those goddamned downstate tree-huggers,” Jake Warren had

said. “They think trees are more important than people.”

“Yeah, trying to regulate us right out of existence,” Dan O’Leary

agreed. “They want the Park to be this pretty place they can visit once a

year and to hell with the people who live here. And now they got this

bond act and if it passes the State’s gonna buy more land and use that as

an excuse to pass even more restrictions.”

“Yeah, but what can we do?” Jake said. “They got all the power.”

Merlin didn’t say anything. He wasn’t much for political

discourse―he wasn’t much for discourse period, when you came right

down to it―but he agreed with Jake and Dan. The way things were going,

it was lookin’ bad for folks inside the blue line, especially loggers. If he

had a son, and Merlin still hoped to someday, the boy would most likely

have to find a different line of work or move out of the Park altogether.

That was when Charlie spoke up.

“Maybe we can do something. There’s a guy named Butler gettin’

people organized to fight back. There’s gonna be a big meeting next week

over to the Sportsman in Gilsum. You should come.”

And instead of asking who Butler was and where he came from

and what his interest in the plight of the hardworking logger might be,

Merlin found himself agreeing to go.

The first meeting had been the biggest with at least forty people

packed into the Frontier Room of the Sportsman Inn. Butler had talked

Johnson 34

about local issues and how they were a part of a bigger picture that came

right down to competing visions of how this country should be: one

where local people had control over their own fates or one where outsiders

dictated how things would be.

“Look,” Butler said. “I don’t have to tell you what’s going on.

You see it every day. Families who have lived here for over one hundred

years, no longer free in the land their ancestors settled. Able men

unemployed because the businesses that employed them have been driven

into bankruptcy by government regulations. Loggers prevented from

harvesting God’s bounty by yuppies and eco-nuts who think their whims

are more important than your families. Hard working Americans forced to

sell their land to pay confiscatory taxes but unable to get market value for

their own property―their own property―because of use restrictions

imposed by downstaters. The blue line is a noose around your necks, and

with each year that passes it gets drawn a little tighter.

“Do you think the Adirondack Council cares about you, the people

who live and work and raise their families here? Hell no. All they care

about is making sure their masters in New York and Albany have their

playground the way they want it. And make no mistake about it. Their

ultimate goal is the confiscation of your land and the elimination of your

way of life. And they’ll succeed too, because they pull all the strings,

from Washington right on down, unless . . . unless . . . you have the guts

to stop them, to fight for your rights under the Bible and Constitution.”

A lot of what Butler said made some sense, and some of what he

said made a lot of sense. Merlin attended more meetings, only smaller

now, limited to those Butler said were strong enough to stand up for what

was right. There was more and more talk about Jews and blacks and what

Butler called ZOG, and how the Jews ran everything and were trying to

use blacks to undermine white Christianity and how it was time for whites

to fight back.

Merlin should have known then that Butler’s organization wasn’t

for him—his father had raised him to judge each man by his deeds, by

whether he was honest or a cheat, brave or a coward, pulled his load or let

the others do the pulling for him.

But by that time they were building the compound up on Lynx Hill

and Merlin had been chosen as a squad leader and couldn’t bring himself

to walk away. He felt responsible, and admired, and for the first time

since his father died, a part of a team. He had stuck it out, although he

thought a lot of what Butler was saying was a bunch of garbage and a lot

Storm Front 35

of what they were doing, the military drills and such, was a bunch of

tomfoolery.

And then Butler began to talk about the need to raise money to get

the message out to more people and brought up the plan that Merlin

suspected had been behind the whole thing right from the

beginning―Operation Shylock. That was enough for Merlin.

The first time he missed a meeting, it had raised little comment.

He’d said he was sick―although he considered both lying and sickness

shameful so it had left him uneasy.

The second had earned him a call from Butler.

“Merlin, we’ve missed you,” Butler said. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I’ve just been really under the gun trying to beat a contract

deadline and couldn’t spare the time.”

“But what we’re trying to do is important. You’re letting people

down.”

“I know,” Merlin said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about

that. I’m just not sure I can make the commitment what with all the jobs

I’ve got coming up.”

“But you have obligations to the group.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

“That’s not really acceptable, Merlin. You think about it some

more. We can talk at the next meeting.”

“I don’t know if I can make it.”

“Sure you can. I’ll expect you.”

Charlie Stitchard had called a day or so later and tried to “reason”

with Merlin, as Charlie put it, to get Merlin to stick with the club at least

until the operation was complete.

“No, Charlie. I’m through with Butler. And if you’re smart, you’ll

get out too. The guy’s nothin’ but trouble.”

The next day it had been Daryl Higley who called. Merlin told

him the same thing.

Now, more than a week had passed since that meeting. Merlin

hadn’t gone, and despite Butler’s thinly veiled threats, Merlin hadn’t heard

a word from anyone. Unfortunately, although he was out of the club, the

peace he usually felt when he worked the woods had deserted him.

Butler’s plan was going ahead without him. And kidnapping was

wrong―not just a violation of a law passed by an illegitimate government

like Butler said―but wrong. And although Charlie and the rest might

believe Butler’s assurances that no one would get hurt, Merlin knew there

Johnson 36

was a good chance somebody would. Just knowing Creight Anders was

involved was enough to tell you that.

So now he couldn’t get rid of the thought that walking away was

not enough, that he had to do something to stop Butler’s plan. But what?

There was no way he was going to talk Butler out of it. As for the others,

as long as Butler kept whipping them up, there was little likelihood that

anything Merlin might say would influence them. Hell, guys like Jared

Wright, Lon Bellard and the Brown twins had never been able to resist a

bad idea even back when they were kids.

There was, of course, another option. The one he didn’t want to

think about. The one that wouldn’t go away. To even threaten to

tell―and presumably that would be all he would have to do―would go

against his vision of himself as a man.

But increasingly Merlin saw little other choice.

Staring at the fallen tree lost in thought, Merlin didn’t hear the dark

green van driving slowly up the logging road until it was almost upon him.

He turned as Butler brought the van to a halt.

“Mr. Barrows,” Butler said by way of greeting as he approached.

“Hard at work, I see.”

“Butler,” Merlin responded guardedly.

“We missed you the other day. I thought you were coming,”

Butler said, locking his eyes on Merlin’s.

Butler was dressed in the camo fatigues that were the club’s

uniform.

“I don’t know why you would think that,” Merlin said evenly.

“I hoped you would realize that people were depending on you and

change your mind. You didn’t strike me as the type to weasel out.”

“I’m doing what I should have done months ago. This plan of

yours, this Operation Shylock, is all wrong. Even if the others don’t see it,

I do. A hundred things could go wrong, and even if they don’t, it’s not

right.”

“I thought you were just too busy.”

Merlin blushed.

“I am―but it’s not only that.”

“I see. And you figure if you back out now you won’t be

responsible, is that it?”

Merlin fiddled with the throttle trigger on his saw.

“Is that it?” Butler repeated, his voice harsh.

Storm Front 37

This was the moment Merlin had dreaded, the one he had sought to

avoid―but it had come seeking him even in the still depths of the forest.

“No. It’s not.”

Butler raised his eyebrows.

“Oh?” he said.

“I’d still be responsible,” Merlin said softly. “I can’t let you go

through with it.”

Butler stared.

“And just how are you going to stop me?” he asked finally.

“You’re going to stop yourself.”

“And why would I do that?”

Merlin made no reply, unable to speak the words, but kept his eyes

glued to Butler’s.

“I see,” Butler said again. “Not only a weasel but a rat.”

“Calling me names doesn’t change the facts.”

“You’d be guilty of conspiracy with the rest of us.”

“That doesn’t matter. I deserve whatever’s coming to me, for ever

bein’ fool enough to get involved.”

“And what if I call it off?”

“You’ll go your merry way and I’ll go mine.”

Butler continued to stare at Merlin then gazed off into the forest.

Merlin watched him silently, hopes rising.

After a seeming eternity, Butler turned back.

“You won’t go to the authorities?”

“No.”

“You don’t leave me much choice.”

Merlin merely tightened his lips in acknowledgement.

“All right,” Butler said.

He moved to go, then paused.

“Are you the one who sent the letter about the Indian?”

Merlin shook his head.

Butler regarded him for another long moment, then apparently

satisfied, headed for his van.

Watching him walk away, Merlin was surprised to find that he felt

good. Although he had threatened to be the squealer, it wasn’t going to be

necessary, and the shame he felt in making the threat was a small price to

pay for putting an end to Operation Shylock.

With a sharp pull on the cord, he started his saw again. He had

work to do and the day was passing fast.

Johnson 38

Throughout his conversation with Barrows, anger had been coiling

within Butler like some great snake, although he had managed to maintain

an appearance of calm. Now as he walked away, that snake writhed and

squirmed, struggling to break free.

The oaf had actually threatened to go to the authorities, to sabotage

all his plans!

Butler needed to think, but with rage flooding his brain, he

couldn’t.

A traitor, that’s what Barrows was, the lowest of the low―and he

was stupid enough to think that was all there was to it, that he could

threaten Raymond Butler and go on his “merry way.”

He heard the saw start behind him. Barrows was trudging saw in

hand toward the fallen tree, going back to work as if nothing had

happened.

Adrenalin surged within Butler, its taste bitter in his mouth. The

stupid bastard actually thought that was all there was to it!

By the time Butler reached him, Barrows was limbing the tree. He

didn’t hear Butler’s footsteps, only felt the pain as Butler slammed a

length of wood into the side of his head.

His hardhat sailed through the air as he toppled heavily to the

ground, the saw slipping from his hands and stalling as the whirring chain

bit the earth. He gaped dazedly up at Butler, trying to comprehend what

had happened.

His eyes widened as Butler swung the limb again.

Butler stood over Barrows, breathing heavily, the now bloody log

still in his hand. He drew it back slowly as if to strike Barrows’ inert

form, but let it down.

It wouldn’t do.

Moving deliberately, he went to the van and returned with a first

aid kit. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, carefully wiped the blood

from Barrows’ face and scalp with a piece of gauze, and bandaged the

lacerations caused by his blows. He then retrieved the hardhat and placed

it beside Barrows as if it had been on his head when he hit the ground.

That portion of his task complete, Butler stood back and surveyed

his handiwork. It should work, he thought. They’d think the head wounds

were unrelated.

Storm Front 39

He picked up the chainsaw. It was flooded and wouldn’t start at

first, but ultimately did, sputtering to life with a backfire and a cough of

blue smoke before settling into a steady idle.

He imagined how it might have happened, Barrows limbing the

tree, the saw churning through a branch but suddenly leaping free as the

cut pinched tight upon it, out of control, a ravening mechanical beast

seeking flesh on which to feed. A terrible accident.

He cut partway through the limb just where Barrows might have,

the saw falling to an idle when he was done.

Only one more thing to do.

The saw’s RPMs climbed again as it cut deep into a different kind

of limb, Barrows’ shriek of pain barely audible above the racing engine.

And then the saw was still and only Barrows’ low moans of pain broke the

silence. After a short time, they ceased too.

CHAPTER FIVE

The sleek white Bell 222 helicopter banked sharply as the lake

came into view, its wooded shores unbroken save at the north end where

an elaborate two-story log boathouse projected out into the water. Three

of the Sunfish were out, Harvey saw, their sails exclamations of color

against the water’s deep blue. Some of Staci’s friends no doubt. A crew

of them had arrived from the City the week before.

Up the hill from the boathouse, colossal white pines towered above

the cedar shake roofs of the main complex: the great lodge, the dining,

music, and game pavilions, the chapel, the bowling alley, the guest

cottages―all connected by covered walkways that meandered crookedly

through the trees. On the far side of these buildings, the trees gave way to

a freshly mowed sward where a croquet course was laid out near an

octagonal log tea house. A pair of clay tennis courts sat empty nearby.

Only the macadam circle of a helipad marred the otherwise idyllic scene

of Gilded Age rusticity.

As they flew closer, Harvey could see the service complex a

quarter mile from the lodge, the utilitarian structures essential to the

working of a self-sufficient estate; some, like the icehouse and smithy,

vestiges of a bygone day, but most, the barns and sheds and garages, the

laundry and shop and lumbermill, all still in use. Beyond them lay the

recently completed half-mile horse track and the open expanse of the

fields and pastures which finally gave way once more to the encircling

arms of the forest. Harvey could just make out the houses of the year-

round workers, eight white frame structures with generous porches and

green tin roofs, grouped into a tiny, woodland community just inside the

forest’s edge.

The Birches, thirty-eight buildings in all, one of the greatest of the

Adirondack Great Camps, the one time wilderness retreat of robber baron

Ezekiel Fripp, railroad magnate extraordinaire. Twenty thousand acres (of

the original thirty) of unspoiled mountain forest, including the three

hundred acre Lake Ezekiel, all located in the heart of the Adirondack Park.

As always when he first saw it, Harvey was struck with a sense of wonder

Storm Front 41

that he, Harvey Skolnick of East Fordham Road in the Bronx, was now the

owner of this mountain treasure.

Harvey’s spectacular climb from geeky valedictorian of the Bronx

High School of Science to forty-one-year-old Internet billionaire was a

saga that had been profiled dozens of times, in media ranging from

Fortune to Rolling Stone and 60 Minutes to Oprah. But it was a saga

Harvey still had difficulty believing at times, despite the limousines, jets

and helicopters, Park Avenue apartment, homes in South Hampton, Palm

Beach and St. Tropez, and the constant fawning of all who came near him.

Oh, and Staci, the crown jewel, aspiring supermodel turned harpy.

She was waiting by the helipad on the east lawn as they descended,

futilely attempting to keep her perfectly coiffed hair in place in the

turbulence.

Rick Benton’s voice crackled in Harvey’s headphones.

“You’ve got a welcoming committee,” he said dryly, casting

Harvey a sidelong grin. The back of the chopper was custom furnished

with a conference table, couches and chairs upholstered in gray leather,

and a full array of business equipment, but Harvey rode up front when he

wasn’t otherwise occupied. He leaned forward to take a look.

Although there was much that was impressive about Harvey

Skolnick, his physical appearance was decidedly unimposing. His large

frame was running to fat, his hair was mostly a memory, and his beard was

mottled with gray. More than one business adversary had mistaken this

unprepossessing exterior as a sign of interior weakness. Those lucky

enough to get the chance didn’t make the same mistake twice.

“Oh, God,” Harvey said into the mike at his lips. “I wonder what

it is this time? Water spots on the crystal?”

With the exception of Harvey’s lifelong pal Artie Weissman, Rick

Benton was probably Harvey’s closest friend, or at least closest confidant.

He, among the hordes of people that swarmed around Harvey, seemed

unfazed and unimpressed by Harvey’s immense fortune, retaining the

same laconic wit and amused condescension he had displayed when

Harvey first interviewed him for the job of personal pilot. Rick alone

seemed to see in Harvey the shy and clumsy boy he still was at heart, and

treated him with a teasing affection that Harvey found he craved badly in

his new role as lord of the universe.

Benton spoke again. “Now be fair, Harve. The last time you had

exactly the same attitude and it did turn out to be serious. She really

couldn’t get all the soaps with just that one measly dish you installed.”

Johnson 42

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve got to learn to be more patient.”

“That’s a good boy.”

The copter touched down and Rick switched off the engine.

“Well, here goes,” Harvey said, opening the door.

“Go get ’em, cowboy.”

“Yahoo,” Harvey said, and wondered, not for the first time,

whether Rick had slept with Staci. He didn’t think so―sleeping with a

friend’s wife was not Rick’s style―but sometimes it seemed as if she had

slept with everyone else. He leapt out and walked hurriedly under the still

spinning blades.

Staci Skolnick nee White was a beautiful woman. Not a pretty

woman, certainly not a cute woman. She was beautiful in a way that lent

her features an air of unreality, a perfection almost inhuman: long, silken

ash-blonde hair, deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, lips full but not

exaggeratedly so as was the current fashion, pale pellucid skin, and a nose

long and straight and aristocratic, which was indeed the persona most

commonly projected by her ads. The unattainable queen of every man

(and woman’s) dreams.

That her body too was perfect, sensual and full without slipping

into voluptuousness, was a fact that often went unnoticed, so striking was

her face. Men would see her across a room and so rivet to the face that

their eyes never even made the usually inevitable descent to investigate

her other charms. She was indeed a prize.

Staci Skolnick nee White was also a bitch, a trailer park harridan,

who had overcome her white trash lifestyle, but not her white trash nature.

Pushed by a mother whose vision far exceeded her dingy West Texas

beauty parlor, Staci had early begun emulating the women whose pictures

and exploits paraded across the pages of the tabloids stacked in the beauty

parlor rack, constantly experimenting with makeup, hair, and clothes, and

later with the feminine wiles that made men sit up and beg.

Years later, that training had enabled her to kindle the fires of love

in a balding, chubby boy from the Bronx who just happened to be one of

the richer men in America, and now this vision of surpassing beauty was

his, all his―at least in theory.

“Hi, hon,” he said coming up to her. For all his cynicism about

Staci, Harvey was still in love and hoped each time he saw her that

somehow things would be different between them.

Storm Front 43

“Harvey, I want you to fire that stableman,” she said without

preamble. Staci still retained more than a trace of her Texas twang.

“Stableman?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, Jim?”

“Yes, Jim. That’s who I mean.”

A likable silver-haired widower of sixty, Jim Flaherty was the

trainer Harvey had hired to care for Texas Swing, the thoroughbred

stallion Harvey purchased for Staci’s birthday several years earlier.

Harvey had met Jim at Saratoga through Bob Marlowe, the partner-in-

charge of Harvey’s account at Goldman Sachs. Marlowe had been

investing in thoroughbreds for years.

“You ought to try it, Harve,” Bob had said. “It’s a hell of a lot of

fun and the tax breaks are fantastic. And you can keep the horses on your

place when they’re not on the circuit.”

The idea had appealed to Harvey. Staci had always adored

Saratoga during the racing season, with its parties and jet-setters and old

money and conspicuous consumption―Marylou Whitney’s annual ball

was a must-attend event―and of course, horses. Harvey had taken the

plunge in his usual cautious way, buying one horse to start for a by-his-

standards modest investment of one hundred thousand dollars and then

hiring the best man he could find to train and care for it. Texas Swing and

Jim Flaherty were the result.

And when Texas Swing had been retired from racing and put out to

stud, Jim had retired to the Birches with him (put out to stud himself and

still looking for takers for his services, he was fond of joking). Jim now

worked at The Birches full time, overseeing the stud services of Texas

Swing and the care of The Birches’ ten-horse string of riding horses.

“What’s the matter?”

“The man is insolent. He opposes me at every turn and treats me

like I was dirt, not like the person who’s paying him thirty thousand

dollars a year plus room and board just to feed a bunch of horses.”

“What did he do?”

“It’s not just one specific thing. It’s everything.”

Harvey frowned. He didn’t want to fire Jim. Jim’s life was now

here at The Birches.

“Why don’t I talk to him?”

“I want you to fire him, not talk to him.”

Johnson 44

He wondered why she hadn’t fired him herself. She certainly fired

other people often enough: maids, cooks, gardeners, even the mechanic

over some contretemps about the Porsche. Nelson, the estate manager,

had complained bitterly about that one and had only this week found a

replacement.

“I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

Harvey sighed. This explanation was revealing but not in the way

Staci intended. The notion of gentle, devout Jim Flaherty lusting after

Staci was ridiculous―and Harvey knew that if Jim had been lusting after

her as Staci was implying, the last thing Staci would want would be to

have him fired. Collecting male admirers was Staci’s hobby. No, it was

more likely that Jim, still devoted to the memory of his wife now five

years gone, had resisted―or worse, failed to notice―Staci’s allure.

“Look, I’ll talk to him,” Harvey said.

“But . . .”

“I’ll talk to him,” Harvey repeated with more force. “And now I

don’t want to talk about it any more. How’s Davey?”

“He’s fine.”

“Is he around?”

“Yes, he’s with Bridget somewheres, in the house I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t,” she said petulantly. “I don’t feel it’s necessary for

me to spend every minute of every day watching over him. That’s why

we have Bridget.”

“I would hope that you’d want to know where he was. He’s your

son.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful. You go jetting off for days and weeks at a

time leaving me here in East Buttfuck then criticize me for not spending

every waking minute with a four year old. Well, excuse me, but that’s not

my idea of a good time. And besides I have guests.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to criticize you, I just . . .” He shrugged

helplessly, his eyes pleading for Staci’s understanding.

Receiving none, he turned and headed for the house.

The main lodge had been completed in 1893. Constructed of

locally harvested virgin spruce, it had taken three years to build, requiring

the full time labor of over one hundred workers. Designed to rival the

“camps” of Ezekiel Fripp’s wealthy peers―the Rockefellers, Carnegies,

Whitneys, Posts, Colliers, and their ilk―it boasted thirty rooms within

three sprawling stories, including ten bedroom suites, each with its own

Storm Front 45

sitting room and bath, and a library containing over fifty thousand

volumes.

The centerpiece of the house was the thirty by fifty living room,

dominated by a massive fieldstone fireplace with a hearth tall enough for a

man to stand in. The chimney rose thirty feet to a cathedral ceiling of

spruce planks supported by an open log truss polished to a golden gloss

with coat upon coat of beeswax and hung with chandeliers fashioned from

deer antlers. Walls too were of spruce plank, decorated with the heads of

game animals culled by Fripp on his frequent African safaris and local

hunts, and landscapes by Cole, Tait, Kensett and Durand. Fur rugs were

scattered among islands of wicker furniture and rustic tables made by local

artisans from unpeeled saplings.

Outside, the log facades were a welter of leaded diamond-pane

windows framed with red trim that gave full views of the lake and

surrounding mountains.

Harvey mounted the stone steps that led to the front entrance and

entered the front hall. A plump woman in her young thirties wearing jeans

and a pullover sweater was standing in the doorway to the study as Harvey

came in, a mischievous smile on her freckled face.

“Hello, Bridget,” Harvey said in a jovial tone. “Is that son of mine

here?”

“Well, I’m just not sure where he is. He was here a second ago,

but now he’s disappeared,” she said in mock wonder. Bridget

O’Shaughnessy had been Davey’s nanny since his birth, the product of an

exhaustive, nationwide search.

“I’ll bet the helicopter scared him,” Harvey said.

“Maybe so, because he disappeared shortly after we heard it

coming.”

“Oh well, I guess I’ll just fly right back to New York then, ‘cause

if I can’t see Davey, there’s just not much point in my being here. I’ll see

you next week.”

He took loud steps toward the entrance, but stopped when a squeak

emanated from the combination bench, mirror, and coat rack that sat just

inside the door.

Harvey stopped.

“Bridget, I think we have mice here,” he said. “Would you speak

to Nelson for me and have him set some traps? But tell him to make them

big ones because it sure sounds like these mice are giants.” He turned to

the door again. “OK, I’ll see you.”

Johnson 46

There was another squeak. Harvey went over to the bench.

“It’s coming from right in here,” he said and went to lift the bench

lid.

Before he could, the lid was thrown open and a tiny body

catapulted into his arms with a roar. Harvey caught the human projectile

and tumbled back onto the floor, Davey on top of him.

“Oh, no,” Harvey cried. “Bridget, help! The king mouse has got

me. Help! Help!”

“No, Daddy, it’s me,” Davey said.

“Davey?” Harvey said incredulously.

“Yes, Daddy. I was hiding. I heard the helicopter, and I knew you

were coming, so I hid to surprise you. I’m not afraid of it. I like to ride in

it.”

“No, you’re not afraid of it, are you?” Harvey said fondly, hugging

him. “You’re a brave little boy. A very brave little boy.”

He climbed to his feet and picked Davey up as Rick Benton arrived

with Harvey’s bags.

“Hi, Rick,” Davey said with obvious affection.

“Hi, cowpoke. How ya doin’?”

“Rick, you can just drop those there,” Harvey said. He turned his

attention back to his son.

“So, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to, huh?” Harvey

said. “It’s been a whole week since I saw you. Come on, let’s go in the

study where we can talk man to man.” And with a wink at Bridget, he

carried Davey away.

CHAPTER SIX

Jack Dawson awoke to the singing of the birds outside his

bedroom window. He lived in a small frame cottage tucked into a wooded

pocket of the Dawson property a few hundred yards from the main house.

He looked at the clock. Four thirty. Time to get up. He threw on

some clothes, washed up at the ancient pedestal sink in the bathroom

downstairs, and headed across the dew drenched fields for the main house.

Predictably, Jack’s mother was busy at the stove when he entered

the kitchen, looking as if she had stepped out of a Norman Rockwell

painting in her worn blue print dress, heavy shoes, and gray hair wound

tight to her head.

The homey aroma of coffee and bacon enveloped him as he hung

his jacket on a peg near the door.

“Hi, ma,” Jack said. He went over and kissed her. “Where’s

dad?”

“Out in the barn.”

“Already?”

“Been out there most the night. I took a cup of coffee out to him

about an hour ago.”

Jack frowned.

“Has he―”

“No,” his mother said quickly before Jack could finish his

question. “He’s fine. Just worried, is all. Sit down and eat.”

Jack sat and his mother brought a plate of eggs and bacon over to

him.

“Your father says the vet is stopping by again today.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Bringing more bad news, I don’t doubt.”

“She seems like a pretty smart cookie to me.”

“I guess.”

“Pretty too.”

Jack ate his eggs.

“You could do worse than to get to know a girl like that.”

Jack grimaced.

Johnson 48

“Now, ma, what would a college educated, city girl want with a

poor, dumb farmer like me?”

“You’re not dumb, Jack. And she’s not from the city. Downstate

is all.”

“Maybe I’m not dumb, but I sure as hell am poor. And not likely

to get much richer the way things is goin’.”

“Money isn’t everything, Jack.”

“I know, ma, I know. But it sure helps some―particularly where

women are concerned.”

“Oh, you know so much about women. Well, let me tell you

something: money isn’t everything and a smart girl knows that.”

Jack swiped at his plate with a piece of toast with exaggerated

vigor.

“You could at least try being nice to her. That wouldn’t hurt

none.”

“I am nice to her.”

“That’s not what I hear. I hear you like as bite her head off every

time she comes near.”

“I do not.”

“Well then, if you’re on such good terms, why don’t you try askin’

her out sometime.”

“Ma.”

He gave her an exasperated look.

She turned back to the stove.

“All right, all right. It’s none of my business. But you’re not

gettin’ any younger, you know.”

John Dawson was sitting on a milk can, shoulders slumped, staring

blankly at the heat expectancy chart on the wall as Jack walked through

the wide double doors into the warm glow of the barn’s interior. When

the older man heard Jack he stood up quickly.

“Mornin’, son.”

“Mornin’, dad. How they lookin’?”

“About the same, I guess.”

“Ma says you been out here most the night.”

“I reckon so.”

He studied his father carefully.

“What’cha been doin’?”

“Nothin’ much. Thinkin’.”

“You all right?”

Storm Front 49

“I’m fine. Just worried about them cows is all.”

“Yeah,” Jack said.

When Jack heard Sarah’s Jeep pull into the barnyard he reaffirmed

his resolve to be pleasant to her. His mother was right, after all. He had

been rude. That was why he’d had to apologize.

But as he heard her car door shut and the exchange of greetings

between Sarah and his father, he could not restrain a twinge of annoyance.

Why, he wasn’t sure. But it had something to do with her calm self-

possession. It didn’t seem right that she should be so considerately

competent while they floundered in failure. She must really think them

pathetic.

And thinking she thought that made him angry. And it made him

angrier to realize that if his father had listened to him, they wouldn’t be

raising goddamn dairy cows which nobody was makin’ any money at

anymore even without diseases and then he wouldn’t have to put up with

her superiority and her humiliating offers to let them pay when they could

manage it.

By the time his father and Sarah entered the barn he could hardly

contain himself. And realizing that made him nervous―at least he figured

that was why he suddenly felt like a grade schooler about to give his first

oral report. He ducked into the milk house then out into the yard.

Later, Jack watched from high on the hill as Sarah’s Jeep wound

out the long drive to the road, gripped by a vague malaise he could not

name. Embarrassment, he guessed. He had behaved like a fool. Running

away. A grown man. Leaving had seemed the thing to do at the time, the

best way to avoid another display of rudeness on his part. Now it just

seemed pathetic. What on earth must she think?

He watched his father climb onto the tractor and head out to plow

the thirty acre cornfield that abutted the county road. Watched the tractor

turn the fallow ground from silvery beige to chocolate, row by orderly

row. A sight that usually brought him joy, symbolic of the earth’s

productivity in the hands of loving caretakers. He felt empty.

A truck stopped out on the road near the field. He watched a

heavyset man get out, pick his way gingerly across the freshly turned

furrows, and wave his father to a halt. Heard the tractor’s engine fall to a

shadowy murmur. Watched the men talk, a toy tableau, his father astride

Johnson 50

the tiny tractor, the man standing in the dirt beside it peering up at him,

shading his face from the sun with his hand.

Who the hell was it? It almost looked like Creight Anders. It was

possibly his truck although it was tough to tell under all that mud. But

why on earth would he take the trouble to stop and talk to Jack’s father?

After the man walked back to his truck and drove off, Jack’s father

sat motionless on the tractor for a few minutes. Then he fired the tractor

up and began plowing once more.

“You puttin’ this on the hay?” Jack asked.

They were in the shed at the end of the main barn watching manure

tumble off the conveyor that ran through troughs in the barn floor and into

the spreader.

Jack’s father was using a pitchfork to distribute the ever-growing

pile evenly in the cart.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “I figure we’ll put it on the hill field.”

“You finish plowin’ the corn?”

“Yup.”

“Should be able to plant it soon, if the weather keeps up,” Jack

said.

“I reckon. It’s still pretty wet in places.”

“So, who was that you were talkin’ to out there?”

John looked up sharply as a flush surged up his neck.

“Talkin’ to?”

“Yeah. Looked like Creight Anders.”

“Oh, yeah, it was,” John said quickly. He poked vigorously at the

mound of manure. “He was just passin’ the time.” He hoped his voice

sounded casual.

“Creight Anders walked all the way out into that field to pass the

time?” Jack said incredulously. “I didn’t know you and him were such

good friends.”

“We’re not exactly.”

Jack was waiting for further explanation.

“He just saw me plowing, I guess.”

“So what’d he say?”

“What do you mean, what’d he say? He didn’t say nothin’, I told

you.”

The lie rang false in John’s ears, but Jack seemed not to notice.

“All right. You don’t have to bite my head off. I was just askin’.”

Storm Front 51

John felt bad about snapping at Jack, but there was no way he

could tell him the truth about his conversation with Anders. What would

he tell him? That Creight Anders had come to ask him if he was the “rat”

who had sent the letter about the dead Indian? That Creight Anders’ visit

had left him shaking with fear? That he was indeed the “rat” who had

betrayed their friends and neighbors? That he wrote the letter because he

was ashamed of his silence, but was too much the coward to come forward

like a man?

He knew his drinking had left Jack with little respect for him, but

he couldn’t bear to lose whatever shreds might remain. He would rather

live with his guilt and fear.

He just felt so alone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Shortly after he got the call from the New York State Police in

Tupper Lake, Oren Tebo drove the red and white Tribal Police cruiser

through the thicket of pot-holed streets that was the heart of the

Akwesasne Mohawk reservation―thirty-six square miles of wind-swept

land straddling the United States/Canada border along the St. Lawrence

River, the largest remnant of the thousands of square miles the Mohawk

Nation once called home.

At first glance, there was little to suggest that this was a Mohawk

village. The same modest houses and double-wide trailers that

characterized the average upstate New York town predominated here,

although clustered more thickly than might be the case in a town outside

the reservation. Ironically, the most telling sign that this was Mohawk

land were the numerous government-financed buildings tucked in among

the houses―blocky, modern structures that housed the tribe’s

administrative offices.

At 31, Oren had been the law for the U.S. side of the reservation

for five years. He had gotten the job after graduating from Syracuse

University with a degree in criminal justice and completing an intensive

training program with the New York State Police. With his short cropped

black hair and crisp uniform hugging his well-muscled six-foot frame,

Oren looked very much the picture of competence despite his relative

youth. It was an impression he worked hard to project, having been taught

that the appearance of professionalism was crucial to the efficient exercise

of authority.

Oren loved his job, but it was not without its difficulties. Although

his training had prepared him for the usual tensions of police work―the

fear and anger and the difficulties of managing the sometimes conflicting

roles of caregiver and enforcer―his instructors could not help Oren

prepare for the problems unique to the reservation.

For one thing, the reservation’s governance structures were

impossibly complex, a product of the tribe’s tortured history. Oren was

employed by the St. Regis Tribal Council, the entity recognized (and

Storm Front 53

funded) by the United States government as the administrator of the

American side of the reservation.

However, to the degree the ten thousand members of the Mohawk

tribe remained a sovereign people―an area of great uncertainty―they

were led by the traditional Longhouse Council of Chiefs. The Council of

Chiefs did not recognize the division of Akwesasne into American and

Canadian sectors or the authority of the St. Regis Tribal Council, which

they viewed with hostility as a sort of Vichy Government.

To make matters worse, the Mohawk, like many Indian tribes,

were a people embittered by their status as wards of their conquerors, and

plagued by more than their share of social problems like unemployment

and alcoholism. The potential for anti-social behavior was high,

particularly among the Nation’s young men.

Oren was stuck in the middle. As a Mohawk, he respected the

authority of the Longhouse Council of Chiefs. As a realist, he recognized

that the tribe in many ways remained dependent upon the policies of the

United States and Canada. The Nation needed policing. And since the

only police force the United States was willing to sanction was one

answerable to the Tribal Council, he was their man.

Out of the village, Oren turned onto the two-lane highway that

traversed the reservation on its way from Massena to Malone. There, it

was more obvious he was on Mohawk land. The businesses that crowded

the highway, the gas stations, convenience stores, gift shops, liquor stores

and the like, had traditional Mohawk names for the benefit of passing

tourists.

Roadside signs reflected the tensions within Mohawk society. The

official greeting of the St. Regis Tribal Council bid visitors “Sekon”, and

asked that they drive safely while in the reservation. A short distance

away a larger sign defiantly asserted that various American

authorities―the FBI, IRS, and New York State Police among them―were

“not allowed”. This sign had been erected by a militant nationalist group:

Rotiskenrahkete, the so-called Warrior Society. Oren considered that

declaration inflammatory, but he basically agreed with its position―not so

much that outside authorities weren’t allowed, but that they had to work

through appropriate tribal channels.

The part that annoyed him was the sign’s closing statement:

“SECURITY ENFORCED BY ROTISKENRAHKETE.” Although some

of the Warriors were all right, others were just troublemakers or criminals

using the cause of tribal sovereignty to advance their own interests. In any

Johnson 54

event, they had no authority whatsoever. Oren had been told that the sign

must stay—an exercise of free speech―but he had made it as clear as

clear could be that no “security enforcement” by Rotiskenrahkete would

be tolerated on his watch.

Finally, Oren reached the clearest indicator that this was a late

twentieth century Indian reservation: casino row.

He turned the cruiser into the newly-paved lot of the Golden

Nugget. Despite its name, the Golden Nugget was stolid rather than

glitzy, a massive, windowless, three story, cinder block structure more

reminiscent of a warehouse than an entertainment emporium. The casino

didn’t open until four and the lot was mostly empty, with just a few cars

parked near the side entrance.

That suited Oren fine. He wanted a chance to talk to the people

who worked there without the distraction of customers. His mission was

simple. Find out why Rodney Boots had been in the Sportsman Inn in

Gilsum, New York on a snowy February night. Find out if Rodney knew

anyone who lived in the area. Find out if there was anyone who might

have wanted Rodney Boots dead.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rick liked to think that he could find the good in any man, but he

didn’t like the new mechanic from the minute he met him. There was an

evasive quality about him that started with his handshake, a half-hearted

offer of an unwashed paw accompanied by shifting eyes desperate to

avoid Rick’s, and continued with his face, weathered above but with

flabby cheeks pink-white where they had obviously been shaved for the

first time in a long time. Rick told himself he was being overly

critical―lots of people had lousy social skills and it was no crime if the

guy’d had a beard before he took the job―but a vague sense of dislike

remained.

Well, Nelson said the guy really knew his stuff, had even worked

on choppers in the Army and could help Rick there in addition to handling

the other vehicles, so hopefully it would all work out.

The new man―his name was Darren Latham―was a bachelor

who hailed from Malone, about seventy miles to the north, and was

moving into the other apartment above the six-car garage next to Rick.

Rick was fueling the chopper when Nelson brought him over.

“That’s a beauty,” the new man had said after introductions were

completed. He ran his hand appreciatively along the chopper’s sleek hull.

“A 222, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rick said without enthusiasm.

“I’ve flown a lot of Bells in my day, 206 JetRangers and

LongRangers most recently, but never a 222. Twin engine, right?”

Despite his misgivings about the man, Rick couldn’t help but be

intrigued. Latham did seem to know choppers.

“You’re a pilot?” he asked.

“No, not really. Not anymore. But I flew them in Nam, and

worked on them on and off ever since. I was a mechanic with GHS

Courier in Albany for ten years, until I got laid off.”

“Nam, huh? Hueys?” Rick wondered if the half-moon scar near

Latham’s left eye was a war injury.

Johnson 56

“You bet, but just about everything else the Army flew over there

too. Cobras mostly, but Chinooks and Choctaws, too. Even a Skycrane

once.”

“They’re wild.”

“Lifting a twenty ton half-track with one of those babies is an

experience, I’ll tell you. How about you?”

“I’m a Navy man, myself. Flew most of what they had too.

Seasprites, SeaKings, SeaStallions, SeaDragons. Never saw any combat

though.”

“A SeaDragon, huh? That must have been something. Those

things are huge.”

“Ninety-nine feet.”

Nelson cleared his throat.

“Yes, gentlemen. Well, I’m sure this is all very fascinating but I

for one have work to do. Rick, would you take Darren under your wing?

I’ve already briefed him and given him the basic tour, but I’m sure there’s

a lot more you could tell him.”

“Sure. No problem,” Rick said.

Later, after he had shown Latham around and helped him move his

few belongings into the apartment, Rick wandered over to the paddock.

Jim Flaherty was leaning on the fence watching a groom, the teenage son

of one of the resident families, saddle Texas Swing while another, also a

native son, held his head. Skittish, the horse stamped his hoofs and

fidgeted, his ebony coat gleaming in the morning sun.

“Saw you with the new man,” Flaherty said when Rick leaned

against the fence next to him.

“Nelson asked me to show him around.”

“What do you think?”

Benton shrugged.

“Hard to say.”

“I know what you mean. He’s a nervous kind of a fella.”

“Seems to know his way around an engine, though. Choppers

included. How’d Nelson find him all the way up in Malone? He see the

ad?”

“It was pure luck. A guy came by a couple of weeks ago looking

for work. Nelson told him the only thing open was the mechanic’s

position. The man said he wasn’t qualified for that, but had a buddy

looking for work who could definitely do the job. Well, you know how

desperate Nelson’s been to replace Marty. He said send the man by. A

Storm Front 57

couple of days later, this Latham fella shows up. I guess choppers is his

main thing, but he’s worked as an auto mechanic too.”

“That’s no drawback from my standpoint, as I guess you can

imagine,” Benton said, smiling. “He’s not going to make the snappiest-

looking chauffeur though. I wonder if the Lady Skolnick has seen him.”

“I asked Nelson about that. She hasn’t. But Mr. Skolnick told him

to just go ahead and hire him if he was qualified as a mechanic and that if

Mrs. Skolnick pitched a fit, they’d just hire a driver for when she’s here.”

“Harvey’s getting brave in his old age,” Rick said with a chuckle.

“But I wouldn’t put money on this guy lasting very long after Staci sets

eyes on him.”

“She’s a strong willed woman, she is.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

There was a break in their conversation as Flaherty instructed the

grooms to lead Texas Swing to the track and breeze him. He focused on

Rick again.

“Sarah’s coming by today, in case you don’t know.”

He regarded Benton appraisingly.

“Speaking of strong willed women,” Benton said with a rueful

smile. “No, I didn’t.”

“I get the sense she’s giving you a bit of a tussle.”

“I’m not sure what it is.”

“Well, forgive me for being a meddling old fool, but you know,

sometimes the best horses are the hardest to put a halter on.”

“You better not let Sarah hear you compare her to a horse or you’ll

be in some kind of trouble.” Rick grinned but grew serious. “Jim, I’ll tell

you. I just don’t know what the heck is going on with that woman. We

were going great guns, then all of a sudden she’s pushing me away.” He

shook his head in exaggerated dismay. “Women. Can’t live with ’em,

can’t live without ’em.”

“Oh, you can sure enough live with them,” Flaherty said. “I lived

with my Kate for thirty-five years and thanked the Lord each day that I

did. But then again, I wanted to.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning nothin’.”

“I think she just decided she doesn’t like me,” Benton said. He

grinned again. “I know it’s difficult to imagine.”

“A new experience, huh?”

“Well, I don’t want to brag.”

Johnson 58

“Yeah, well I think I’m beginning to see what the problem may

be.”

“Oh, come on. I’m just kidding. The thing of it is, though, she’s a

lot of fun and I really like her, but nowadays everything I do seems to tick

her off, like she thinks I’m a real jerk.”

“Hard to believe, a fella as modest and unassuming as you,”

Flaherty said dryly.

“All right. Make fun if you want. But still. At this point, I don’t

think I even want to see her.”

“Well, in that case you better clear out in a hurry, son, because she

should be here any minute now.”

CHAPTER NINE

Sarah stopped her car in front of the imposing gateway that marked

the entrance to the Skolnick estate: a gate of peeled logs between ten-foot

fieldstone pillars bridged by an intricate latticework of birch saplings that

spelled out “The Birches.”

Sarah got out of her car to push the button embedded in the left

pillar, remembering her first visit to The Birches the previous fall.

Sarah had been more than a little nervous that day although she

told herself she was being silly. Horses were just horses after all, no

matter how much they cost and no matter how many millions their owners

might be worth. On the other hand, Harvey Skolnick was Harvey

Skolnick and Sarah couldn’t help but be a little intimidated. She had

pushed the button feeling like Dorothy at the door to the Emerald City of

Oz.

“Yes?”

The voice didn’t sound like Jim Flaherty’s―she learned later that

primary responsibility for the gate rested with Nelson Algren, the estate

manager, who wore a pager activated by the pressing of the button.

She stated her business. The latch buzzed and the gate slowly

swung open. A paved drive wound several miles through open pine

woods until it reached a broad meadow surrounded by a rail fence.

Quarterhorses grazed in the lush grass of autumn against a background of

flame-colored trees. Not surprisingly, the stallion, Texas Swing, was not

among them. He would be corralled separately.

She followed the drive toward a cluster of log buildings with green

tin roofs that she thought must include the stables. Jim Flaherty was

waiting at the head of the drive to greet her. Standing next to him was a

lean, tanned man of about thirty-five wearing aviator sunglasses and a

Boston Red Sox cap. Jim came to her window.

“Hello, Sarah,” he boomed in that ingratiating fashion he had.

“Welcome to The Birches. You can park right over there.” Born in

County Cork, Flaherty still retained a light brogue.

Johnson 60

A track rat ever since she was a child, Sarah had met him at

Belmont Raceway when she was a teenager. They had quickly developed

a bond, and Sarah, having lost her father to a traffic accident when she was

only three, had come to regard Jim with almost filial affection—an

affection the childless Flaherty readily reciprocated. Since she had moved

north, Sarah had made a point of stopping to see him each year during

Saratoga’s August racing season.

Then this past summer he had told her he was leaving Dunston

Stables to come work at The Birches and suggested that perhaps she could

do some work for him. A few phone calls and an ostensibly formal

interview later, she had been asked to conduct a baseline assessment of the

horses’ condition, including that of the thoroughbred, Texas Swing.

She parked where Jim indicated and got out. The contrast with the

other farms she visited was startling. The stables and other outbuildings

were made of peeled and varnished logs with freshly painted red trim.

Instead of mud and manure, the stableyard was surfaced with a sandy

loam obviously imported from elsewhere. The tractors and other farm

equipment were neatly housed in open sheds. The overall impression was

one of lavish attention to every aspect of farm management.

Jim and the other man walked over, Jim giving her a hearty

handshake while saying, “Sarah, this here’s Rick Benton, The Birches’

resident hot-shot flyboy. There’s no real reason for you to meet him or

remember his name since when he does do any work around here it’s with

machines and not horses, but he insisted on meeting you.”

Benton’s handsome face colored at what was undoubtedly an

exaggerated description of his desire to meet her. More likely, Jim was

the one who had suggested Benton come meet her. Jim was always

kidding Sarah about becoming an old maid.

Sarah held out her hand and did her best to rescue Benton from his

distress.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Benton. My mother always told me it was a

sign of good breeding to make newcomers feel welcome.”

In contrast to Jim’s gnarled and calloused hand, Benton’s was

slender and smooth, its strength concealed beneath a genteel exterior. He

took off his sunglasses to reveal startlingly blue eyes beneath dark brows.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Benton replied in a light drawl, then with a

glance at Flaherty continued, “It takes good breeding to know good

breeding.”

Sarah did her best Southern accent.

“Ah you from the South, Mr. Benton? Or Texas perhaps?”

Storm Front 61

“Well, ma’am, I appreciate the compliment implicit in that

suggestion, but I am sorry to say that the only south I’m from is south

Boston.”

They all laughed and Flaherty said, “You know, there’s more

manure out here than in the stables so maybe that’s where we should go.

If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Benton?”

“Why of course, Mr. Flaherty,” Benton said. He swept his cap off

his head while executing a grandiose bow and said to Sarah, “A pleasure

ma’am. A pleasure. May you visit us often.” Sarah noted the dark hair

combed back from his high forehead in gentle waves that were now

pleasingly tousled.

Her initial nervousness forgotten or perhaps rechanneled into

giddiness, she held out her hand limp-wristed for him to kiss.

“Ah. A gift for parting.”

He took her hand and bent to kiss it, then said, while bowing and

backing away, “A thousand thanks for such a privilege, ma’am. A

thousand thanks.”

Then he had walked away.

On the hour-long drive back to Spencer, she’d had plenty to think

about. Without a doubt, it had been her best day since she had moved to

the Park and she could not restrain a sense of elation that made the road

seem smoother, the colors of the trees more vivid, and the sky a deeper

blue. A stud thoroughbred, and the probability of more to come, to say

nothing of the quarterhorses and other miscellaneous pets and livestock on

the estate. All to receive the highest levels of care. And best of all she

would be working with a man she genuinely liked. It was a dream

account.

Not only that but she had met a man, a handsome man with a good

sense of humor for whom she had felt an instantaneous attraction. A man

who came with a seal of approval from someone she trusted—she was

sure Jim would not have thrust Benton at her were that not the case. Of

course, an hour was a long way to drive for a date but assuming a

reasonable number of visits . . .

You’re getting ahead of yourself, Sarah, she had chided herself.

But still, it had been a red letter day.

Eight months later, the promise of that day had mostly been

fulfilled. Her working relationship with Jim was all that it could be, the

Johnson 62

account was steady, and her bills were paid promptly. As for that

handsome flyboy with the dazzling smile, well, the results weren’t in on

that. He was every bit as charming as she had first guessed.

He had asked her out on her second visit, and taken her to the

rustically elegant Lake Placid Lodge for dinner, a perfect venue for

romance, with its low ceilings and soft, warm lighting and walls and

pillars decorated with tree branches sparkling with tiny white lights. They

sat at a window table and gazed out at the lights on the lake’s opposite

shore, feeling cozy against the autumn air outside while they drank fine

wines and ate exquisite foods and talked and laughed.

He regaled her with tales of his childhood in a tough Irish

neighborhood, his days as a Navy flier, his disastrous and hysterical stint

at the University of Colorado, and his career as a ski bum cum instructor

in Vail. She told him about her life too, about growing up in suburban

New Rochelle north of the City, fatherless from a young age, but living a

normal childhood thanks to a strong and caring mother who’d dedicated

her life to her only child. Too normal, Sarah had said, and laughed and

claimed she was embarrassed that her life was so dull compared to his.

“I mean, sure, I went to parties and dated and all that, but mostly I

was a good girl and a good student.”

“Sounds mighty grim,” Rick said with a smile. “Is your mother

still in New Rochelle?”

Sarah’s eyes clouded.

“No, she died a few years ago,” she said. “It was the worst thing

that ever happened to me.”

“That must have been tough.”

“Well, I was no kid anymore, but yes it was. She was my best

friend. I still think about her all the time.”

“She must have been proud of you.”

“I think she was.” She smiled a bittersweet sort of smile. “I hope

she still is.”

“She is,” Rick said and reached across the table and put his hand

on hers. “I’m sure of it.”

Their eyes met.

“Thank you,” she said—and in that instant something between

them clicked.

By the time they’d taken their after-dinner drinks down to the dock

and stood gazing at the stars in the so-black Adirondack night, Sarah knew

this relationship could be a special one.

Storm Front 63

And it had been. They’d taken it slow, nothing but a light

goodnight kiss on her porch that first night, and on subsequent dates

letting things develop at their own pace. They’d dated regularly for

almost six months, and everything had been great. Although Harvey

Skolnick spent less time at The Birches in the winter―his wife absolutely

refused to come―Rick had access to the chopper frequently enough that

he was able to come to the Adirondacks on a fairly regular basis, flying in

to Oval Wood Dish Airport outside Tupper Lake where Sarah would meet

him.

Sarah was an avid outdoor enthusiast and so they’d taken

advantage of the activities the Park had to offer, hiking and cross-country

skiing and even camping one snowy weekend in November, Rick

participating enthusiastically in the end―there were, he discovered, some

very pleasant ways to keep warm in a chilly tent―although his own tastes

ran to less rugged pursuits. Other times, they’d engaged in more civilized

pleasures, flying to New York or Boston for a weekend, or dining at one

of the fine restaurants the Lake Placid region had to offer.

It wasn’t long before she found herself falling for him―hard. And

she was sure he liked her, too. But that was just the problem. She was too

vulnerable where he was concerned for just “liking her” to suffice. She

didn’t want to end up brokenhearted, another scalp on Rick Benton’s belt.

And she had the distinct sense that that was where quite a few women had

ended up before her. No, he would have to do better than that.

And so although it hurt her to do it, in the end she had pushed him

away, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would find out he needed her

more than he thought.

He was there with Jim when she drove into the yard.

CHAPTER TEN

Annie Crumb lived with her mother in a trailer on the county road

in Gilsum about four miles from the Sportsman Inn. The trailer was the

only thing Annie’s father had left her mother when he lit out ten years

earlier for parts unknown. Mrs. Crumb was a nurse and worked days at

the Adirondack Medical Center down in Saranac Lake. Creight knew she

wouldn’t be home at eleven in the morning.

Annie had just gotten out of the shower when he knocked. She

came to the door in a robe, tousling her hair with a towel. Creight grinned

as she peered at him between the frosted glass slats of the trailer door.

“Hi, Annie.”

“Creight.”

Her voice was guarded.

“Can I come in?” He grinned again. Annie was a cute little piece

of ass and this was one interview that might be fun. He liked small

women, liked the feel of them underneath him, so tiny and delicate, like

you could split them right apart if you were a mind to.

“What for?”

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“I think you know.”

“If it’s about the Indian, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the cops:

I got nothin’ to say. Now leave me alone.”

“You’re a tough little cookie, aren’t you?” Creight said.

“Tough enough.”

“I like that. Now, why don’t you let me in so we can discuss

things civilized like.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“You’re wrong. Now let me in.”

On an impulse he reached quickly for the door handle and

depressed the button. Too late, Annie reached to switch the lock. The

door clicked open.

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“Now look at that. Somebody forgot to lock their door.”

He opened the door and heaved his bulk up the metal steps and

into the trailer. Annie backed away, clutching the robe and towel to her.

Creight closed and locked the door behind him.

“There. Now we can talk. Shall we sit on the couch?”

Annie continued backing away, fear in her eyes. The sight excited

him.

“Creight, you get out of here.”

“But Annie, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Now, Annie, don’t play games. You know what about. Have the

cops been here?”

“Yes.”

“Since the letter, I mean.”

“Yes. Day before yesterday.”

“And?”

“I told them I didn’t know nothin’, just like you said.”

“Yeah, but that was before the letter. Didn’t they think that was a

bit suspicious?”

“Maybe so, I don’t know. But that’s what I told them. I said if he

was there, I didn’t notice.”

Creight considered that information.

“What’d they ask you?”

“What do you mean? They asked me if he was there.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. They asked me if I was on duty that night and I said

I didn’t remember. Then they said they checked with Les and I was, so I

said then I guess I was but I didn’t remember seein’ no Indian.”

Creight didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Annie had

somehow gotten control of the situation again.

“And what about the letter?”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t they ask you about that?”

“Yeah, they did. They asked me did I know who sent it.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not even a guess?”

Johnson 66

“I got no idea.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now, why don’t you get the hell out of my

house.”

“What are you bein’ so defensive about?”

“I’m not bein’ defensive. I just want you the hell out of my

house.”

“Does me askin’ you about the letter make you nervous?”

“Creight, I don’t know nothin’ about the letter.”

“I wish I could believe that. But I keep rememberin’ you huddled

up with that red nigger, makin’ eyes at him and such, and the big tip he

left you, and it makes me wonder.”

“Well, wonder all you want but get the hell out.”

“You see, Annie, it’s just that kind of thing that’s makin’ me

suspicious.” He took a step toward her. “Why don’t you try bein’ a little

more friendly?”

“Creight, stay away from me.”

“Why? You don’t like white men, only Indians?”

Annie had her back up against the wall by the door to the back

bedroom. Anders took another step toward her and held out his hand.

“Come on, now, Annie. Let’s you and me sit on the couch for a

while and see if we can’t get this thing straightened out. I’m sure you

don’t really want to make me suspicious.”

He took another step toward her.

“Creight, no.” She barely got the words out before he lunged for

her, moving quickly for all his size.

His grasp missed her but she slammed into the door frame in her

effort to escape and staggered. His second lunge got her around the wrist.

He pulled her arm up and twisted.

“Now let’s go sit down,” he said.

She relaxed and allowed herself to be led to the couch but as they

reached it attempted to jerk free. She failed. He grasped even tighter and

pulled her close to him then tried to wrestle her onto the couch.

Struggling frantically, she wrenched her right arm free and slapped

at his face with all the strength she could muster, once, twice, three times.

Anger exploded in Creight’s brain. The little bitch.

He raised his arm and struck, a solid punch to the face. Bitch. She

was screaming as blood spurted from her nose. He struck again, and then

again, his hand slick with her blood.

She was quiet.

Storm Front 67

He lowered her limp body to the couch. Stepped back and gazed

down at her. Her robe had fallen open to reveal her petite breasts and the

triangle of hair between her legs. She looked good even with her face a

little swollen and bloody, he thought. And he’d always liked them tiny.

He unbuckled his belt.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Billy Swamp had called the meeting for six, but by the time he

pulled into Brian Porter’s yard at five-thirty there were already a dozen

cars and trucks scattered across the stretch of dirt and weeds that passed

for Brian’s front lawn. He walked around the side of Brian’s new pre-fab

house past a gaggle of silently staring dark-eyed kids standing in the

shadow of a gleaming black satellite dish. Having come straight from the

Mohawk Castle Casino where he was head of security, Billy was still

dressed in the jeans, white shirt and navy blue sport jacket he wore in that

role.

The men were gathered in the open doorway of Brian’s oversize

sheetmetal garage, built to house the tractor trailer of some prior owner,

but now used mostly as a sometime meeting place of the Rotiskenrahkete.

On the side of the building, a large painting memorialized the “BATTLE

OF KANESATAKE”, a reference to a 1990 sovereignty dispute with

Canada that had left one police officer dead. It depicted a Mohawk

warrior standing on an overturned police car and brandishing an assault

rifle, with the inscription, “WARRIORS 1, CANADA 0,” arrayed like a

sporting event scoreboard below it.

Billy joined the group, greeting each man by name and trying to

assess the collective mood, feeling awkward with his short gray hair and

jacket. Most of the men were in their twenties and thirties, and were

dressed with aggressive casualness in ripped jeans and t-shirts and high

topped sneakers. Many wore their hair long. Billy could not help feeling

very “establishment” by comparison, although he knew he was generally

liked and respected.

The news that the New York State Police were investigating

Rodney’s death as a murder had swept through the reservation in the hours

since Oren Tebo had received his call. It wasn’t so much that Rodney

might have been murdered. Rodney had been a blowhard and hustler with

few friends and many enemies among the tribe’s members. His passing

had caused little regret.

Storm Front 69

But Rodney had been one of them, and there were two very

disturbing aspects to the report out of Tupper Lake. One, the distinct

possibility that the “massive blunt-force trauma” that killed Rodney had

been inflicted by a white or, more likely, whites. Two, the obvious fact

that the New York State Police had been all too quick to conclude that

Rodney’s death was accidental in the first place.

Rudy Cook, a thin man in his early thirties with a wispy mustache

and black hair shaved tight on the sides and hanging in a long braid down

his back, was talking excitedly with a knot of men to one side.

“It’s been a coverup right from the start,” Cook was saying.

“Indians will never receive justice at the hands of whites.”

“You think the police knew it was murder?” It was Wayne

LaFrance, one of the youngest members of the Warriors. Wayne had

graduated from the high school in Hogansburg two years earlier and was

now a short order cook at Connie Creek’s diner.

“How could they not?” Rudy snorted. “The coroner’s report said

he died of massive internal injuries. You saw Rodney’s car. You can

hardly tell it was in an accident. They must have suspected something was

fishy. And even if they didn’t, they should have. But they don’t care if

Indians get killed.”

Billy wondered where Rudy was getting his information. He was

going to have to speak to his sister Mary about that. Mary was the

dispatcher at Tribal Police headquarters and a good source of inside

dope―but he didn’t want her sharing it with just anyone, especially a

bigmouth like Rudy Cook.

“So why are they reopening the investigation now?” Wayne

persisted.

“Because they have to. Once they got that letter they had no

choice.”

“But why not hush that up too?”

Rudy gave Wayne a long look then said with barely concealed

impatience, “Because if they did, whoever wrote the letter would know it

and speak up.”

Wayne nodded.

“I guess you’re right.”

“There’s no need to guess. The only question is, what are we

going to do about it.”

“What can we do?” Brian Porter asked.

Johnson 70

“The first thing we can do is stop acting like a bunch of penned

sheep and start acting like Mohawk warriors. If we want justice we have

to go out and get it. We can’t sit back and expect a bunch of whites to

hand it to us. You would think we would have learned that by now.”

“How do we do that, though?” Harold Deer asked.

“How?” Rudy said. “We get off our fat asses and go down there

and find out what the hell happened.”

“What makes you think anybody will talk to us?”

“If we push hard enough, somebody will say something, I

guarantee it.”

“Could get ugly,” Harold said.

“It already is ugly,” Rudy said. “But at least we won’t be just

sitting back and taking whatever they hand us.”

From the nods of agreement that greeted the end of Rudy’s speech,

Billy knew it was going to be a difficult night. Much of what Rudy was

saying was right. Equipped with hindsight, it did seem hard to believe that

the car sitting in Rodney’s parents’ yard had been in a fatal accident. And

Billy agreed that a response by the Mohawk community was called for.

He was less sure that the Warriors were the right vehicle for that response.

As a young man in the sixties, Billy had left Akwesasne to join the

transplanted Mohawk steelworker community in Brooklyn. Working high

above New York City’s streets, he had developed a fierce pride in being a

Mohawk, a people who excelled at a profession requiring skill and nerve

in equal portions.

His stay in the outside world had also exposed him to the

radicalism spawned by opposition to the war in Viet Nam―a war he came

to see as just another chapter in the United States’ history of subjugation

of less technologically advanced peoples―and to Indian militancy in the

form of the American Indian Movement. He had manned the barricades at

Wounded Knee and established contacts with other militants, notably

Russell Banks, AIM’s founder (Billy was later instrumental in helping

Banks find sanctuary from South Dakota arrest warrants in Iroquois

territory).

Billy returned to Akwesasne a different man, one determined that

his people should no longer passively accept the mistreatment that had

been their lot since the coming of the whites. He had joined with a few

other like-minded young Mohawks to form the Warriors and in the

decades since had been at the forefront of the Warriors’ struggle for

Mohawk empowerment.

Storm Front 71

But privately, his zeal was fading―not for the struggle for tribal

dignity and prosperity―but for the recklessly confrontational approach the

Warriors frequently embraced. The Kanesatake killing had been bad. But

far, far worse had been the intra-tribal battles over gambling that had left

two members of the tribe dead and had led to the intervention of the New

York State Police. Billy had favored gambling as one of the only viable

paths for Mohawk economic success, but he understood the views of

those, including the Longhouse Council of Chiefs, who saw it as a

deviation from the very Mohawk traditions the Warriors sought to protect.

He did not feel violence was the proper solution to that debate and had

been horrified by the shootings.

And now that the tribe had casinos, he would like to see if the

prosperity they promised might provide a less destructive path to tribal

vitality, one more in keeping with the Great Law of Peace and the

teachings of Handsome Lake. It seemed to be working that way for their

brothers, the Oneidas. The Oneidas had money for schools, money for

land, money for hospitals, and jobs for tribe members.

In Billy’s view, this was not the time for a confrontation with local

white citizenry or police, particularly when the wheels of justice seemed to

be turning―however haltingly.

Billy searched for Loran Mohawk and spotted him leaning calmly

against the doorframe smoking a cigarette, wearing a sleeveless flannel

shirt and jeans, his long black hair tied behind his neck. To find Loran

alone and silent while others chattered excitedly was no surprise. Loran

was not a talkative man―but he managed to make his views known. And

once he did, more often than not the others fell in line. He was a good

ally, a bad opponent. Studying him, Billy wondered which he would be

today, but Loran’s chiseled features revealed no clue.

At five minutes past six, Billy called the meeting to order.

“We are here to discuss the news from Franklin County,” he

began. He was standing in front of a workbench cluttered with rusted

tools and engine parts. The men sat on wooden benches before him, with

the exception of Loran Mohawk and Simon Oakes who stood in back by

the now closed doors. Simon worked with Loran at JM Construction out

of Massena and was often Loran’s shadow, for some reason exempted

from Loran’s characteristic separateness. Loran at thirty-five seemed to

regard the twenty-five year old Simon like a younger brother. For his part,

Johnson 72

Simon idolized Loran and tried to emulate his every move―right down to

smoking the same Marlboro cigarettes. It was a relationship Billy envied.

“Earlier today, I spoke with Harold Powless,” Billy continued.

“He assured me that the Longhouse Council of Chiefs were evaluating the

situation to determine whether they should make some official response on

behalf of the tribe.”

The mention of the Council of Chiefs had been greeted by some

low hisses. Now, Rudy Cook stood up.

“The Council of Chiefs are a bunch of old women,” he said in a

loud aggressive tone. “We’ll be old too, before they make any decision.”

“The Clan Mothers would no doubt be interested to hear you

talking disparagingly of old women,” Billy observed dryly. In Mohawk,

as in all Iroquois culture, the Clan Mothers, the matriarchs of the

respective clans, were the source of ultimate power in that they designated

the males who would serve as chiefs.

“I meant no disrespect to the Clan Mothers,” Rudy said curtly.

“But you all know what I mean. If the Council of Chiefs had any balls we

wouldn’t need the Warriors. You know that better than anybody, Billy.”

“I still think we should wait to see what they decide,” Billy said.

“A response from the Council would carry more weight with the white

authorities than anything we might do.”

“I say the time for sitting around is over. Even if the Council does

by some miracle make a decision, what will it be? To write a letter urging

the New York police to make a thorough investigation? What will that

accomplish except to make the Mohawks seem foolish? This tribe was

once the fiercest of the Iroquois Confederacy, the Keepers of the Eastern

Door, feared and respected far and wide. Now what are we? The

Doormats of the Eastern Door.”

Billy had to smile at that one, although outwardly he remained

stern. Rudy was really rolling.

“Your wit is impressive, Rudy, but I hardly think you need to

lecture those present about Mohawk assertiveness. Personally, I’ve been

involved in the struggle to keep the traditions of which you speak alive

since you were in diapers.” Snickers greeted this remark. “The question

here is whether in this particular instance it makes sense to see what the

Council does before we do something. And although I too have been

frustrated by the old women on the Council,”―laughter again―“I say it

does.”

“But Rudy’s right,” Harold Deer said. “What can the Council

possibly do?”

Storm Front 73

Francis Benedict stood up. “What can we do?” Francis’ parents

owned the Bear Clan Gift Shop out on the state highway. Francis worked

with them, pumping gas primarily.

“We can go down to Gilsum and find out for ourselves what the

hell happened,” Rudy declared.

A chorus of “yeahs” greeted Rudy’s statement.

“Rudy, I heard you talking about this before,” Billy said. “I think

it unwise. The New York police are now investigating Rodney’s death as

a murder. Why not give that process a chance to work? Oren Tebo will

be working with them.”

“Oren should have been on top of this earlier,” Rudy said. “As

soon as Rodney’s car was returned.”

“You say that now, but I didn’t hear you saying it then. You also

say that the whites will talk to us if we push them hard enough. Maybe

they will. But more likely they won’t. More likely, they’ll be mad as hell,

just like we would be if a bunch of them came in here.”

“Who gives a damn if they get mad,” Rudy said heatedly. “I’m not

afraid of them.”

“It’s not a question of being afraid, Rudy―although a wise man is

afraid when there’s reason to be. It’s a question of bringing about a

situation that could easily result in violence with little chance of a positive

payoff.”

“You sound more and more like the clan chiefs every day, Billy

Swamp,” Rudy said. “Soon you’ll be telling us about Handsome Lake.”

“There’s much to be said for Handsome Lake’s teachings.”

Rudy snorted in disgust.

“Handsome Lake was a Quaker who turned Iroquois warriors into

women.”

“He wasn’t a Quaker,” Wayne LaFrance piped up in all innocence.

“He was just raised by them.”

“Right,” Rudy said. “And his teachings have more to do with

Quaker pacifism than the Great Law, although he pretended otherwise.

The Mohawk were never pacifists. They were warriors. And warriors are

what we’re supposed to be, too. I say, we go to Gilsum.”

The chorus of “yeahs” was even louder this time. Billy was losing

the battle. If only Loran would speak. Billy peeked hopefully at him over

the heads of the others―but Loran remained impassive.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Although Raymond Butler invariably awoke at three minutes

before five each morning, he arose at four thirty on the day of Blondi’s

second appointment with the veterinarian, Sarah Williams. He had slept

poorly, going to bed at one as usual, but awakening at three and lying

awake, mind racing, until he finally had given up on going back to sleep.

He was sure Williams was not the source of his restlessness, but

he’d been unable to help thinking about her for much of the time he was

awake, running through the different ways their encounter might play out,

what he might say, what she might say, where it might all lead. It was

natural, of course. He hadn’t had many relationships with women in

recent years, what with the service and then his work. Before then, in high

school, he couldn’t be bothered, the girls were such morons, into their

cliques and the “in” crowd and going out with jocks who couldn’t think

their way out of a paper bag. So dealing with a female was something a

little different, something to think about. It was only natural that a mind

otherwise unoccupied might turn to it.

She was attractive after all and he had healthy urges―even if he

didn’t have the fixation on female flesh most men seemed to have―so it

was only natural that once he did think about her, sleep would be hard to

come by, that he would lay awake imagining her full breasts and soft skin

and the secret place where her smooth thighs met and what it would be

like if she was his.

Unfortunately, in most of the scenarios he envisioned, she was a

rabbit-brained harlot like most women, eagerly spreading their legs for

men he wouldn’t give two cents for, and unable to recognize a superior

man even if one was right in front of them. It was too bad really. He

could show her a thing or two if only she were perceptive enough to

recognize what he had to offer.

But she wouldn’t be, he was sure―and so the slut had just cost

him a good night’s sleep for nothing.

Storm Front 75

He arrived in Spencer almost forty minutes early, feeling wired

from too much coffee and too little sleep, driving around the smug little

town to kill time. Down the main drag bustling with people beginning

another workday. Past the tidy homes maintained by tidy people with tidy

little lives, so eager to show they were good citizens, living exemplars of

the American dream. Mindless conformists. Persecutors of those who

dared to be different, who spoke the truth. They sickened him. Shattering

their complacency would be a pleasure.

She was at her desk in the inner office when he entered the

vestibule at two minutes to nine, Blondi at his side on a light leather leash.

He could see Sarah’s left arm and shoulder and bowed head with its

curtain of sleek golden hair through the open doorway. She finished

writing and came to greet him, a welcoming smile on her face.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “Right on time.”

She held out her hand for his, shook it, then bent to pat Blondi.

“And how are you doing, young man?” she asked.

For an answer, Blondi licked her hand enthusiastically.

“I see,” she said, as if he had given her a perfectly plausible

response.

She stood and smiled again. “Shall we go in?”

As he placed Blondi on the examining table, Butler realized he

hadn’t yet spoken a word. It was hard to, of course, with her chirping

incessantly, but he had to do better. She would think there was something

wrong with him―and he had sworn to himself on the ride down that he

wouldn’t let her throw him off balance. He would treat her just as if she

were a man.

Before he could think of what to say, she spoke.

“So what is it you do out there in Smyrna?” she asked. She was

standing with her back to him examining a chart she had picked off the

counter.

“Do?” The directness of her question threw him. What did she

mean?

She turned. “Yes, for a living—or are you one of those fortunate

independently wealthy types.” Smiling.

“No, not independently wealthy. Retired. From the Army.”

“Retired? You must have joined young.”

“It’s a disability retirement.”

Johnson 76

“Oh,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry.” Her tone was full of sympathy.

“Were you overseas?”

“Yes. Somalia.”

“That must have been terrible.”

“It was anarchy. And no one willing to put a stop to it.”

“We tried, I guess,” she said.

Her response annoyed him.

“We didn’t try. It was Viet Nam all over again. Our hands were

tied by the one-worlders in Washington and men died as a result.”

As soon as he spoke he regretted it. His tone was too harsh, the

term one-worlders ill-advised. For all he knew she was a flaming liberal.

For people like that, truth was poison and those who spoke it suspect. He

would have to be more circumspect.

She was studying him speculatively, obviously taken aback by the

vehemence of his response. She looked good with her hair loose, not tied

back like the last time.

“There did seem to be confusion about what we were trying to

accomplish.”

An intelligent response, if not particularly forceful. Not hostile

certainly. Maybe there was hope for her yet―with proper education.

“Confusion is a nice word for it. When American troops are

illegally subjected to the authority of foreign commanders and die because

of it, I call it murder.”

“Illegally?”

“It’s against the Constitution for our draft-dodging President or

anybody else to tell our troops to take orders from foreigners.”

“You mean the U.N. commanders?”

“Absolutely. It’s a violation of a soldier’s oath of loyalty. The

President’s too, for that matter―not that he would care about that.”

“I never thought about it that way.”

“It’s not surprising. They don’t want you to. But think about it.

Our loyalty is supposed to be to this country, not some global shadow

government we didn’t elect. Did you vote for those U.N.

representatives?”

“No.”

“Neither did I,” he said.

His words had impressed her he was sure. There was no reason

they shouldn’t. He was only stating the obvious. But still, many people

were too blind to see the obvious even when it was clearly laid out. He

Storm Front 77

was glad to see she wasn’t one of them―that her mind was sharp and

open to reason.

“I can tell you’ve thought about this a lot,” she said.

“I have. This country is very important to me.”

“To me, too,” Sarah said.

“Important enough to fight for?”

He gazed at her intently.

“If necessary, absolutely.”

“Well, someday it may be necessary―maybe sooner than you

think.”

“Let’s hope not,” Sarah said fervently. Then realizing she still

held Blondi’s chart in her hand, she said in a light voice, “Wow. That talk

got kind of serious. And here Blondi’s been waiting for us patient as can

be.” She ruffed his neck. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Blondi

wagged his tail.

She prepared a syringe, then turned back to the table.

“Now if you would just hold him . . .”

She grasped Blondi by the ruff of the neck, wiped his fur with a

cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol and gave him the shot. She then

released him, her hand touching Butler’s as she did. He flinched as if he

had received an electric shock, but quickly tried to recover.

Had she touched him on purpose? It had almost seemed that way.

He stared at her, but she gave no sign, merely prepared another shot.

He needed to say something, but what?

“So what do you do out there?” she asked over her shoulder. “Are

you married?”

“No.”

“The self-sufficient type, eh?”

“You could say that. Maybe I’ve just never found the right

person.”

“Well, keep looking. She could be right around the corner.”

She turned, syringe in hand. He looked at her sharply. Was she

flirting?

“My standards are very high,” he said.

“They should be. Mine are too.”

“You’re not married?”

“Nope.”

There was an awkward silence. Was there an opportunity here he

was letting slip away? She seemed to like him. Dating was impossible, of

Johnson 78

course―or was it? If he was careful, maybe it could be managed. But

what if he asked her out and she turned bitch and said no? The

humiliation would be unbearable.

She leaned forward, grasped Blondi’s neck, and gave him another

shot. Her hands never touched Butler’s.

He must have misread her. What a fool.

“So what brings you to the north country? Did you grow up

around here?”

Questions again, always questions. Why? There was no way she

was an agent, although he knew from past experience that they could be

anywhere. But her constant prying was disturbing nonetheless. Was it

really just innocent small talk?

“No,” he said.

“Smyrna,” she said in a contemplative tone. “Doesn’t it get lonely

up there?”

He examined her appraisingly. If she had ulterior motives, she was

a very good actress. She seemed for all the world like a woman just trying

to engage in polite conversation, and maybe stock up on the kind of gossip

women loved.

“I have my dogs and the forest. That’s all I need.”

“No people, huh?”

“People often disappoint.”

“Some do,” she said after a moment. “As you can probably guess,

I’m partial to animals myself—and it was the woods that brought me here

in the first place. So you have other dogs?”

“Yes. Three.”

“Shepherds?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope I can see them some time―and no that’s not a pitch

for business, although I guess it might have sounded like one.” She

smiled.

“Well maybe you will,” Butler said. “Maybe you will.”

After Butler left, Sarah thought about their encounter. All in all,

she decided, she felt sorry for him. He was definitely a bit of an odd duck.

Living alone in the middle of nowhere, wrapped up in his dogs and

avoiding contact with other human beings. People often disappoint, he

said, and she had sensed an anger there. He had been hurt, and not just

physically―although come to think of it she didn’t know if his disability

was physical or not―but emotionally. She remembered how his dog had

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been shot. That alone could certainly make anyone bitter. But she got the

sense it went deeper than that. Well, it took all kinds and one thing was

clear: he loved and cared for his animals and that was worth a lot in

Sarah’s book.

Driving home, Blondi curled up in the front seat beside him,

Butler’s mind was in turmoil. In an echo of his exertions the previous

night, he replayed their conversation again and again.

Was she attracted to him? Bottom line, yes. There was too much

evidence for him to be wrong. The touch, the questions about his marital

status, the suggestion that he might be lonely. And why shouldn’t she be?

Although many women seemed intimidated by him, the discussion about

the U.N. showed her to have a mind open to the truth, one that could

appreciate his own clarity of thought.

And on the other hand, he was a man, and a man needed a woman.

He had never really pictured himself in the role of builder of the new

world. In his visions of the glories to come he was always the warrior, the

leader, the man who ushered in the new order. What happened after that,

was never clear. He would ride off into the sunset like some Western

hero.

But Sarah had sent his thoughts in a different direction. It was,

after all, the duty of the new man to help father the new generation. And

what stock could be better than his for that purpose? If he could find a

woman worthy, one strong and clear-headed enough, it would be almost a

shirking of duty to fail to help repopulate a cleansed world.

Could Sarah be that woman? Sarah. An appropriately Biblical

name. And she was strong. And clear-headed. And with a skill that

would be very useful. Was she someone who might cleave to him when

the new day dawned?

It was an interesting thought.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The three pickups moved steadily southward on the winding two-

lane blacktop under a ceiling of gray cloud, passing first through rolling

cow and corn farmland then crossing the blue line into the forested

mountains of the Park. The trucks were nondescript, neither new nor old,

and unlikely to be noticed.

Their human complement was more striking, two men in each cab

and three or four back in the bed, all beardless or nearly so with black hair

and dark eyes, a cargo that in another part of the country might be taken

for migrant workers. However, migrant workers were uncommon in the

north country and there was an aspect to the men’s appearance that belied

that status in any event, an aggressiveness marked in the shoulder-length

hair sported by some, the camouflage garments of others―cutoff t-shirts

revealing tattooed biceps, army fatigue pants, and head covering

kerchiefs―and the baseball caps turned backward hip-hop style.

With Loran Mohawk’s belated support, Billy had at last succeeded

in convincing his fellow Warriors to wait and see if the Council of Chiefs

would act on the new information about Rodney Boots’ death. At a

minimum, he had hoped, that would buy him time―time to talk with Oren

Tebo and get more information, time to do more lobbying, time for hot

heads to cool. But the Council had betrayed him, acting with

unprecedented rapidity―to state that they would simply let the

investigations of the New York State Police run their course, a decision

most of the Warriors believed was driven by Rodney’s association with

the Warriors and the casinos whose advent the Council had bitterly

resisted.

Billy Swamp sat huddled against the wind in the back of the

rearmost truck, filled with misgivings. He had argued against the mission

once again, at great cost to his credibility. His counsel had been ignored,

the younger men unanimous in their conviction that an activist stance was

critical to the preservation of the tribe’s dignity.

However, on one point, perhaps the most important one, he had

prevailed. They were going unarmed―at least as far as long guns were

Storm Front 81

concerned. He was sure most of the men were carrying knives and if one

or two or three or more were carrying pistols that wouldn’t be exactly

shocking. But concealed weapons weren’t inflammatory and that was the

critical thing. Anything that could help reduce the risk of a confrontation

where things could go spinning out of control was to the good.

The lead truck slowed as it rounded a sweeping curve. Rudy

Cook, standing in the back, leaned over to the passenger side window

where Loran Mohawk sat, then waved his arm in a signal for the other

trucks to pull over. To one side, a mountain climbed steeply to the sky in

a fractured jumble of rock. To the other there was only open air and the

distant vista of the mountains marching off to the west.

Rudy stood at the end of the guardrail that divided the road from

the sky.

“This is the spot. The mile marker is right back there. According

to the police report, he was headed north, crossed the road, and went off

just before the guardrail.”

He plunged down the slope in a shower of bouncing gravel.

“He must have hit this tree,” he said, looking back up at the other

men. “The bark is messed up.”

He cast around briefly then climbed the embankment.

“It didn’t look like the tree had been hit very hard,” he said.

As the other men regarded him gravely, Cook walked fifty yards

down the blacktop, surveyed the scene, shrugged, then returned.

“Anything you want to see?” he asked Loran Mohawk.

“No,” Loran said.

Loran turned to Billy.

“Billy?”

Billy took a drag on his cigarette and shook his head.

“I guess we’ll move on then,” Loran said.

Jared Wright and Lon Bellard were sitting at the bar in the

Sportsman Inn near the window, their heads tilted back to see the TV

attached to the wall above them. Behind the bar, a beefy, florid man of

about fifty absentmindedly wiped a glass, eyes fixed on the screen.

A CNN retrospective on the O. J. Simpson trial and acquittal was

just concluding.

“All those millions of dollars just so those niggers could let that

scumbag go, when things could have been put right for the price of a

Johnson 82

cartridge if those cops had handled things right,” Jared Wright said,

frowning in disgust. “Thing is they were chickenshit, ’cause he’s a

celebrity.”

“Yeah,” his companion said, “We pay taxes so niggers can murder

white women and laugh at us.”

“Lon, when the hell did you ever pay taxes?” the bartender asked,

chuckling.

“I pay taxes, don’t you worry―every time I buy a goddamn

fucking thing.” He raised his glass and gulped at his beer.

“‘Course in a way, that whore got what was comin’ to her, fuckin’

a nigger like that,” Wright said.

“Yeah, you’re right there,” Bellard agreed. “But that don’t mean

that nigger should get away with murder. Besides, he killed a white guy,

too.”

“Yeah, but he was a Jew.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Name like Goldman, what do you think?”

Lon Bellard shook his head in wonder.

“Man, this country’s gettin’ fucked up.”

He swung around on his stool at the sound of truck doors

slamming.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.”

The men stared out the window in wonder as footsteps sounded on

the porch stairs and the Indians came streaming through the door, Billy

Swamp walking up to the bar as the others crowded in behind him.

“I’d like to speak to the owner, please,” he said to the bartender.

“You’re speaking to him.”

“I’m Billy Swamp. We are from the Akwesasne Mohawk

reservation.”

“I figured. Les Daly.” He held out his hand and Billy shook it

gravely.

“We’d like to speak with you about Rodney Boots.”

At the far end of the bar, Wright and Bellard exchanged glances.

Wright got up, threw a dollar on the bar and headed for the door.

“See you later, Les,” he said as the Indians moved to let him

through.

“Yeah, all right, Jared,” Daly said. He looked at Billy Swamp.

“Rodney Boots is the feller that got killed?”

Billy Swamp nodded.

“What do you want to know?”

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“Were you here that night?”

“No, I don’t generally work nights.”

“Who was working that night?”

Daly’s eyes drifted as he watched Jared Wright walk up to the pay

phone outside the general store and make a call. He frowned, then said,

“Why do you want to know?”

“We’d like to speak with them about Rodney.”

“Well, I don’t know. . .” Daly began.

“We know it was a woman named Annie Crumb, so there’s no

point in lying to us,” Rudy Cook interrupted from behind Billy’s shoulder.

Daly fixed a cold stare on Cook. Billy Swamp turned to look at

Cook too, frustration evident on his face.

“Who you callin’ a liar?” Daly said. He took a step closer to the

bar. The sound of a drawer being slowly opened was menacingly audible

despite the chatter of the television. At the end of the bar, Lon Bellard

stood up.

“He wasn’t calling anyone a liar,” Billy Swamp said quickly, with

a glare at Cook. “He’s sorry he spoke at all.”

Daly continued to stare at Cook who glowered back. Finally, Daly

turned back to Swamp.

“You seem like a reasonable fella to me,” he said, “so let me give

you some advice. I can understand your being concerned about the death

of your friend. And I know there’s been a ruckus stirred up by this letter

that was sent to the State Police. What it means, I don’t know. But the

cops are lookin’ into it now. Your best bet would be to let them do their

job. No good is gonna come of you paradin’ around these parts like

you’re doin’. People won’t take kindly to it.”

“But why didn’t anyone say Rodney was here?” Billy asked.

“I don’t know. I only know no one’s likely to tell you.”

“But someone sent the letter.”

“Yes they did and obviously they don’t want anyone to know who

they are.”

Daly and Swamp regarded each other.

Billy turned.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Rudy Cook started to protest but Loran Mohawk cut him off with a

raised hand.

“Billy leads here,” he said. “We go.”

Johnson 84

Jared Wright returned a short time later.

“They say where they’re goin’?”

He glanced down the bar to include Bellard in the question.

“No, they didn’t,” Daly said.

Bellard shook his head.

“The guys are comin’,” Wright said to Bellard. “Creight said to be

ready.”

“Now what are you guys gonna do?” Daly asked.

“We’re gonna make sure those Indians don’t go botherin’ people

around here anymore than they already have.”

“Why don’t you just leave ’em be?”

“We didn’t go driving up to their reservation did we?” Lon said.

“Besides you told them to get the hell out of here yourself.”

“I just gave ’em some advice is all. And I’ll give you the same,

same price. Just leave it be before you get yourself in a heap of trouble.”

“We’re not gonna get in any trouble. We’re just gonna see they

get home safe is all.”

“Yeah,” Daly said, “And Creight Anders is just the man to show

you how to do it.”

Wright and Bellard were standing out front when the men started

to arrive, Clay and Ronnie Brown first, then Charlie Stitchard, then

Creight himself.

Creight rolled down his window.

“You reach everybody?”

“I tried,” Ronnie Brown said. “Couple places there was no answer.

Ed said he couldn’t make it on account of his wife bein’ sick.”

“Fuckin’ pussy. Jared, you and Lon need guns?”

“No, we’re all right. We got some in our trucks.”

“Which way’d they go?”

Wright nodded down the road.

“Lon said they knew about Annie. We figure that’s where they’re

goin’.”

“We’ll find them,” Creight said.

The radio sputtered to life in Oren Tebo’s cruiser.

“Oren, there’s a call from the State Police in Tupper Lake,” Mary

Swamp said. “Lieutenant Garvey.” There was a hiss of static, then

Mary’s voice saying, “Go ahead.”

“Oren, you there?” Garvey asked.

Storm Front 85

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Oren, you missing some men up there?”

“Missing some men?”

“Yeah. Like maybe a dozen.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Oren said with a trace of

annoyance.

“I mean, I just got a call from the owner of the Sportsman Inn in

Gilsum, the bar Rodney Boots was allegedly in the night he died. He says

that a bunch of your boys were at the Sportsman asking questions about

Rodney Boots. Fellow name of Swamp’s doing most of the talking.

These guys official?”

“No.”

“You know ’em?”

“Could be. Swamp’s the head of the Warriors.”

“The guys that shot that policemen in Canada?”

“It was never proven who did it.”

There was a long silence while Garvey weighed Tebo’s response.

Tebo ended it.

“Lieutenant, you’re right to be concerned. Not so much with

Swamp, he’s a responsible enough guy. But if it’s the Warriors, some of

them can be hotheads. They armed?”

“If they were, they weren’t showin’.”

“That’s good. Look, I’ll get there as fast as I can, shouldn’t be

much more than half an hour.”

“There’s more. Daly says a couple of the local boys were in the

bar when these guys from the reservation showed up. He said they made

some calls and a bunch of them were going off after the Indians.”

“Great.”

“Best guess is your friends are going to see Annie Crumb. Daly

said they knew she was working there that night. I’ll send someone over

as soon as I can but there’s no one here right now. You might want to

head directly there. It’s closer anyhow. Any news, I’ll let you know.”

“Tell me where it is,” Oren said.

Sharon Crumb was in her daughter’s bedroom when the Warriors

arrived.

“Is that them, Mama?” Annie said. Her voice issued weakly from

her bruised and swollen lips.

Johnson 86

Her mother, an older version of Annie, stood and peered out the

window as the Warriors climbed from their trucks.

“Yes, honey. You just stay still. I’ll tend to them.”

She placed a cold washcloth on Annie’s head and walked out into

the living room. A twelve gauge shotgun leaned against the wall next to

the door. She picked it up and opened the door as Billy Swamp lifted his

fist to knock on it.

“You can hold it right there,” she said, holding the shotgun across

her body.

Swamp stopped and looked at her.

“The State Police warned me you were coming.”

“I’m Billy Swamp.”

“That don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

“Are you Annie Crumb?”

“Annie’s not here.”

“When will she be here?”

“She’s got nothin’ to say to you.”

“Are you her friend?”

“I’m her mother. Now, I’d like you to get off my property.”

“Maybe she would be willing to talk with us. We’re trying to find

out about the death of one our people.”

“I know what you’re doing and she’s got nothing to say.”

“But she was there that night.”

“Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t, but she’s got nothing to

say.”

“But why?”

“Mister, I told you to get off my property and I meant it.”

Billy Swamp stared at her with an expression of puzzlement and

frustration then with a quick gesture signaled the others to head back to

the trucks.

The sound of vehicles stopped them. They watched frozen as six

pickups raced into the clearing and came to skidding halts behind the

Indians’ own vehicles. The newcomers got out and sauntered toward the

trailer in a group, every man carrying a gun, Creight Anders at the fore.

They halted twenty feet from where the Indians stood, following

Anders’ lead.

“Well, lookee here, boys,” Anders said. “We found us a herd of

aborigines—or is it a flock?”

Billy Swamp made his way calmly through the Warriors, followed

closely by Loran Mohawk.

Storm Front 87

“Aren’t you boys supposed to be on the reservation makin’ baskets

or something?” Anders continued. “What’d they do, let you out for the

day?”

“We were hoping to get some information on the death of one our

people,” Swamp said.

“One of your people―you sound just like some kind of TV Indian,

you know that? Don’t he, men?”

There was a murmur of assent from behind him.

“Sure do,” one voice said clearly.

“Well, look, Cochise. You’re not gonna find out any—what was

that big word you used?―information around here so why don’t you all

just get your red asses back to the reservation where they belong. I’d ‘a

thought even aborigines could figure out that these parts aren’t too healthy

for your people. “

“We were about to leave.”

“You were, were you? Well, that’s good. What do you think,

boys, should we just let ’em put their tails between their legs and run?”

“White scum.” It was Rudy Cook. “Big men when they’re

holding guns.” He stepped forward to stand next to Loran and Billy.

Anders laughed.

“Guns? We don’t need no guns. Did you think we were gonna

shoot ya?” He laughed again. “Hell, I wouldn’t waste the lead. ‘Course

if we did, it’s not likely anybody would blame us, you comin’ down here

lookin’ for trouble and all and us findin’ you here harassin’ these

defenseless women.”

He gazed at Cook mildly, a smile still on his face.

“You seem like a tough guy―almost as tough as your dead friend.

Want to have a go with me, boy?”

Rudy Cook stepped quickly forward and stood defiantly in front of

the much larger Anders.

“Say the word, white pig,” he said.

But Anders didn’t. Instead, in a move too fast to follow, he swept

the stock of his rifle hard across Cook’s face. Caught completely by

surprise, Cook staggered back to the ground as blood spurted from his

nose.

The Indians surged forward as one, Loran Mohawk in the lead, but

Anders immediately pointed his weapon at them.

“Not so fast, boys,” he said loudly. “I’d hate to panic under the

onslaught of all you brave men and have to start firin’.”

Johnson 88

Billy Swamp had grabbed Loran Mohawk to hold him from

attacking Anders. Now Billy raised his hand in a gesture of restraint then

knelt quickly beside the still-stunned Rudy Cook. After examining

Cook’s face, he stood once more.

“So who’s next?” Anders said.

“You are,” said a female voice from behind the Indians.

All heads turned toward the sound.

Annie Crumb stood on the trailer steps, the shotgun pointed at

Creight Anders.

“You are,” she repeated. She walked stiffly down the steps, gun at

her shoulder still pointed at Anders, her diminutive stature making the

weapon appear huge.

The Indians parted as she lurched her way forward.

“You’re gonna get your fat ass off this property now or I’m gonna

fuckin’ kill you.”

There was a murmur, first among the Indians then among the

whites, as Annie’s battered condition became apparent, both eyes

blackened, her fair skin a patchwork of bruises.

Anders’ spread his hands out from his body in a supplicatory

gesture, his rifle clasped in one meaty fist. Annie walked until she stood

two feet in front of Anders and pointed the shotgun at his face, the end of

the barrel inches from his eyes.

“Do you believe me, Creight?”

Anders stared straight ahead, his fear evident.

“I asked you a question,” she said. “The question was, do you

believe I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off right here if you don’t get your fat

ass off my property.”

Anders nodded and said softly, “Yes, I do.”

“I thought you would. I only wonder why I didn’t already,” she

said.

She stepped back keeping the gun to her shoulder, the strain

making the barrel waver in a way that served only to make it more

menacing.

“Now get the fuck out of here and don’t ever come back. And that

goes for the rest of you worthless pieces of trash too.”

No one moved.

“NOW.”

The whites backed toward their trucks then climbed hurriedly in.

The yard was briefly a flurry of slamming doors, starting engines, and

backing and turning trucks and they were gone.

Storm Front 89

Annie lowered her gun, her exhaustion plain.

Billy Swamp came quickly to her side.

“Are you all right?” he said gently, putting his hand out to support

her.

She spun and knocked his hand away.

“Yes, I’m all right,” she snapped. “Now you get out of here too.”

Billy gazed at her for a few seconds before nodding as if in

agreement with her position.

“Let’s go,” he said to the Warriors.

The men filed slowly past Annie, peering at her as they went by,

even Rudy Cook with his torn and bleeding nose covered by a hand.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” Annie said, as they climbed into the

trucks.

The Indians watched in silent tableau as Annie limped back to her

mother and together they entered the trailer. Then at a nod from Billy, the

men moved once more. In a few minutes, they too were gone.

Oren switched on his roof flashers and slowed to a halt as the

trucks approached. Simon Oakes was driving the lead vehicle. Beside

him, Rudy Cook sat holding a blood soaked cloth to his face. Loran

Mohawk stood up in the back as Oren got out of his car.

“What happened?” Oren asked Loran, gesturing at Rudy Cook.

“He got hit in the face with a gun.”

Oren frowned.

“Is Billy here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” Loran said.

Billy hopped out of the rearmost truck.

“What the hell is this, Billy?” Oren said when Billy reached him.

“We came to get some answers to some questions.”

“Looks like you got some. Who did it?”

“Don’t know. A big guy. He and a bunch of others showed up

when we went to talk to the woman who was tending bar the night Rodney

died.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll live.”

Oren looked at Rudy Cook who sat watching from the cab.

“Too bad. Where you taking him?”

“The Medical Center.”

“At Akwesasne?”

Johnson 90

“Yeah.”

Oren nodded his agreement with that plan.

“Of all the stupid moves,” he said to no one in particular. “You

know, Billy, this surprises me. I thought you were smarter than to pull

this kind of stunt.”

“There are questions that need answering.”

“Oh, and you’re just the guys to get them.”

“No one else seems to be.”

“Yeah, well why don’t you give things a chance instead of going

off half-cocked.”

“Rodney died months ago.”

“That’s right, but there’s been new developments as you all know.”

“The white police don’t care about a dead Indian,” Rudy said, his

voice laughably nasal.

“Even if that were true, I do,” Oren said.

“But you have no power here,” Billy said.

“I have more than you.”

“The man who hit Rudy spoke as if he had met Rodney.” It was

Loran. “He said Rudy seemed like a tough guy, as tough as his dead

friend.”

Oren glanced at Billy who nodded.

“All right,” Oren said. “Simon, you head out and get Rudy to the

hospital. Rudy, I’ll stop by later and get a statement so we can file a

complaint. If nothing else, it may help us get a little cooperation from this

guy. Loran, you and Billy stay for a minute and fill me in on what

happened. Then you’re all going home, no stops, while I go down to

Tupper Lake to talk with the State Police.

“Now, what did this guy look like?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I’m not staying.”

Harvey and Staci were in the library, the light of late morning

cascading through the floor-to-ceiling windows in massive shafts of mote-

filled light. With its book-lined walls, deep leather chairs, and modestly

proportioned fireplace, the library was Harvey’s favorite room at The

Birches. He would often retreat there after Davey and Staci were in bed

and spend a self-indulgent hour perusing rare tomes from Fripp’s

collection in the soft glow of the fire, a brandy on the Oriental side table

beside him.

He frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of it. Because it’s d - u - l - l, dull.”

She took another gulp of her martini and pulled a volume at

random from the shelf beside her, a signed first edition of Cooper’s Last of

the Mohicans. She glanced at it briefly without opening it and put it back.

“But Davey loves it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You always said you liked it up here.”

“When there are people here.”

“Your friends were just here.”

“And now they’re gone. So now what am I supposed to do, watch

birds?”

“No, our son.”

“You know, it’s always the same old song. I’m supposed to

babysit while you go gallivanting all over the world. If you’re so

concerned, you stay here with him.”

“I’m not going all over the world, I’m going to Mexico City. And

I have to go. You don’t decline a personal request from the President.”

“What does he need you for? He can’t find someone else to play

golf with him?”

“We’re not going to play golf. It’s a world economic summit.

You may find this difficult to comprehend, but he values my advice.”

Johnson 92

“Values your campaign contributions, you mean. So fine, go. But

I’m not staying here.”

“But you promised.”

“You promised,” she mimicked. “Well, I’ve changed my mind.”

“But you agreed it would be best for Davey.”

“Fine. He can stay here with Bridget.”

“But he needs you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Staci, I don’t understand you. He’s your son.”

“I know. But I’m still a young woman and I mean to enjoy my

life, not waste it in some Boy Scout’s wet dream of a log cabin with a

bunch of moth-eaten animal heads staring at me all day. We have servants

for that.”

“But couldn’t you at least stay until Oliver gets here?”

“Oliver Slade?”

“Yes, he’s coming for the week. Remember?”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Davey needs friends.”

“With your money, he’ll have plenty of friends, don’t worry.”

“That’s just it. He needs to find out what friends are now, before

the kids are old enough to understand the money.”

“Harvey, you’re such a drip. That’s the whole point of money.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure I know what the point of money is

anymore—but I’m sure it’s not that.”

“Jesus, here we go. Harvey Skolnick, billionaire hippie.”

She finished her drink with a gulp then walked over and pushed a

button embedded in the paneling next to the fireplace.

“What about Lisette? Can’t she come keep you company while

I’m gone?”

“With everyone out in Southampton? Why would she come here?”

“Because she’s your friend?”

“I wouldn’t even ask her. Besides, the point is, I want to be in

Southampton too. And why shouldn’t I be? What’s the point of having a

house out there if we don’t use it?”

“We will use it. You’re going to be there all of August. But we

agreed that it would be good for Davey to spend some time away from all

that.”

“Well, I’m not staying.”

A discreet knock came at the door and a maid stuck her head in.

Storm Front 93

“Bring me another,” Staci commanded. “And not so much

vermouth this time.”

The maid withdrew.

“Aren’t you starting a little early?” Harvey asked.

“What else is there to do?”

Harvey took a deep breath as if summoning up the strength to be

patient.

“Staci. Please. I’m begging you. Just stay here with Davey and

be a mother to him until I get back. One week. I’ll make it worth your

while.”

Staci regarded him with interest. “How?” she said in a sulky

voice.

An hour later, Staci was awakened from her nap by the sound of

the helicopter roaring to life outside her window. Grabbing what was left

of her drink from the nightstand she walked to the window and watched as

the helicopter lifted slowly off the ground. Just outside the circle of

flattened lawn created by the whirling blades, Davey stood with Bridget,

his hand in hers and both of them waving frantically. A white hand

appeared behind the window of the chopper, waving in return, then the

chopper tilted and swung away to the south as Staci raised her drink in a

silent toast.

She found the new mechanic with his head under the hood of the

Land Rover. Refreshed by her nap, she had showered then put on a pair of

short white shorts that showed her long, smooth legs to good advantage

and a white blouse that she knotted under her breasts to let the tanned skin

of her midriff show―skin that to Staci’s great relief showed no stretch

marks from her pregnancy. A pair of open sandals finished the ensemble.

“You must be the new man,” she said by way of introduction.

Although he’d started two weeks earlier, with her friends here she hadn’t

had the chance to check him out.

Startled, Darren Latham―aka Daryl Higley―scrambled out from

under the hood and stood blinking in the light while wiping his hands

nervously on a greasy rag.

Staci took a slow sip of her drink. He wasn’t much to look at, with

crudely chopped graying red hair, pig-like eyes set in a fat face, and a

body like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Not like Marty, his predecessor, a

green-eyed, dark-haired stallion who’d made love like a jackhammer, but

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who had ultimately become a problem, insisting that she tell Harvey they

were in love and ask him for a divorce―as if she would ever even

consider leaving Harvey for a man with nothing but a sexy body.

“Yes, ma’am,” the man said. His eyes met hers briefly before

darting away to settle on the ground at his feet.

The man was not at all what she had hoped for, a real peasant, too

intimidated to even look her in the eye. And if there was one thing she

didn’t like on a man, it was a beer belly.

Still, teasing a loser like him might be fun. Would he actually

believe that she would let him make love to her? She took a step closer.

“You know I’ve always wondered how you tell what’s what under

there,” she said, gesturing at the engine compartment with her drink. “I

mean, it just seems so complicated.”

She took another step and stood facing him across the expanse of

the Land Rover’s engine, rhythmically swaying forward to bump against

the fender with her hips as she surveyed him over the edge of her glass.

She was gratified to see him looking at her now, almost as if it was against

his will, his eyes fastening on her legs, her breasts, her

stomach―anywhere but her eyes―before he jerked them away.

Yes, this might be fun.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The white house three miles out on Pittman Road is a late

nineteenth century survivor like many others in the region, with clapboard

siding and multi-paned windows, a wooden porch, and tin roof painted

silver. What sets it apart and impresses is its orderliness. The paint is

fresh on both walls and roof, the lawn is well-manicured and devoid of the

usual detritus of backwoods living—no rusted cars or farm equipment or

old tires—and the barn, also white, is in good repair, its sliding doors shut

and padlocked.

There are no gardens, no flowers. The only sign that the house is

lived in are the four chainlink kennels which stand at the woods’ edge.

Three of these are occupied—by massive black and tan German Shepherds

who begin barking excitedly when you drive your white minivan slowly

into the yard. The fourth is empty, its door ajar.

As you climb out of your car, your wife says, “Don’t forget to ask

if there’s a McDonald’s or something like that where we can eat.”

Acknowledging her with an impatient nod, you approach the house,

somewhat tentatively to be sure, because you’re sure now this isn’t the

house you’re looking for and you have after all ignored numerous Keep

Out signs and opened a shut gate to get here and you don’t know where

the occupant of that fourth kennel might be.

Halfway across the lawn she honks the horn and you cringe and

turn to see her shooing you forward with her hands and you resolve once

again that as soon as the kids are through college or even maybe as soon

as little Timmy, the youngest, is safely enrolled and away as a freshman,

you’ll divorce that woman. But for now you keep on.

Up the wooden steps of the porch, you notice first that the front

door is not the wood and etched-glass affair one might expect on a house

of this vintage, but a solid, steel-reinforced one of recent origin. You then

notice the alarm fittings on both doors and windows. The shades are

drawn. The dogs are in a frenzy now, leaping onto the sides of their

kennels. You are relieved to see that despite their frantic efforts, they fall

well short of the top of the eight foot fence.

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There is no bell, so you knock―but the only answer is silence.

You knock again then look back at your wife and shrug, hands out from

your sides. In the back seat behind her, the kids are acting up. It occurs to

you to walk around back, but as quickly as the thought comes, there comes

another―leave. Walk back to your car, get in, and drive away. You’ll

find your way back to civilization soon enough.

You hesitate a few seconds more, trying to tell yourself that the

unease you feel is just foolishness, a case of the vapors, but the feeling just

keeps growing, a wave swelling as it moves to the shore, until finally it

crashes around you, undeniable now.

Down the steps and across the lawn you try not to hurry―a grown

man on a sunny June day―but you do anyway, feeling somehow naked in

your polo shirt and khaki shorts and deck shoes with no socks.

And when you drive away and the neat white house and barn and

well-groomed yard are swallowed once again by the trees and the sound of

the dogs fades in the distance, you feel a sense of relief you’d be hard put

to explain.

Inside the darkened house, Raymond Butler watches the minivan

drive away through the viewing port masked by the letter holder to the

right of the door. He is holding an HK MP5 nine millimeter submachine

gun with a 30 shot banana clip. He flicks the safety on and visibly relaxes

from the taut state of readiness he has been in ever since your minivan

pulled in the drive.

He feels fairly confident there is no danger, that you are just what

you appear to be: a lost sheep who has wandered into the lair of the wolf.

Although the agents of ZOG are ruthless, he knows there is no protocol

that would permit the use of children in a potential free-fire situation. And

they were children, not midgets. He had made sure of that, scrutinizing

them carefully with his Zeiss binoculars.

He is glad. Although he is prepared and indeed expects to die in

violence, he did not want it to be this day when so many of his plans

remain unfulfilled. Leaving the gate unlocked in anticipation of Creight

Anders’ arrival was a mistake, one Butler will not repeat. Let the fat slob

walk, it will do him good.

He walks to a wall on which hangs the only artwork in the house, a

framed print of Jesus on the cross―hands and feet bleeding, eyes lifted to

heaven, pure white skin pale in the extreme of his agony.

A man’s voice. His father’s. On his knees before this very picture

in the front room of their cabin in Missouri. His mother looking wan and

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worn beside him. Both with their eyes shut and hands clasped in front of

them.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .”

Ten year old Ray was supposed to have his eyes shut too, but he

was tired of praying. They’d been praying all morning. For Bobby, his

little brother. Bobby and Ray had been playing in the junk cars by the old

Bassett place the week before, and Bobby had cut his leg open on a rusted

fender. It was Ray who pushed him, but he told Bobby he’d hurt him bad

if he told, so their parents thought it was an accident. Ray never told them

any different, even afterwards.

His mother had washed and bandaged Bobby’s leg and it seemed

like everything would be all right, but the leg had swollen and turned

purple and Bobby kept moaning and got the fever. They’d prayed and his

father lanced the swelling with his hunting knife, but the leg hadn’t gotten

better. And then his father had said it was in the Lord’s hands and they’d

started praying almost round the clock, with hardly even a pause to eat.

But it did no good. After a few days, the good Lord had taken

Bobby unto his bosom to be with Sissy in heaven and they’d buried his

body out back next to hers.

Later, there’d been other voices, and other trials and tribulations, in

the courtroom where his mother and father sat at a table in front with the

lawyer from Legal Aid while the Jew prosecutor with his three piece suit

paraded in front of them, performing for the jury like a monkey.

“Murdered, ladies and gentlemen,” he had said. “Murdered, by

criminal neglect, by a cold-hearted refusal to seek medical care for an

injured child. Like his poor diabetic sister before him. Sentenced to death

by the parents whose duty was to protect them. They say they were

following the Lord’s Word. They’ve cited Scripture they say supports

them in this evil. But where in the Bible does it say that parents should

watch their children die in agony without lifting a finger to help them?

You are good, God-fearing people. You read the Bible. Where does it say

that? I’ll tell you where: nowhere.”

And when the Jew was done filling the room with his lies, Ray’s

parents had been taken away to die broken and alone in their persecutors’

jails―crucified for their refusal to annul the judgment of God.

Ray had taken the picture from foster home to foster home and

found solace in it when the beatings and the gropings in the dark had

come, found strength in his terror and loneliness in the image of another

who had suffered―and risen to triumph in the end.

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Now he keeps it where he can see it often, a constant reminder of

debts to be repaid.

He fumbles with a molding on one side, and pulls the wall toward

him on concealed hinges. Glaring light leaps out from behind the

widening gap, illuminating the drab furnishings in the living room behind

him: a threadbare couch, a wooden chair, a powerful-looking radio

transmitter/receiver on a wooden table. He enters the light, pulls the wall

shut behind him, and the room descends into gloom once more.

The contrast between the shadowy desolation of the outer rooms

and the bright clutter of Raymond Butler’s inner sanctum is startling.

The “safe room” is approximately ten by ten. It is furnished with

an overstuffed chair with a standing lamp beside it and a work table with a

high stool. A large metal and plexiglass box filled with purple light sits on

one end of the table. On the other end, an open case the size of a briefcase

contains four semi-automatic pistols held to egg-crate foam cushioning

with Velcro straps. Two more cases sit closed on the floor. The walls

next to the table hold an impressive array of automatic rifles, combat

shotguns and submachine guns supported on pegs, almost two dozen in

all. In one corner, stands a steel cabinet, its doors ajar to reveal cases of

ammunition and other types of ordnance, hand grenades chief among

them.

In the corner behind the chair is a trapdoor to the cellar. There,

stacked neatly in the darkness against the stone walls, are boxes of canned

and dried foods, plastic barrels filled with water, and camping equipment

of every type and description. There are also wooden cases holding more

weaponry, half a dozen rocket launchers, several dozen Claymores with

wire and detonators, and even a flame thrower. Things he’s been

accumulating for years. He has more, lots more, in storage sheds all over

the country. In the corner, a dehumidifier hums softly, a generator sitting

quietly beside it, at rest for now.

Back upstairs, Raymond wipes the MP5 with an oiled flannel cloth

and pats it companionably before putting it back in its place on the wall.

Though he has weapons from many countries of origin, it is the German

ones that hold the warmest place in his heart (although even he would

have to admit that there were some better, for certain tactical situations at

least). The efficiency and strength of the great German nation seemed

embodied in their gleaming black surfaces, the nation that had produced

both the greatest armies and leader this world had ever seen. An M-16

like he’d used in the Somalia clusterfuck was a good enough

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weapon―he’d killed his share of negroes with them―but it just didn’t

have the menacing romance of a well-oiled G3.

He takes his seat at the table. A framed photograph of Adolf Hitler

stares down from the wall. It is surrounded by dozens of yellowing

newspaper and magazine clippings, reports from the front. Some are

good―MILITIA ENROLLMENT UP 200%; BURNING OF BLACK

CHURCHES CONTINUES; GAY SAILOR MURDERED; SENATE

SLAMS UN―others not―BRADY BILL PASSES CONGRESS;

MCVEIGH RECEIVES DEATH PENALTY; BRANCH DAVIDIANS

DIE IN INFERNO―but overall he is encouraged. Things are changing.

Patriots are rising to repudiate the New World Order.

On the floor beside him, a German Shepherd puppy rouses briefly

from sleep. He leans down and pets it, then lifts a small aluminum

canister out of the carton he picked up at the post office that morning.

Donning a pair of wire rimmed reading glasses, he reads the bright yellow

warning label one more time then carefully unscrews the lid and removes

a foam pouch. In the pouch is a glass ampule wrapped in bubble pack. He

raises the ampule to the light and studies it. The ampule is partially filled

with a greenish brown substance with the consistency of flour. Bacillus

anthracis. Bacillus anthracis spores to be exact, freeze-dried and sealed

under nitrogen. So harmless in appearance. So deadly.

Although he knows there is no risk with the ampule sealed, he

unconsciously rubs his arm at the spot where he received the vaccinations.

The vast Army patriot underground had come through again: a few quick

visits to a sympathetic Medical Corps technician over a period of several

months was all it took. The vaccinations were routine now for personnel

being shipped to areas where biological warfare was considered a threat.

He shakes his head in wonder.

So deadly―and so easy to obtain. Some letterhead for “The Small

Animal Microbiology Laboratory” dummied-up on a desktop computer, a

signed statement accepting all risks, and a money order for $180 and he

was on his way. Unbelievable. It was harder to buy a pistol.

There was more work to be done of course. Tricky work, although

the Terrorist’s Cookbook he’d ordered from American Patriot magazine

calls it child’s play.

He dips the ampule in a beaker of bleach to kill any bacteria

adhering to it and carries it over to the metal and plexiglass box. A flick

of a switch on the back of the box shuts off the ultraviolet sterilizing light.

Before he was interrupted, he had placed the implements he will need and

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four agar-filled petri dishes inside. Now, he opens a door in the side of the

box, and places the ampule inside. He shuts the door.

It is time. He places his hands into the long-sleeved gloves that are

attached to and penetrate the box through its front wall. Leaning over to

see through the viewing window, he grasps the ampule with his left hand.

The gloves, though thin, feel clumsy and he is glad that he has practiced

with them in anticipation of this moment. Reaching now with his right

hand, he grasps the elongated tip of the ampule, carefully snaps it off, and

places it to one side. He then lifts a bottle of deionized water and adds a

few drops to the powder, swirling the ampule gently to mix in the fluid.

When the spores are in suspension, he picks up an eye

dropper―struggling to get his cloaked fingers around it at first but finally

succeeding―inserts it into the ampule, and withdraws a portion of the

fluid which he applies to the agar in one of the dishes. He repeats the

process until all four dishes have been inoculated and the ampule is empty,

then places the lids on the petri dishes.

That done, he withdraws his hands from the gloves and stretches

his neck and back to relieve the strain of concentration. Step one

complete. He cannot repress a sense of satisfaction, although there is

much more to be done.

Incubate the spores at 98 degrees to produce starter bacteria

cultures (he has an incubator set up in the basement). Transfer the culture

to twenty liter carboys filled with BHI (brain/heart infusion) liquid culture

medium (purchased from the same supply house where he’d gotten the

glove box). Allow the bacteria to multiply and sporulate. Decant the

supernatant fluid and allow the spores to dry. Grind the spores into

powder.

Tricky work―and scary work too, even with the vaccination and

the glove box. He’d done some munitions work in his short stint with the

Rangers―before that nigger-loving Colonel fucked him over. He was

going to approach this work the same way: with extreme caution.

But once it was done, the fun could start. Just pick a dry breezy

day with no rain in the forecast, and the cleansing would begin. After

sunset was best so the sun’s UV rays wouldn’t degrade the spores. East

side, west side, all around the town. Times Square. Greenwich Village.

Wall Street. The Upper East Side. Harlem. The Bronx. Rich man, poor

man, beggar man, thief. You couldn’t go wrong. They were all scum.

Of course, they’d catch on sooner or later. But it would be too

late. Thousands dead in as little as a week. Thousands more deathly ill,

skin pustulated, lungs clogged with phlegm, brains fried by fever.

Storm Front 101

Thousands of niggers, Jews, and homos dying in agony along with their

liberal white collaborators. It was almost too easy. That it hadn’t been

done before was a testament to the extent to which the minds and spirits of

once free Americans had been enslaved by their Zionist masters.

And all from one little ampule of Bacillus anthracis. He wishes he

could have risked ordering seven, like the seven vials of God’s wrath in

the book of the Revelation. That would have been fitting. Because wasn’t

that what it was all about? God’s work? The fight for righteousness

against those who were damned in the eyes of God?

And he was God’s angel.

Operation Sodom. He smiled. The code name was silly of course.

Only he knew of his plan. The fools in his little militia would never have

the imagination and strength of will to carry out an operation of this

significance. For them, an operation like Shylock was a big deal.

No, Operation Sodom was a solo mission. A holy mission. One

God, One Race, One Nation.

Amen.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The pasture was hung in darkness. From milky pools of mist that

filled the hollows, wraiths slowly rose and formed then broke free to twist

and drift in obedience to currents too subtle for corporeal beings to sense.

At the edge of the pasture, the darkness was at its thickest, the pale

light of the stars completely without effect. And yet from that darkness

came something darker still, or rather two somethings, two figures that

moved stealthily to the rail fence that marked the pasture’s boundary.

A horse nickered down by the barn, breaking the silence.

“Do you think we can take the goggles off?” came a whispered

voice.

“Yeah, it’ll be getting light soon anyway.”

There was a shuffling in the darkness as the two men removed the

unwieldy nightvision goggles.

“Those things are hot,” said the first voice.

“Bunch of bullshit. Butler and his fuckin’ toys.”

There was a silence, then the first voice said, “I don’t see no light.”

“Me neither.”

There was another shuffling sound.

“It’s four-fifteen. If he was gonna signal he shoulda done it by

now.”

“I guess we’re a go, then.”

“I reckon so.”

“You nervous?”

“Fuck no. This’ll be a piece of cake.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. No problem. Why? You scared?”

“No, it’s not that . . .”

“Good, let’s go then―before you start pissin’ in your fuckin’

pants.”

Storm Front 103

Fifteen minutes later, the two figures appeared under the stairs at

the side of the garage. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten and

the barns and other outbuildings stood in dark silhouette.

“No lights,” said the first man.

“That’s good. But where the fuck is Higley?”

“Right here, Creight.” A third figure separated itself from the

darkness. “Hi, Charlie.”

“Cut the fuckin’ chitchat, asshole,” Anders said. “Everything set?”

“Yeah. Benton’s in his room.”

“You give it to him?”

“Drank one glass. Couldn’t get him to drink any more.”

“How about the old man?”

“The fuckin’ lush drank most of a bottle. He’ll be out till

tomorrow. Benton’s the one we gotta worry about.”

“Nobody else around?”

“The mother and nanny at the house. Everybody else is at the

servant’s compound, half a mile away. We move fast, they’ll be no

problem.”

“The chopper ready?”

“Yup.”

“All right. Let’s pay Mr. Benton a visit.”

Rick Benton rolled over groggily, eyed the dim light outside his

window and then the windup alarm clock on the orange crate that served

as his nightstand. He groaned inwardly. He felt like shit.

He never should have had that wine Latham had brought over. He

didn’t drink wine as a rule, he was more a beer and whiskey man, but if he

was going to drink wine he wouldn’t drink heavy cheap stuff. But Latham

had said it was his birthday and he was feeling alone and blue and Rick

felt a little guilty about not liking him for no good reason and so had

agreed to have a glass.

Now he was awake―or at least in some foggy state of

consciousness―two hours early with a head that felt as if it was wrapped

in burlap. Amazing what one glass of lousy wine could do.

Sitting up cautiously in deference to his throbbing head, he put his

feet on the floor and gathered himself for a trip to the john―and felt

something hard and cold gently kiss his left temple.

“Move again and you’re dead, asshole,” a voice said.

Johnson 104

Rick froze while his brain scrambled to make sense of his

situation.

“Should I put on a light?” a different voice asked.

It sounded like Latham! What the hell?

“No, we can see,” said the man with the gun.

“What do you want?” Rick asked, willing his voice to sound

stronger than he felt.

“Shut up and maybe you won’t get hurt,” the man with the gun

said. Rick could just make it out in the gloom, looking like an oversized

pistol with a clip extending well below the man’s hand, an Uzi or

something like that. “Kneel down on the floor.”

“I’ve got to go to the john.”

“Kneel down on the fuckin’ floor. Now.”

The gun barrel jabbed his temple.

He slowly did, straining to see the men in the dim light. There

were three. The one he thought was Latham and two others, one large, the

other slight. Each wore some sort of apparatus on their heads.

Nightvision goggles, he guessed. All three carried submachine guns.

They were no burglars.

He put one knee on the floor, then the other.

But if not burglars, what?

Suddenly he knew: they were after Staci or the kid. Christ. He

was going to have to do something fa―

“Is he out?” Charlie Stitchard asked nervously.

Creight Anders knelt down beside Rick Benton’s inert body.

“Yeah, I clocked him good,” he said. “Give me the tape.”

A few minutes later the men made their way quietly down the steps

from Rick’s quarters. The light was milky now, sunrise only minutes

away. Over by the chicken house, a rooster challenged the day.

Standing at the corner of the garage, the men conferred briefly.

“All right,” Anders said. “Step one complete. Now for step two.”

He checked his watch.

“It’s five thirty. We’re on schedule. We’ll go grab the kid and if

all goes as planned we’ll be ready to roll in half an hour. You have that

chopper ready.”

“I’ll fire it up it the second you show.”

“The women in their rooms?”

“As far as I know.”

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“OK. Anybody shows while we’re up there you give a holler.

You got your walkie-talkie?”

Higley unhooked it from his belt and held it up.

“Ain’t nobody gonna show,” he said. “Not till six-thirty. And I

jammed the gate like we planned.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

Staci cracked one sleep-weighted eye at the clock on the french

provincial cabinet she’d imported to serve as her nightstand―replacing

the twigwork monstrosity that had been there before―and reached out and

moved the champagne bottle so she could see the numbers. Five-thirty.

Why the hell were there people roaming the halls at five-thirty in the

goddamn morning?

She heard a voice. Davey. She loved the kid, she really did, but

he could be such a pain. If she’d told him once she’d told him a thousand

times never to disturb her while she was sleeping―and that included

making noise in the hall outside her room. And who was he talking to?

Goody-two-shoes Bridget, no doubt.

She considered getting up to give them both a piece of her mind

but decided against it. She was too tired. She hadn’t gotten off the phone

with Ian until after two and with two bottles of champagne under the

bridge, three hours sleep just didn’t cut it.

Ian. Without thinking she slid her hand down her naked body

under the satin sheet and touched herself between the legs. She was still

wet. Phone sex wasn’t anywhere near as good as the real thing, but it was

better than nothing and with Marty gone, nothing was all she ever got up

here in Harvey’s boondocks hideaway.

Not as good as the real thing but good anyway. She’d told Ian all

the things she wanted to do to him, all the places she’d touch and lick and

suck, and did everything he asked her to―just like when they were

together.

Ian. If only he was here now. She sighed and rolled over

clutching her pillow to her as if it were Ian’s hard, young body. Soon, she

thought. But now, sleep. In seconds, she was drifting away.

“Why did you cover my mouth?” Davey asked Charlie Stitchard as

they made their way down the stone steps to the lawn. Stitchard was

carrying him in the crook of his arm, Anders trailing behind to make sure

Johnson 106

no one was following. Stitchard had just released the hand he had

clamped over Davey’s mouth when he had gotten him out of bed.

“I didn’t want you to wake anyone up.”

“Mommy doesn’t like it when I wake her up,” Davey said.

“That’s why I wanted you to be quiet.”

“I’m not allowed outside in my pajamas either.”

“Today you are. Your Daddy said it was all right.”

Out on the helipad, the helicopter came to life with a hydraulic

whine followed by the popping roar of the engine, tentative at first, then

growing strong and steady as the blades whirled with increasing speed.

“Are we going in the helicopter?”

“Yup.”

“I like to ride in the helicopter,” Davey said. “I’m not afraid at

all.”

“That’s good, son, because we’re going to go for a nice ride.”

“And then we’ll see Daddy?”

“Yesirree, son. Yesirree.”

Jim Flaherty stirred and the steady growl of his snoring abruptly

ceased when the helicopter’s roar penetrated his room off the tackhouse.

He reached a hand shakily toward his face as if to ward off flies and

mumbled some incoherent words, then his hand fell back onto the

bedcover. He began to snore once more.

Rick had regained consciousness while they were still taping his

wrists, his brain reeling toward reality from the murky depths to which

Anders’ blow had sent it. His first instinct had been to protest the pain, to

tell the voices he was hurt. But a wiser voice told him to be still. He had

remained silent, while flexing subtly against his captors’ efforts to bind

him in the hope of creating some play in the tape.

Now he was almost free, sitting in a spray of broken glass with his

back to the jagged maw of the television he had knocked off its stand, his

hands in its guts as he sawed the tape against a shard of the screen still

fixed in place.

The pain and the sensation of fluid streaming down his hands told

him it wasn’t only duct tape he was cutting, but there was no help for it.

He had to get free quickly if he was right about what was happening. He

only hoped he would be able to use his hands once he got them loose.

Suddenly the tape gave and his arms pulled free, his hands

following in a spray of crimson. His wrists looked bad. Clutching them

Storm Front 107

hard against his body to slow the flow of blood, he struggled to his feet

and bunny-hopped his way to the tiny kitchenette that occupied one

corner. He took a knife from a drawer and bent and freed his legs then

pulled the tape from his mouth.

The sound of his chopper coming to life reached his ears.

No, it was too soon!

Racing over to the foot locker that sat at the end of his bed he

threw it open, grabbed the pistol he’d “decommissioned” when he’d

gotten out of the service along with a loaded magazine, and headed for the

door at a run.

Staci couldn’t believe it. That bastard Rick Benton was starting his

chopper. At five-thirty in the morning! Wide awake now, she tossed off

the covers, grabbed her robe and strode to the window. He was doing it

on purpose just to piss her off, she was sure, positive Harvey would never

fire him. There was nowhere he had to go at this ungodly hour.

The chopper sat on its pad, its whirling blade glinting in the newly

risen sun. She couldn’t see Benton but that was no surprise. What was a

surprise were the two men moving purposefully across the lawn toward

the helicopter, one of them carrying something. A child. Davey.

Something was wrong―very wrong.

Someone had her baby!

With a shriek she ran for the door.

Rick staggered and almost fell as he lunged down the stairs. He’d

lost a lot of blood and was still bleeding now. He steadied himself and set

off at a lurching run for the trees at the edge of main complex lawn. There

he stopped and, leaning heavily on an ancient pine, surveyed the scene.

The chopper sat no more than one hundred yards away. Two men

were approaching it from the direction of the house, one of them carrying

Davey, the other, a large bearded man, sweeping the area with a snub-

nosed submachine gun. Rick could just make out Latham inside at the

controls.

He saw only one choice: to rush them before they lifted off and

either disable the chopper or shoot Latham, if he could do that without risk

to Davey. But with a pistol he would have to get close to have any

realistic chance of doing either―he had never been much of a shot―and

that meant he would have to run in the open in the face of at least one

submachine gun.

Johnson 108

He braced himself for what might be the last conscious act of his

life but paused as a new variable was added to the situation: Staci,

screaming hysterically and heading down the front steps of the house and

across the lawn at a run, her negligee billowing behind her. At her

appearance, Davey started struggling.

The men stopped, the armed one swinging his weapon toward

Staci. The other man wrestled with Davey.

Seeing his chance, Rick broke for the helicopter.

The man holding Davey had gotten control of him and was

handing him to Latham on the far side of the cockpit. The other man was

fixed on Staci’s approach, his gun held waist high and pointing at her.

Behind her, Bridget appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of terror.

What to do! Only a few seconds more and Rick would be at the

chopper, but Staci and Bridget might be shot in the interim.

He stopped, raised the pistol with both hands and fired three quick

rounds in the gun-wielder’s direction. The gunman went to the ground as

Rick ran forward again. Whether he had hit the man or not, Rick couldn’t

tell. Staci kept coming.

The kidnappers were shouting, their voices puncturing the din of

the chopper.

And then the bullets came. Rick heard the staccato pops of the

machine gun before the first bullet hit him. Pain blossomed in his legs.

He fell and lost his pistol, scrambled to find it, and looked up in

time to see the gunman disappearing into the chopper just as Staci arrived.

A brief commotion ensued, Staci struggling to climb into the cockpit,

screaming still, her kicking, naked legs visible below the chopper’s body,

until another burst of gunfire came and she staggered back and collapsed

onto the lawn, her face a mask of blood.

Horrified, Rick tried to stand as the chopper’s roar crescendoed in

preparation for liftoff. He couldn’t. He could ignore the pain, but his

muscles would not respond. He collapsed to his knees as the chopper

started to rise. Lifting his pistol, he sighted on the chopper’s tail rotor and

fired, emptying the magazine before sinking down into darkness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jack and his father were in the upper pasture checking the cows

when they heard the pneumatic thud of a helicopter far to the southeast.

As the sound grew louder, they raised hands to shield their eyes, trying to

find its source in the clear morning sky. Jack saw it first.

“There it is,” he said, pointing. “Not military. I wonder whose.”

“Maybe it’s WADK checking traffic,” the senior Dawson said

dryly.

“Yeah, right. Whoever it is, they’re heading somewhere in a

hurry.”

They watched as the chopper passed a half mile to the east heading

due north, following its progress until it was a mere speck in the sky and

its sound an uncertain whisper.

Dropping their hands, father and son looked at each other,

exchanged shrugs, and turned back to the business at hand.

Daryl Higley scanned the forest ahead of the speeding helicopter.

They were close now, the jigsaw farmlands north of the park visible in the

distance ahead of them, the sparkling blue expanse of Upper Chateaugay

Lake hard to their right. In the seat beside him, Creight Anders was doing

the same. In the back, Charlie Stitchard sat with Davey Skolnick.

Daryl snuck a look at them. The kid was nodding on Charlie’s lap,

the sedative they’d given him already taking hold. Charlie had his hands

locked around the boy’s tiny arms and chest like he was afraid someone

might try to take him away.

Charlie didn’t look good, his face pale and gleaming with sweat.

Still in shock over the shooting of the mother, Daryl guessed. Daryl

couldn’t blame him. That hadn’t been in the plans—and it wasn’t like she

was any real threat. He glanced at Anders. If blowing the woman away

bothered him in the least, he wasn’t showing it.

Suddenly, Anders pointed. Daryl saw it too, a cluster of three

blaze-orange balloons drifting above the treetops a half mile ahead.

Johnson 110

He slowed and headed toward them and a minute later was

hovering over a clearing barely large enough to accept the chopper’s

spinning blades. It was no problem though. He’d landed in spots just as

tight as this one in Nam, and with the added distraction of enemy fire. He

eased the sticks forward. A short time later, they were down. Higley

glanced at his watch: 7:15. Perfect. Butler would be pleased.

Four all terrain vehicles were parked at the edge of the clearing,

their mottled camouflage paint jobs blending with the dense vegetation.

Butler sat on one, dressed in camouflage, a jump suit he wore over civilian

clothes, the Beretta strapped to his side.

He climbed off the ATV and came toward them as Higley shut off

the chopper’s engine.

“Everything go OK?” he asked as Anders and Higley climbed from

the cockpit.

“No problem,” Anders said. “‘Though we had to do some

shooting.”

“Who?”

“The old lady.”

Butler peered into the back of the helicopter where Charlie

Stitchard still sat with Davey on his lap.

“The mother?”

“Yeah, she rushed us.”

“She was armed?”

“She was tryin’ to climb in.”

“So you shot her?” Butler said incredulously.

He shook his head in disgust. Excessive force was always a

calculated risk when one used men like Anders for this kind of work. On

the other hand, Anders was the one member of the militia Butler could

count on not to shirk violence when it was needed. Still, the shooting of

the mother complicated things. It meant that even if the child was

returned unharmed, the heat would be unrelenting.

“Benton was shooting at us.”

“Benton! What the hell was he doing loose? You were supposed

to secure him.”

“We did,” Anders said. “But he got free.”

“You didn’t kill him, I hope.”

“No, he was still shootin’ when we lifted off.”

“Did you hit him?”

Anders shrugged.

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“Could be.”

“We need him, fool.”

Butler turned to Higley.

“Is the bird all right?”

“I think it took some hits, but it flew all right.”

“Go check it out. And hurry up.”

As Higley shuffled off, Butler spoke to Stitchard.

“How’s the kid?”

“He’s all right, I guess. I sedated him like you said.”

“Good. Is he out?” Butler leaned into the doorway of the

helicopter and peered at Davey.

“Yeah,” Stitchard said.

“He see it?”

Stitchard nodded grimly.

Another complication.

“All right, bring him out of there.”

Higley returned.

“She’s all right,” he said. “Couple of holes in the tail cowling is

all.”

“Good. That’s one thing you didn’t fuck up, anyway. Is the radio

rigged?”

Higley nodded.

“You wiped everything down?”

Another nod.

“All right, let’s get out of here before you clowns screw something

else up.”

With a last glance inside the chopper, Butler headed for the ATVs,

followed closely by Stitchard and Higley. Anders watched as the others

walked away. When he was sure Butler couldn’t see, he surreptitiously

drew a small piece of beaded leather from his pocket and dropped it to the

ground. Then he too, headed for the waiting vehicles.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There were eight unmarked late model sedans with US government

plates, three blue New York State Police cruisers, two red and white

County Sheriff’s cruisers, four panel trucks also with US plates, and a

phone company van crowded into the circular drive in front of the main

lodge at The Birches. On the side lawn, three helicopters sat in a row near

the helipad. Grim-faced men and women, some in suits, most in blue

windbreakers with FBI emblazoned in yellow on their backs, swarmed

through the buildings and grounds, even in the farthest fields, searching

for evidence, any evidence, that might lead them to the captors of the only

son of Harvey Skolnick.

The glass-walled dining pavilion had been converted into a

command center with maps spread on one end of the thirty foot table and a

bank of twelve phones arrayed on the other. In between sat four desktop

computers, spaced evenly two per side. Chandeliers overhead provided

illumination, although they were hardly necessary in the brightness of the

afternoon light.

There were nine people in the room. Near the door, two uniformed

sheriff’s deputies stood uneasily, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups,

their function unclear perhaps even to them. Two men of the suited thirty-

something mold were talking on phones in low urgent tones. An intent

woman in her twenties was scanning the screen of one of the PC’s and

periodically tapping on the keyboard in response to whatever it was she

was seeing.

Against one wall, Harvey Skolnick’s parents, his mother gray-

haired and heavyset, his father bald but for a fringe of white hair, sat on a

brocade settee below an immense gilt-framed painting of a mountain vista,

watching the goings-on with bewildered eyes. The father’s arm was

wrapped protectively around his wife’s shoulders. Her face bore the traces

of recent tears.

At the far end of the room, Harvey stood near the massive stone

fireplace talking quietly with Special Agent Robert Ganz, agent in charge

of the Skolnick kidnapping. An impressively fit man in his fifties, Ganz

Storm Front 113

wore his steel gray hair short. His blue suit was well-tailored, his white

shirt crisply starched, the Windsor knot in his maroon silk tie perfect.

Skolnick had arrived minutes earlier, having been whisked from

the Albany airport in an FBI helicopter upon his arrival from Mexico City

in his personal jet. Never a fashion plate, Harvey looked even more

disheveled than usual, still wearing the suit he’d had on when the urgent

message had been relayed to him at the conference—crumpled and baggy

now—his tie askew, one shirt button undone over his rounded belly.

“We’re working on the assumption that they’re holed up in the

woods somewhere, in a hunting cabin or something like that, not too close

to where we found the helicopter, but close enough that they could get

there without too much risk of exposure. We have some reason to believe

they headed back deeper into the Park after they landed. We know from

the tracks that they used ATVs to get from the chopper to the road, and we

think they must have loaded the ATVs, four of them as best we can

determine, onto a vehicle of some sort. We have a report that a horse

trailer was seen in the area that morning heading south. We’re still

following up but have traced it as far as Mountain View.

“Unfortunately, that still leaves a lot of ground to cover―but we’ll

do it. We’ve got thirty men up there working with the local

Environmental Conservation Officers—the ECOs know the Park the

best―in addition to the Franklin and Clinton County sheriffs’ departments

and the State Police. The Canadian police and all border crossings have

also been alerted.”

“But you could be wrong.”

“You’re right. We may be wrong. They could be anywhere.

Halfway across the country for all we know. It may have been them who

tipped us to where the helicopter was, to throw us off.”

“Why haven’t we heard from them? It’s been over ten hours.”

“I know. I’ve been involved in a number of these situations and

frankly that surprises me. It may mean they feel very comfortable with

their location―or that they’re travelling. But the bottom line is, we have

no reason to think Davey isn’t safe. They kidnapped him for a reason. If

they’d wanted to hurt or kill him they could have done that easily.”

“What about the Indian thing?”

“We’re following up on the amulet. Apparently, it’s Mohawk.

We’re checking with the tribal police in Akwesasne, that’s the reservation

up on the Canadian border. We’d rather work through them. We don’t

want to go crashing in there. That will just clam everyone up.”

Johnson 114

“Bob.”

One of the men on the phones waved urgently to Ganz.

Harvey and Ganz strode over in time to hear the agent say, “Find

what?”

Then, “The Land Rover? Which one?”

“There’s only one,” Harvey hissed.

The agent nodded impatiently and held up his hand to stave off

further interruption, but clearly the conversation had ended. He hung up

the phone.

“I just wanted to keep him talking,” he said to Harvey. Then, to

both of them, “He says there’s a letter of instruction in the Land Rover.

Said he was surprised we weren’t smart enough to find it.”

“Mr. Skolnick, this is Special Agent Kincaid,” Ganz said.

“I thought you searched the vehicles,” Harvey said, ignoring the

introduction.

“We did,” Ganz said grimly. He turned back to Kincaid. “Go get

it.”

It took them twenty minutes to find the note.

Josh Kincaid returned to the house bearing a plastic bag by one

corner, the note still sealed inside.

Ganz had resisted the temptation to go find out what was taking so

long and had remained with Harvey and his parents, displaying a patience

and equanimity he did not feel. He frowned his annoyance and an

unspoken demand for an explanation at Kincaid.

“The air filter canister,” Kincaid said.

“Pretty elaborate for something we were supposed to find,” Ganz

said.

“Why would they do that?” Harvey asked.

“Maybe they needed time,” Kincaid said.

“Could be,” Ganz said, “Let’s see what it says.”

They took it over to the table, followed by Harvey’s parents. Ganz

took a forceps from a case and used it to open the seal and extract the

paper, then carefully unfold it.

The note was typed on plain white paper.

“We have your son. He is safe and unharmed and will remain that

way if you comply precisely with these and subsequent instructions. Our

goal is funding, yours is presumably the safe return of your son. These

goals are in no way incompatible. It’s up to you.

Storm Front 115

1. Government forces will be working to apprehend us. This must

stop. Their efforts are a threat to your son’s well being. They will tell you

only they can save your son. That is a lie. Only you can save him.

Instruct them to cease and desist from all efforts to locate us. We will be

watching to see that this happens.

2. Our need is for ten million dollars. You will obtain this amount

in used $100 bills and put it in the duffel bag left behind by the man you

know as Latham. The bills and bag will not be marked or doctored in any

way. We are not unsophisticated. If they are, we will know. The FBI will

tell you otherwise. Don’t believe them. They are incompetent fools.

3. You have until Thursday morning to accomplish 2 above. At

that time you will receive instructions on delivery which you will effect in

the manner described.

These instructions are simple. All you need to do to get your son

back is follow them precisely and in good faith. Do not believe the

government when they tell you we won’t return your son. We will. We

have no reason not to. He is a sweet, trusting boy who deserves to live a

full and happy life. Don’t let him down.”

“Intelligent,” Ganz said.

“ ‘Cease and desist’—a lawyer, maybe?” Kincaid suggested.

“Possibly. What do you think of the type?”

“Manual typewriter.”

“Let’s get the lab on it right away. Fax them the text then get the

document down there ASAP.”

“Hang on a second,” Harvey said angrily. “We’ve got some things

to talk about.”

“Granted,” Ganz said. “But that’s no reason not to get our people

cracking on this.”

“Yes, there is. We are not going to mess around with this. I want

to get the money and deliver it and get my son back.”

“I understand.”

“The money means nothing. If they’d asked for ten times that

amount I wouldn’t care.”

“An interesting point. They must know that too. It might mean

they couldn’t figure out how to deal with a larger amount. That may

suggest inexperience with this sort of thing.” Ganz glanced at Kincaid.

Johnson 116

“I don’t care if they’re Girl Scouts,” Harvey said heatedly. “They

have my son and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize getting him

back.”

“I understand. We’ll help you get the money together. But that’s

no reason not to pursue what we’ve got.”

“That’s exactly the reason. No efforts at apprehension. Didn’t you

read the note?”

“We’ll keep a low profile.”

“You’re not listening to me. I am not interested in playing cops

and robbers. There will be no efforts at apprehension while they have my

son. None. Do you understand?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, yes you can and yes you will.” Harvey glared at Ganz, the

threat to Ganz’s career unspoken but obvious.

Ganz gazed out the windows briefly, then turned back.

“Look, I understand your concern. The boy’s safety is absolutely

the important thing. But that’s the point. What if they don’t live up to

their end of the bargain? If we wait until then to figure out who they are

and where they might be, it could be too late. And much as I don’t want

that to happen, it’s a possibility. Returning the boy presents some risks for

them.”

Harvey stood silent, his mouth set in a firm line.

“What I’d like to do,” Ganz continued, “is do what the note says.

We’ll clear our agents out of this area. We’ve got pretty much all we’re

going to get here, anyway. If they’re watching, they’ll see we’re playing

ball. Meanwhile, we’ll be analyzing what we’ve got and getting the

money together.”

“What about your field agents? You said you’ve got thirty men

out there.”

“We’ll pull most of them.”

“Most?”

“I’d like to keep a few discreet inquiries going. Strictly low

profile. The ones that seem most promising. We need people on the

scene. But the kidnappers will see the difference.”

Harvey stood considering.

“We can’t put all our eggs in one basket,” Ganz said, “particularly

one we have no reason to trust. That wouldn’t be smart.”

He glanced at the senior Skolnicks for support.

Harvey looked too.

“He’s got a point son,” Harvey’s father said gently.

Storm Front 117

Harvey frowned.

“My son is the important thing, not catching them.”

“Agreed,” Ganz said. “One hundred percent.”

“All right, then.”

Ganz addressed Kincaid, “Go―but leave us a copy.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rick awoke to a blaze of white light, white light and throbbing

pain―his head, his arms, but more than anything his legs.

A hospital room, the window awash in late-day light, the door to

the hallway ajar. A nurse passed as he watched.

He was thirsty, so thirsty. He turned his head gingerly, feeling the

tug of bandages, to see if there was water on the tray beside him. There

was, a plastic container with a straw. He reached toward it, his arm

swathed in gauze, an intravenous tube held in place with tape.

A sensation of movement to the other side. He wasn’t alone.

Someone got up out of a chair with a creak of vinyl and circled the

bed.

“Would you like water? I’ll get it.”

A woman’s voice, familiar. He shifted his eyes to see, trailing up

the arm even now reaching for the water, to meet gray eyes under long

lashes, a tan face framed by honey-blonde hair.

Sarah.

She smiled.

“Welcome to the world.”

He struggled to return the smile, trying to frame a question as he

did, mind seemingly mired in mud.

“Where am I?”

“Glens Falls. The trauma center at Memorial Hospital.”

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“Davey . . .” his voice trailed off. Something about little Davey,

something important.

“Kidnapped. They used the chopper. You tried to stop them and

were shot. Three times.”

“My legs?”

She nodded.

An image came with sudden clarity: Staci Skolnick running across

the lawn, screaming.

Storm Front 119

“Staci?”

“Dead.”

He remembered now. He had failed. Utterly. Staci dead. Davey

kidnapped.

“Harvey?”

“At the house. They’re waiting to hear from the kidnappers. The

FBI is there. They’ll want to talk to you.” She paused. “Mr. Skolnick

asked us to tell you how deeply grateful he is and that he would be here if

he could.”

“Us?”

“Jim and me. Jim’s been here all day.”

Rick frowned in confusion.

“It’s Tuesday afternoon,” Sarah said. She looked at her watch.

“Well, actually, evening. Here, drink some water.”

He felt embarrassment at his helplessness but took the straw and

drank deeply. When he was done she took the container and set it on the

stand.

“How do you feel?”

“All right, I guess. A little groggy.”

“That’s to be expected. You were in surgery for four hours. They

had you doped up pretty good.”

She smiled again, tenderly, and grasped his hand.

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

He considered that statement, a natural thing to say, but she

seemed to be trying to say more—or maybe that was just the drugs.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said―and he had never said truer words

in his life.

When he awoke an hour later, there was a clean-shaven man in a

dark suit standing by the window, arms clasped behind his back.

He turned when he heard Rick stir.

“Hello, Mr. Benton,” he said. “I’m Special Agent DeVries of the

FBI. If you’re up to it, I’d like to talk to you about what happened. I’m

sorry to rush you but every minute may be critical.”

Rick nodded. He felt more clear-headed than before, but the pain

was louder too. The drugs were wearing off.

“Can I get you anything before we start?”

Rick reached for his water and took a deep sip.

“Fire away.”

Johnson 120

DeVries sat down and opened a blue spiral notebook with the FBI

symbol on the cover. He took a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

“All right. Do you know who the kidnappers were?”

“Darren Latham was one. The new mechanic.”

DeVries nodded.

“Did you ever meet him before he came to work for Mr.

Skolnick?”

Rick shook his head.

“He tell you anything about himself?”

Rick searched back.

“He said he was from Malone.”

DeVries nodded again.

“He wasn’t, at least not under that name, but we assume that was

an alias anyway. We don’t pick up any Darren Lathams that match

anywhere. Anything else?”

“He said he’d flown choppers in the Army and worked as a

mechanic for GHS Courier in Albany. He knew his choppers, that’s for

sure. Also he had a military duffel.”

“Surplus,” DeVries said, scribbling frantically. “What about the

other men? You get a look at them?”

Rick shrugged and told him what he could. It wasn’t much, but

DeVries took copious notes. When he finished that, he said, “OK. Let’s

take it from the top. I want to know everything that happened as best you

can recall it, and particularly who did what.”

Half an hour later, DeVries snapped his notebook shut and stood

up.

“That will do it for now, I think,” he said. “I want to thank you for

your cooperation.”

He turned to go.

“Hang on a second,” Rick said. “I want to know what’s going on.

I think I’m entitled, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” DeVries said. “I can’t help you. You get well, though,

you hear?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

A man’s voice.

“Hey kid. Wake up.”

Davey squinted at the voice, rubbing his eyes. A man was leaning

over him, holding a flashlight. The man who had carried him from his

house. Davey was in a sleeping bag in some sort of a box.

“Time to get up and have some supper. You gotta go potty?”

Davey did.

He sat up, the sleeping bag cocooning his legs. He remembered

now. They had taken him to go for a ride in the helicopter to see Daddy

and Mommy was mad. And then a bad man hurt her with his gun. He

must have fallen asleep.

“I want Mommy.”

“Not just yet. First we’ll go potty and have some supper.”

“I want Mommy.”

“I know, son, I know. But she’s not here right now. Let’s get you

out of there.”

The man leaned down and grasped Davey under his arms and lifted

him out of the box.

“Where are we?” Davey asked. He stood blinking at the only

source of light in the room other than the flashlight: the gray rectangle of

an open door. “Is Daddy here?”

“Not yet, son.”

The man switched the flashlight off and stuck it in his pocket, then

picked Davey up and carried him through the doorway into a room filled

with the dim light of dusk. It was the inside of a cabin, Davey saw, with

log walls like The Birches.

A wooden table with chairs occupied the center of the room. A

cookstove stood against one wall, a bed against the other. Several fishing

poles leaned in a corner. A shelf by the bed supported a two-way radio.

Windows to either side had curtains drawn. A door to the outside was

open.

The man carried Davey outside.

Johnson 122

The cabin sat in a sandy clearing surrounded by tall pines. Davey

could see the glimmer of a lake through the trees. Two ATVs were parked

near the cabin door. They had ATVs at The Birches, although they were

shiny red ones, not messy green ones like these. Davey liked to ride on

them.

“I thought you were makin’ dinner,” a voice said from behind

them.

It was the bad man, the big one with the beard, who looked like the

giant in Davey’s Jack and the Beanstalk book. The one who hurt his

mommy. A tremor of fear raced through him.

“The kid’s gotta go,” the nice man said. “Is it all clear?”

“Fuck the kid, I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get dinner going as soon as I get back.”

“The hell with that. Get it now. I’ll take the kid.”

The bad man set Davey on the ground.

“You gotta carry him,” the nice man said. “He ain’t got no shoes.”

“Fuck that,” the bad man growled. “He can walk. You just go get

dinner.”

The bad man grabbed Davey’s hand and pulled him toward the

back of the cabin where a tiny building stood near the dark trees at the

clearing’s edge. Sticks and pine needles poked at his tender feet. He tried

to walk carefully but each time he slowed the man jerked him roughly

forward. Tears welled in Davey eyes.

They stopped in front of the little building.

“OK. Go to it.”

Davey hesitated. Was he supposed to go in there?

“Well, go ahead. I ain’t got all day.” Creight chuckled. “And

neither do you.”

Davey took a few halting steps toward the door of the outhouse.

“Hurry up,” the man said, and reached out and yanked the door

open.

Davey stared into the gloom of the interior. There was no potty,

just a bench with a dark oval hole. It smelled bad.

“I have to go potty.”

“This is it. Get in there.”

Davey took a step back, staring at the dark hole. As he watched, a

large brown spider, disturbed by the commotion, scurried across the

wooden surface and down into the hole.

The man grabbed his arm and yanked him forward again.

“Get in there,” he said angrily.

Storm Front 123

“I’m afraid.”

“Look you little rich brat, get the hell in there.”

“No,” Davey said, panic rising in him.

“Yes,” the man snarled. He grabbed Davey’s arm and dragged

him to the door and up over the threshold, Davey whimpering and

resisting all the way, tears flooding his cheeks. “Now get in there and do

your business.”

“I want my mommy,” Davey said, his voice becoming a wail.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man said. He grabbed Davey’s pajama

bottom with one hand, his other around Davey’s wrist like a vise, and

yanked the pajamas down. “There. Now do your goddamn business.”

He thrust Davey toward the seat and slammed the door shut.

Sure that the spider was on his exposed skin in the darkness,

Davey screamed and threw his body against the door. It didn’t budge. He

felt the spider on him and screeched again in terror, his mind slipping

toward hysteria.

Suddenly the door flew open. Davey stumbled out into the light

and landed face down in the dirt.

The man’s beefy hand reached down and yanked Davey up by his

pajama top then slapped him hard with the other, snapping Davey’s head

back, “Shut the fuck up,” the man hissed, his face red with rage.

Davey had never felt such pain. He screamed again.

“Shut the fuck up, you little brat,” the voice said again, but Davey

was past hearing it. Another blow fell and then a hand clapped across his

mouth. Davey writhed with the strength of pent-up panic but the hand

held him firm.

“Shut the fuck up!” the man yelled and raised his hand to hit

Davey again—but suddenly let him go.

Tumbling to the ground, Davey blinked through his tears to see the

two men grappling, the nice man pulling at the bad man’s arm.

“Stop, Creight, stop,” the man yelled.

The bad man easily tossed the other away and Davey cringed in

anticipation of more blows, but the bad man simply stood glaring at the

other, chest heaving.

“What are you doing, man?” the nice man said.

“Fuckin’ brat won’t shut up,” the bad man said.

“‘Course not, with you hittin’ him. You can’t treat a kid that way.”

“He wouldn’t go.”

“So then let him be.”

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“Goddamn Jew bastard prima donna.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“Well, I don’t like them none neither.”

“Let’s just feed him and get him hid.”

The nice man came over and lifted Davey into his arms.

“Come on son, it’s all right now. You can go later. Let’s have

some food.”

An hour later, the two men entered the back room of the cabin,

Anders in the lead holding a Coleman lantern, Stitchard following

carrying Davey’s inert body. The glare of the lantern illuminated a

windowless log-walled room with a corrugated steel roof sloping down to

a low rear wall where a half dozen five gallon gasoline cans were lined up

on either side of a squat plank door. Bunk beds were built onto the side

walls, each with a black trunk at its foot. A few feet from the back wall,

the plank floor had been cut to accommodate a small coffin-like box built

below floor level. A “lid” made of the cut floor planks lay beside it.

“Goddamn beans and bread,” Anders grumbled, as he hung the

lantern from a wire hook hanging from the ceiling. “What kind of meal is

that for a man to eat?”

“Without a fire it ain’t easy,” Stitchard said. “That Sterno will heat

stuff up but you can’t really cook with it.”

“Why the hell can’t we have a fire? We’re supposed to be up here

fishin’ and if we were we’d have a goddamn fire in the stove, now

wouldn’t we?”

“Butler says we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves if we can

help it.”

“Butler,” Anders said with disgust. “Man thinks he knows

everything. Well, I’ll tell you somethin’. What if the FBI does find us? If

you ask me, it’ll look mighty suspicious if we don’t have a fire and hot

food.”

“Yeah. Well, when you see him you can tell him you think he’s

full of shit.”

Stitchard knelt by the opening and gingerly laid the boy in it, then

slipped the sleeping bag around his body.

“I sure hope he don’t wake up. He’ll sure enough freak.”

“Fuck him. Do him good to experience a little adversity in life.

Besides, he won’t. He’s got enough sedative in him to choke a horse.”

“I hope not too much.”

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“Man, you’re like an old woman. Butler figured it all out, based

on his age, body weight, all that. He should be out at least eight hours.”

“Yeah, but Butler’s no doctor.”

“So now who’s doubting the almighty one? And anyway, what do

we care? If the little fuck dies it’s less trouble for us.”

“I care. I ain’t bein’ a party to no murder of an innocent kid.

Takin’ him to get some money’s one thing.”

“First off, he ain’t innocent, he’s a Jew, a rich bloodsucker of a

Jew. Second, kidnapping’s just as bad as murder in the eyes of the law,

and if you think they’re gonna go easy on us for takin’ one of their own, I

want some of what you’re smokin’.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about that. I’m talkin’ about makin’ sure this kid

gets back safe to his family.”

“Family minus one, you mean,” Anders said with a smug smile.

“Yeah. That wasn’t supposed to happen neither.”

“You think this is a picnic we’re on?”

“Wasn’t nobody supposed to be killed, no women or kids,

anyway.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens. And one less Jew bitch ain’t nothin’ to

cry about.”

“She wasn’t even Jewish.”

“No?”

“No. She was raised Baptist in Texas. I read it somewheres.”

“Then she deserved to die, for breedin’ with a Jew.”

“I still wish it hadn’t happened.”

“You worry too much. Put the lid on the box and let’s get the hell

out of here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Seventy-five miles away, Oren Tebo sat in his cruiser outside

Paulette’s Kitchen on Route 37 in Hogansburg, the town just off the

reservation. Through the plate glass window he could see an assortment

of grizzled white men, farmers and truck drivers mostly, though judging

by the vehicles in the lot, a roofer and a septic company crew, too,

drinking their coffee and eating their eggs and bacon with hash browns

and white toast or maybe pancakes and sausage. A waitress in a white

blouse moved from table to table. There were no Indians that he could

see. They would be at Connie Creek’s.

A dark sedan pulled in and an authoritative-looking, clean cut

white man wearing jeans and a tan windbreaker got out. He was carrying

a briefcase.

Has to be my boy, Oren thought. No suit, thank God. Oren got

out as the man headed toward the cruiser.

“Tebo?” the man said.

“Agent Jenkins?”

They shook.

“Shall we go inside?” Oren asked.

“I’d just as soon get under way,” Jenkins said. “Every minute

counts.”

“Fine. We’ll leave your car here. You can brief me as we go.”

As they drove onto the reservation, Jenkins essentially repeated

what Oren had already been told. That an Indian amulet believed to be

Mohawk had been found near the helicopter used to kidnap the Skolnick

boy. That the kidnappers’ note suggested hostility to the federal

government.

“Have you got the amulet with you?” Oren asked.

“No, it’s at the lab. I’ve got a photo, though.” Jenkins produced it

from his briefcase.

Oren examined it while he drove.

“It’s Mohawk, all right. But it’s the kind of thing you can get

anywhere. We can check at the gift shop later.”

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“Where are we headed now?”

“The home of Billy Swamp. He’s the head of the Warriors.”

“You figure it was them?”

“Frankly, I don’t figure it was any of my people, but he’s a logical

person to talk to. Latham was no Mohawk, nor is there any evidence the

others were.”

“Well, loyalty is a wonderful thing, but these Warriors have shown

their willingness to be violent in the past. We’ve got a file on them a mile

thick. Including your friend Swamp.”

“In some circumstances and over some things they can be violent,

yes.”

“You mean, like gambling.”

The agent was looking at Oren. Oren stared straight ahead.

“I mean like self-determination,” he said, consciously keeping his

tone level. He found it hard to believe the FBI had sent this jerk to come

with him on the interviews―but then again, Custer was unavailable.

“We received a report they were up in arms over the death of this

Rodney Boots. I figure maybe Boots was down in Gilsum working on the

kidnapping and something went wrong. Maybe he had a falling out with

his fellow conspirators.”

“Rodney couldn’t conspire his way out of a paper bag.”

“Yeah, but the Warriors could, and he was one of them, wasn’t

he?”

“Yes, but they wouldn’t use Rodney to handle something heavy

like that. And what would the Warriors want with Harvey Skolnick’s

son?”

“Oh, come on, Tebo. Money, what else? These Warriors have big

plans to resurrect the glories of the Mohawk empire, don’t they? That

takes money.”

“It’s not their style. They’re more into open confrontation―and

wouldn’t be likely to work with whites on anything.”

“Times change.” He looked over at Tebo. “I just hope you’re

keeping an open mind on this thing.”

“Yes, one of us should,” Oren said.

Jenkins’ eyes narrowed, but he only said, “So is this Swamp likely

to talk to us?”

“If he’s approached properly.”

“Do you think he might resist? Is he armed?”

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“Of course he’s armed. Every man on this reservation is armed

one way or another, but that’s not the point. All he has to do to resist is

refuse to cooperate.”

“Can’t you lean on him?”

“That’s just what I don’t want to do.”

“Then let me. I’ll play the bad guy.”

“That would be a disaster.”

“You seem awfully intent on handling these guys with kid gloves.

I mean, I know they’re your people and all, but we’ve got a serious

situation on our hands. This is no time for community relations.”

Oren suddenly swerved the car to the side of the road and braked

to a halt. He fixed a steely stare on his companion.

“Agent Jenkins, that is exactly what it is time for. Because it is an

urgent situation and we’ve got no time for macho bullshit. The last thing

we need to do is get people’s backs up by throwing our weight

around―weight, incidentally, that you don’t have since this is sovereign

Indian territory.”

“That’s not entirely clear.”

“We have no time to debate or engage in showdowns over

sovereignty. If you’ve read the files you know the last one lasted over

three weeks with barricades and the whole bit. We need information, if

there’s any to be had, and fast. And the best way for us to get that is for

you let me handle things in the way I deem best. Capiche?”

Jenkins ground his jaw but said nothing.

“Agent Jenkins, are you with me on this?”

Jenkins stared out the windshield.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Billy Swamp and his wife Sally lived hard against the St.

Lawrence River in a new double-wide trailer he had purchased with his

salary from the Mohawk Castle. At Tebo’s knock, he came to the door.

He was dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Inside, the television

blared. He stepped outside when he saw who it was.

Oren introduced Jenkins and outlined why they had come, handing

Swamp the photo of the amulet when he came to that part, Swamp staring

impassively at Tebo throughout.

When Oren finished, Swamp handed the photo of the amulet back

to him.

“This means nothing. Anyone could buy this at the gift shop. I’ve

got one hanging on my truck mirror.”

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“I know.”

“And this is what makes you think the Warriors were involved in

the kidnapping of a child?”

The roar of a powerboat making its way up the river was suddenly

very loud.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t think that,” Oren said. “But the

possibility that members of the tribe were involved has to be investigated

under the circumstances.”

Swamp considered Tebo’s statement then said, “So what do you

want to know?”

“Where were you yesterday?” Jenkins asked.

Tebo frowned and held up his hand to foreclose any response from

Swamp.

“Excuse me, Agent Jenkins, but this is Mohawk territory and I will

conduct the interviews. That was the express understanding between your

office and mine. When I am done, if there are any points you think

haven’t been addressed you may feel free to bring them to my attention.”

He addressed Swamp again.

“Billy, what can you tell me?”

“The Warriors aren’t involved.”

“What about members of the Warriors or other members of the

tribe?”

“I don’t think so. I would have heard. It couldn’t be kept secret.”

Oren nodded.

“Ask him about the Boots thing,” Jenkins said.

Tebo frowned again, but said, “What about Rodney’s death?”

“What about it?”

“Could there be a connection?”

“Between Rodney’s death and the kidnapping?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe the reason Rodney was in Gilsum was to plan the

kidnapping and there was some sort of falling out,” Jenkins said.

“On the news, they said the Skolnick estate was near Indian Lake,”

Billy said. “That has to be at least seventy miles from here and fifty from

Gilsum. If Rodney was involved in the kidnapping why would he be in

Gilsum?”

“The helicopter used to transport the boy was found near Upper

Chateaugay Lake,” Jenkins said.

Johnson 130

“That’s still a long way from here.”

“But close to Ganienkeh.”

Oren looked at Jenkins in surprise. Ganienkeh was the name given

to a 700 acre Mohawk enclave in Clinton County, New York. Ganienkeh

had been established in the early 70’s when the Warriors had seized an

abandoned Girl Scout camp near Moss Lake that they claimed was on land

never legally obtained from the Mohawks. A settlement had been reached

whereby New York State traded state land in Clinton County for the

seized land. Billy Swamp had played a central role in the takeover and

settlement.

“Many things are near many things,” Billy said. “It means

nothing.”

“So you say,” Jenkins said. “But there’s more. We have reason to

think the kidnappers passed through the Gilsum area after they abandoned

the chopper.”

Billy shot Oren a look of ill-disguised impatience.

“You are wasting your time,” he said to Oren. “I know nothing

about this. The Warriors were not involved.”

“Fair enough, but I’d like to speak to some of the others.”

“Do what you want.”

“Do you know who’s around today?”

Billy Swamp’s face stiffened.

“I have no idea,” he said curtly.

“Well, will you tell them we may be coming around to speak to

them?”

“Helping whites investigate our people is your job not mine.”

“Billy, if the Warriors aren’t involved the best thing is for them to

talk to us voluntarily. We don’t need trouble.”

“Seems like we already have that. Seems like we always have

that.”

“Yes, well, we don’t need any more.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sarah sat in her office, the morning’s fourth cup of coffee on the

desk in front of her, although two was her usual limit. The hours since she

had learned about the kidnapping at The Birches had been distressing

ones. She had called Jim Flaherty the previous day to give him the results

of some blood tests, only to find her call routed to an FBI agent who told

her that a serious incident had occurred and asked her to drive down for an

interview immediately. When Sarah had asked about the nature of the

“incident”, the agent had informed her that she was not at liberty to

discuss that over the phone.

“Please,” Sarah had said, “Is Jim hurt?”

There was no answer.

“Please,” she repeated.

“Jim Flaherty is fine,” the agent said at last.

She had canceled her appointments and driven to The Birches to

find that its bucolic quiet had been replaced by a maelstrom of activity. At

the gate, a uniformed deputy directed her to the main lodge where another

deputy met her and escorted her along one of the covered walkways to a

guest cabin. There, she was interviewed by a female FBI agent whose

inquiries focused on Sarah’s background and connection to The Birches.

The agent also asked about a man she had never met named Latham.

“But what’s happened?” she had finally asked.

“David Skolnick has been kidnapped,” the woman said. “Mrs.

Skolnick is dead.”

She had headed straight for the stables, pausing to note that Rick’s

helicopter was not on the pad. That surprised―and disappointed―her.

Walking back from the guest cabin, she had seen a man she thought was

Harvey Skolnick through the glass walls of the building they called the

dining pavilion. Usually, when Mr. Skolnick was on the estate, Rick was

too.

Johnson 132

Jim was nowhere to be found. Instead she found a man in an FBI

jacket searching Jim’s quarters.

“Do you know where Mr. Flaherty is?” she asked after explaining

who she was.

“He said he would be at the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“In Glens Falls. He’s waiting for the pilot to come out of surgery.”

“The pilot? Rick Benton?”

“Yes. He was shot.”

She drove to the hospital in a state of shock, at Staci’s Skolnick’s

death and Davey’s kidnapping to be sure, but even more at the thought of

Rick lying in a hospital bed on the edge of death.

Jim was in the waiting room of the intensive care unit, looking

haggard and worn, his usual welcoming smile replaced by an expression

of relief at finding a familiar face in the valley of his despair.

“Any word?”

He shook his head.

“He’s in surgery. That’s all they’ll tell me.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. He tried to stop them. He was shot. Several

times.”

Sarah was struck by how despondent Flaherty seemed.

“Jim, are you all right?”

“Just tired, I guess.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She led him over to a bench upholstered in garish orange vinyl.

“I should have been there,” he said. He spoke so quietly Sarah

could barely make out the words.

“Been there?”

“Yes. Been there. To help Rick. To help Mrs. Skolnick. And

little Davey.”

“I don’t understand. Where were you?”

“They didn’t tell you?”

Sarah shook her head.

“He―Latham―drugged me. In the wine. I drank it like an old

fool. Like an Irish drunk.”

“There was no way for you to know.”

Storm Front 133

“I slept through it,” he said, his voice filled with shame. “They

didn’t even have to tie me up. And now little Davey gone, suffering God

knows what, Mrs. Skolnick dead, and Rick shot.”

“You couldn’t have stopped them. Rick didn’t.”

“At least he tried.”

“And you would have if you could. I know that―and you do too.

Now, let’s see if we can’t wrest some information from these nurses. All

right?”

He answered with a wan smile.

“Sure. Let’s. It’s about time I stopped feeling sorry for myself.”

He smiled again and stood up with an air of one who had put something

behind him.

It was a good show, Sarah thought―but not quite good enough to

convince. She suspected there would be many sleepless nights for Jim

Flaherty in the days ahead.

They hadn’t gotten any news then, but later when Rick had come

out of surgery the news had been good, very good. He had been shot three

times, all in the legs, the bullets almost miraculously missing

bone―causing tremendous loss of blood but little permanent damage. He

also had a concussion and a nasty gash on the side of the head where he

had been struck by one of the kidnappers, and his wrists were badly

lacerated, but nothing time and bed rest (and a few dozen stitches)

wouldn’t heal.

Still later, when Rick awoke and she and Jim had gone to see him,

Sarah’s joy at seeing him alive had almost overwhelmed her. And when

the nurse ushered them out a short time later, she had resolved that when

Rick was up and about there would be no more wasting time between

them. If he still wanted her, he could have her, and she would let the cards

fall where they might.

But now she sat at her desk, radio on for news about the

kidnapping (there had been no reported progress), trying to do some

billing but hopelessly distracted. She wanted to be back at the hospital

with Rick, but she had an appointment at the Dawsons later that morning

and another in Tupper Lake after lunch. And although she had been

tempted to cancel them, her sense of duty―and the knowledge that Rick

was out of danger―had pushed her to the more responsible course of

waiting to go to the hospital when her appointments were through.

Johnson 134

She pulled a map of the Park out of the drawer and stared at it.

Gilsum at ten, figure an hour, hour and a half there, then Tupper Lake at

two. Time to kill, but not enough to make it worth returning to the office.

Perhaps a drive. But to where?

If she turned right after she left Dawson’s, it would take her down

toward Loon Lake where she could pick up Route 3 to Saranac Lake. If

she turned left, it would take her west toward Smyrna where she could

take something called Deep Woods Club Road to Meacham Lake and

Route 30 and from there head south toward Tupper Lake.

Smyrna rang a bell. Why? Then she had it. The man with the

German Shepherd puppy, Raymond Butler, lived there. And his pup was

overdue for his next series of shots. She’d seen it on the tickler just the

other day, but had no way to reach him. She scanned the map more

closely. She didn’t remember the name of the road he lived on offhand

but she was sure she would recognize it if she saw it on the map. She did.

Pittman Road. A dirt road that came off the Deep Woods Club Road

about two miles outside of Smyrna and twisted its way through the

mountains for five miles before hitting another county road further to the

west.

Perfect. She could kill some time and get something accomplished

too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Davey was at the beach with his friend Oliver talking to Mr.

Giggles, the clown who’d been at his birthday party, when a hand shook

him awake.

“Wake up now, Davey,” a voice was saying.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He felt very sleepy. The skinny man

was leaning over him, kneeling on the floor of the cabin.

“Come on, son, it’s time for you to get up and get something to eat.

Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

He shook his head. He didn’t, but even if he did, he wouldn’t

want to go back to the house where the spider lived.

“All right, but I’m sure you must be hungry, so let’s get you out of

there.”

He reached out his hand and helped Davey into a sitting position.

“That’s it. Take it nice and slow.”

“Quit babying him,” a gruff voice said.

It was the bad man. He was standing in the doorway to the room,

like a great bear disguised in a man’s clothes.

Davey shrank back.

“It’s all right, Davey. He won’t bother you. His bark’s a lot worse

than his bite.”

“Believin’ that could get you in a whole lot of trouble, son,” the

bad man said.

Davey didn’t understand what the men were saying. Did the bad

man really bite? Davey stared at the bad man’s mouth trying to see if his

teeth were pointed and sharp―like a bear’s.

“Why don’t you take a walk or something?” the skinny man said.

“You trying to tell me what to do?”

“No, I just don’t see the point in gettin’ the kid all riled up. That

ain’t gonna help nothin’.”

“What ain’t gonna help nothin’ is you babyin’ him and makin’ him

think he can get away with anything like he’s still in his big mansion with

Johnson 136

his servants and all.” He suddenly walked over to where Davey sat and

leaned over the other man to shove his face near Davey’s.

“Hey, kid. Your mother’s dead, you know that? Ain’t nothin’

bringin’ her back.” He grinned at Davey―and Davey saw yellow teeth

like fangs.

The skinny man twisted and pushed the other away as Davey

started to cry. He wanted his mommy.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” the nice man said.

The bad man laughed.

“Just teachin’ him about the real world. She’s dead, he might as

well know it. He’ll get over it. Hell, my old lady died when I was six and

my old man didn’t have a billion dollars. I survived.” The smile dropped

from his face and he smacked the other man on the back of the head.

“And don’t push me. You do it again and you may not live to tell the

tale.”

He stared at the nice man.

“You read me?”

The nice man turned back to Davey.

“I said, you read me?”

The bad man gave the other a kick in the back.

The nice man nodded.

“I read you,” he said quietly.

The bad man started to leave but stopped.

“What the fuck is that smell?”

Davey smelt it now too, and fear shot through him. He must have

made tinkle in his pants. Even Bridget got mad at him for that.

The nice man reached out and felt Davey’s pajama pants.

“He wet himself,” he said. “I’ll have to change him.”

“Hell, no, you ain’t gonna change him. He coulda gone last night

but he wouldn’t, so now he can just face the consequences.”

““But he’s just a little kid.”

“A little brat is what he is. Leave him lay in it.”

“But I gotta get him up anyway. We can’t have him eatin’ his

breakfast like that.”

“Don’t feed him then. He won’t starve before we’re done with

him anyhow.”

“But . . .”

The bad man walked back and kicked the nice man in the back

again.

“Are you messin’ with me?”

Storm Front 137

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Now just shut him back in the fuckin’ box.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The call came in at 8:32 a.m. and lasted exactly three seconds.

“Check the Land Rover again,” a male voice said.

Ganz’s mouth was a grim line when the message was relayed.

“God damn it,” he said to Kincaid. “Go get it. Then I want that

vehicle torn down.”

The note was in the windshield washer this time, in a plastic bag

taped to the bottom of the reservoir which had then been refilled.

Harvey was trying futilely to get some rest in his bedroom when

the agent came to get him, lying rigid on the four-poster bed that had once

been Ezekiel Fripp’s own. Amazingly, the bed’s posts were made of

whole stunted trees stripped bare of bark, their branches forming a

twigwork canopy overhead. A stuffed screeched owl sat on one of the

branches. In the past the owl had amused him, symbolic as it was of the

sometimes over-the-top fascination the owners of the Great Camps had

with all things rustic. Now, it seemed to glare at Harvey balefully, a

harbinger of doom.

“You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” Ganz said to Harvey.

“He’s trying to shake your confidence in us, so you’ll do what he says.”

“Yes, well, he’s doing an effective job of it. How did he know

which note you would find first? Or was the second one planted

afterward?”

“No, there’s no way they planted it afterward. It was there. He

just guessed we’d look in the air cleaner before the washer reservoir and

stop looking once we’d found it. Reasonable assumptions. Not a sign of

genius.”

“Smart enough.”

Ganz frowned, “Well, let’s see what smart boy has to say this

time.”

He extracted the note from the envelope and unfolded it on the

table.

Storm Front 139

“For your son’s sake, you hopefully have the money situation well

under control. Delivery will take place tomorrow. If it does, your son will

be returned to you unharmed. Remember: this is strictly business. We

have no desire to hurt your son. Mode of delivery will be

helicopter―your helicopter, piloted by your pilot, Rick Benton, no one

else on board―leaving from your helipad. The chopper is to be fully

fuelled and equipped as is―no FBI additions, no tracking devices.

Instructions for delivery will be communicated at 0900 hours tomorrow.

The Adirondack region is to be cleared of all lowflying aircraft as of 0600

hours. Any aircraft seen will be assumed to be government, and your son

will die. Any tricks, your son dies. We are watching.”

Kincaid spoke first.

“He’s military.”

“Seems possible,” Ganz replied. “Maybe that’s where he met

Latham. Of course, maybe he just wants us to think that.”

“But what are we going to do?” Harvey interrupted. “Rick’s in the

hospital. We have to tell them somehow.”

“We could just do a substitution,” Kincaid said. “We must have

someone who could pass.”

Ganz nodded. “Could be.”

“But if they don’t know it and they see it’s not Rick, they’ll think

it’s a trick,” Harvey said. “We can’t do that.”

“I wonder why they want Benton,” Kincaid said.

“They want someone with no law enforcement training, would be

my guess,” Ganz said.

“Maybe we could negotiate a replacement.”

“First, we’d have to reach them.”

“We can do that,” Harvey said excitedly. “I’ll buy time on radio

and TV. Every station in the area.”

“The thing is,” Ganz said, “they undoubtedly already know

Benton’s in the hospital. The letter was drafted beforehand. We may hear

from them. They don’t want things to go wrong either. They want the

money. Benton’s injury may actually be a break for us. It messes up their

plans and gives us an opportunity to put a trained man in.”

The public phone in beautiful downtown Beaver Meadow was

outside what was once Smith’s General Store, an establishment

identifiable as such by the faded sign hanging crookedly over the rotting

Johnson 140

front steps. As its name suggested, Beaver Meadow was a town that had

seen its heyday, such as it was, one hundred years earlier, when beaver fur

was fashionable and the animals that had the misfortune to bear it were

still plentiful. Smith’s General Store had given up the ghost years earlier,

but the public phone still worked. It was one of several Butler used when

he needed to make calls. With a glance at the handful of run-down houses

that made up the remainder of the village, Butler pulled his van up next to

the ancient booth.

So far, things were going well, Butler thought with satisfaction.

The killing of the wife hadn’t been planned, but was a contingency well

within the parameters of the operation’s design. The wounding of the

pilot was more problematic but the reports from the hospital were

encouraging. Flesh wounds only, nothing to stop Benton from fulfilling

his appointed role.

The news was good on other fronts too. The reports from his men

were that the agents of ZOG had indeed withdrawn or at least scaled back

their investigation. And if those were the reports, it was undoubtedly true.

It was tough for outsiders to move around the north country unnoticed.

God knows they had been obvious enough before, despite their day-old

beards and the junk cars they’d gotten from somewhere.

Butler glanced at his watch. Jared’s call had presumably gone

through forty-five minutes earlier. Enough time for the FBI to have found

the second letter of instructions. Time for him make his call. It was a bit

of a risk, but he wanted to make sure they knew that Benton’s presence

would still be required.

The phone rang. Harvey picked it up as the recorder whirred. He

listened briefly, cried out, “But wait!”, then slowly put the receiver down.

“He said they know Benton’s well enough to fly. He said they’d

kill Davey if we substituted someone else.”

Rick was drifting with the painkillers and basking in the sun

streaming through his hospital room window. Thinking about Sarah.

Wondering when she’d return—she’d said sometime this afternoon. He’d

sensed a change in her attitude toward him. A relaxing of the guard she’d

put up between them. He hoped it wasn’t simply because he was hurt. It

had been an intoxicating feeling.

There was a noise at the door. Harvey Skolnick entered the room,

another man trailing behind, one Rick had never seen. An FBI agent, he

presumed.

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Harvey appeared to have aged ten years. There were bags under

his eyes and he somehow looked unshaved even though his jaws were

clean.

“Hello, Rick,” he said with an attempt at a smile that came out

more like a grimace.

“Hello, Harve.”

They regarded each other somberly.

“I was sorry to hear about Staci, Harve. I know how much you

loved her. Any word on Davey?”

“Some, Rick. That’s why I’m here―no, that’s not what I mean. I

mean―”

Rick raised his hand to stop him. “I know what you mean, Harve.

Davey’s the important thing now.”

“Yes, and the thing is, I’ve got to ask you something, for you to do

something for me and for Davey. But I need you to be honest with me

too, because if you can’t do it, you have to let me know, and then we’ll

deal with that somehow.”

“Harvey, you know I would do anything for you or Davey.”

“I appreciate that Rick, but that’s why you have to be straight with

me.”

“What is it?”

“They want you to deliver the money.”

“Me?”

“By helicopter.”

“Why me?”

The other man spoke. “Rick, my name is Ganz. Special Agent

Ganz, FBI, agent in charge of the investigation. We assume they want

someone with no police training.”

“They know I’m hospitalized?”

Ganz nodded.

“They’re convinced you’re well enough to fly.”

Rick thought for a moment.

“I think they’re right. When?”

“Rick, are you sure?” It was Harvey.

“I’m positive. I was looking for a way to check out of this fleabag

anyway.”

Ganz spoke. “The doctors say it’s possible, although they want to

check you again, but we have to be sure. Having you crash will not be

helpful.”

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“I haven’t crashed a bird yet. Will I be using my machine?”

“Yes.”

“Is it running all right? I seem to remember throwing some lead its

way.”

“It’s fine,” Ganz said. “Our people flew it back from where the

kidnappers left it.”

“When do I go?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Sarah pulled in, Jack Dawson was standing in the barnyard

as if he had been waiting for her.

“Good morning,” she said, as she got out of her car.

“Good morning.”

He looked different for some reason, but it took Sarah a few

seconds to figure out why: he was smiling, his dark eyes shining.

“Is your dad around?”

A momentary cloud crossed Dawson’s face, but then he brightened

and said, “No, he’s down to the Agway. You’re stuck with me.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to do,” Sarah said and smiled

broadly to make sure he knew she was teasing.

An hour later, they were standing in the barnyard again.

“Things look good, Jack,” Sarah was saying. “We’re not out of the

woods yet, but there’s reason to be optimistic. The disease doesn’t seem

to be spreading.”

“That’s good to hear―and Dad will be real pleased. He’s been

mothering these cows round the clock.” He hesitated as if he had

something more to say, but fell silent.

Sarah wondered what was on his mind. He hadn’t said much while

she examined the cows, just answered her questions and responded to her

comments, but there had been a different quality to their exchanges. He

seemed less tense, more at ease―or better, like he was intent on being

more at ease. As if he was determined to put their relationship on a

friendlier footing. Well, Sarah was all for that.

“Well, I guess I’ll head on down the road,” she said, opening the

door of the Jeep. “It was nice seeing you, Jack.” She said it in a serious

way, trying to make him see that she meant it.

“Uh, Sarah. I was wondering . . .” He faltered then started again.

“You know Sarah, what I was wondering was whether maybe you’d like

to go out sometime. I mean, I know I’m just a farmer and all and you’re

an educated woman, but there’s not so many men around these parts that

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are as educated as you and well, I just thought that maybe we could do

something sometime, it wouldn’t have to mean anything serious, you

know, like go to a movie or out to dinner or something like that.”

While he was speaking Jack’s face had slowly turned bright red.

He was now staring at Sarah with a fixed intensity that was almost painful

to see.

With a start Sarah realized that she was staring back in amazement.

Jack Dawson asking her out―fumbling about like a teenager, but asking

her out all the same. Sarah wondered what incredible reservoir of will

power he had called upon to bring himself to commit what Sarah was sure

he considered a painful act of exposure.

But there lay the problem. If she declined, Jack might take it as a

humiliation, one their relationship might never recover from. And yet

decline she must, given her newly acknowledged feelings about Rick. The

funny thing was, if Jack had asked her out just a week earlier, the situation

would have been completely different. For all his gruffness, she had

always seen him as attractive.

“I can’t, Jack. I’d love to but I’m already committed to another

relationship.”

“You’re in love with someone else?” He spoke as if this were a

possibility he had never considered.

“Yes,” Sarah declared. “I’m in love with someone else,”―and

thrilled at speaking the words aloud.

“Oh,” Jack said in a deflated tone.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said.

“Yeah, me too,” Jack said and once again Sarah was struck by the

sense that asking her out had been a big deal for him, something he’d been

working up to for a long time.

“And Jack, those things you said about being uneducated and just

being a farmer―that’s crazy. You’re not uneducated, you just didn’t go to

college and get a degree. And as for being a farmer―well, personally I

think being a farmer is one of the best things any man or woman can be.

And any woman who doesn’t see that isn’t worth having.”

“Thanks, Sarah,” Jack said, blushing once more. Then obviously

eager to shift the focus off himself, said, “So, where are you off to now?”

“Well, I have an appointment at two in Tupper Lake, so I thought

I’d swing by a client in Smyrna. He’s got a German Shepherd puppy

overdue for shots but no phone so I can’t call him. Maybe you know

him―Raymond Butler?”

Jack shook his head.

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“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said.

“I’ll see you soon,” Sarah said.

When John Dawson arrived home, he found Jack working on the

baler in the equipment shed.

“Did the doc come?”

“Just left,” Jack said, straightening and grabbing a rag from the

workbench to wipe his hands.

“And?”

“Like we figured. No new cases.”

“I wished I’d gotten here sooner. There were a couple things I

wanted to ask her.” He looked at his watch. “Well, she should be back in

her office in a little while. How long ago did she leave, would you say?”

“No more than ten minutes. But she’s not going back to her office.

She’s got an appointment over to Tupper Lake this afternoon and on the

way she was going to drop in on a client in Smyrna whose puppy is

overdue for shots.”

“Smyrna?”

“Yeah. Some guy has a German Shepherd puppy over there but no

phone.”

The older man stared at Jack.

“A German Shepherd?”

“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Did she mention a name?”

“Yeah, she asked if I knew him. A guy named Butler.”

Jack studied his father curiously.

“Pop, what’s wrong?”

“And she was going there from here? Does he know she’s

coming?”

“No, I got the impression she was just going to drop in.”

The older man frowned.

“Jack, we’ve got to stop her.”

“Stop her?”

“Yes. Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”

As they exited the barn, Jack was surprised to see his father head

for the house rather than the pickup that sat parked in the yard.

“Where are you going?” he asked, following.

“I think we had better take a gun, just in case.”

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“In case what?”

“In case there’s trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Jack’s father paused at the storm door that led to the kitchen.

“I’ll explain everything in the truck. Now let’s not get your

mother alarmed.”

How they were going to accomplish that was not clear to Jack.

Jack’s mother was in the kitchen washing dishes as they passed

through on their way to the office where the gun case stood.

“I thought I heard you drive in,” she said as they entered, turning

from the sink to give them a welcoming smile.

“Yeah, I just got back,” John said without pausing.

They went into the office where Jack’s father opened the glass

door to the gun cabinet and took out two twelve gauge pump shotguns.

He handed them to Jack before opening the drawer at the bottom of the

cabinet and removing a box of shells.

“This should do it,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Jack’s mother hadn’t moved.

“Where are you going with those guns?” she asked in wonderment.

“Bunch of crows in the corn,” Jack’s father said. “ ’Bout time we

sent ’em a message.”

“Crows?”

“Yeah, you know―large, black birds.” He smiled, then headed for

the door, Jack at his heels, eyes down, afraid to meet his mother’s eyes.

His father opened the door, but stopped so that Jack almost ran into

him and walked back to where his wife stood.

“We’ll be right back,” he said. He kissed her gently on the cheek

and walked quickly out the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Smyrna wasn’t much of a town: a grocery store long out of

business, a bar that wasn’t much more than someone’s front parlor, and a

few dingy houses huddled together as if in fear of the mountains that

brooded over them. In a few seconds she was through it and the woods

closed in once more. She noted the mileage on her odometer so she would

know when she had gone two miles. She knew there would be no sign to

mark Pittman Road.

There wasn’t, but the road was easy to find, a dirt track going off

to the right 2.2 miles from the center of town. She turned onto it. It was

narrow but well maintained.

It soon became clear that the task of guessing which house was

Butler’s was going to be made easier by limited selection. She had

already driven a mile before she saw the first habitation, a rundown trailer

set close to the road with three junk cars drowned in weeds in front of it.

No way it went with the man with the neatly pressed khakis and spit

shined shoes.

The next candidate was a half mile further on, a log cabin set back

off the road in a clump of firs―a possibility until she saw the sign

identifying it as the Shattered Lake Hunting Club.

She drove on until she came upon a padlocked aluminum gate with

a Keep Out sign attached. She slowed to a halt. There was no evidence of

a house, just two sandy tracks going off into the brush at the side of the

road, but somehow she suspected she’d found what she’d been searching

for.

She sat gazing at the gate. Should she or shouldn’t she? It would

be difficult to say she was just passing by―although it was the truth more

or less―and the sign was less than inviting. And Butler did seem like a

man who valued his privacy. On the other hand, the puppy should have

had its shots.

She pulled to the side of the road and parked the car.

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There was no one home, she could tell that the instant she walked

into the yard. No green van, the house seeming still and empty. His, no

question. Four German Shepherds barking raucously in their kennel, one

of them the pup, Blondi.

She came to a halt on the grass in front of the barn, her medical

bag in her hand. She would knock but quiet the dogs first. She

approached the kennel, the dogs reaching a frenzy, angry territoriality for

the three adults, the pup merely joining in the excitement, tail awag.

Five feet from the first kennel she stopped, knelt down, and began

talking soothingly. The barking slowed then stopped. The dogs regarded

her questioningly.

“Now isn’t that better?” she said. Getting no response she

repeated, “Isn’t it?”

She stepped forward and held her hand to the fence. The first dog

stepped forward and sniffed. She continued talking. Moved to the next

kennel and repeated the process. Again at the next. Then the puppy. She

knelt and offered her hand, the pup sniffing then licking, rump moving

back and forth with the vehemence of his tailwagging.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. “Let me just go check to

make sure no one’s home and I’ll be back.”

She walked across the neatly mowed lawn, mounted the steps to

the house and knocked on the door. The house was silent, seeming not

only unoccupied but abandoned. Knocked again. Turned to head back

down the stairs but halted and walked to the window and peered in. She

could see nothing. A shade completely blocked the view. She went to the

next with the same result. He was a man who liked his privacy―or else

had a strong aversion to light.

A sound behind her.

She spun as Butler’s van pulled into the yard, a flush spreading

across her face. Had he seen her peeking in the window? He must have.

He parked the van and started across the lawn at a brisk walk. The dogs

were barking again. He silenced them with a quick command.

Sarah stepped down off the porch hoping the red had disappeared

from her cheeks.

“Hello,” she said.

Butler did not seem pleased to see her.

“I was in the area and thought I’d see how Blondi was doing. And

you too, of course.”

“How did you find this place?” he demanded brusquely.

“I just drove down the road until I saw your driveway.”

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“Drove down the road?”

“Yes, well, I had a call over in Gilsum and some time to kill before

my next appointment, and I remembered you said you lived on Pittman

Road in Smyrna so I decided to stop by. Blondi’s overdue for his next set

of shots, you know.”

He studied her appraisingly, weighing her words. His manner was

making Sarah uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on,

as if he didn’t believe her explanations of why she had come, and the more

she tried to explain the more he seemed to think she was just trying to

cover her real reasons.

She smiled uncertainly.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

He hesitated then reached a decision. The tension went out of his

posture and he smiled.

“No, of course not,” he said. “I was just surprised that’s all. I

don’t get many visitors out here.”

The expression on Butler’s face was a strange one, Sarah thought.

Not exactly one of welcome, but not unfriendly either, more like one of

pleased but cautious surprise, a wish unexpectedly fulfilled.

“I met your dogs. They’re beautiful.”

They both looked at the dogs who stood watching expectantly.

“How’s Blondi doing?”

“I spoil him, I’m afraid.”

They walked over to the kennels. Butler opened the door to

Blondi’s kennel who raced out and jumped up on him. Butler petted the

pup then squatted down and commanded him to sit, forcing his wiggling

rump to the ground.

“Sit,” he repeated still holding his rump down. Finally, the dog

relaxed.

“Good boy,” Butler said and released him to race madly around the

yard.

Butler stood and opened the door to the next cage.

“This is Eva,” he said.

The dog stood frozen with anticipation inside the open door of the

cage.

He opened the next door.

“And this is Greta.”

Greta too stood without moving.

“And this is Hans.”

Johnson 150

“Release!” he said. All three trotted over to Sarah and sniffed her.

“They’re very well behaved,” Sarah said.

“Obedience is essential to their nature,” Butler said. “We do them

a disservice if we don’t provide them with order.”

“You know, you’re right. So many people seem to feel that if they

train a dog they’re interfering with its freedom. I don’t think that’s true.

Dogs are pack animals and need and want structure. And if you don’t

train them, it can be disastrous, I can tell you.”

“If you’ll forgive me for being sexist, I’d say it’s a rare woman

who understands that.”

“Well, I don’t know about rare, but I’d agree that women tend to

be a bit softer when it comes to discipline―although I certainly know my

share of male dog owners who can’t control their pets.” She smiled.

“Obviously, you’re not one of them.”

“Thank you. And you’re right. There’s no shortage of weak men

in this world.”

“I’m not sure it’s weakness, exactly―”

“It is,” Butler interrupted. “What else would you call those who

don’t have the will to do what needs to be done?”

“I don’t know. I think many pet owners are just misguided. They

think they’re being kind.”

“But you and I know they’re not.”

“Yes. But their hearts are in the right place.”

“And yours?”

“I hope mine is too.”

“It is, but you don’t allow it to rule your head. I respect that.” He

paused. “You know, I’m glad you came, Sarah,” Butler said. His voice

was softer.

Sarah hadn’t been focusing on Butler’s words. She had been

thinking about Rick, about how her refusal to let her heart rule her head

had driven her away from the man she loved and how she had almost lost

him. Now, she realized that something in Butler’s demeanor had shifted.

He was watching her intently, waiting for her response.

It was time to get their conversation on a more business-like plane.

“Shall we take a look at Blondi?” she said briskly.

Butler smiled as if at a private joke.

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

“Now what’s going on,” Jack demanded as he drove them out to

the road.

Storm Front 151

“It’s a long story,” Jack’s father said as if choosing his words

carefully. “And maybe nothing. But I think we had better check it out.”

“Something to do with Sarah?”

“Something to do with this guy Butler.”

“You know him?”

“He’s the head of that Valkyrie Rod and Gun Club.”

“Those militia idiots?”

“Yeah.”

“So what does that have to do with Sarah?”

John exhaled heavily. “I think something may be going on.”

“Like what?”

“You know about the Skolnick kidnapping?”

Jack nodded.

“It was on the news last night.”

“Well, a couple months ago, I was in the Sportsman and I heard

Creight Anders talkin’ about this plan Butler had for raising some big

money: they could kidnap a rich Jew and hold him for ransom.”

“The Skolnick kid?” Jack said, eyes wide.

“He didn’t name any names. He was just talking general-like. But

when I heard about this kidnapping on the radio on my way home this

morning, I began to wonder if maybe they really did do it.”

“And now you’re worried Sarah might walk in on something?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus,” Jack said. He had been driving just slightly over the speed

limit. Now he accelerated until the speedometer stood at eighty on the

straightaways, the balding tires squealing on the sharper curves.

They rode in silence for a time before Jack said, “I don’t

understand. When you heard what they were planning, why didn’t you do

something?”

“I thought it was most likely hot air. You know Creight. And I

couldn’t imagine the other guys doing something like that. And what was

I going to do? They’re our friends—and they’d only deny it anyway.”

“Creight Anders is no friend of mine and frankly I wouldn’t put

anything past him,” Jack retorted. “Is that what you were talking to him

about that day you were plowing?”

John Dawson took a deep breath.

“No. That was about the Indian. They killed him.”

“Who, the militia?”

Johnson 152

“No, not exactly. Anders and some of the others. The Indian came

in to the Sportsman and was mouthin’ off and there was a fight and he

pulled a knife and they tried to stop him and they ended up killing him

accidentally.”

“You saw it?” Jack said incredulously.

The older Dawson reddened.

“Not exactly. I knew somethin’ was going on, but I was too far

gone to realize what. But then they told me to keep my mouth shut about

him being there that night.”

“And you did?”

“Jack, they’re our people and it was an accident, anyway.”

“How do you know? I thought you didn’t see it.”

“Well, that’s what they said.”

“And you believed them.” Jack said in a disgusted tone. His

father returned his stare with a pained expression.

“So you did nothing?”

“Jack, I felt terrible. So terrible I quit drinking after that night. I

just kept hoping the police would figure out what happened. But they

didn’t.”

They sat silently as the road unwound before them. They were

nearing Smyrna.

“You sent the letter, didn’t you?” Jack said at last.

His father nodded.

“I had to do something. I figured that way the sheriff would at

least know something wasn’t right.”

“Why didn’t you just go to them?”

Jack’s father did not reply.

“Butler’s place is up this next road,” he said finally.

“How do you know where he lives?” Jack asked as he slowed to

turn into the dirt road.

John Dawson hesitated before answering.

“I’ve been there,” he said.

“Been there?”

“Yeah,” the older man said heavily. “I went to a couple of

meetings here.”

“Militia meetings?” Jack said incredulously.

“I didn’t realize that’s what they were at first. They were more

like community meetings. It was right after Butler moved into the area

when he was just getting things organized. Somehow he’d met Creight

and Creight set up this meeting at The Sportsman. Creight said it was

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going to be about the bond act what was up then and how if the

government got the money they were gonna buy more land inside the blue

line and the more they did, the more they would regulate the private land

that was left and soon you wouldn’t be able to do anything with your own

land and, well, I’d been thinkin’ we might have to sell the farm and I

thought I ought to see what it was all about.”

“Sell the farm?” Jack said incredulously.

“Well, you know how things are. Anyway, Butler was there and

he did talk about the bond act and how the liberals were trying to run

every aspect of our lives and hell, Jack, a lot of what he said was right so I

decided to go to a couple more meetings.”

Jack’s father glanced over at him but Jack said nothing, just stared.

“After that first meeting, Butler organized smaller, private

meetings where he talked about setting up a militia so we’d be ready just

in case things came to a head―he said there was a lot of evidence that the

government was fixin’ to declare martial law―and some of those

meetings were held in Butler’s barn, invitation only. Now they’ve got a

place over to Lynx Hill.”

“I can’t believe you listened to that crap. So what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not in the militia, right?”

“No. Because as time went on, I realized that this guy was just

crazy and filled with hate and after that I didn’t go any more.”

“Christ,” Jack said.

They rode in silence once again, the truck bouncing on the

unpaved surface, until, coming around a bend, they saw Sarah’s Jeep

parked at the side of the road.

“She’s here,” Jack said excitedly.

“That’s his driveway with the gate. Drive past it.”

“Why?” Jack asked.

“I think we should park up here a ways. It’ll be better if we walk

in through the woods and took a look-see before we show ourselves.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sarah was preparing a shot for Blondi using the porch as a table

when one of the dogs growled behind her. Turning, she saw that the three

adult dogs were standing at rigid attention, ears erect, staring into the

woods to the side of the house, growls rumbling in their throats. Butler

was staring in the same direction, while Blondi gnawed with puppy

ferocity at his shoe.

“Stay!” he commanded the dogs suddenly, then sprinted to the

house and disappeared inside.

Puzzled, Sarah laid the syringe down and stared at the open

doorway.

Butler reappeared carrying a rifle in his hands.

“I’ll be right back,” he said as he leapt down off the porch.

“What is it?”

“Guests,” he said over his shoulder as he headed for the corner of

the house. “Uninvited guests.”

Jack parked the truck around a bend from Sarah’s Jeep and the two

men headed into the woods, shotguns loaded, John Dawson in the lead.

Angling back toward Butler’s house, they placed their feet carefully to

minimize the noise of their passage over the bone dry duff on the forest

floor.

After a walk of several hundred yards, they at last caught a glimpse

of it, a gleam of white through the dense spruces. The woods were

preternaturally still.

The older man signaled for his son to come close.

“OK, there it is,” he whispered. “We’ve got to be real quiet. He’s

got dogs, and though the wind’s in our favor, they’ll hear us easy enough

if we’re not real careful.”

“All right,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

They crept slowly forward, moving from tree to tree, adrenaline

flowing and every sense alert.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

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In the stillness, the voice was so loud that both men jumped.

Butler stepped from behind a tree no more than thirty yards away.

He held a military-style rifle casually in his hands.

They froze.

“This is private property,” he said. “Well marked. What are you

doing here? Out for a stroll―or hunting perhaps? I see you’ve brought

guns.”

“Thought we’d see what we could see,” John Dawson said shakily.

“And what did you see?”

“Nothin’.”

“Too bad, but of course nothin’ is about all that’s in season.”

“I reckon you’re right,” John said. “We were just thinking of

heading home.”

“Were you now? The thing of it is, you’re on my property.”

“We’re sorry about that. We’ll get off.”

He made as if to walk back toward the car.

The barrel of Butler’s gun moved with him.

“Not so fast,” he said. The casual tone was gone.

Dawson halted.

“Get back next to your friend,” he said.

As the old man did, Butler walked forward.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re the farmer, the alkie. Who’s

this?”

“His son,” Jack said.

“I see. A father-son outing.” He had halted about ten yards away.

“So what am I going to do about you two?” he said almost

conversationally.

“Do?” Jack’s father said.

“Yes. Do.”

Jack spoke up. “What do you mean, what are you going to do?

You’re going to let us walk right out of here, unless you want to call the

police and report us for trespassing.”

Butler laughed.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said jovially. His smile faded. “Now,

put those weapons down.”

Neither Dawson moved.

“Do it.” Butler raised his gun to his shoulder and pointed it

directly at Jack’s face. “Now!” he barked. “Don’t make the mistake of

thinking I won’t shoot. We all know we’re not just playing games here.”

Johnson 156

Slowly, the two men leaned down and placed their shotguns on the

forest floor, watching Butler all the while.

“There,” Butler said, his tone light once more. “That’s better.

Now we can discuss this problem in a more civilized manner.”

Sarah stood dumbfounded after Butler disappeared into the trees.

The dogs were still in place staring into the woods. This visit had been a

strange one indeed. First, Butler’s almost come-on, and now this Rambo

stuff. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it―or what she should do.

Her first instinct was to leave. Pack her bag and walk right out of

there. Blondi could get his shots another day, in Sarah’s office, or better,

some other vet’s office.

On the other hand, that seemed like a ridiculous thing to do. She

was seeing a side of Butler she hadn’t seen, but he hadn’t done anything to

justify her not doing what she’d come to do and leaving in an

appropriately civilized manner.

There was the matter of the gun, but everybody had guns in these

parts and that didn’t bother her overly much even if Butler’s was a

particularly nasty-looking one. It didn’t mean he planned on using it on

whoever (or, more likely, whatever) might have gotten the dogs’ attention.

And lots of people in the north country took their privacy

seriously―paranoia and isolation made a natural partnership.

No, better to corral Blondi and give him his shots then wait for

Butler to come back and say her goodbyes. And truth be known, she was

a bit curious to find out what Butler might have snared.

Ten minutes later, Sarah was still curious. She had given Blondi

his shots, put the dogs in their kennels, and put her things back in her bag.

Now she stood peering into the woods where Butler had gone. Where on

earth was he?

She picked up her bag and headed up the drive but stopped. She

thought perhaps she had heard voices. The dogs were all facing into the

woods, ears erect. She listened but heard nothing, only the breeze in the

pines.

She took another tentative step up the drive and stopped again.

Listened. Still nothing.

She frowned.

Finally, she placed her bag on the ground, strode across the lawn

and entered the woods where Butler had disappeared.

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“Look,” Jack was saying, “We were worried about Sarah, that’s

all, and we came to see she was all right. If she is, we’ll leave and that’s

the end of it.”

“Why wouldn’t she be all right?” Butler stared at Jack, then his

father.

Jack shrugged helplessly, unable to formulate a response.

“Well, she’s fine,” Butler said with a sneer. “But that’s not the end

of it. Not by a long shot. You know too much. You’re being here proves

that.” He spoke as if thinking out loud. “No, I can’t let you go. The only

ques―”

A stick broke behind him with a loud crack. In the silence that

ensued, the steady crunch of footsteps in the dry leaves was clearly

audible. Jack and his father looked past Butler as Sarah’s form blinked

between the trees, Butler turning to follow their gaze.

Sarah slowly approached, picking her way along the rough ground,

oblivious to the men.

And then she saw them. She halted.

For an instant, everyone stood frozen―then Jack sprang into

action, rushing Butler an instant before he turned back toward the

Dawsons.

“Jack, no!” his father cried, but Jack was committed, hurling

himself at Butler as the gun’s muzzle swung toward him with a seeming

glacial slowness.

I’m going to make it, he thought, and prepared himself for the

impact of his body on Butler’s―even as he heard the roar of Butler’s gun

and felt the tug of the bullets pulling at his flesh―piling into Butler even

as darkness engulfed his consciousness, his last sensations the wet splash

of his own blood and the fading sound of Sarah’s scream.

Butler staggered under the weight of Jack’s body but kept his feet,

stumbling backward and struggling to maintain his balance.

John had picked up his shotgun and was now straightening up, the

gun waist high and pointing in Butler’s direction. As Butler watched,

transfixed, the gun bucked and a tongue of flame darted out of the end of

the barrel, followed by its booming roar. Butler flinched in anticipation of

the searing pain sure to follow, but none came.

The old fool missed, he thought in wonder, and quickly calmed

himself, watching as Dawson struggled with the pump mechanism,

drawing it back too fast in his excitement so that it jammed and he had to

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start again, finally getting a new shell chambered and bringing the gun

level―as Butler tore open his head and upper torso with three quick bursts

from the G3.

Sarah had just registered the surprising fact that the men Butler

was talking to were the Dawsons when Jack had hurled himself at Butler

and Butler had cut him down. In a total state of shock, she had stood

screaming, unable to comprehend the event.

But as John Dawson had picked up his gun, Sarah had gathered her

wits and rushed forward, intent on stopping the insanity unfolding before

her. When Dawson’s shotgun fired she stopped, expecting to see Butler

topple, a second casualty of the madness. But Butler didn’t fall. Instead,

he watched as Dawson sought to reload.

“John! No!” Sarah screamed—but it was Butler’s gun that spoke

once more.

“What are you doing!?!”

Sarah launched herself at Butler, pummeling him with her fists and

crying hysterically. “You’ve murdered them, you crazy bastard!”

Tossing his gun to one side, Butler briefly attempted to fend off

her blows then grabbed her arms and tossed her to the ground. He threw

himself on top of her, pinning her beneath him, his hands on her wrists.

Sarah struggled briefly against his weight and strength, then realizing it

was pointless, lay still, staring up into the ice of his eyes mere inches

above her, the horror of the Dawsons’ murders still fresh before her.

“Quite a little tiger, aren’t you?” Butler hissed, his breath coming

in gasps as he sought to recover from his exertions. “I thought you might

be.”

“Why did you kill them?” she said. “Why?”

“I had no choice. They were trying to interfere.”

“Interfere?”

“Yes, there are things you don’t understand―but you will.”

“Are you going to kill me too?”

He paused, considering the question.

“That all depends.”

“On what?”

“On you. On whether you have the ability to understand. I know

you’re shocked by what you’ve just seen. Rightly so. Death is never a

pretty thing. But sometimes it’s a necessary thing. I, and others like me,

are trying to build something.”

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“Build something?”

“A new world. A new way of life. One where women will once

again assume their rightful role as bearers of the nation’s seed, protected

by men free of the emasculating corruption of the old regime.”

Sarah didn’t really comprehend what Butler was saying, but one

thing was clear: it was exciting him. She felt him growing hard where his

abdomen lay against hers.

“There’s a revolution underway, a revolution by white Christian

men and women to throw off the chains of slavery to the minions of Satan,

and you can be in the vanguard. The new nation will need women,

women of good blood to bear the warriors of tomorrow.”

Sarah felt Butler’s erection pressing against her. Butler was crazy,

she realized―and suddenly she was no longer afraid.

“Get off me,” she commanded.

Butler looked startled but slowly complied, releasing her wrists

and pushing himself off her. He stood up then quickly turned to pick up

his gun embarrassed, Sarah was sure, by the obvious evidence of his

excitation.

She climbed to her feet as he turned back toward her.

“I know you don’t understand it all yet,” he said. “We’ll give it

some time.”

“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. You’ve murdered two

people. Two innocent people. And no harebrained scheme for a new

world order can ever justify that. And if my life depends upon my playing

along with you in your insanity, you might as well kill me too right now.”

As she spoke, Butler’s face had colored with anger. Now he

glowered at her.

“Well, go ahead,” she said. “They can only hang you once.”

Butler continued to glare at her. Then he gestured with the barrel

of his gun in the direction of the house.

“Get moving,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Billy Swamp signaled for Brian Porter to close the doors to the

garage and for the group to come to order.

“I presume you have all heard what has happened,” Billy began,

“but I will repeat it so we all have the same understanding.

“The son of billionaire Harvey Skolnick was kidnapped from

Skolnick’s estate near Indian Lake. His wife was killed in the process.

The kidnappers escaped in Skolnick’s helicopter which was flown to the

Chateaugay Lakes area and abandoned. When the police arrived on the

scene they found a Mohawk amulet on the ground near the helicopter.

“Earlier today, Oren Tebo came to my house with an FBI agent to

ask me whether the Warriors were involved. They may have spoken to

you too. I know they spoke to Loran Mohawk and some others.”

Mohawk nodded as all heads turned toward him.

“I don’t think Oren believes we were involved, “ Billy continued.

“The FBI may. In any event, they must investigate. Each of you may hear

from them.”

There was a murmur from the group as they reacted to this

possibility.

“They have no right to question us,” Rudy Cook said angrily.

“They came to my place and I told them to get lost.”

Billy Swamp raised his hand to call for silence.

“The FBI has no right. Tebo does.”

“He works for the tribe.”

“Yes, he does,” Billy said. “And part of his job is investigating

crime.”

“Our crimes, not theirs,” Cook said.

“A crime has been committed against us,” Swamp said. “A

terrible slander. Unless, of course . . .”―he paused, surveying the

room―“one of us was involved.”

A murmur arose again.

Swamp continued.

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“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it could be kept quiet. I don’t

believe any one of us would be stupid enough to commit such an atrocity.

Nonetheless, the amulet was found.”

“What does that have to do with the Warriors?” Brian Porter asked.

“Nothing really, but the FBI apparently believes the kidnapping

might be an attempt to obtain funds for our activities. They seem to think

Rodney Boots may have been in Gilsum in connection with planning for

it.”

“Rodney?” Brian said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Apparently they have a lead that suggests that after they ditched

the chopper, the kidnappers passed through the Gilsum area on their way

into the Adirondack Park. I agree, it’s ridiculous. And since we weren’t

involved, I think it is important that we affirm that this act was not an act

of the Warriors or one we in any way condone, and cooperate fully with

Oren and the FBI, working through him, in investigating this crime.”

“Why should we help them?” Cook said. “Let the FBI think what

they want.”

As voices rose once more, Swamp said in a louder tone, “And I

think it important too that within this group each of us as individuals

swear on our blood oath that we had no knowledge or part in this crime.”

He fell silent, allowing the hubbub to crest then slowly abate.

“Who wishes to speak to this?” he asked finally.

Several men raised their hands immediately, but Swamp ignored

them.

“Loran?” he said.

Loran Mohawk had been leaning against the wall toward the back

as was his custom. He remained motionless for a few seconds more, then

thrust his weight off the wall and stood straight.

“Tell them the rest,” he said. “Then I will speak.”

Swamp nodded.

“I have also learned from my sister Mary that the FBI has

withdrawn most of their agents from the area at the insistence of the

kidnappers. Oren Tebo was informed of this several hours ago.

“It is my belief that this is an opportunity for us. If we were to find

where they are holding the boy, it would vindicate us and be a coup

worthy of our ancestors. I think we should organize into teams and search

likely places in the Park.”

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A hue and cry rose once again. Loran Mohawk stood watching for

a time then slowly strode to the front of the room where he turned and

faced the group. They fell silent.

“I believe we should do each thing that Billy Swamp has said,”

Mohawk said. “But let’s vote. I wish to see who does not agree.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Butler slid open one of the barn doors, grasped her by the elbow

and steered her roughly inside. The floor of the barn was concrete. A ten-

foot-wide central drive-through ran the length of the building to another

set of double doors at its far end. The drive-through was defined on each

side by a foot-deep manure trough notched into the cement to service the

milking stalls that flanked the drive-through along its length. The ceiling

was low, no more than seven feet, and supported by thick posts mortised

into equally ponderous crossbeams.

Butler guided Sarah over to the closest of these posts.

“Put your arms around it,” he commanded.

When she did, he leaned his gun against the wall and produced a

pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He cuffed her wrists together.

“There,” he said brightly. “Now, I have a few things I’ve got to

do, then I’ll be back. I assume your car is parked out at the gate. Where

are the keys?”

Sarah hesitated.

“Let’s not play games, Sarah. You’re too smart for that.”

“In my pocket.”

“Oops,” he said almost jovially. “We should have gotten them out

before I cuffed you. That’s how easily one can make a mistake. Well,

fortunately no harm done. Which one?”

She told him, then stood immobile as he reached into her pants

pocket, his hand like a thick and questing snake against her thigh.

“I’ll be back,” he said when he had retrieved them.

The barn door slid shut behind him.

Sarah stood in the darkness trying to come to grips with her

situation. It had all happened so fast: preparing a distemper vaccination

one minute, a witness to murder and captive of a madman the next. She

was lucky she was still alive. But she couldn’t count on her luck holding

out forever. She had to escape.

Soon.

Johnson 164

Now―while she still had the chance.

But how? She strained her wrists against the handcuffs.

Unsurprisingly, they remained locked fast. Unfortunately, there weren’t

many other possibilities for escape.

Break or open the cuffs.

Cut―no, it would have to be chew―off an arm. Trapped animals

did it all the time. She wasn’t prepared for that.

Cut or break the post. It was at least eight inches thick and she

couldn’t even use her hands. Use the handcuff chain as a saw? Maybe if

she had a week.

One other possibility. She squatted and brought her handcuffed

wrists down to where the post met the floor and twisted her hands back so

she could reach the junction. As she had feared, the post was imbedded in

the concrete. She ran her fingers along the surface of the wood. It felt

punky in places. Moisture from the concrete had rotted the base of the

post. She worked at it with a fingernail. A piece fell off.

Maybe she had a chance! She picked at the post some more,

grimacing in pain as she felt a splinter slide up under her nail. Another

chip came off. Then another. And another.

Her progress slowed as she penetrated the surface, each piece

taking more effort to dislodge. She sawed at the post with the handcuff

chain with little result. Frustration engulfed her. It wasn’t going to work!

Even if she had all day it wouldn’t work―and more likely she had a

matter of minutes.

She had ignored the growing discomfort that squatting had

produced in her knees. Now, in defeat, the pain was coming through loud

and clear. She stood and felt the burn of blood rushing back into her legs.

She lifted one to slow the blood flow. Then the other. Swung it back and

forth.

A thought occurred to her.

Pulling her leg back, she kicked the base of the post with all her

strength, grateful for the sturdy hiking boots on her feet. She kicked it

again. Dropping back into a squat, she felt the base. She couldn’t be sure,

but it felt as if the post had moved.

She stood and kicked some more, concentrating on one side now,

trying to twist the post in its moorings. She squatted again. The post was

definitely moving, the rotten wood slowly giving way under the onslaught

of her kicks.

She stood once more―and froze at the sound of a motor outside.

Her Jeep. Too late! The car door slammed and she waited for the barn

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door to open. Seconds passed. The door remained closed. He wasn’t

coming in yet!

In a frenzy, she started kicking the post again.

Ten minutes later, the post was wobbling in its moorings, half of

its thickness chopped away by her kicks. Sarah was drenched in sweat,

her breath coming in great gasps, but she was oblivious to her condition.

If she could only get it a little looser she might be able to angle it enough

to work the cuffs under it.

A sound outside. Another vehicle.

He was back!

She dropped down to check her progress. It might be enough.

She slid the handcuffs’ connecting chain under the base of the post

and sawed back and forth while pulling with all her strength―ignoring the

pain in her wrists, her labored breaths like sobs, sure at any moment he

would be there―pulling, pulling―until the cuffs came free and she

tumbled onto her back on the concrete.

She scrambled to her feet―and stood blinking in a widening bar of

blinding light. Butler stood in the open doorway, gun in hand, silhouetted

against the glare.

“Going somewhere, Sarah?” he said.

He marched her out into the yard at gunpoint. He had traded the

rifle for a snub-nosed submachine gun with an open metal stock and

protruding banana clip.

Her Jeep and the Dawsons’ pickup were parked just outside.

“Over to the van.”

Were they going someplace?

“Hold out your hands,” he said when they arrived at the driver’s

side door. He unlocked the cuffs. “Now get in.”

Sarah did. He shut the door and walked around to the passenger

side. Got in.

“Now start it―and Sarah, don’t do anything stupid. This gun will

saw you in half in a second.”

The key was in the ignition.

“Now, back it up to the porch. Nice and easy.”

She did―nice and easy. He took the keys.

“Put your hands through the wheel.”

He put the cuffs on her wrists and sat back.

Johnson 166

“All right. I have some more errands to run. You sit here and

please,”―his tone became mocking―“stay out of trouble would you? If

you honk the horn, no one will hear it but me but horns really get on my

nerves, know what I mean?”

He smiled. Sarah nodded.

“Good. I’ll see you later.”

She watched as he drove an ATV with a cart attached out of the

barn then drove her Jeep and the Dawsons’ truck into it and shut the doors.

Slinging his gun across his back, he climbed back onto the ATV, and rode

it across the lawn and into the woods.

She looked around the inside of the van. Clearly, Butler was a

man who believed in being prepared. A compass and a radar detector sat

side by side on the dashboard. A CB radio was mounted below, its mike

hanging from a clip on the ceiling. The door pockets were overflowing

with maps.

Behind the front seats, the walls of the van were lined with wooden

cabinets with labels neatly stenciled on them in black. Sarah could make

some of them out in the gloom: F/D FOOD, UTENSILS, TENTS AND

BEDDING, FLARES AND LANTERNS, TOOLS, AMMO, PAPER

GOODS, CLOTHING, FIRST AID. A pair of rifles hung in homemade

racks above the cabinets on each side. At the rear, a five gallon plastic

container labeled “water” sat on top of two others labeled “gasoline”. All

three were strapped to the wall with bungee cords.

Across from the containers, an ungainly apparatus was mounted on

a shelf halfway up the wall. Measuring about twenty-four inches across

and eighteen inches high, it had a housing of molded blue plastic, what

appeared to be a large handle on top, and below that on the main body, a

threaded cap about six inches across. A long power cord was coiled on a

hook protruding from the shelf. A black plastic hose about two inches in

diameter rose from the machine to penetrate the roof of the van. If

anything, it looked like a vacuum cleaner, but Sarah had no idea what its

purpose might actually be.

Butler reappeared less than ten minutes later. He had placed the

Dawsons’ bodies in the cart―Jack’s left hand and wrist hung limply over

one side. Butler pulled up to the barn doors, opened them and drove

inside. He reappeared a minute later on foot, holding a five gallon

gasoline can which he carried toward the house.

The van’s rear doors opened.

Storm Front 167

Sarah twisted around to see. He had set the gas can on the porch.

“Everything all right?” Butler said with mock concern.

She glared at him but said nothing. He went into the house and

returned a few minutes later carrying two plastic jugs which he placed in

one of the lower cabinets. Both jugs were labeled “POISON—DO NOT

OPEN” above a crudely drawn skull and crossbones. The way Butler

handled them, not so much carefully as reverentially, caught her attention.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“An excellent question,” he said. “That’s a little present I’m going

to give to some richly deserving people.”

“What kind of present?”

He smiled considering her question.

“I’ll tell you what. You’re a vet. Let’s try a little test of your

medical knowledge: Bacillus anthracis.”

“Anthrax.”

“Precisely. Very good. Characteristics?”

“Highly infectious. Frequently fatal.”

“Exactly. Highly infectious. Frequently fatal. Transmitted by

means of airborne spores. Almost 100% fatal after substantial exposure

with death occurring within seven days. A disease typically of cattle,

sheep and other ruminants but readily transmittable to humans.”

“That’s what’s in the containers?”

“Exactly. Two liters of Bacillus anthracis spores. An amount that

has been estimated to be enough to fatally infect many thousands of

people if dispersed within a sufficiently congested population center―Jew

York City, for example.”

“You’re not seriously considering doing that?”

“Oh, I’m not just considering it, the plans are all made. As of this

moment, they are now being put into motion. Prematurely, I would point

out, but your friends forced a change in my timetable.

He pointed to the apparatus Sarah had noticed earlier.

“Do you see this?”

“What is it?”

“An insecticide duster, available from any power equipment

supplier. All I have to do is plug it into the van’s electrical system through

this AC/DC converter, put the spores in the hopper, and let it rip. I’ve

even rigged up a remote trigger so I can operate it while I’m driving.

Who’s going to notice a van driving down Broadway at dusk with a little

dust blowing off the roof? Nobody.” He smiled with satisfaction.

Johnson 168

“You’re talking about murdering thousands of innocent people.”

“Innocent? Innocent?” His voice rose in indignation. “Who are

you talking about? The Jews? The Christ killers who pull every string of

government and business and whose sole goal is Zionist domination and

the destruction of the Aryan race? The homos who flaunt their perversion

and their repudiation of God’s laws? The black animals who rape and

pillage and prostitute their own children for vials of crack? Who? The

white liberal collaborators who aid and abet them? No, I don’t think

you’ll find too many innocent people in Sodom by the Sea.”

“But even you believe some people there are innocent.”

“Yes, some innocent people will die, but any goal worth achieving

requires sacrifice.” He paused, before continuing in a lighter tone,

“Anyway, enough of this. There’s work to be done.”

After Butler disappeared, Sarah sat considering her situation.

Clearly, Butler was insane. Clearly, he would kill her without a second

thought. Clearly, there wasn’t much she could do but play along and hope

a chance for escape arose. Or was there . . . ?

He came out of the house carrying a radio transmitter/receiver

which he set on a shelf just behind the driver’s seat, then continued

loading the van for almost half an hour, bringing out gun cases and boxes

of various shapes and sizes which he packed neatly in the van’s rear.

Finally, he climbed into the passenger seat, unlocked Sarah’s cuffs

and put the key in the ignition.

“Kindly drive us over to the end of the driveway, Sarah,” he said.

Sarah grasped the ignition key and twisted it. Nothing happened.

“Start the car, please.”

Sarah turned the key again and looked at Butler helplessly.

He reached over and turned it himself. Frowning, he tried again.

“Don’t move,” he said.

He crossed in front of the van to her door.

“Get out.”

She did. He cuffed her to the handle of the open door and got into

the driver’s seat. Twisted the key. No response. He examined the

steering column then got back out and bent to look underneath the dash.

He straightened. In his hand were several shards of plastic and

broken fuses.

Before she could react, he slapped her face with the debris with all

his strength.

Storm Front 169

“You fucking bitch.” He spat out the words.

Stunned, Sarah slumped against the van door momentarily, then

slowly stood erect. Through the pain, Sarah could feel blood running

down her cheek.

“Well, fine. Now we know where we stand.”

“I already told you where we stood,” Sarah said.

Butler smiled, in control once more. He inspected his hand. Like

Sarah’s cheek, it was bleeding. He raised it to his mouth and sucked at the

wound.

“Yes, I suppose you did,” he said lightly. “Well, fortunately, this

is no more than a minor setback. And fortunately for you, you still have

your uses so I’m not going to kill you―unless of course you force me to.”

He smiled grimly. “Now, do you think you can stay out of trouble while I

shift this cargo?”

Moving calmly, Butler drove Sarah’s Jeep out of the barn and over

to the van and began transferring the van’s load. Although he worked

hard at packing things tightly, Sarah was gratified to see that he was

unable to fit more than a small percentage of the van’s contents into the

Jeep. Unfortunately, the duster and containers of anthrax were among the

things he did transfer. He also removed and packed the van’s license

plates.

When he was done, he unlocked Sarah, guided her into the driver’s

seat and handcuffed her to the steering wheel once more.

“I’m going to push the van away from the porch then use the Jeep

to push it into the garage. You steer the van into the barn. It has power

steering so it won’t be easy with the engine off, but I’m sure you can do it.

You’re obviously a resourceful girl.”

He started to walk away, then stopped.

“And Sarah,” he said. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than

it has to be. You don’t want to make me angry, because sometimes when

I get angry I lose control―as you have seen.” He smiled. “Okay?”

Five minutes later the van was in the barn. Butler drove the Jeep

to where the driveway entered the yard then unlocked Sarah and led her

over to it.

“There now,” he said. “Almost done.”

Sarah flinched as he raised his hand to her face but he only turned

her head so he could examine her cheek, frowning at what he saw.

Johnson 170

“This won’t do.” He cuffed her wrists to the door handle and

trotted back into the house, returning with a damp towel, a tube of

antibiotic ointment and a flesh-colored bandage. He cleaned the wound

and wiped the blood from her face, then applied the bandage and ointment

with practiced efficiency.

He unlocked the handcuffs.

“Take your blouse off.”

Sarah hesitated.

“Now,” he commanded.

He watched gravely as she unbuttoned and removed her blouse

then tossed her a khaki shirt he had brought from the house.

“Put this on. We can’t have you walking around looking like an

accident victim.”

When she was finished he took her arm and guided her into the

passenger seat of the Jeep, handcuffing her wrists behind her thighs.

“The ankles too, I think,” he said producing another pair of cuffs.

Butler disappeared into the barn only to reappear a short time later,

backing out of the doorway as he poured gasoline from another five gallon

can. He emptied it and tossed it back into the barn, then returned to the

porch. Picking up the gasoline container he had left there, he pulled the

cap off the spout and went into the house, backing out the front door a

minute later, pouring gasoline onto the floor of the porch as he went.

“Now,” he said, producing a box of matches. “I think we finally

are ready. You see, Sarah, in some ways this is better. When they find

my van in the barn, they’ll think I died in the fire—for a while at least.”

“What about the dogs?”

“The dogs? People will come when they see the smoke.”

“It could get awfully hot with both these buildings burning. And

something might explode.”

Butler considered what she had said.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “We’ll release them.” He

continued gravely, “Thank you, Sarah. I wouldn’t want the dogs to

suffer.”

They drove slowly out the driveway, Butler at the wheel, as the

house and barn were consumed by roaring waves of flame. The dogs

trotted after them, Blondi nipping playfully at the older dogs. Butler let

them follow until they were out of sight of the burning buildings, then got

out of the car, ruffed the neck of each in turn, and commanded them to

Storm Front 171

stay. When last Sarah glanced back, the dogs were sitting in the drive

watching their master drive away, billows of black smoke rising above the

treetops behind them.

CHAPTER THIRTY

At ten minutes to six, Rick was watching the clock like a

schoolboy, unable to suppress his excitement over Sarah’s imminent

arrival. Ridiculous. And disconcerting―this sense of being not quite in

control. Rick didn’t like it. And yet, there was something distinctly

pleasurable about it too.

He picked up the remote and flicked the TV on, surfed the

channels desultorily, then switched the set back off. There was nothing

on.

The sound of footsteps in the hall caught his attention. He looked

toward the doorway as the steps drew nearer, a smile winning the battle

for control of his face―but it was only a nurse pulling a dinner cart.

Get a grip, Rick, he chided himself. She’s just a girl.

But she wasn’t just a girl, and he knew it. She was the girl―all

right, the woman―he wanted with him from then on, whatever her terms

might be.

And, pride be damned, he was going to tell her that the minute she

arrived. It might, after all, be his last chance.

By seven, his frustration had reached maddening levels. She’d

said she’d drive down as soon as she was done with her two o’clock

appointment, arriving she thought, by five—no later than six. Even

allowing for some delay she should have been there or, if not, called at

least. Could she really care so little about him that she would just blow

him off? He couldn’t believe that. The Sarah he knew wouldn’t do that to

someone she despised.

He considered trying to call, but what would be the point? If he

reached her it would only be an embarrassment―to both of them. If she

was on the road, she’d be here soon enough. What if she’d had an

accident driving down? Not likely, with the weather dry. And if she had,

there was nothing he could do about it anyway. No, better to just sit tight.

He flicked the TV on again.

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Jim Flaherty arrived around seven-thirty.

“I thought maybe I’d run into Sarah here,” Jim said once he was

settled in the chair beside Rick’s bed.

“Yeah, well, I guess she had better things to do.” Rick knew he

was sulking but he couldn’t help it. “She said she’d be by but she didn’t

show.”

“If she didn’t come by, you can bet there’s a good reason for it.

She’s about as nice a person as there is in the first place, and in the second

I doubt there’s too many things she thinks are more important than you.

Maybe she got an emergency call. Why don’t you ring her up?”

“And what if I get her and she’s home doing her nails?”

“Tell her you were sitting here thinking about her and thought

you’d give her a call. Tell her the truth. Tell her you miss her like hell.”

“She doesn’t want to hear that from me. She wants her distance.”

“Bull hockey. She wants something and maybe she doesn’t even

know for sure what it is, but it isn’t to be distant from you. I’ll go get a

soda. You call her.”

But Sarah hadn’t answered her phone, either at home or in the

office.

“Bit of a mystery,” Flaherty said when he got back. He tried to

keep his voice light but Rick knew he was worried.

“What if she had an accident?”

“I’m sure she’s fine, but just to put your mind at ease, why don’t

we make a few calls. I’ll go down and check the Emergency Room and

you call the State Police. We probably won’t find anything out, but at

least we won’t have to worry about that.”

Twenty minutes later, Flaherty had returned.

“Anything?” Rick asked.

Flaherty shook his head.

“You?”

“No. I called the State Police in Ray Brook and Tupper Lake and

the Medical Center in Saranac Lake, too.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Flaherty said. “It’s a nice night. Why don’t I

take a drive up to Spencer and see what I can find out. Maybe she left a

note or something.”

“Would you? It would make me feel a lot better.”

“Sure. I’ll give you a call later.”

Johnson 174

Jim called two hours later to say that he had gone to Sarah’s house

and that the house and office were locked, no lights were on, and Sarah’s

car wasn’t in the driveway. He also said that he had gone to the State

Police in Tupper Lake and that they had made several calls but had gotten

no information on her possible whereabouts.

“Are they going to search for her?”

“No, they want to wait until tomorrow to see if she shows up.

That’s their standard procedure.”

“Great.”

“They pulled her plate number and vehicle description off the

computer, though, and said they’d put it out so if any one sees her car

they’ll follow up. They said all the police in the area are busy right now

what with Davey’s kidnapping and a house fire in Smyrna that killed two

then spread to the woods, but that also meant there were a lot of them on

the roads. Did you hear from the FBI about tomorrow?”

“Yeah. They’re coming to take me to The Birches at six.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Rick, don’t worry. She’ll

turn up.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Billy was frustrated. Trapped in the cab of his truck with Rudy

Cook for two and a half hours with nothing whatsoever to show for it,

Rudy drinking from a flask he’d brought and bitching all the way. He

hoped one of the other teams had done better, but was that really likely?

As time had gone on, the idea of searching for the kidnappers―which had

seemed like such a good one when it first occurred to him―now seemed

like a colossal, and embarrassing, waste of time. The forest was simply

too vast for twenty-two men to search effectively for people who didn’t

want to be found―and that assumed they were in the area in the first

place.

After the Warriors had approved the motion to conduct the search,

they’d discussed how to go about it and decided to use the remaining

hours of daylight to split into pairs and cruise the roads, particularly the

back ones, in search of any signs of the kidnappers. Billy had stood back

as the men had sorted themselves out into teams and had been dismayed,

though hardly surprised, to discover that Rudy had been the odd man out.

They’d then studied the maps and picked routes to follow with any

news to be reported as soon as possible to Billy’s wife, Sally. In the

morning they were to reconvene at Brian’s where they would exchange

any intelligence they might have gathered and assign territories for further

search.

But was there any point? Not only had Rudy and Billy not found

any sign of the kidnappers, once they’d gotten into the remote area that

was the target of their efforts, they’d seen exactly two vehicles, neither

likely candidates for kidnappers: a lumber truck loaded with spruce logs

laboring its way south, and a Jeep Cherokee driven by a young couple.

Worse yet, Rudy had started complaining almost immediately,

sullenly at first but with increasing vehemence and vigor as the whiskey

took effect. Voicing misgivings about the venture that Billy had at first

impatiently resisted but now had come to share―although he wasn’t about

to tell Rudy that.

Johnson 176

And so as darkness slowly filled the valleys and stained the

spruces black, Billy headed back toward home, thinking about a cold beer

and bed―and wondering if there was any way he could call the whole

thing off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked. “New York City?”

They were driving along an obscure road, paved but potholed and

twisty, in the northern reaches of the Park, the trees close around them and

shutting out the light of the western sun. Escape was foremost on Sarah’s

mind, but she saw no opportunity. Manacled as she was, there was little

she could do but hope to attract the notice of a passing motorist by

thrashing around. But they had passed few vehicles and only one on this

road, a pickup with two men in it that had appeared as they went around a

bend and was past before Sarah could even react.

“Not just yet.”

“Where then?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Butler slowed to a stop and checked to make sure no one was

coming, then, moving quickly, got out and walked to the side of the road

where a strip of waist-high weeds―bracken and interrupted fern with

some buttercups, hawkweed and daisies mixed in―separated the

pavement from the dense spruces that formed the forest’s edge. He waded

into the ferns then bent and pulled something toward the shoulder of the

road. Straining to see, Sarah was surprised when an eight-foot section of

the roadside vegetation slid aside to reveal a sandy track angling back into

the conifers. A corresponding rectangle of vegetation sat on the

pavement’s edge. At the edge of the rectangle, Sarah could see a board:

the weeds had been excavated and replanted on a sheet of plywood. A

leather loop attached to one end of the plywood provided a handle.

Butler climbed into the Jeep and drove it into the opening, then

dragged the plywood back into place.

They had proceeded only a short distance down the trail when

Butler stopped, put the Jeep in reverse, and backed into a small cul de sac

hemmed tight by spruces. To one side, a green horse trailer sat chained to

a tree.

Johnson 178

“Here we are,” he announced gaily. “Now you just sit tight.”

Producing a key, he unlocked the trailer, pulled a ramp out from

underneath and attached it to the back, and went inside. An engine roared

to life and he backed a camouflaged ATV down the ramp. He shut it off

and started transferring things from the Jeep to the trailer. When he was

finished, he locked the trailer once more.

“Are you ready?” he asked, unlocking Sarah’s handcuffs.

“For what?”

“We have to take little ride to reach our accommodations for the

night.”

Butler steered the ATV out of the clearing and onto a narrow path.

Sarah was seated behind him, her arms manacled behind her back and to

the carrier rack between the rear fenders. He drove swiftly and efficiently,

around trees and rocks, through muddy swales, Sarah desperately trying to

keep her balance. After a time they began to climb, a series of

switchbacks along an impossibly steep slope thick with spruce, tamarack

and balsam, until the trees thinned out into hardwood forest and the

ground became level once more.

Suddenly, Butler brought the machine to a halt and climbed off.

He took a roll of silver duct tape and a pen knife from a waist pack. “I’m

afraid I have to blindfold you now,” he said. “Sorry to use tape, but it

works well.” He didn’t sound sorry. He cut a length of tape and placed it

over her eyes then climbed back onto the machine.

“But why?” she said.

“Just a precaution,” he said and started the engine.

A few minutes later they came to a halt once more.

“Everything all right?” a man said as the sound of the motor died.

He sounded nervous.

“Slight change of plans, but everything is fine,” Butler said.

“Everything all right here?”

“Yeah, everything’s all right.”

“Who’s she?” A different voice, deeper, hostile.

“A new recruit, albeit a reluctant one.”

Sarah felt Butler fumbling at the cuffs with the key and then the

cuffs were dangling from one wrist. But not for long. Butler guided her

off the ATV then locked her wrists together behind her again.

“Come along, dear,” he said, grasping her elbow.

Storm Front 179

He led her a short distance, then said, “We’re going inside now,

there’s a short step up.”

Sarah stepped up onto a wood floor, Butler guiding her a few steps

then twisting her around. Sarah felt something against the back of her

knees.

“Sit.”

She did, onto a bed, she guessed, a mattress on a wooden platform.

“Is the child put away?” Butler asked.

“Yeah. He ate a little while ago.” The first voice.

The child? Whose child? Butler’s? She wondered if he had

brought her to a survivalist compound where women and children awaited

Armageddon with their men. ÔIs the child put away?’—a strange

formulation.

She heard steps moving away, a door being opened, and more

steps.

“Is he out?” Butler’s voice, farther away. A back room.

“Should be. I gave him a full dose.”

“Open it.”

Sarah heard something being dragged across the floor, then the

clatter of wood on wood.

“What’s that smell?” Butler said.

“He wet himself.”

“Why didn’t you change him?”

“Well, Creight―”

There was a cry of pain, then the second voice―someone called

Creight apparently―hissed, “Watch the names, you moron.”

“Sorry,” the other man said. “I forgot she was there.”

“Shut up,” Butler snapped. “Now what’s this you were saying?”

“Well, the kid was afraid of the outhouse so he didn’t go last night

and I guess he had to go real bad and he just let loose. It wasn’t his fault,

though. The outhouse scared him.”

“And why didn’t you change him?”

The man hesitated.

“Well?”

“He told me not to,” the man said tremulously. “Said it would

teach the kid a lesson to lay in it.”

“What do you mean he told you not to?”

There was a silence.

Butler broke it.

Johnson 180

“That true?” His voice was low and menacing with an ugly edge.

“Well, we ain’t got no clothes for him and a little pee ain’t gonna

kill him,” the man called Creight said. “I don’t know why we’re keepin’

him around anyway.”

As they spoke, Sarah had been considering whether she had any

hope of making a break for it, when suddenly it came to her as clearly as if

she could see him who the boy lying asleep in that back room was, the

scared one who had wet his pants and had no clothes: the Skolnick boy,

Davey. Butler was involved in the kidnapping and had brought her to the

place where the Skolnick boy was hidden, a cabin or shack somewhere

deep in the forests of the Park.

“Not going to kill him, huh?” Butler was saying. “How would you

like it?”

“I wouldn’t but―”

Butler cut in, his voice rising in anger, “How would you like it,

you fat pig?”

“A-a-a-a-ah,” the man cried suddenly, in obvious pain.

“How would you like it, pig?” Butler repeated.

The man’s groan grew louder and more high pitched, heading

toward a scream.

“Do you like it!?!” Butler shouted. “Do you like it!?!”

The man’s cry of anguish peaked and ended.

In the silence, Sarah could hear low moans of pain.

At last Butler spoke, apparently to the third man, his voice tight

with newly regained control. “Put the boy in one of your shirts and flip

the mattress over.” Then in a softer voice, evidently directed at the beaten

man, “All right, now. You’re all right. Come on, let’s get you up.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

For Rick, there was no sleep that night despite the painkillers and

his repeated attempts to relax and get the rest he knew he needed.

Between his anticipation of the coming day’s events, the nagging

discomfort of his wounds, and his concern over Sarah’s whereabouts―he

had called her house at two and again at four, letting the phone ring over

and over, picturing its sound echoing through the empty rooms―his mind

was kept alert and racing.

He was dressed and waiting when Tom DeVries arrived at six to

drive him to The Birches. A nurse was with him, pushing a wheelchair.

She had been in early to help Rick get dressed, aware that something

important was going on, but not sure exactly what.

“You ready?” DeVries said with a wan smile.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“We really appreciate you’re helping out like this, you know.”

“Well, I appreciate that, but to tell you the truth I’m not doing it for

you.”

“I understand. But nonetheless. . . Thanks.”

Rick addressed the nurse, “I don’t need that,” he said, indicating

the wheelchair. “If you’ll just hand me those crutches.”

“Sorry. Regulations.”

“Regulations be damned. If I can’t even walk out of here on my

own power we’re in a lot of trouble.”

DeVries spoke. “Maybe it would be better if you saved your

strength.”

Rick frowned but said, “I suppose you’re right.” Then to the

nurse, “Madam, I apologize.”

He sat heavily in the chair.

“Lead on, MacDuff.”

As they drove through the mist-shrouded mountains, DeVries

briefed Rick on their preparations.

Johnson 182

“The chopper is fueled and ready to fly. Despite taking some

rounds during the kidnapping it wasn’t seriously damaged.

“Instructions for the drop are supposed to come in at nine. We

assume they’ll give you a location, run you over there, then radio further

instructions. The money is in a duffel by the starboard front entry held in

place with two adhesion straps. You should have no trouble releasing it.”

“Ten million dollars, huh?” Rick mused. “Is it real?”

DeVries nodded.

“That’s more than I make in a week,” Rick continued. “Something

of a temptation when you figure the Canadian wilderness is only an hour

away.”

DeVries was silent.

“You don’t seem too worried about me bolting.”

“We trust you, Rick.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet you’ve got pursuit craft stationed at every point

of the compass too. Will you be following me?”

“We do have some aircraft standing by, yes, and we have installed

a tracking device on board and we’ll be monitoring your radio

transmissions. But we won’t be following you per se. They’ll

undoubtedly have people watching and we don’t want to scare them off.

As they requested, all local air traffic is barred as of six this morning.”

“You’d think they’d figure you to be listening in.”

“Yes, no question. The operation is too well planned for them to

have missed something as obvious as that. Our guess is they’re going to

send you somewhere, then radio you when you’re passing over some

location they’re confident they can evacuate quickly and tell you to make

the drop.”

“And I’m just supposed to play it straight down the line?”

“Yes, absolutely. Just make the drop, and get the hell away. We’ll

take it from there. No cowboy stuff. You mess around and you could

jeopardize the boy.”

Harvey Skolnick and Special Agent Ganz were waiting on the

porch of the main house as Rick and Tom DeVries pulled up, Harvey

looking exhausted and scared, Ganz looking determined and angry. Jim

Flaherty was standing a short distance away. Across the lawn, a mechanic

in overalls was conducting a last-minute inspection of Rick’s chopper.

Two other choppers, Bell 212s, sat nearby.

Harvey came forward to greet Rick as he climbed awkwardly from

the car, hugging him briefly before asking, “How are you feeling, Rick?”

Storm Front 183

“I’m OK, Harve. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“No problem, Harve. All I’m going to do is sit. The bird’s going

to do the flying.”

Harvey seemed to take comfort from Rick’s expression of

confidence, a result Rick noted with satisfaction―he only wished he felt

as confident as he sounded. Not that he doubted his ability to do the

flying. He was up to that he was sure. It was the outcome of his efforts

that worried him.

“Why don’t we all go inside where we can monitor the call?” Ganz

said.

“Fine,” Rick said, as Tom DeVries handed him this crutches, “but I

need to talk to Jim Flaherty for a minute.”

Harvey signaled for Jim to come over then he and Ganz headed for

the dining pavilion.

“No word,” Jim said as soon as he stood before Rick.

“I know. I tried a couple times last night.”

“She may have spent the night at a friend’s.”

“Yeah.”

“Or like I said, maybe one of her clients had an emergency. I don’t

think you should worry about it. At least there’s been no report of an

accident.”

“You’ll keep checking?”

“Yeah, I will. You just worry about what you have to do.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sarah awoke and was swiftly brought back to the reality of her

predicament. She was lying on her stomach on the bed where she had first

been put. Whether it was morning or yet night she had no way of

knowing. The tape that bound her eyes had not been removed. To prevent

her from pulling it off, Sarah’s hands had remained handcuffed behind her

back. And to keep her from going anywhere (as if there was any point

trussed up as she was) her right ankle had been manacled to the bed.

In the other room, one of the men snored gently. She wondered if

that was what had awakened her. Something had, she thought. But no,

not the snoring. Something else, something nearer, near her still, more

presence than sound.

She lay without moving as it drew closer: someone trying to be

quiet. Butler? Although she tried, she had been unable to determine the

ultimate sleeping locations of her captors, although her best guess was that

Butler had remained in the outer room while the other two had retired to

the back.

Butler then. He was very close, close enough for Sarah to feel his

presence, his body heat perhaps, although he had not touched her. She

remembered his erection that afternoon, pressing against her stomach as

he lay on top of her, and prepared to react violently if he touched her. If it

was sex he wanted, she wasn’t going to make it easy.

But he didn’t. The sounds stopped and absolute silence reigned.

Then after a drawn out inhalation, as if he was taking in her scent, he

moved off. The door opened and shut and he was gone.

In the other room one of the men shifted and moaned in his sleep.

She thought about Rick. Wished he was here—no, check that,

wished she was with him, somewhere warm and safe. Her decision to

push him away seemed so pointless now. If only she were given the

chance, she would make it up to him. But she knew she wasn’t going to

be given any chances. She was going to have to take them.

Storm Front 185

Time passed. Outside, a hermit thrush gave song. Then another.

Dawn approaching. Butler had not returned.

Finally, he did.

“Rise and shine, people,” he said as he came in the door.

Sarah rolled awkwardly onto her side as the men in the back room

stirred.

“I trust you slept well?” Butler asked with the feigned solicitude he

had adopted ever since she had made her feelings about him clear.

Sarah said nothing.

“Well, let’s at least get the cuff off your ankle so you can sit up

properly.”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s understandable,” he said as he freed her ankle. “There’s

an outhouse outside.”

He grasped her elbow as if to guide her as she swung her feet to

the floor.

“I need these off―unless you’re going to do the dirty work.”

“I guess there’s no harm in that,” he said, “if you promise to leave

the blindfold on.”

“Why not just tell them to keep out of my sight while I go? It will

be a lot easier for both of us if I can see. Look, I’m not going to run.”

“Outside,” he said.

The fresh air was cool and moist, stirred by a light breeze. Sarah

could hear the sound of waves lapping on a shore. They were near a lake,

a lake at some elevation. Which one?

“If I take this off, it’s going to hurt. And I’m just going to put it

back on again. Are you sure you want it off?”

Surprised that he was honoring her request, she hurriedly said yes.

He picked at the edge of the tape, and pulled it quickly from her

face.

It hurt but Sarah didn’t cry out, concentrating instead on

memorizing the scene: the layout of the cabin, the location of the lake, the

path where they had come in, where the ATVs were parked. She

wondered if the keys were in them and strained to see.

Butler was observing her.

“See what you wanted to see?” he asked.

“Just glad to see the world again.”

“Let’s hope you have plenty more opportunities to do so.” He

gestured toward the outhouse. “Shall we?”

Johnson 186

Ten minutes later, she exited the outhouse. Butler was standing a

discreet distance away, holding a roll of duct tape.

“How about a mirror?” she asked. “I must look like hell.”

She had decided that playing to whatever attraction Butler had for

her could only help her situation and knew she didn’t look her best.

“No, you don’t, actually.”

Sarah smiled ruefully and said, “Thanks, but could I?”

Butler considered her request.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re fine the way you are.”

He peeled duct tape off the roll.

“That’s the Skolnick boy, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“I understand that you’re angry about a lot of things, but why

would you want to hurt a little boy? It’s not his fault.”

“Who said anything about hurting him?”

“You’re going to release him?”

“If his father is willing to pay.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“He will be.”

“But the boy’s being hurt anyway. You must know that. I gather

you’ve got him drugged and shut up somewhere. Is that right?”

Butler gazed off into the trees.

“He may never recover from that,” Sarah said. “Obviously, he’s

scared to death, especially of that one man. I’m surprised that you allow

him to be treated like that.”

Butler was still looking off into the distance.

“I know you’re not like that. The way you care about animals.

Davey is just as helpless and innocent as they are.”

Butler turned toward her.

“Children can survive more than most people know,” he said

softly. Then in a colder voice, “And besides, he’s not innocent. He’s a

Jew.”

Back in the cabin Sarah was led to a wooden straight backed chair.

She had been blindfolded but her hands were free. She felt the presence of

the other men in the room though no one said anything.

“Give her something to eat,” Butler commanded.

Storm Front 187

Something soft was placed in Sarah’s hand. A doughnut, she

realized, and found that somehow funny. She started eating it. Glazed. A

bit stale but good. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” Butler asked and at first she

was confused.

There was no response.

The voice of the gentler man said, “He’s scared.”

“I see that,” Butler said.

“Are you talking about Davey? Let me take him,” Sarah said

quickly.

There was a long silence before Butler said, “Bring him outside.”

“Davey, do you remember me?”

Sarah, Butler and Davey were standing in front of the cabin.

Sarah’s blindfold had been removed. Butler held the snub-nosed machine

gun. Davey, pale-faced and red-eyed, was wearing a man’s red check

flannel shirt that completely engulfed his tiny body. The other men had

remained in the cabin.

Davey nodded but kept his eyes glued to the ground.

“You’re the lady who takes care of the horses,” he said in a halting

voice so faint Sarah could barely hear.

“That’s right. Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

He nodded again.

“Will you go with me?”

He shook his head fearfully.

“How about if we go in the woods? Would that be all right?”

He hesitated then slowly nodded his head. She looked at Butler

questioningly. Butler shrugged his permission.

“I’ll be watching,” he said. “Take him right over there.”

When Davey was done, Butler blindfolded Sarah once more then

led them into the back room of the cabin, guiding Sarah to what felt like

another bed. He laid her down on the thin mattress and cuffed her hands

behind her back and her ankles to the bed’s foot.

“This is the story,” he said. “I have to leave for a time, to pick up a

delivery, as it happens. You will stay here. I would drug you, but we’ll be

leaving soon after I get back. Understand something: we don’t need you

or the boy. Your guard will be instructed to kill you both if you attempt to

escape. Cooperate and you may live.”

Johnson 188

“You’re leaving?”

“How touching. It’s almost as if you care.”

“Who’s going to guard us?”

“Who?” he echoed, puzzled.

“One of those other two?”

“What does it matter?”

“Davey’s terrified of the one.”

“Maybe that will encourage him to behave. You too for that

matter.”

It was frustrating being unable to see Butler’s eyes.

“Please,” she said.

“Oh, now it’s please, eh?”

“You despise him yourself.” She kept her voice low, unsure of

where the man might be.

“What if I do?”

“Don’t leave me with him.” She kept her face toward him, trying

to express pleading―and promise―despite her taped eyes. “Please,” she

said again. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

There was a long silence, broken finally by the sound of tape being

peeled off a roll. In a moment, her mouth had been taped shut too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The phone rang at 9:02, its electronic signal stilling an already

tensely quiet room. Harvey looked at Ganz who checked with the

headphoned agent monitoring the console then picked up another set of

headphones and put them on. He nodded at Harvey. Harvey picked up

the phone.

“Hello?” he said, as everyone listened spellbound.

“Harvey Skolnick?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the money?”

“Yes.”

“Is the pilot ready?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Put him on.”

“But what about Davey?”

“He’s all right.”

“How do I know?”

“He is. Put Benton on.”

“When will he―”

“Put Benton on. Now.”

“But―”

“Now.”

Harvey held the phone out to Rick.

“He wants to talk to you.”

Moving awkwardly on his crutches, Rick took the phone.

“Benton,” he said.

“Okay, pilot,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “This is

your chance to save the boy’s life. No heroics, just do as your told, and

we’ll all end up happy. First destination, Mt. Marcy. Get there by ten

hundred hours, and circle it tight at 3000 feet. Further instructions will be

radioed to you at 375 kilohertz. Screw up and the boy dies. Anyone

follows and the boy dies. Got it?”

“Mt. Marcy, ten hundred hours, 375 kilohertz.”

Johnson 190

“Good. See you then.” The line went dead.

“We get it?” Ganz said, removing his head phones.

“In a minute,” the agent at the board said. “Yes. Payphone in

Saratoga Springs. The Sheraton.”

Ganz frowned.

“All right. Send someone there.” He turned to Harvey. “Not

likely to be much help, but we’ll check it out. Are you ready?” he said to

Rick.

Rick nodded.

“As Tom told you, our guess is they’re going to bounce you

around for a while before telling you where to drop the money, to make

sure we’re not following.”

“And you won’t be,” Harvey said flatly.

“As agreed,” Ganz said. “We’ll be monitoring their transmissions

to Rick and we’ve got a tracking device on the chopper, with units

standing by to go airborne on a minute’s notice—but we won’t move until

we know the boy is safe. We’ve also got ground units spread throughout

the Park, but strictly on a low profile basis.”

“What if they fly me out of the Park?”

“They might. If they do we’ll follow―well out of visual range,”

he added for Harvey’s benefit. “All you have to do is follow their

instructions. Fly back here for debriefing once you’ve made the drop.

We’ll take it from there.”

“Will you be in contact with me?”

“We’ll be monitoring their transmissions to you, so there should be

no need, except for you to confirm that you’ve made the drop as

instructed. Our channel is taped on the console.”

“What about Davey? Have they said when they’ll release him?”

Harvey shook his head. “Only that he’ll be set free once they have

the money.”

“We’ve agreed with Mr. Skolnick that we’ll play it their way for

today and reassess the situation tomorrow morning if he hasn’t been

released,” Ganz said.

At 9:38, Rick lifted slowly off the helipad as Harvey, Ganz and a

number of other agents watched. With Mt. Marcy, New York’s highest

mountain, already visible in the distance as he rose above the shake roofs,

he would have no trouble reaching his destination on time. His wounds,

though aching dully beneath their bandages, were no real impediment to

Storm Front 191

his piloting of the craft. There was no reason that things should not go

smoothly. And galling as it was, Rick had no intention of being anything

other than a good little delivery boy. To the extent it was within his

power, the kidnappers would have no reason to renege on their promise to

release Davey once they had the money in hand.

But would they release him? Obviously, Ganz had his doubts.

Who wouldn’t? But Rick couldn’t quarrel with Harvey’s insistence that

they play it straight, although nothing that had transpired suggested that a

regard for human life was among the kidnappers’ characteristics. The

brutal and pointless murder of Staci showed that. No, better to hope the

kidnappers’ self-interest would lead them to release Davey, that they

would conclude that the manhunt for them would be less intense if Davey

was returned.

He reached Mt. Marcy at 9:52 and circled as instructed at 3000

feet, a height that required him to fly at a distance of about a half mile

from the mountain’s 5000 foot peak, where four or five neon-clad figures

stood out against the dark gray of the windswept rock. He studied them as

he flew past but doubted they were the kidnappers. Hikers more likely.

Above him, a few puffy white clouds broke the otherwise solid blue of the

June sky.

Ten o’clock came and went with no sign from the kidnappers.

Rick continued to circle slowly, wondering whether something had gone

wrong already and whether even now FBI agents were ascending the

mountain’s slopes.

A mile and a half away, Lon Bellard stood leaning against a tree

high on the west face of Haystack Mountain. From this location, several

hundred yards from the trail, he had an unobstructed view to the west

where Mt. Marcy sat serene in the morning sun.

He lifted his binoculars. He could see the chopper plainly, a Bell

222, no question, its profile matching the picture in his pocket. There was

no way to tell if Benton was piloting it, but that wasn’t critical. Lowering

the binoculars, he glanced at his watch. It was time. Next to him, a field

radio hung by its strap from the stub of a branch. He checked the digital

frequency readout, then picked up the mike and held the send button down

for several seconds. Then he changed the frequency.

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“Benton, do you read me?” a voice in Rick’s headphones suddenly

said.

Rick picked up the microphone.

“Roger,” he said.

“Benton, do you read me?”

“I read you. Over.” Something was wrong. The mike seemed

dead.

“Benton, if you read me, dip the chopper to the left.”

Dip the chopper? With a sinking feeling, Rick manipulated the

pedals to cause the chopper to dip to the left.

“Good,” the voice said. “Now, listen and listen good. We have

remotely rendered your radio incapable of transmitting. We have also

rendered it incapable of receiving except on the channel chosen by us,

which is not, of course, the one we told you on the phone.”

Rick checked the frequency readout on the radio. It was no longer

set where he had put it before he lifted off, at the frequency supplied by

the kidnappers. He attempted to change it. It did not respond. He clicked

the transmit button on the handset several times. It was dead.

“You are on your own which is as it should be. Simply follow our

instructions and all will be well.”

Rick wondered at the FBI’s reaction when the expected

transmission from the kidnappers never came. Presumably, they would

merely follow his course via the tracking device. Nothing had changed

really, except that Rick wouldn’t be able to tell them where and when he

had dropped the money until he got back.

“Now,” the voice continued. “You have twenty minutes to reach

your next rendezvous point.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Loran Mohawk felt good. Experience had taught him that life

offered few situations where inarguable righteousness and a clear-cut

course of action coalesced as neatly as they did in the case of the

kidnapping of the white boy. Certainly not in the dismal circumstances of

the Mohawk tribe that had given rise to the Warriors in the first place,

certainly not in the bitter intra-tribal politics of the Warriors’ recent past.

Here, there was a chance for glory unblemished by moral

ambiguities: save the boy, capture the kidnappers, vindicate the tribe. To

succeed in the face of the failure of the white authorities would indeed be

a coup worthy of the name Warriors, worthy of the honorable name of

Mohawk which he wore.

And they would succeed, of that he was sure. He was no believer

in the old Spirits, of the tobacco-burning rituals of the past, but ever since

Billy Swamp had proposed that the Warriors search for the kidnappers, it

was as if Loran’s ancestors were stirring within him, urging him on,

assuring him of success and glory and honor for a people accustomed to

frustration and defeat.

He had tried to make the other men feel it too, quietly but

forcefully exhorting them to see the opportunity for what it was. Here was

an enemy that could be vanquished, a battle that could be won, a victory

that would never be sullied by the harsh realities of tribal life in late-

twentieth century America. A test of woodsmanship, ancient and

honorable, not a gangsterish squabble over gambling rights.

He glanced over at Simon Oakes. Simon sat gazing serenely out

the windshield as he drove, his handsome features in profile, his long

black hair loose and glinting in the morning sun, and his well-defined

muscles revealed by a tight sleeveless t-shirt. A true warrior in the first

flush of young manhood and in many ways a younger version of Loran

himself. The promise of the future.

Loran knew that many of the men had been dispirited over their

lack of success the previous night. Even Billy himself, Loran suspected.

But Simon remained resolute, asking no questions, expressing no doubts,

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driving confidently and calmly over the mountain roads as Loran

instructed. Loran had known Simon would. He had chosen him as his

partner for that reason. Together they would prevail. Together they were

unstoppable.

“Here,” Loran said, and Simon slowed the truck to a halt. “We’ll

go in here.” It was a spot Loran had chosen as he lay in bed unsleeping

the night before, its image appearing to him then clinging with compelling

persistence.

There was nothing to suggest this spot over a dozen others to

Simon’s eyes, the woods crowding thick and impenetrable to the road’s

edge. But he did not second-guess Loran’s instruction even to himself.

His respect for Loran’s judgment left no room for doubt. After years of

working by Loran’s side, Simon knew him as a man who embodied the

concept of competency, whether the task was executing an impossible

architectural design or picking up women at the local gin mill.

They locked the truck, shouldered day packs and rifles, and were

quickly swallowed by the forest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Sarah lay motionless for a long time after the buzz of the ATVs

faded to nothingness. Davey had wept briefly when they were first left

alone but now was quiet. From time to time she heard noises in the front

room as their guard moved about.

How long would Butler be gone? He had said he was going to

pick up a delivery, the ransom money she guessed. But where? She had

no idea. But wherever it was, she figured it would take at least an hour,

given that it took twenty minutes simply to reach the road―assuming, of

course, that they were going out to the road.

A second question. Who had Butler left to watch them? It was her

guess that her pleas had not fallen on deaf ears, that Butler was still

interested enough in her to grant her wish. If so, the more compassionate

man was their jailer, the man Sarah had made it clear she preferred. If so,

that was all to the good. Perhaps Sarah could take advantage of that

compassion to effect their escape.

And an attempt at escape must be made, of that Sarah was

convinced. Although Butler had revealed no intention to harm Davey, she

was not prepared to put her trust in a psychopath who had already

demonstrated his willingness to snuff out innocent human life without

compunction. Escape would also be the most effective way to thwart

Butler’s insane plan—and that plan had to be thwarted at any cost.

Yes, an attempt had to be made. But how? Handcuffed as she

was, she could go nowhere. She needed their guard’s assistance. Play on

his sympathy, get him to uncuff her, and somehow overpower him. Grab

the key, release Davey, and run.

But how to do it? How could she even get his attention trussed up

the way she was? She didn’t want to wait to see if he would check on

them. Too much time might pass.

It was working, she was sure. She could feel the edge of the tape

catching as she rubbed the side of her face against the rough surface of the

log wall. She hoped the tape came free soon. Judging by the stinging

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pain, her face was coming off much more easily than the tape. Well, at

least her cheeks would be a matched set.

At last. A glimmer of light at the corner of her eye where the tape

had pulled free. Several more passes along the log and the opening was

larger. If she tilted her head to one side, she could see. She looked toward

Davey. He was lying on a bed across the room watching her in horrified

fascination, his mouth taped shut, his wrists tethered together above his

head and tied to the bed’s head, his ankles tethered to its foot.

She bent her head forward and tried to grasp the loose end of the

tape between her knees. It wasn’t long enough. She went back to work.

“Hey, we need help in here.” Sarah was a mess, the left side of her

face rubbed raw and bleeding, the shirt Butler had given her stained with

her blood. The strips of duct tape that had bound her mouth and eyes lay

on the bed where they had fallen. “Hey! Help!”

She heard the sound of a chair scraping on the floor followed by

the sounds of approaching footsteps and gathered herself to present her

most pitiable look, one sure to win the sympathy and trust of a man who,

whatever he had done, had demonstrated that the spark of humanity still

lived within him.

The door opened―and a large man with piglike eyes set in a fat

bearded face stuck his head in. When he saw she had her blindfold off, he

made as if to duck back but changed his mind and advanced into the room.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” he chuckled. “You must want

something awful bad, to do that to yourself. And such a good-lookin’

woman, too.”

Sarah stared speechless, her hopes dashed. It was the wrong man.

Butler had ignored her wishes.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Sarah said icily, abandoning any

hope of winning the man’s sympathy.

“Again?” the man said with jovial incredulity. “And you just

went. You really should have your plumbing checked out―assuming you

live that long, of course.”

“I have to go.”

“Not that I believe you, but that’s too bad, particularly after you

went to all that trouble to get me in here, ’cause you’re not goin’.”

“You think he’s going to be happy if he comes back here and finds

that I’ve messed myself because you refused to let me go? I would think

you would have learned your lesson the last time.”

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The man stared at her for several seconds, then said with forced

conviction, “You don’t have to go, it’s just a trick. You just went, so hold

it.”

“But I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

“But I can’t and even more to the point, I won’t.” She gave him a

grim smile.

The man stared at her again, then swore quietly under his breath.

“You bitch. You would, too, wouldn’t you.” He took a deep

breath as if in resignation. “Well, I guess you’ve got me―except for one

little thing.” He smiled suddenly, yellow teeth showing through the pink

hole of his mouth. “I don’t have the keys. Your pal took them with him.”

He turned to leave but stopped with one meaty paw on the door.

“It was a nice try, though―bitch.”

The door closed behind him.

Sarah was crushed, the house of cards she had built on improbable

hopes dashed. Butler had the keys! She had miscalculated badly:

underestimated Butler’s sense of caution, overestimated her influence on

him. All that she had to show for her scheming was a badly scraped

cheek. Without the keys there was no hope. She could do nothing but

wait for Butler to come back―or hope that someone would come along in

the meantime. There was at least that. In his moment of triumph, her

guard had forgotten to gag her again. If someone came, she would be able

to call for help. But what was the likelihood of that?

Davey was staring at her.

Keeping her voice low, she said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be

all right.”

She forced herself to smile.

“Davey?” she continued, “Will you promise me something?”

Davey nodded solemnly.

“If we can, we need to get away from here. I need you to promise

me that if I tell you to do something, you’ll do it right away without any

questions. Will you do that?”

Davey nodded again.

“And if I tell you to run, you run into the woods as fast as you can

and don’t come back no matter what anyone says. Just keep going. Go

downhill, always downhill, do you understand? And if you hit a stream or

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brook, keep walking the direction the water goes until you find people.

Can you do that?”

His head bobbed once more.

“Good.”

There was a noise in the other room. Footsteps coming to the

door.

Now, I’ve done it, Sarah thought. He must have heard me.

The door opened and the man came in. Without a word he crossed

over to where Sarah was lying. Sarah cringed for a blow.

“Roll over,” he commanded.

Now what? she thought. Would he really dare?

She heard a metallic tinkle and felt him fumbling at her wrists. A

second later, one cuff was open.

“Sit up,” he said harshly.

Sarah struggled into a sitting position, luxuriating in the sensation

of freedom in her arms.

He tossed a key onto her lap.

“Undo your ankles.”

Sarah did.

“Now get up.” His gun looked like a toy in his hands, a very

dangerous toy. “Any tricks and you die. Understand?”

He grabbed the handcuff keys from her.

“Now get moving.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

As he flew over the forest-carpeted mountains, Rick continually

scanned the horizon for planes or helicopters that might be shadowing

him. He saw none. In fact, he saw no low-flying aircraft at all, a

testament, he supposed, to the FBI’s efficiency in complying with the

kidnappers’ demand that the area be cleared. Was the tracking device

working? There was no reason to think it wasn’t. The agents had said

they wouldn’t be following him and that was the right decision in Rick’s

view―it was just that he felt so alone.

From Mt. Marcy, they had flown him back south to Speculator, the

dark gray ribbon of Route 30 serving as his guide, then north and west to

the McCauley Mountain Ski Area near Old Forge, north to the

campground on Cranberry Lake, south again to the Lake Harris

campground near Newcomb, northeast to the state prison at Dannemora,

then west to the town of St. Regis Falls on the northern boundary of the

park. With each instruction, each from a different voice, had come the

airspeed he was to maintain on the way to each site, each one different,

from sixty to a maddening thirty.

As the river and then the town and falls came into view, a voice

came over the radio once more.

“Very good, Mr. Benton.”

This voice had a different quality than the others. More confident,

with a sarcastic undertone, the halting cadences of the other voices

replaced by smooth self-assuredness.

“We’re almost there now, ready for you to make your delivery and

save the boy. Are you ready? Good. Don’t fuck it up or we’ll have to

fuck up the boy. Now, listen and listen good: you are to follow 458 south

out of St. Regis until it hits Route 30 then south from there to the town of

Paul Smiths, at all times maintaining an airspeed of thirty miles per hour.

At Paul Smiths, you will turn to a heading of 250 degrees, still at thirty

miles per hour, a distance of five miles. There you will see three

fluorescent orange weather balloons at two hundred feet. That is your first

signal. Proceed past that without slowing―and this is important, a matter

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of life and death you might even say―one half mile where there will be a

pair of balloons tethered in a clearing. This is your drop site. You are to

pass over that clearing―once again without slowing―push the duffel out

the door as you do, then continue due west at the same speed until you hit

Route 56. There, you will receive final instructions. Follow these

instructions and the boy will be freed. Screw it up and he dies. Now go.”

Although the instructions were clear and seemingly easy to

execute, Rick couldn’t help but feel nervous as he flew slowly along the

wide open pavement of Route 458. What if he screwed it up and they

killed Davey because of him?

He reached the intersection of 458 and 30 and continued south to

Paul Smiths. There he turned hard to starboard until the directional

indicator pointed to 250 degrees, and headed out over the forest, passing

over the spectacular Great Camp of Topridge at St. Regis Lake, with St.

Regis Mountain rising in the distance to the south.

As the five mile mark drew nearer, he scanned the sky anxiously

for the marker. What if he couldn’t see it?

But he did, a bright orange blob in the sky tethered to a line that

disappeared into the trees. He reached over and undid the straps that held

the duffel bag in place. The pair of balloons that marked the target were in

sight now and he headed directly for them, scanning the treetops for the

clearing.

He was almost on top of it before he spotted the gap in the dense

foliage of the trees. He waited until he could see the dark brown of the

exposed forest floor through the viewports at his feet, then swung his leg

over and shoved the bag over the open transom with all his strength.

Grimacing against the pain of his reawakened wounds, he

continued to the west.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

By ten, Oren Tebo knew something was afoot. The Nation was

quiet―too quiet. Connie Creek’s diner was nearly empty, the streets too,

particularly of men, and particularly of men who were members of the

Warriors.

He drove by Brian Porter’s house but the garage was padlocked

and no vehicles were in the yard. He considered stopping―Brian’s wife

was probably at home judging by the kids playing in the yard―but instead

drove on to Billy Swamp’s house. Billy’s truck was gone but Oren pulled

in the drive anyway.

Billy’s wife came to the door in answer to his knock.

“Good morning, Sally,” Oren said, removing his hat. “Billy

around?”

Sally Swamp shook her head.

“Know where he might be?”

Another shake of the head.

Sally clearly was not interested in discussing her husband’s

whereabouts but Oren wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“What time did he leave?”

Sally hesitated.

“Early,” she finally said.

“You know when he’ll be back?”

She shook her head once more.

“Well, you tell him I’d like to talk with him when you see him,

would you?”

Although Sally Swamp had told him nothing, her responses were

enough to confirm Oren’s suspicions that something was going on,

something secret, something the law was not supposed to know about.

But what?

“What are you doing back?” Mary asked as he walked through the

double glass doors of tribal police headquarters.

Johnson 202

“Something’s going on.”

“Going on?”

“Yeah. Do you know where Billy is?”

“Billy?”

“Yes, he’s your brother. Remember?”

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Mary said teasingly. She busied

herself with some papers on the desk in front of her.

Oren was having none of it.

“I’m serious, Mary. The Warriors have disappeared and if there’s

anyone who knows where they are, it’s you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Come off it, Mary. You think I don’t know that you pass

information to Billy?”

She stared at him blankly, at a loss for a response, her dark eyes

wide.

“Please, Mary. It doesn’t have to do with Rodney’s murder, does

it? This is not a good day for them to be driving around off the

reservation, not with what’s going on down there with the Skolnick

kidnapping. There’s police and FBI all over the place, embarrassed and

mad as hell, with their trigger fingers just itching. All somebody has to do

is look the wrong way at the wrong person and there could be trouble, big

trouble, and I’m not talking about a bunch of white trash hoodlums either.

Hell, the Nation was even implicated in the kidnapping.”

Mary sat staring at him silently.

He made an effort to calm himself.

“Mary, where are they?”

“In the Park.”

“Doing what?”

“Searching for the kidnappers.”

“Searching for the kid . . .” he let the sentence trail off. It made

sense in a crazy way. That the Warriors would attempt to vindicate the

Nation’s name by finding the kidnappers―and embarrassing the white

authorities.

“We’ve got to stop them.”

“It’s too late. They left hours ago. They’re spread all over by

now.”

“What made them think they had any hope of finding the

kidnappers?”

“Well, Billy and Loran had this theory that they were probably still

somewhere in the northwest part of the Park. They divided everybody

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into teams and are searching likely spots. They figured there was no harm

since the FBI was keeping a low profile anyway.”

“And how did they know that? That’s not public information.”

Mary’s dusky skin took on a reddish hue.

“God damn it,” Oren said.

CHAPTER FORTY

Walking to the privy in front of the man called Creight, Sarah’s

mind raced. Should she run, and hope that somehow she avoided the hail

of bullets that would surely follow?

She wasn’t afraid to die, she didn’t think, but if she was going to,

she’d rather do it in an attempt that had more promise than that one. Her

original thought had been to overpower her guard, but that was when she

thought her guard was going to be the gentler man―and before she had

been confronted with the reality that her keeper outweighed her by at least

one hundred and fifty pounds.

To have any hope against him she would have to have the

advantage of surprise. Sex? She had never viewed herself as the Mata

Hari type and with her face turned to hamburger her sex appeal had to be

at low ebb―but sex was a tool that seemed to work under almost any

circumstances, with some men at least.

But would it? If she came on to him would he really be stupid

enough to think it was anything other than the ploy it was? It was hard to

believe―even without crediting him with a great deal of intelligence.

“Hurry it up and no tricks,” the man snapped when they reached

the outhouse door. The door shut behind her and she stood in the gray

light admitted by screened gaps between the walls and the roof. Only a

few minutes to decide.

She studied the openings. No hope there. They were too narrow

even if she could manage to dislodge the screens without attention. She

looked about for something to use as a weapon. The outhouse interior was

bare but for two rolls of toilet paper and a dog-eared girlie magazine.

Go back and wait for another opportunity, then?

No, this was as good a chance as she was going to get. When

Butler and the other man came back there would be just that many more

eyes―and guns―to thwart any chance of escape.

Storm Front 205

It took him several seconds to respond to the sound―Sarah

repeatedly kicking the box that formed the seat of the toilet―but finally,

he did.

“What are you doing in there?”

Sarah stopped, then started once more.

“What are you doing? Stop it.”

Sarah continued banging, louder now.

“Stop it or I’m coming in.”

She kicked the box again.

“All right, bitch. You asked for it.”

Shadows crossed the crack between the door and the frame and

then the door rattled. Sarah grabbed the door handle and leaned her

weight back, wedging her feet against the door frame and locking her legs.

She knew that neither she nor the door latch would hold out for long

against the man’s strength but she had to at least make it difficult.

Another tug on the door, harder this time. Sarah strained to hold it

tight against the frame. Another, sharper this time. The latch, a simple

wood spinner on a heavy screw, pulled away from the doorframe slightly.

The pressure on the door ceased and the shadows disappeared.

That’s it, put the gun down so you can use two hands, Sarah

thought.

The shadows reappeared and the door rattled. Sarah braced herself

again. Another tug―and the spinner pulled halfway out of the wood.

Now, she thought. She stood up, twisted the spinner, and as the

man pulled once more, let go of the door handle.

The man stood before her clutching the door, surprised and thrown

off balance. No gun.

Her foot lashed out with every ounce of her strength behind

it―and struck gold. With a cry of anguish, the man bent over, clutching

his groin.

Sarah leapt out of the outhouse, dashed past the disabled man, and

picked up the gun. She pointed it at him, desperately trying to stop her

hands from shaking.

The man slowly straightened, hands raised, eyeing the weapon.

Was there a safety? Could he see if it was on or off? Sarah didn’t

want to find out.

“Into the cabin,” she barked.

The man hesitated.

Johnson 206

“Now! Don’t think I won’t use this. We’re not playing games

here. And in case you’re wondering, my father was a policeman and

taught me how to use a gun when I was still in diapers. Now, move.”

Davey stared wide-eyed as Sarah and Anders entered the cabin’s

back room.

“Stop,” Sarah said. “Reach into your pocket and slowly bring out

the key to the handcuffs.”

“Drop it on the floor.”

“Now, lie down on the bed on your stomach.”

Anders ponderously lowered himself onto the bed.

“Hands together behind your back.”

Keeping a wary eye on Anders, she picked up the key, removed the

remaining cuff from her wrist, and cuffed Anders.

“Now your feet. Down by the footboard. You know the routine.”

In a few seconds, Anders was manacled as she had been. She

switched her attentions to Davey, untying him, then enfolding his frail

body in her arms as he hugged her tight.

After a brief time, she separated herself from him.

“We’ve got to hurry. They may be back at any minute. I’m going

to take the tape off now. It may hurt a little, OK? Can you be a brave

little boy for me?”

Davey nodded his head solemnly.

“That’s a good boy. I’ll do it fast and it will be over in a second.”

Struggling to remain calm, she picked at the corner of the tape

until she could grasp it.

“Are you ready?” she asked gently.

Davey nodded again.

With a quick jerk she yanked the tape free. An involuntary yelp of

pain escaped Davey.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.

“You’re a brave boy.”

“I want my mommy.”

“Yes, dear, I know you do. That’s why we’re leaving. Right now.

Do you have shoes?”

He shook his head.

That was bad. If she had to carry him it would really slow them

down. And she wasn’t sure how long she could do it. But in bare feet . . .

Storm Front 207

As she stood considering her options, a faint buzzing sound crept

into her consciousness. Intent on her dilemma, she brushed it away. But

it returned, more insistent.

The ATVs! Butler was returning.

“Let’s go,” she said. She grabbed the gun from the bed where she

had laid it.

The sound was much louder now, the engines rising and falling

with the contours of the terrain.

How far away were they? Not far enough.

Should she hold them off with the gun? And even if she could,

what then? She looked down at the weapon, panic rising within her.

Oh God, they were close.

“Davey, come with me. Hurry.”

Grabbing his hand, she pulled him into the other room even as the

ATVs slowed.

“Davey, I’m going to lift you to the window and drop you outside.

When you get on the ground I want you to run. Don’t let the men out

front see you, and run. And don’t stop no matter what.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No, there’s no time. Just go. Downhill until you reach water,

then follow that. Just like I told you.”

She laid the gun on the table then grabbed Davey’s hand and led

him to the window. The ATVs were right outside now, one engine

shutting off then the other. She fumbled at the catch of the window, fear

turning her fingers to wood, listening for the sound of the door behind her,

her nerves so taut she wanted to scream. She wasn’t going to make it!

She bent and grabbed Davey around the waist and roughly lifted him up to

the sill, twisting him so his feet were in the air. Pushing the window open

with his feet, she shoved him through the opening, holding onto his hands

until her arms could stretch no more before finally letting go.

The door opened behind her.

Sarah whirled to see Butler standing in the doorway. He stared at

her briefly in surprise, then drew his pistol as Sarah sprang for the gun on

the table.

“Stop or you’re dead,” Butler said quietly. He surveyed the room

sizing up the situation, then keeping the pistol trained on Sarah, walked to

the door to the back room.

“The kid!” he shouted. He spotted the window through which

Davey had disappeared. “Around the side!”

Johnson 208

There was a commotion at the door and a scrawny, unshaven man

stuck his head in the door.

“What?”

Frowning with impatience, Butler strode across the room, thrust

the pistol into the man’s hands. “Watch her,” he said, and dashed out the

door.

Confused, the man stood pointing the pistol uncertainly at Sarah.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Still no Butler. Another minute.

Finally, he was in the doorway once again—alone. Sarah breathed

a sigh of relief.

“He’s gone,” Butler said.

“What are we going to do?” Stitchard asked.

“Nothing,” Butler said. “What difference does it make? It’s miles

to the nearest road. He’ll never make it.” He smiled grimly. “Our lovely

guest has just sentenced him to death.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

They had been walking steadily for hours. How far, it would be

difficult to say. The terrain was such that reckoning the distance covered

was almost impossible, with bogs, streams and lakes on the one hand and

nearly vertical mountain slopes on the other. Terrain that ate up time and

energy while the peaks loomed seemingly unchanged around them.

Loran glanced back at Simon and smiled inwardly. The younger

man marched on without complaint, hot and soaked and muddy like

Loran, his faith in Loran’s judgment unmoved by their lack of success.

And there had been a total lack of success, even Loran had to

admit that. Not one sign that promised to lead them to the kidnappers.

But Loran’s confidence was undiminished. They simply had not come to

the right area yet. When they did, the signs would be there and they

would see them. It was as simple as that.

How he knew it, he could not say. He simply did.

They were trudging along a willow-choked stream that connected

two valleys ringed by densely forested slopes, slipping on the slick banks

and plunging into seemingly bottomless muck holes that stunk of decay.

Mosquitoes hovered in clouds around them, attracted by the heat of their

exertions.

It was Simon who saw it first, stepping up to Loran and tugging

silently on his sleeve, then pointing when Loran looked back.

Loran followed Simon’s arm: a flash of red low to the ground

about fifty yards ahead. As they watched, it moved, the color winking out

behind foliage then reappearing as whoever it was moved slowly toward

them along the stream.

Without speaking, Loran unslung his M-16 and signaled for Simon

to circle around to the left. He then started forward in a crouch, eyes

straining to determine the nature of their quarry.

Whoever it was, was wearing a red shirt or jacket and moving

close to the ground, crouching or injured perhaps and dragging himself

along.

Loran saw no sign of others.

Johnson 210

Finally, he got a clear view. It was no kidnapper. It was a boy,

mud-covered, and wearing a man’s flannel shirt.

The boy gaped up at Loran dazedly when Loran arrived at his side,

his eyes and face puffy and red with tears and exhaustion.

“Are you alone?” Loran asked quietly, crouching beside him.

The boy nodded.

“What are you doing here? Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said in a weak voice.

“Were you camping?”

The boy shook his head.

“What are you doing here?”

“I ran away,” came the halting response.

“From your parents?”

“No, from the bad men.”

The bad men! Could it be?

“What is your name?” he said.

“Davey.”

Davey. That could be right.

“Davey what?”

“Davey Skolnick.”

It was just as he knew it would be! Simon had arrived while the

boy was speaking and Loran glanced up at him to confirm that Simon

understood. He turned back to the boy.

“Are they following you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Loran doubted it too. By the boy’s looks he’d been wandering in

the woods for hours. If they were following, they probably would have

caught up with him long before.

Loran stood up.

“He’s probably right,” he said to Simon, “but go upstream a couple

hundred yards and see what you can see.”

By the time Simon returned, Loran had made up his mind about

what had to be done. He had debriefed the boy as much as possible,

learning little about his wanderings except that he had come down a

mountain, then followed the stream, and that he had probably escaped

several hours earlier. About his captivity, Loran had learned more. That

he had been kept in a cabin near a lake, where he had been guarded by

Storm Front 211

three men and helped to escape by a woman Davey knew, someone named

Sarah who took care of their animals. That the men rode ATVs.

Loran had spread a topographic map on a bush and he and Simon

studied it.

“Here is where we are,” Loran said. “Here is where we parked.

Take the boy there as quickly as possible and get help. You’ll have to

carry him, his feet are a mess. I think the fastest way to get there is to

head straight out to the road from here then walk east along the road until

you reach the truck. Find a phone and call the FBI. From what the boy

says, I think the kidnappers are here.” He pointed to a small lake that had

no name on the map. “I’ll follow the boy’s backtrail, but if I lose it, that’s

where I’ll go. I’ll take the guns. You take the map and compass. I’ll hold

them if I can.”

Simon frowned, concern in his eyes.

“Perhaps it would be better if you came with me and let the police

deal with the kidnappers. The boy’s safe, that’s the important thing.”

“But the woman isn’t. Even if she was originally one of them, she

helped the boy, and is now at risk. We owe it to her to do what we can,

and besides,” he paused and looked Simon directly in the eyes, “we would

be less than men if we didn’t do what we could to catch these scum.”

Simon held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

“I’ll bring help,” he said.

The boy’s trail had been easy to trace along the stream, the prints

of his small bare feet readily visible in the streamside mud. But after a

time the prints disappeared. Loran searched the firmer ground that sloped

up and away from the stream, walking slowly but purposefully in ever

widening arcs, hoping to catch a sign of the boy’s passage. He saw none,

however, and soon gave up the effort. The location of the last tracks

Loran had found supported his guess about the kidnappers’ hideout. He

checked the sun so he could use it as a guide, and headed up the mountain.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Rick flew due west as directed until he crossed Route 56, circled

there for awhile, then followed it north all the way to Potsdam before

turning around and following it back to his point of first intersection.

There, he circled a few more times, then continued south to Cranberry

Lake.

There were no further instructions from the kidnappers. Given that

the money had been delivered, he was not surprised. It had already been

well over an hour since he had dropped the bag―plenty of time for the

kidnappers to evacuate the area.

He headed for The Birches, hoping to be greeted with the news

that Davey had been released.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

“So now what? You kill me and head off to New York?”

Sarah had not moved. Stitchard had released Anders while Butler

continued to stand guard.

Now, all three stood staring at her.

“It’s an idea,” Butler said. He spoke to Stitchard. “Go get the

bag.”

Stitchard left and Butler continued, “But, no, I don’t think so. You

may still have your uses.”

“As what, queen of your sicko new world?”

“No. After further consideration, I decided that wouldn’t work. A

hostage may turn out to be useful, however.”

Stitchard reappeared with the duffel.

“Dump it out on the table,” Butler said. He picked up Anders’ gun

and set it on the bed behind him.

No one said anything as Stitchard shook the contents of the bag

onto the table―hundreds of neatly bound packs of bills, labeled as to

amount.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Butler announced when the bag

was empty.

Both Anders and Stitchard tore their eyes from the money to look

at him.

“We’re splitting the money. My time here is through and I have

other projects to pursue.”

“Splitting it?” Anders said.

“Yes, I’m going to take a portion to fund my further activities.

You will take the rest so that you can continue the organization in my

absence.”

“But―” Stitchard began.

Anders cut him off.

“How much?”

“Right to the point, eh, Creight? Well, that’s fine. I’m taking

eight million.”

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“Eight?” Anders said. “And leaving us here holding the bag with a

measly two? No way.”

“As they say, ‘way’. And as for two million dollars being measly,

I’d venture to say that’s more than you or any other member of our little

army will make in your entire pathetic lifetimes. Certainly enough to fund

the organization for decades.”

“Fuck the organization,” Anders said heatedly. “We took a lot of

risk to get this money and you ain’t just walkin’ off with it.”

“Tough words, but I don’t think you are in a position to back them

up.”

He pointed his pistol at Anders as Anders looked longingly toward

the gun on the bed.

“Easy now,” Butler said. “You know I’ll shoot you. In fact, it

would be a pleasure.”

“Double-crossing bastard.”

“Such words. You truly hurt me. But the fact is, this was always

the plan. Only the timing has changed.” Butler directed his gaze at

Stitchard. “Split out two million.”

Stitchard moved quickly to comply.

“Now put the rest back in the bag.”

“What about her?” Anders said.

“I told you, she’s going with me.”

“But she’s seen our faces.”

“You’re the fool who let her see you.”

“And you’re the one who brought her here in the first place. That

wasn’t in the plan.”

“Improvisation is at times necessary.”

“Yeah, well, if she goes free, she can identify us. I say we kill her.

Now.”

“And I say she goes with me.”

“Are you going to kill her?”

Butler regarded Sarah contemplatively.

“Let’s just say you won’t have to worry about her identifying you.”

He spoke to the smaller man again. “Secure the bag to my machine,

please.” To Anders and Sarah he said, “You two, outside.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

By his reckoning, Loran Mohawk was less than a mile from the

lake that was his destination when he heard the growl of an engine

starting. An ATV, he was sure, revving then falling to an idle. One

machine, as best he could tell.

He sprinted straight up the hill toward the sound, leaping over

boulders and logs, ducking under low branches, ignoring the pain as

Simon’s gun jabbed at his back and brambles and branches tore at him,

intent on getting to the vehicle before it moved.

But then it did, the sound of the motor telling the tale. Loran

stopped and listened, trying desperately to hear above his labored

breathing. The vehicle was moving to his left, not directly away. There

was still a chance.

Changing to a course he hoped would head it off, he ran again.

The engine was louder now, the sound rising and falling as the

machine made its way toward him. If only he knew exactly where it was

going he could hide and check it out without showing himself. As it was,

he would be left with trying to catch up to it and assess the situation on the

run.

He was moving so fast he almost missed the trail, then stopped so

fast he almost fell. A narrow two rut track―a trail formed by ATVs. He

faced the direction the machine would come, even as he caught a glimpse

of motion through the trees one hundred yards distant. An ATV, he was

sure now. And only one, driving steadily over the uneven terrain but

without undue haste.

It wasn’t the best place for an ambush―flat rather than precipitous

and open rather than closed in―but there was no time to choose a better

one. The ATV was only seconds away. And although there was still a

slight chance the rider was not involved in the kidnapping and an awkward

situation would ensue, Loran was willing to take that chance.

Johnson 216

Struggling again to calm the heaving of his chest, he switched the

M-16’s safety to auto, dropped to one knee, and aimed the weapon up the

trail. The rider would be unable to see him until he came over a small rise

no more than thirty yards away: he had him.

Loran peered through his sights and picked a spot that would be

chest high on the driver, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Seconds later, the ATV was there, appearing over the rise, the

driver in a camo jump suit, the machine painted mottled green, an Uzi or

similar submachine strapped to the handlebars. There was a passenger, a

woman.

The driver saw Loran and slowed abruptly.

“Stop,” Loran was about to shout―but the driver gave him no

chance. He gunned the engine and veered left. Caught by surprise, Loran

tried to follow his target as the machine rose on two wheels, slammed

back to the ground in a spray of dirt and leaves, and tore off back the way

it had come.

Loran was left with a view of the woman’s rapidly receding back,

her head turned as she looked fearfully in Loran’s direction.

“Stop!” he yelled, and fired a burst into the trees over the speeding

vehicle. But the vehicle never slowed, bouncing over logs and rocks until

it regained the trail then speeding back up the mountain.

Loran stood and watched as a few leaves, severed by his bullets,

drifted slowly to the ground, then followed the ATV up the trail.

Billy Swamp froze as the report of distant automatic fire bounced

off the mountains, the echoes lapping over one another in diminishing

waves.

“That was no hunter,” he said. “Could have been Loran or Simon.

They’re over in that direction. How far away do you think it was?”

“Hard to say. A mile, maybe two.”

“Let’s go.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Simon Oakes had never felt so tired in his life, not even in those

first days with JM Construction, when he had been literally and

figuratively at the bottom of the ladder, hauling eighty-pound bags of

cement for ten hours a day with muscles unused to anything more

demanding than high school lacrosse workouts, strenuous though those

were. Despite the intervening muscle-hardening years, the boy sleeping in

his arms, at first so frail and light, was now a dead weight, turning

Simon’s arms to fire and causing rivers of sweat to course down his body.

He gave no thought to stopping. Speed was critical. Not so much

for the boy’s sake, although he clearly needed medical attention, but for

Loran’s. Loran would find the kidnappers, if they were there to be found,

of that Simon had no doubt―and that was what had Simon worried. If

Loran found the kidnappers, he would not hesitate to do what he deemed

necessary to stop them, regardless of the risk to himself. The sooner

Simon got back to Loran with help, the better it would be.

Ahead through the trees, he saw an area lit by sunlight: the road at

last. He stumbled toward it at a half-run, almost falling as a log hidden in

the ferns reached up and grabbed his foot, gripped by a sudden fear that

even a few seconds delay could cause him to miss a passing car―on a

road where passing cars would be few and far between.

Fifty yards away, his worst fear was realized. There was a car

coming! He could hear the whisper of its passage, see it glinting through

the trees.

Calling upon every reserve of strength and will he possessed, he

scrambled up the embankment at the road’s edge and into the glaring

brightness of the roadway even as the gold Ford Taurus swept by,

staggering out into the middle of the road as the car proceeded north, its

driver wrapped in a cocoon of air-conditioned comfort and stereo sound

and oblivious to the desperate man shouting behind him.

Simon stared as the car disappeared around a bend, his heart and

lungs working frantically to feed oxygen-starved cells. He looked the

Johnson 218

other way. The road sat silent and unblinking in the sun, mocking him. If

only he had been a few seconds faster!

But he stopped that train of thought. Such thinking was foolish, a

sign of weakness. He had done the best he could. Now there was more to

do. Loran was depending on him.

Hitching Davey up higher on his shoulder, he headed down the

road at a trot.

Oren Tebo sat in his cruiser on the shoulder of Route 458 a few

miles south of St. Regis Falls studying a map of the Park. If the Warriors

had set themselves an impossible task in trying to find the kidnappers,

Oren had at least set himself a difficult one. He was only one man. And

although there weren’t that many roads in this area, there were certainly

enough to keep one man busy for a long time searching them.

And what could he hope to find anyway? A truck he recognized

parked by the side of some lonely road? What good would that do him?

None really, if the men were deep in the woods as they likely were by

now.

But still, he had to do what he could. If nothing else, he would be

on hand if something developed. He studied the map again. Question:

Where would they go? Answer: Where they thought the kidnappers

would go. But where was that?

Simon was sure he was getting close. Another mile, maybe a little

more. He was less sure he could make it. His body was at its limit. Back

when he could still think, he had remembered scenes from triathlons of

runners staggering to the finish, careening all over the track as their body’s

guidance systems shut down, legs covered in filth as they lost control of

their sphincters, with nothing but sheer will driving them on. It hadn’t

happened to him yet, but it was coming. His vision had been reduced to a

gray haze, sufficient only to keep him moving forward.

Davey had ceased to exist as anything more than a burden Simon

was for unknown reasons sentenced to bear. Earlier he had been seized

with panic at the sudden thought that Davey was no longer there, that he

had dropped him unknowingly along the way. Such concerns were

beyond him now.

That he was no longer capable of driving his truck was also a

thought beyond the capabilities of his exhaustion-dulled mind. He only

knew he had to reach it. To get help for Loran. It was up to him.

Storm Front 219

Oren took his foot off the accelerator as he came around the bend.

There was someone walking along the road ahead, someone with long

black hair and dressed in camouflage clothes. Was it one of his? He

unsnapped his holster and laid his gun on the seat beside him.

He drew closer. As he watched, the man veered off of the shoulder

and onto the roadway then back again. He gave no sign of having heard

Oren’s approach.

Oren saw no gun, but the man was carrying something, a bundle of

some sort. It seemed as if it could be a child. The man still showed no

sign that he had heard Oren’s cruiser. If he was one of the kidnappers, he

was remarkably careless.

It was a child―and an Indian was carrying it! Could the Warriors

be involved in the kidnapping after all? Oren picked his pistol up and laid

it on his lap.

Ten yards now, and still the man gave no sign that he had heard the

car.

Oren slowed to match the man’s pace as he brought the cruiser

alongside him and flicked on his rooftop lights.

The man was Simon Oakes.

Oren popped the siren. No reaction. Simon staggered ahead, eyes

doggedly fixed on the road before him.

Oren hit the siren again, longer this time―and finally Simon

shambled to a stop, staring dully at Oren’s car.

Putting the cruiser in park, Oren scrambled out and moved quickly

to where Simon stood.

“Simon,” he said. “What’s wrong? Is that the boy?”

Simon gaped at him then awkwardly tried to lift the boy off his

shoulder. Oren stepped forward and took him. As he did, Simon

collapsed onto the roadway.

“Loran,” he croaked. “Got to help Loran.” He passed out.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Charlie Stitchard and Creight Anders had been loading their ATVs

when the shots had come, Creight putting the money into his duffel,

Charlie watching without comment.

Now they stood frozen in the dooryard of the cabin as the sound of

an ATV moving at high speed drew steadily nearer.

“What the fuck,” Anders said. He unslung his Uzi.

“You think it’s Butler?”

“Yeah, I think it’s Butler. Somethin’ must have gone wrong.

Shit!”

“You think that was him shooting?”

“How the fuck do I know? Whoever it was, it ain’t good. Get

your fuckin’ gun.”

The ATV roared into the clearing. Butler killed the engine and got

off, leaving Sarah chained to the vehicle.

“Someone was waiting,” he said. “A guy in camo.”

“A cop?” Anders asked.

“He didn’t look it. He looked like an Indian actually.”

“An Indian? Do you think he was just hunting?”

“He had a gun pointed at me when I came down the trail. No, I

don’t think he was hunting―at least not for animals.”

“You think he was looking for us?” Stitchard asked fearfully.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve got something going up here

they’re trying to hide. The point is, we’ve got to get him. Creight, you

come with me. Charlie, you cuff her to the bed then get the gas cans out

and in position. When you’re done with that take the windows out and

close the shutters. Just the way we practiced. Anybody comes, you let

them know you’ve got her and you’ll kill her. We’ll be back as soon as

possible.”

He turned to Anders. “Let’s go.”

Storm Front 221

Loran paused mid-step, his body in a crouch, eyes straining to see

through the undergrowth. Had he actually heard something or was it just

his keyed-up nerves? Something ahead and uphill to the left.

He had come several hundred yards up the trail from where he had

encountered the ATV, moving more cautiously with each step, alert to the

possibility that he could be walking into an ambush. The ground was

more broken here, the trail traversing a steep and wooded slope interrupted

by rock outcroppings.

He guessed that the spot where the ATV’s engine had cut off was

still several hundred yards ahead. Was that where the cabin was? It

seemed likely. But that didn’t mean they were there waiting patiently for

him to come.

And how many were there? Three men plus the woman the boy

had said. But there might be more.

He briefly considered whether he should simply turn around and

go back for help. But he couldn’t. They might escape in the meantime.

But even more important, his pride wouldn’t let him. Loran was a

Mohawk, fiercest of the Iroquois tribes, and he would do nothing to betray

that proud heritage. Mohawks didn’t run for help. They fought their own

battles—and this was now his battle.

If his shots had been heard and his fellow Warriors came, all to the

good. But he wouldn’t count on that.

Time to get off the trail. He considered moving to the right, away

from the sound, to avoid whoever might be stalking him, but decided

against that. Better to confront the danger head on, eyes open―and gun at

the ready. Placing each foot with extreme care, he moved off the trail to

his left, body in a crouch, using trees for cover.

A stick cracked ahead. He froze. The sound was not his

imagination. Something heavy was moving slowly through the woods. A

deer or even a bear perhaps―but after all the racket, more likely a human.

Another stick broke. Loran saw him: a large bearded man, not the

one from the ATV, dressed in worn, ill-fitting camo pants and shirt and

walking with attempted stealth through the woods, eyes toward the trail.

Loran placed his sight squarely on the man’s chest. It would be so

easy to pull the trigger. One less opponent in an instant. He moved the

sight down the man’s body to his knees. Or maybe not a kill shot, just a

disabling wound.

Johnson 222

But tempting as it was, it didn’t make sense. He didn’t want to

give his position away―at least not until he had a better idea what he was

dealing with.

He watched as the man moved slowly past him, then crept away in

the direction the man had come.

Butler examined his watch. It was time to go back. Thirty minutes

had passed since his encounter with the man on the path. Thirty minutes

in which the man could have covered a lot of ground. He could already be

returning with reinforcements.

Butler gave a short, sharp whistle, heard Anders whistle in return,

and turned back toward the cabin.

From his hiding place in a jumble of boulders near the lake, Loran

watched as the men returned to the cabin. The bearded man, then the

driver of the ATV. There was at least one other man, inside now. Loran

had watched while he removed the cabin’s windows and closed the

shutters—shutters, Loran noted, that had gun ports cut in them, as did the

front door. They had obviously been prepared for siege. The woman was

presumably inside also. Three ATVs were parked by the cabin, all heavily

loaded.

It added up. Three men and the woman.

As the men walked into the dooryard of the cabin, the third man

came out to meet them. Loran watched as they talked for a few seconds,

then perhaps realizing the vulnerability of their exposed position, hurried

inside.

What to do. He guessed they would be on their way shortly.

Should he wait until they came out and shoot as many as possible? There

were problems with that. One or more might escape and he might hit the

woman.

No, better to keep them holed up in the cabin and hope for

reinforcements. Simon should have reached the road by now.

The door to the cabin opened. It was now or never.

He swung his gun quickly to the right, sighted in on the nearest

ATV and sprayed it with several bursts of fire before moving on to the

other two. As the man jumped back into the cabin and slammed the door,

automatic fire erupted from the cabin, spraying the rocks where Loran was

hidden and sending rock chips flying.

Loran ducked down out of sight.

“Check,” he said out loud as he tried to quiet his hammering heart.

Storm Front 223

But was it checkmate? He was sure he knocked out the first ATV

and maybe the other two, although they were partially blocked so it was

hard to say for sure.

In any event, as long as Loran stayed where he was, it would be

difficult for the men to reach them. A thought occurred to him. What if

there was a back door? If there was, there was no way for him to keep

them bottled up from this position. He should have picked a spot to the

side of the cabin where he could see anyone coming out, front or back. He

could see what appeared to be a good location to his right, only about fifty

yards from the cabin, a large log a short distance from the edge of the

clearing.

He scuttled back from his position on his hands and knees, being

careful to keep the rocks between him and the cabin, then circled back

through the trees to the edge of the clearing. There, he stopped.

This was the critical stretch of his journey. He had to cross several

yards of open ground to reach the log. There was no sign of life at the

cabin, except for one gun barrel projecting slightly from the port in the

front door. No threat there. Whoever it was couldn’t see him. The gun

slit in the side window was dark. There was an outhouse behind the cabin

but it was empty, its door ajar.

It was time to make his move. Dropping to his belly, he crawled

across the open ground, his gun clutched in one hand, Simon’s on his

back.

Five yards.

Ten yards.

Fifteen.

Suddenly, there was movement at the back of the cabin where the

roof sloped back to a low wall: a door opening. Loran froze. He was

totally exposed and in no position to fire.

The driver of the ATV cautiously opened the door about a foot,

stuck his head out, and systematically surveyed the woods behind the

cabin, apparently trying to get a better view than the gunport in the door

afforded.

As the man’s head turned toward him, Loran thrust himself to his

knees and threw his rifle to his shoulder. There was no time for fine

shooting. The man had already stepped out and was bringing his gun to

bear. Loran’s sight touched on the man’s chest and he pulled the trigger,

sure that he would hit him.

Johnson 224

He did. The man was yanked out away from the cabin by the force

of the bullets. Loran watched as the man staggered, expecting him to

collapse. But impossibly, the man steadied himself and swung his gun

toward Loran.

Loran scrambled to regain firing position―but the bullets tore into

him before he could even raise his gun.

Body armor, he thought as he fell forward into the dirt. He must

have been wearing body armor.

It was Loran’s last thought.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Billy Swamp and Rudy Cook had been less than a half mile away

when the sound of automatic fire ripped through the woods a second time.

The pattern was different this time. First one gun. A few seconds later,

others―possibly returning fire. They had headed toward the sound at a

run then slowed to a cautious walk as they drew nearer.

When the firing started a third time, it was so close and so loud

that both men jumped.

They crept forward, Billy in the lead.

There was a structure ahead. A cabin. Billy dropped to a crouch

and motioned for Rudy to do the same.

The cabin was still. Three ATVs parked in front. No sign of the

shooters. Something on the ground near the cabin caught Billy’s eye. He

couldn’t make out what it was at first, but finally he did. A body, clad in

camouflage. Long black hair tied back. Gun in the dirt beside him,

another on his back.

An Indian.

“Billy, that’s Loran,” Rudy said excitedly.

Billy nodded. Loran! The best of them. Was he dead? He was

obviously badly hurt if he wasn’t. Even at this distance, Billy could see

large dark stains on his shirt.

“Where’s Simon?”

Billy shook his head.

“Around, maybe.”

The front door of the cabin opened suddenly and a man and a

woman came out, the man holding the woman in front of him, a

submachine gun under her chin. Two other men crowded out behind him,

their guns at the ready as they scanned the woods.

Billy and Rudy dropped onto their stomachs.

“A woman!” Rudy hissed. “They’ve got a hostage.”

Johnson 226

The first man walked the woman over to one of the ATVs and sat

her on it, then produced something silver from his pocket. Billy squinted

to see. Handcuffs. He was manacling her to the ATV.

Billy raised his rifle, a bolt action Remington .30-.30 with a four

power scope that he used for deer, and nestled the crosshairs on the man’s

back.

“You sight in on the big one,” he said evenly. “I’ve got the one

with the girl. If he steps clear, I’ll shoot. Then you do too. Then we’ll

both concentrate on the little guy. Be careful of the girl, though.”

Beside him, Rudy raised his M-16.

Seconds passed with nightmare slowness. The man finished

cuffing the girl and stepped back. Billy started to squeeze the trigger, but

the man moved back alongside her gain. Too close. Billy wasn’t that

good a shot even with the scope.

He waited again. Now the men were talking, the big one

examining the other machines, and saying something to the one with the

girl.

An argument of some sort. The big one sat on the machine nearest

him and turned the key while the others watched. The girl was still too

close.

The starter whined but the engine didn’t catch. The big man tried

again. Said something to Billy’s target—and the man stepped toward the

machine to give it a try.

The recoil of Billy’s gun cause him to lose sight of the scene

momentarily. As he tried to determine the results of his shot, Rudy’s rifle

boomed in his ear, a three shot burst.

The girl sat frozen on the ATV. All three men had disappeared.

He and Rudy had both missed or at least failed to kill.

The silence was total―but then it wasn’t. A sound was growing

in the distance, the percussive beat of chopper blades against the air. The

cavalry was coming―only this time it was coming to help the Indians

against the cabin bound whites.

The sudden crack of a rifle broke his reverie. He and Rudy both

cringed involuntarily then were knocked to the ground as the world

exploded not twenty yards away.

“All right, let’s blow the others,” Butler said to Charlie Stitchard as

he withdrew his rifle from the gunport. He glanced at Anders. Anders

was sitting slumped over the table, blood from a gaping wound at the base

of his neck soaking his shirt and dripping into a growing pool on the

Storm Front 227

table’s scarred surface. His face was pale and he interrupted his heavy

wheezing periodically to erupt with a liquid cough.

“What’s that sound?” Stitchard asked nervously.

Butler stopped and listened.

“Choppers,” he said. “Time to move. The fires will give us

cover.”

“But what about Creight?”

Butler contemplated Anders again.

“He’s not going to make it.”

Anders had lifted his head at the sound of his name and now stared

dazedly at Stitchard and Butler. He tried to speak but only managed a

choked gurgle.

“We can’t just leave him,” Stitchard said.

“No, we can’t. You’re right.”

“But his machine doesn’t even work.”

“He’d never make it out to it anyway.”

“So what are we gonna do?”

“There’s only one thing to do,” Butler said unsnapping his holster.

Anders’ eyes grew wide. He raised his hands as if he could block

the bullets―then fell heavily forward onto the table as Butler’s pistol

barked three times.

Sarah sat unmoving on the ATV. She had ducked when the shots

had come but it was clear that whoever lay in ambush at the edge of the

clearing had no interest in killing her. If they did, she would have been

dead already.

So she sat, feeling naked and exposed but oddly relaxed. Her

fate―for the moment at least―was out of her hands.

A shot had rung out from the far side of the cabin and a ball of

flame and black smoke had erupted near where the ambushers lay hidden.

She had watched as flames had spread quickly from the point of the

explosion, racing along the needle-covered ground and up into the parched

conifers, which cracked and popped and burst into towers of flame that

shot off fountains of sparks.

She watched as two figures heaved themselves up off the ground a

short distance from the fire and retreated deeper into the woods.

She heard the helicopters then, the plangent thud of their rotors

growing louder each second.

Johnson 228

There were more shots from the cabin, three quick muffled ones

and a short time later, three louder, spaced shots that each resulted in new

explosions of flame at the woods’ edge. The heat was growing more

intense with each second, as curtains of black smoke drifted across the

clearing.

The choppers arrived, whipping the smoke and flames with the

wind from their blades, then possibly recognizing that or intimidated by

the heat, backing off, four that Sarah could see through gaps in the smoke,

hovering now in the distance.

The door to the cabin opened and Butler ran for the machine on

which Sarah sat, a rifle slung over his back and an Uzi in his hands, the

small man behind him, spraying the woods with automatic fire.

Butler leapt onto the seat in front of Sarah, started the engine, then

began shooting too, strafing the smoke shrouded woods as the other man

struggled to start his machine, his panic apparent when it wouldn’t catch.

Shaking his head with despair, the man lifted his hands out from

his sides in a gesture of terrified futility―as Butler turned his gun on him

and ripped him apart.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The first thing Rick noticed was that the FBI’s birds had flown.

The second was that The Birches was relatively deserted. The choppers

and most of the cars were gone. Only one lonely late model sedan and the

communications van sat in the drive in front of the main house. And

where earlier seeming hordes of agents scurried about, now only one

person was visible, watching as he set the chopper down gently on the

macadam pad.

Jim Flaherty came to the cockpit door as the helicopter settled to

the ground.

“Did they release Davey? Is that where everyone’s gone?” Rick

asked as soon as he had shut the engines off.

Flaherty shook his head.

“No, but Davey’s safe. He escaped. He was found wandering in

the woods.”

Rick grinned.

“That’s fantastic. So where is he?”

“They took him to the hospital. Harvey and his parents are there

now.”

The grin disappeared.

“He’s not . . .?”

“He’s OK. They just want to check him out.”

Rick studied the other man.

“So what’s wrong? Where’s the FBI?”

“They think they’ve found the kidnappers, holed up in a cabin in

Franklin County near Santa Clara. The report just came in on the radio.”

“That makes sense. I made the drop near there. Well, I hope they

nail those bastards.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Rick, there’s one other thing.”

“What?”

“Davey said Sarah helped him escape.”

“Sarah?”

“He said she was there and helped him escape.”

Johnson 230

“She’s up there?”

“We don’t know. She might have escaped too.”

“But how did she get there?”

“They’re not sure. They’re not even sure Davey’s right. But with

her disappearing . . .”

“I’ve got to go there.”

The smoke was visible before he was within ten miles of the spot,

a dark pall hanging low over the forest. As he drew nearer, he could see

the FBI choppers hovering above the orange glow of the flames. Rick

flew to within a half mile of the farthest reaches of the fire and circled

slowly.

The roads below were a welter of activity. Fire trucks sped to the

scene from all directions, lights flashing, moving to do battle with the

blaze raging in the bone dry woods. Lines of cars and trucks waited

behind police roadblocks as their credentials were checked, news crews

prominent among them. Rick recognized the call letters of two of the

local stations.

Jim had told him he shouldn’t go, that he would only be in the

way, that he would be better off staying at The Birches where they could

hear the reports coming in—and he hadn’t even known about Rick’s radio.

Now, Rick saw that Jim had been right. There was no place to land and

without communications he would only be in the way.

As if to confirm his conclusion, one of the choppers broke toward

him. As it drew nearer, a man, Special Agent Ganz he was almost sure,

raised a megaphone and said something that was lost in the roar of the

choppers and gesticulated forcefully with his arm, waving Rick off.

Reluctantly, Rick waved acknowledgement and pulled away,

heading back toward The Birches.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

The ride from the cabin had been a frenetic blur, as Butler raced

through the smoke-filled forest at high speed, flying over bumps, roaring

through brooks, and careening around bends in the path, Sarah struggling

to keep herself seated as the vehicle bounced and jerked and swayed,

knowing that if she fell off the machine while handcuffed to it her injuries

would be extreme.

In less than half the time it had taken to make the trip in to the

cabin they had arrived at the clearing where Sarah’s Jeep and the horse

trailer were hidden. Butler shut off the motor and stood listening

attentively. In the distance, Sarah could hear the sounds of the helicopters

circling over the cabin. There was no sound of pursuit.

Butler unlocked the trailer and emerged carrying the duster and the

jugs of anthrax, which he placed carefully in the back of the Jeep. These

were followed by several gun cases and a few more boxes. When he was

finished he threw a blanket over the load and shut the hatch.

He stopped to listen. Still no sound of pursuit.

He went into the trailer and came out carrying another khaki shirt,

a tube of anti-bacterial ointment and some bandages. Applying the

ointment to one of the bandages, he used it to scrub the caked blood from

Sarah’s cheek, then took a clean bandage and covered her wounds. He

unlocked her handcuffs and handed her the shirt. Wordlessly, she stripped

off the old one and put the new one on. He led her to the Jeep and

handcuffed her as before, ankles to the frame under the passenger seat,

wrists together beneath her thighs, then took the license plates off the Jeep

and replaced them with the ones from his van. That done, he stripped off

his camo jumpsuit and a padded vest to reveal street clothes and climbed

into the driver’s seat.

A minute later, he eased the Jeep onto the pavement of the main

road and headed south at moderate speed.

Johnson 232

Butler drove steadily, calmly, five miles over the speed limit, no

more, no less. It seemed impossible to Sarah that they would be able

simply to drive away―and yet it was happening.

When first they set out in the Jeep, Sarah had tensed with

expectation every time another vehicle approached, certain that this was

the one that would stop them, stop him. Surely, they had a description of

her car and were on the lookout for it. She knew it would be dangerous

for her if they were intercepted, with wild flight in the Jeep at high speeds

or a desperate shootout very real possibilities. But Butler would be caught

or killed, and his insane plan would be foiled. Sarah’s life was a little

enough price to pay for that.

But the vehicles had passed, police cars, fire trucks, volunteer

firemen, moving at speed with lights blazing, heading for a scene of fire

and violence where their help was urgently needed. Paying no attention to

the young, middle class couple heading south.

And now as the miles dropped away, the passing cars were few

and far between, and simple travelers, little suspecting that death had just

passed them wearing the face of a clean-cut young man with a

pretty―though somewhat battered―woman at his side.

A helicopter approached moving fast, the cacophony of its passage

clearly audible even in the closed confines of the car. She glanced at

Butler. He had heard it too, gripping the wheel just a little more tightly,

she thought. But the helicopter passed overhead without pause and soon

its sound faded away.

She began to realize that the impossible might yet occur. She

knew it happened, that desperate men did elude the police despite the odds

seemingly stacked against them, despite radios, and APBs, and all the

technology of modern law enforcement. Knew that it was only solid

citizens like herself who believed the police to be invincible. And yet

because she was one of those solid citizens, she had believed.

And maybe she and Butler’s intended victims would yet be saved

by the guardians of public safety. It was a long way to New York. But

she was no longer counting on it. The only person who was really in a

position to stop Butler was her. The question was how.

CHAPTER FIFTY

As Rick put the scene of the fire behind him, the frenetic human

activity below slowly died away, replaced by the relentless tranquility of a

sunny summer afternoon in the mountains, peaks rising majestically into

azure skies, the forest a blanket of green broken by the gleaming sapphire

of lakes and ponds, the roads travelled only by the occasional car loaded

with hikers, canoeists, campers or sightseers.

But the tranquility was a lie. Sarah was in trouble. Precious Sarah.

Davey was safe but Sarah was not. Frustration rose in him bitter and

sharp. And here he was flying away, when every part of him wanted to be

back there doing something, anything, to help save her. But what could he

do?

A vehicle moving on the ribbon of road below caught his eye. A

red Jeep Cherokee, heading south. A Jeep Cherokee. Like Sarah’s―like

thousands of other people’s. He watched it. It was proceeding at a

moderate pace, with nothing to suggest that it was other than vacationers

out for a drive. There was no way the kidnappers could have slipped

through the cordon the police had thrown around the cabin. Every road

was blocked. And why would they use Sarah’s car and run the risk that

the police were on the lookout for it?

But still. He changed course to follow it, got the binoculars out of

the storage compartment next to his seat and stared at the Jeep’s license

plate, willing the vibration caused by the chopper to be still.

Just as he thought. It wasn’t hers. He was letting his imagination

and concern for Sarah get the better of him.

He swung around to get back on course for The Birches―and saw

a familiar dent in the Jeep’s right front fender.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Sarah wasn’t sure at first, but soon she was. Another helicopter.

Behind them this time. Following them. It had seen the car, heard the

APB, was now checking the plate and discovering it didn’t match the car.

The call would go out, the blockades would form―a dragnet from which

Butler couldn’t possibly escape. Butler heard it, too. He accelerated

slightly and took his pistol out from under his thigh and laid it on his lap,

its muzzle gaping at Sarah.

The back road they had been travelling would soon end, joining

Route 28, a main route that led to the congestion of Lake George and

Glens Falls, areas where eluding pursuit would be far easier and the risk to

innocent bystanders far higher than on the limited roads of the Park

interior. Much better that they should cut him off here. But could they act

fast enough?

Rick was in a quandary. He had no way of confirming that the

Jeep was Sarah’s other than swooping low in front of it and seeing if he

could see her.

He was reluctant to do that. If he didn’t see her it didn’t mean it

wasn’t hers for one thing. And in either case, he would have risked

spooking the kidnappers with who knew what result.

But what options did he have? Only one, that he could see: to

follow at a discreet distance and see what developed. He dropped back

and hovered for a few seconds while the Jeep proceeded onward. When it

was a mile or so in front, he started to follow.

For Sarah, minutes passed in eternities. She couldn’t hear the

helicopter now. Dropping back so as not to spook Butler, she supposed.

Ready to move in when the ground forces cut him off.

STOP. The sign loomed in front of them, marking the end of

Route 28N and the junction with Route 28. Butler coasted to a halt.

Looked both ways. Turned left. Sarah looked for the trap she hoped

would be there―there was nothing but open road.

Storm Front 235

One opportunity missed―but there would be more. It was at least

twenty miles to Lake George. They still had time to cut Butler off while

his options were limited. But where were they? Could they have failed to

check the plate?

There was more traffic now, although the road was still only two

lanes. Cars whizzed by. Rush hour commuters on their way home on just

another busy day, fresh from their jobs in Albany and Troy and

Schenectady.

Sarah’s hopes faded. Too much time had passed. The helicopter

hadn’t been the police. It was up to her after all.

It was getting more difficult to keep track of the Jeep. Traffic had

increased dramatically as they approached the Northway and the tawdry

clutter of Lake George. Rick had closed the gap between the chopper and

his target, but still it wasn’t easy. He had never realized how many sport

utility vehicles there were on the roads. And of those it seemed that three

out of four were red, although he knew it couldn’t be the case.

And then the Jeep had gotten on the Northway with its limited

exits and things had gotten a little easier, the Jeep heading south at a

steady pace that made it easy to follow. He was able to drop back once

again.

He checked his fuel gauge. A little less than half of capacity. He

could still go a long way.

Near Saratoga Springs, he passed over a state trooper barracks and

was tempted to stop. The parking lot was mostly empty and he would

have no trouble setting the bird down. He could tell them he was

following a suspicious vehicle that might be involved in the Skolnick

kidnapping.

He decided against it. By the time the confusion subsided, the Jeep

might be long gone. Better to keep following.

Butler slowed as they approached an exit ramp.

“I thought a little sustenance might do us both good,” he said.

“Hungry?”

Actually, Sarah was. She nodded.

“Good.”

Johnson 236

He drove down the ramp. A McDonald’s sat a short distance from

the end of the ramp. He pulled into the Drive Thru lane. A car was in

front of them, the driver giving his order into the intercom.

“What will you have?” Butler said brightly.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Yes, well, you’re not going to do that here. You’ll just have to

wait.”

“I really have to go.”

“Number one or number two?” he asked with a smirk.

Sarah stared at him.

“It will be almost as unpleasant for you as for me if you don’t let

me go.”

“I’m sure. That’s why I’m going to. Not only that, but I’m not

going to make you go in the woods. We need gas anyway. Now, what

will you have?”

They sat in the car in the rear of the parking lot while they ate their

hamburgers and french fries and drank their colas, for all the world an all-

American couple―except for the fact that Sarah’s ankles were still

manacled to the seat frame.

When they finished, Butler collected their trash and deposited it in

the trash receptacle at the edge of the lot before returning to the passenger

side door. He opened it, and after a quick glance around to make sure no

one was watching, produced the key and unlocked Sarah’s ankles.

He got back in the driver’s side.

“Now, listen carefully,” he said. “We’re going to drive next door

to get gas. I will pump it and pay for it. While I do, you will sit quietly in

the car. When I’m done, I’ll pull the car out of the way and you can use

the ladies’ room. When you are done, I will check it to make sure you

haven’t done anything silly then we will drive away. You will make no

attempt to escape or make contact with anyone. If you do, I will kill you

and everyone in the station. Is that clear?”

He stared at Sarah.

“Is that clear?” he asked again.

Sarah nodded.

“I hope so, because a lot of people could get hurt if it isn’t.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Hovering at a distance, Rick watched as the Jeep took the exit

ramp and pulled into the McDonald’s. It was beginning to seem as if he

had come on a wild goose chase. Stopping for Big Macs didn’t exactly

seem like the move of desperadoes on the run. Thank goodness he hadn’t

landed at the state trooper barracks.

The Jeep went through the Drive Thru and parked at the rear of the

parking lot. Although it was hard to tell through the glare of the

windshield, it looked as if someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Ten

minutes went by with Rick growing more frustrated with each passing

second, sure he was wasting his time.

Finally, the driver side door opened and Rick prepared to catch his

first glimpse of his quarry. Keeping one hand on the controls he lifted his

binoculars as a man got out: not an obvious member of the criminal class,

but a respectable-looking man of about thirty-five responsibly disposing of

his trash.

The man put the trash in the receptacle, then walked to the

passenger side of the Jeep. After glancing quickly around, he opened the

door and squatted next to it. After a few seconds, he got back in the

vehicle. Except for that one glance―which could have signified almost

anything―there was nothing about his actions that suggested that he was

anything other than what he appeared to be: an innocent traveler stopping

for an early dinner.

Rick considered turning back. While he was out on his wild goose

chase, Sarah’s fate was hanging in the balance. Even if he couldn’t help,

he could at least be there.

On the other hand, he had come this far. He decided to wait and

see if the man would get back on the highway and continue south or

whether his exiting here had some other significance.

The Jeep pulled into the Exxon station next door, a low slung

white building with a glassed-in office a pair of garage bays. Two sets of

blocky, state-of-the-art pumps sat out front under a broad roof. Rick

Johnson 238

watched impatiently as the man got out, pumped his gas, went inside to

pay, then pulled the Jeep away from the pump and parked to one side.

But then a woman got out of the passenger side of the vehicle―a

woman with a slender build and honey-blonde hair wearing a khaki shirt

and jeans.

A jolt of adrenalin surged through Rick’s body. Was it Sarah?

Sarah wore jeans all the time, but that meant little and the shirt was not

familiar.

He lifted his binoculars in time to see the woman disappear into the

ladies’ room.

The man had gotten out of the car and was standing by its rear as if

keeping an eye on the ladies’ room. Rick raised the binoculars again to

get a better look―and discovered the man was staring right at him.

Rick was saved from having to make a decision about what to do

when the door of the ladies’ room opened and the woman reappeared. The

man strode toward her, grabbed her arm and pulled her briefly into the rest

room with him, then walked her to the car. As he did, Rick had a clear

view of the woman’s face―a face he knew well, only partly obscured by

what appeared to be bandages.

Rick put the binoculars down and moved the helicopter to put the

pump overhang between him and the Jeep. He wasn’t sure what to do

next but knew he would be better off if the man wasn’t alarmed. The man

had been looking at the chopper but there was yet hope that he wasn’t

spooked.

The Jeep didn’t return to the highway. Instead, it proceeded east

on a narrow two lane road. Rick was forced to close the gap between

them as trees overhanging the road obscured his view and the availability

of myriad turnoffs made losing his prey a real risk.

Finally, he did lose him. The Jeep disappeared beneath an

extended canopy of trees and didn’t reappear on the other side. Wary of

approaching too closely, Rick circled the point of his last visual contact,

thinking that the Jeep had perhaps turned onto a side road. He saw none.

The Jeep was still under the trees. He scanned the area with his

binoculars, trying in vain to penetrate the thick cover. Should he set the

bird down? There was a small field a short distance from the road.

He saw movement at the edge of the field. He stared through the

glasses.

It was a man―the man. Looking at him through binoculars. As

he watched, the man disappeared into the undergrowth.

Storm Front 239

A short time later, the Jeep reappeared on the road on the far side

of the trees. Rick followed, wondering what to do. He was spotted, that

much was certain. But with what result?

Something had changed. The cocksure jauntiness that had

characterized Butler’s attitude had shifted subtly at the gas station, taking

on a quality that, if not desperate, certainly had a tinge of uncertainty in it.

Their course had changed too, as Butler opted to pass up the speed

of the interstate for the flexibility of back roads, stopping briefly as they

passed under the highway overpass to secure her with handcuffs once

again. It wasn’t anything she had done, of that she was positive.

Although she had considered a score of possible plans as they sat eating at

the McDonald’s, Butler’s threat, and her steadfast belief in his willingness

to make good on it, had ultimately left her his obedient captive.

And then came the sudden stop, Butler veering to the side of the

road as it passed through an area of alternating fields and woods, then

running binoculars in hand through the trees to an adjacent field where he

disappeared from view.

When he came back, the change was no longer subtle. Something

had shaken him. The pistol reappeared on his lap and his driving had an

edge to it that wasn’t there earlier.

Were they being followed? By whom? Not someone on the

road―Butler’s actions didn’t support that―but in the air. Sarah’s hopes

shot up once more. She steeled herself to do whatever she could to help,

hoping for a roadblock or the sound of pursuing sirens at every turn.

But there was nothing. At the first opportunity, Butler had turned

off the road they were on and onto a dirt road that snaked its way along an

obscure river valley. He next turned onto another dirt road that had

climbed up and over a series of low ridges before tracking along another

valley. Twice Butler had stopped, standing by the open door, engine off,

binoculars in hand, listening and looking. In the silence, Sarah could hear

the thud of helicopter blades. They were still being followed. But where

was the help?

Finally, back onto paved roads, past farmhouses and sleepy

villages, heading south.

Miles passed and still no ground pursuit. It made no sense―a

view Butler apparently shared. Without warning, he pulled over once

again and got out. This time he made no attempt to remain hidden,

Johnson 240

stopping as the road passed through open farmland and standing in full

view on the shoulder.

The helicopter was close now. Although Sarah couldn’t see it, its

sound was deafening. Butler studied it for a long time before he finally

climbed back into the car.

“What is it?” Sarah asked at last.

Butler didn’t answer, merely started the car and drove on.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Improbable as it seemed, his analysis of the facts pointed to only

one conclusion. The helicopter following them was the one used for the

drop, probably piloted by the Jew’s pilot, Rick Benton. How else to

explain the dogged pursuit but failure to enlist support: the radio was

inoperative. The clincher had been the bullet holes in the tail—nice of

Benton to come close enough for him to see them.

It was an interesting situation: Benton obviously afraid to set

down for fear of their escape so instead following along and doing

nothing. Would he follow them all the way to New York? No, he must be

waiting for the right opportunity to take action. And what would that

opportunity be? Hard to say―but in the meantime, as long as Benton was

following along behind them, Butler knew they were safe.

It was ironic. Although the temptation was to lose him, if that

happened, Benton would have no choice but to set down and sound the

alarm. Butler didn’t want that. No, far better to move along at moderate

speed, avoiding limited access highways obviously, but also avoiding a

route that made their destination obvious. A more circuitous route. An

annoyance, but well worth the trouble.

Yes, that was it: to keep driving, with Benton in helpless pursuit

until Butler could find the right spot to eliminate the problem.

He turned left at the next intersection, heading east toward the

mountains of western Massachusetts.

Rick had to make a move, he knew that. He had waited too long

already. As the countryside grew more rural, the likelihood of finding fast

and efficient ground pursuit grew increasingly remote. And his fuel was

running low.

But what was he to do? Follow and wait seemed his only viable

option―wait until they reached civilization once more and Rick would

have some chance of getting help before Butler could escape.

The follow part was relatively easy now. As the number of roads

radically decreased, the driver of the Jeep had few options short of

Johnson 242

abandoning the car. Although the Jeep would disappear periodically

under the dense foliage of overhanging trees, it was easy for Rick to pick

out the road’s path and wait for the Jeep to reappear.

And then it didn’t. Suspecting a course reversal, Rick swung the

chopper around in a sharp arc that placed him over the route they had

come. Nothing.

The Jeep must have stopped again. Descending to a level that put

him only fifty or sixty feet over the treetops, he proceeded slowly along

what he guessed to be the road’s path, peering through the floor viewports,

until he reached the point where the road came out of the trees once more.

There he turned and hovered, trying to see into the dark tunnel of the road.

A mistake. He saw the muzzle flash then heard the tin can sound

of bullets striking metal. Starbursts appeared in the windshield, the sound

of gunfire strangely absent. A silencer, Rick thought, otherwise he would

hear the gun even over the roar of the helicopter.

He hauled frantically on the sticks, struggling to gain altitude while

moving forward over the trees, straining with his body as if he could will

the chopper to respond.

“Come on, baby,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

But the tin can sound came again, in the rear this time, and now

something was wrong. Instead of accelerating and rising, the chopper was

slipping sideways, losing altitude. Rick struggled to steady it. It

responded for a few tantalizing seconds, then slipped away from him

again.

Trees rushed at him, there was a sound of breaking branches, then

all was still.

This was it. As soon as Butler had stopped, even before he had

gotten the rifle out of its case, she had decided. There might be other

chances down the road but it was time to act.

Overhead the roar of the helicopter filled the air as its rotorwash

whipped the trees into a frenzy, sending leaves swirling across the road in

front of them.

Butler shut the rear hatch and walked swiftly down the road toward

the end of the tunnel of trees in which they were parked.

Sarah was alone. But helpless. Tethered hand and foot. The

fuses―the answer once before―beyond her reach.

The rapid thud of muffled automatic fire sounded through the roar

of the chopper. Sarah looked to see Butler standing in the road firing up

into the canopy of trees above him, leaves showering down around him.

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He fired again and then once more, the helicopter’s engine racing

hysterically until the ripping sound of the crash ended in silence.

Butler was back at the car seconds later, tossing the gun onto the

back seat, putting the key in the ignition and the car in gear.

Escaping.

The Jeep started to move, gaining speed, Butler’s calm gone now

as he sought to put distance between himself and the site of the crash.

No! The thought rose in Sarah’s mind, without form, without

idea―but strong. No!

They were moving faster. He was getting away.

No!

The thought was like a scream. Riding its emotion she acted,

launching herself head first like a rocket at Butler’s face. Striking him

flush in the cheek with the top of her head before falling heavily on her

side against the console between the seats, her arm pinioned against her

side by the handcuffs.

She felt a sharp crack then a stab of pain as her arm broke, felt

Butler pushing her away as she launched herself at him again, in a frenzy

now, writhing out of his arms as he attempted to restrain her, feeling his

blows rain down as she forced her body onto his, knocking his arms with

her head, then feeling the sudden halt of the vehicle as it slammed into a

tree, bounced once, hit another, and was still.

“You fucking bitch!”

Butler pummeled her now still body in a fury, striking her head,

her side, her face, the impacts sending lightning bolts of pain through the

arm pinioned beneath her.

After a seeming eternity he stopped, his breath coming in heavy

gasps.

Sarah lay inert on the edge of consciousness, pain washing over

her. She didn’t care. She had done it. The car was wrecked. He was

finished.

He pushed her off him and climbed out of the car. Sarah lay still,

her cheek crushed against the console, her eyes already beginning to swell

shut from Butler’s blows.

How much time passed, Sarah had no idea, but eventually Butler

got back in and sat heavily in the driver seat. Sarah braced for more pain

but none came.

Instead, she heard the whine of the starter. In her fog she couldn’t

understand it. They were wrecked. Why was he trying to start the motor?

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But as Butler continued to try to coax life out of the engine, the thought

grew clear: he must believe he can move the vehicle.

The engine caught, coughing with excess gas and backfiring, then

steadied. He put the car in reverse.

No! Sarah tried to raise herself. No!―but Butler’s pistol crashed

down onto the side of her head. She subsided back into the seat, slipping

toward unconsciousness as he rocked the car back and forth with the

accelerator.

No, she thought. No.

I’m not dead―that was Rick’s first thought. He knew that because

his body was screaming with pain from a seeming thousand places.

His next thought: there was something wrong with the world.

Gravity was pulling in odd ways, at his head instead of his feet.

He opened his eyes: to a world gone crazy, where tree branches

grew in helicopters, and pilots hung like bananas in cockpits of shattered

glass and twisted metal.

What hurt? His wrists and legs from his prior wounds; his left

arm, no doubt broken; his right hand, a bloody mangled mess; his chest,

where a vise seemed to have him in its grip.

What had happened? He had crashed, the gig was up. He had

failed, failed miserably. Sarah’s captor, free to escape. Little hope of

stopping him now, even if someone were to find Rick soon.

He fumbled with his safety belt. Still, he had to get help as soon as

possible.

He released the belt and in an anguish of pain let himself down

into an upright position. After a pause to catch his breath and will the pain

into submission, he leaned over to the edge of the cockpit.

Luck was with him. The nose of the helicopter was resting on the

ground. Moving gingerly, he eased himself out and stood woozily on the

forest floor.

The silence was preternatural. No birds, no chipmunks, only the

sighing of the trees. But suddenly there was sound. The unmistakable

whine of a car’s starter. A few hundred yards away.

He staggered over to the helicopter, retrieved his pistol from the

storage compartment and headed toward the sound.

There was pain, pain, pain. The pain of his broken arm, the pain of

his gunshot wounds and lacerated hands and arms, ripped open again and

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bleeding profusely, and the pain of his breathing, great gasps that filled his

chest with fire but never brought him the oxygen he craved.

He was staggering through the trees, pistol clutched in his good

hand, blindly following the sound of the car. That sound had changed

now, the whine of the starter replaced by the explosive bang of a backfire

and the growl of an engine―an event that had filled Rick with despair

until the growl turned into the rhythmic revving of a car stuck and

struggling to break free.

He strained to see it but couldn’t, his vision a dance of black

blotches against a sea of undifferentiated green. But it wasn’t far, of that

he was sure. He just had to keep going.

The sound changed once more, the motor sustaining a roar for

several seconds before steadying back to an idle. A car door slammed.

The car had made it!

Rick froze, waiting for the purr of the engine as the car accelerated

and drove away, but the engine remained at idle. There was hope yet.

The door opened and Sarah felt the faint touch of Butler’ hands at

her ankles.

“Get out,” he said.

Sarah heard him as if from a great distance.

“Get out.”

Sarah lay still. She was much too tired.

Her arm shrieked in pain as Butler lifted her wrists by the

handcuffs.

“Get out, bitch.”

Sarah struggled into a sitting position―anything to stop the

pain―and tried to clear her head. She was having trouble seeing for some

reason, unable to open her eyes to more than slits.

“Move.”

She did, lifting her feet out the door and onto the ground, then

leaning her upper body forward until she could push herself upright. She

swayed as she stood. Butler was standing in front of her, gun in his hands.

“Over there,” he said, and waved the gun toward the side of the

road.

Sarah staggered until she stood unsteadily where the forest floor

fell away from the road’s edge. She knew what was coming next. It

didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

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“I’m afraid you and I have reached the end of the line,” he said.

“It’s been fun though.” He raised his gun. “Sayonara.”

Sarah had always heard that you never heard the bullet that killed

you, but it wasn’t true. She did. She heard the gun go off once, twice,

three times, the sound oddly distant―a tough way to find out you’ve been

operating under a misconception, she thought.

EPILOGUE

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows―windows

designed and constructed by Louis Tiffany himself and presented to

Ezekiel Fripp in August of 1905 on the occasion of Tiffany’s first visit to

The Birches—casting rainbowed illumination over the guests crowded

into the simple wooden pews of the chapel. The solemn tones of an

ancient pump organ drifted up to the polished spruce logs of the chapel’s

vaulted roof. Banks of flowers surrounded the simple twig and birch bark

altar where a black clad minister somberly awaited the commencement of

the service.

Harvey Skolnick stood in a shadowed corner at the rear struggling

with his emotions, his eyes rimmed with tears. It had been a difficult year.

Time had done little to ease the pain of Staci’s death. Their

marriage had not been a perfect one, but Harvey had loved her deeply.

Her passing had left him with an aching emptiness no amount of activity

seemed to abate.

And he had been active. Putting his business affairs in the hands

of his advisors to the greatest degree possible, Harvey had concentrated on

filling the void in Davey’s life created by the loss of his mother and

helping him put the trauma of her murder and his kidnapping behind him.

It hadn’t been easy. Harvey could be there for Davey and fill their days

with people and events, he could make sure Davey had the best of

therapists, but he couldn’t be Mommy.

Although some might have said that Staci wasn’t the best of

mothers, Davey had worshipped her with all the intensity his little heart

could muster. Too often Harvey would tiptoe into Davey’s room late at

night to find that his caution was unnecessary, that Davey was awake,

sobbing into a pillow soaked with tears. It seemed as if things had begun

to improve lately, but Harvey knew Davey’s recovery from those

nightmare days would be a long process―and one that would never really

be complete.

He looked around the chapel, his eyes sweeping over the

assembled throng, the flowers, the stained glass windows, the altar, and

behind it the log cross. He had considered selling The Birches, fearing it

held too many sad memories to ever bring him joy. But in the end, after

consultation with Davey’s doctors, he had decided against it. Putting the

site of Staci’s death into some stranger’s hands was something he felt

would be wrong somehow. Instead, he had turned the east lawn into a

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memorial garden. Where once the helipad had sat, flowers now bloomed

amidst statuary and stone benches. It was a place he and Davey visited

often.

There was another memorial garden on the Mohawk reservation at

Akwesasne―for Loran Mohawk, the man who died battling Davey’s

captors. Harvey had paid for the garden, of course, but felt that his debt

ran much deeper than that. After much discussion with representatives of

the tribe, Harvey had established an education fund in Loran’s name, with

one portion dedicated to teaching Iroquois culture, another to scholarships.

He had also tried to help Simon Oakes, the man who had carried

Davey to safety, offering him financial help and a job, but Oakes had

politely refused, saying he had done nothing more than what needed to be

done.

Other lives had been destroyed by Butler’s madness, too, of

course.

A volunteer fireman, a fifty-year-old father of three, had died of

smoke inhalation while fighting the fire the kidnappers had started to

cover their escape, a fire that ultimately claimed 20,000 acres of prime

woodland. Harvey’s gift to the man’s family was much appreciated.

Irma Dawson had not survived the year. The murders of her

husband and only son had taken away all she had to live for, and with her

will to live gone, she had quickly succumbed to a variety of ailments. She

died alone in the farmhouse in Gilsum on a gray March day, congestive

heart failure the official diagnosis, a broken heart the real cause. There

was nothing Harvey could do for the Dawsons.

A difficult year.

The militia members―other than the two found dead at the

mountain hideout―had all been arrested and now awaited trial. Daryl

Higley had been the last, found pumping gas and working as a mechanic

in Yuma, Arizona, turned in by his boss when America’s Most Wanted did

a feature on the Skolnick kidnapping and Higley’s photo was shown.

Convictions were almost a formality. When rounded up at their homes,

not one of the survivors put up a struggle and soon all were confessing in

hopes of leniency. Harvey wanted them punished, but it was clear that

they were more dupes than fiends, simpleminded putty in the hands of the

psychopath they knew as Raymond Butler.

Raymond Butler―aka Lester Holman, Robert Fisher, Kerry

Johnson. Born Raymond Palmer in Sabetha, Missouri. Parents arrested,

tried, and sentenced to ten years imprisonment for criminal neglect of

Raymond’s younger brother. After their arrest, Raymond, age twelve,

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placed in the first of nine foster homes he would live in until he enlisted in

the Army. Increasing involvement in various extremist groups from the

age of fourteen on. Found responsible for the deaths of eight Somali

civilians while on assignment there with the Army and discharged on

disability after psychological evaluation. Suspected involvement in

racially motivated murders in Providence, Rhode Island, Richmond,

Virginia, and Tulsa, Oklahoma, and the murder of a rabbi in Miami,

Florida.

The music changed suddenly. Harvey was snapped from his

musings as the organist shifted to the familiar fanfare and the crowd

twisted in their seats in expectation. Harvey looked toward the doors, and

the tears that had danced in his eyes flowed in earnest as he watched his

son, dressed in a black tuxedo and with his blond hair slick against his

head, walk solemnly down the aisle, the blue velvet cushion on which the

rings rested held before him, a brave little man for all his youth, survivor

of horrors no child should ever endure.

Waiting in the anteroom off the chapel’s foyer, Sarah heard the

music shift and knew that Rick would soon be making his way down the

aisle.

Rick had arrived just in time to save Sarah on that day almost a

year ago, staggering out of the roadside bushes as Butler raised his gun to

execute her. Rick had summoned the last wisp of his strength and resolve

to bring his pistol to bear on the unaware Butler, missing him cleanly with

two of the three rounds he got off before he collapsed, but hitting Butler

squarely in the temple with the third, killing him instantly. They had lain

unconscious in the road for over an hour before a traveler came upon

them, Butler’s lifeless body in the dirt beside them.

The healing process, both mental and physical, had been slow for

both of them. But they had each other to lean on and the recognition of

what they had almost lost to goad them on, each determined to make the

most of this chance they had been given to build a life together.

Now they were on the threshold of that new life.

She regarded herself in the ornate full length mirror one last time,

turning slowly to admire the white lace dress her mother had worn on her

wedding day some forty years before.

She leaned closer to examine her face.

The bruises were gone, of course, along with the wires that had

held together her broken cheekbone, but she couldn’t help feeling that her

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experiences had aged her, that despite the blush of excitement that

suffused her face, she looked older than the mere passage of time would

explain. She had expressed this sentiment to Rick but he had scoffed,

saying that to him she looked younger―and more beautiful―than she

ever had. She wanted to believe him―but he always had been a flirt.

There was no question the ordeal had aged Harvey. There was a

haunted look in his eyes that persisted even on the rare occasions when he

laughed.

When Harvey first suggested that the wedding be held at The

Birches, she worried that it would bring to the fore memories of the loss

Harvey had suffered, to reopen wounds that had not had sufficient time to

heal. But Harvey had been adamant, insisting that the joy of new

beginnings was the best way for the pain of the past to be put to rest.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Jim Flaherty’s lilting

voice said, “It’s time, Sarah.”

“I’m ready,” she answered, and with a final look, lowered her veil.

She opened the door and took Jim’s arm.

“All set?” he asked gently.

Smiling behind her veil, Sarah nodded as the triumphal tones of the

processional began.

They entered the chapel and walked down the aisle as the guests

rose beaming. Rick stood before the altar, a proud smile on his face,

looking heartbreakingly handsome in his tuxedo, Harvey and little Davey

at his side.

She looked at Harvey’s face―and was dismayed to find that it was

tracked with tears. I knew we shouldn’t have held the wedding here, she

thought. But then she looked again. Yes, there were tears, but they were

clearly tears of joy, bittersweet accompaniment to the broad grin that was

now dawning. The haunted look was gone.

Harvey had been right about the wedding after all. The healing he

hoped for had come to pass. Yes, there was death and pain and loss, but

there was happiness too, and the promise of the future and joys yet to

come, not just for her and Rick, but for all of them. Together, they would

discover what that future would bring.

The End