Prey

Book 3: Wolf

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Horror; Supernatural suspense; Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

Legend. Outcast. Free Man. The natural enemy of every free man is his own government . . . He has gone by many names during his long life. Heretic. Rebel. Ransom. Today he is called Cantrell. A beleaguered man of awesome strength and extraordinary power, he is the last bastion of rugged individualism in a world where justice and liberty can no longer protect men like him. . . . and the natural enemy of every government is a free man. After centuries spent fighting the forces of evil and oppression, he has come to this small town in Arkansas to live in peace. But peace is nowhere to be found. Violent hate crimes tear the land apart. An ancient enemy from his distant past pits brother against brother. And the future of the free world rests with him, the lone wolf who can never be truly free now that he has become the hunted once again.

Release date: May 10, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

The house was built of native stone and sat in the middle of two hundred and fifty acres of land, mostly in timber. It was not a large house, but was suitable for the new owner’s needs. A spring-fed creek flowed through the center of the property. The nearest town was several miles away. A new chain link fence encircled the house and several acres around it. A satellite dish brought in dozens of TV stations.

This was an area of the country where people would be as friendly as you wanted them to be ... and would leave you alone with no hard feelings if that was what you wished.

It did not take people long to learn that the new owner of the property, while not a bit unfriendly when encountered at the store or the gas station or the post office or the bank, wished to be left alone when he was home.

The sheriff of the county took note of the new resident and, out of curiosity, checked him out. Barry Cantrell had no criminal record. As a matter of fact, his past was very nearly blank. But he had passed the test for an Arkansas driver’s license, and had new Arkansas plates on his pickup truck. He had opened a checking account at a local bank. Money was electronically deposited in his account every month, coming in from some attorney’s office in San Francisco. The same attorney had handled the purchase of his home and acreage. His driver’s license listed his age as thirty, height five-ten. The sheriff knew from observing Barry that he was very muscular, and moved with the grace of a dancer. He felt that Barry Cantrell would be damn hard to handle if angered.

The sheriff would occasionally go up into the high country with a lunch packet, a canteen of water, and binoculars. He had found a nice secluded place where he could watch Barry Cantrell. The very first thing Sheriff Don Salter noticed were the two dogs.

“Dogs, hell!” he muttered. “Those are wolves.”

He was part right. Pete and Repeat were hybrids: a cross between husky and wolf. But more wolf than husky. Each weighed over a hundred pounds, and they were fiercely loyal to Barry. They had linked up with him when he was living out in the Idaho wilderness. 1

The sheriff watched from his hiding place for several hours each day, but the only thing out of the ordinary was that one day instead of two hybrid wolves, there were three.

“Now where the hell did that one come from?” the sheriff whispered.

The new hybrid was much larger than the other two. And Sheriff Salter noticed something else, too: the new and bigger hybrid seemed to be the boss.

That was the only time he saw the third wolf. At least in that form.

Barry knew he was being watched. He had sensed that the very first day. Barry could see and hear and smell far beyond the capacity of a “normal” human being. He could sense danger before it could happen. He could smell fear in another human. His eyesight was far superior to any human’s vision. For while Barry was certainly human, he was also several other things.

He was immortal. He could not die. He could not be killed. He could be hurt, but he healed rapidly. When he was fourteen years old, he discovered he could shape-shift at will, moving between human and animal form, although he did that only in moments of great danger and stress. Over the centuries, he had traveled the world. He had fought by the side of Joan of Arc, Napoleon, George Washington.

Barry Cantrell was the world’s consummate and eternal warrior.

And he had been for seven centuries.

“He’s in Arkansas.”

Robert Roche, one of the five richest men in all the world, swiveled in his chair and smiled, his back to the man who stood before his desk. “Going under what name?”

“Barry Cantrell.”

“I suspected he might do better than that,” Robert muttered. “From Darry to Barry. Not very original.”

A year past, in Idaho, when Robert Roche had sent a dozen mercenaries after him, Barry had been going under the name of Darry Ransom.

“Have you located the other one?”

“Yes. He’s living in Ireland. Just outside of Cork. He is now using the name of John Ravenna.”

“Has he been approached by others, and what was his reply to their offer?”

“Yes, sir. He has been approached, and he is mulling over their offer.”

“Go to Ireland. Talk to this John Ravenna. Tell him whatever the others have offered him, I’ll triple it if he’ll come to work for me. I do not want Cliff Madison assassinated. Go!”

After the man had left, Robert Roche rose from his chair and paced the huge office. “Those idiots,” he muttered. “Don’t they have sense enough to know that if I thought political assassination was the route to go, I’d have taken it years ago?”

Sheriff Salter had slipped into his hiding place and had been watching Barry for about fifteen minutes, when suddenly he lost him from view.

“Where the hell did he go?” the sheriff muttered. “He was right there and now he’s gone.”

But the two big hybrid wolves were still on the porch, dozing, apparently unconcerned about their master’s disappearance.

“I ought to be back in the office,” the sheriff said. “I have a thousand things to do before the Speaker gets here next month.”

The Speaker of the House of Representatives was coming to spend a week’s vacation in North Arkansas, fishing, hiking, and river rafting along the Buffalo River.

Sheriff Salter lifted his binoculars and scanned the area below him. Barry Cantrell was not in sight.

The sheriff decided he was being just a little bit silly. After all, the man had done nothing. There certainly wasn’t any law against minding one’s own business and living a very quiet life.

Still . . . the guy was far too young to be retired. So how did he live? What had he done to earn this money he got every month? It wasn’t a government pension. So . . . ?

Maybe he’d come here to join one of those damned survivalist groups that were all over the area. The sheriff shook his head. No, the survivalist groups were all right. He knew a lot of the men and women in those. But there were several very racist groups in the area, hard right-wing organizations that preached hate. And one neo-Nazi group.

Was this Barry Cantrell a part of those groups?

The sheriff almost stopped breathing when the voice spoke from behind him. “Something I can do for you?”

Sheriff Salter dropped his binoculars and knocked over his canteen getting to his feet. Barry Cantrell stood about two feet away, smiling at him.

“Jesus, man!” Salter blurted. “You move like a ghost.”

“So I’ve been told. Sorry I startled you.” Barry held out his hand. “Barry Cantrell.”

The sheriff took the greeting, noticing that the hand was hard and callused. “Don Salter. I’m the sheriff of this county.” God, he felt like a fool. He’d been caught on private property without a warrant.

“If you want to know all about me, Sheriff, why don’t we go on down to the house and we’ll have some iced tea and talk? I’ll introduce you to my dogs. If you plan on coming out here often, it’s best you get to know them.”

“Might be a good idea.”

“Come on.”

At the gate, Barry said, “Let me go in first, Sheriff.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Don said drily.

Barry laughed and stepped into the fenced area.

Don noticed that Barry spoke no words to the huge hybrids. He just looked at them. After a moment, he waved for the sheriff to come on in. Being careful to close the gate behind him, Don let the animals sniff him.

“Pet them,” Barry said.

Don looked down at the two hybrids. Their teeth were about twice as long as those found on full-breed dogs. Don inwardly shuddered at the thought of how much damage they could do ... in a very short time.

“That’s Pete, and that’s Repeat,” Barry said, pointing out the dogs as he named them. “Come on in the house. Where is your car, by the way?”

Don pointed. “Other side of the ridge. On the south side of the county road.”

“I’ll drive you over there after we talk. That’s a good hike and the day is getting warm.”

Pete and Repeat slid under the high porch, and Don and Barry went into the house. The air conditioner was humming softly, cooling the air to a comfortable level. Barry waved the sheriff to a chair. “I’ll get the tea. You take it plain or sugared?”

“Two sugars, please.”

Barry disappeared into the kitchen, and Don looked around. The living room/den was clean and neat and sparsely furnished. One chair, a recliner. A couch, a coffee table. An end table by the chair. A new television against the wall. Two prints on the wall: a seaside print and one of the mountains. No pictures on the mantel above the fireplace. Don sat down on the couch.

Barry returned with two large glasses of iced tea. He put one glass on the coffee table, the other on the end table by the chair. He sat down in the recliner and looked at Don.

The sheriff sipped his tea. Good. “I should apologize for spying on you, Mr. Cantrell.”

“Call me Barry. No apology necessary, Sheriff. I’m a stranger in your community. No visible means of support. I live alone, except for two hybrid wolves. Don’t socialize. I don’t blame you for checking me out. What did you find out?” That was asked with a slight smile.

“To be honest, nothing. You don’t have a past, Barry.”

“Oh, everybody has a past, Sheriff. Mine just isn’t very interesting, that’s all. I’m a recluse. I like living alone. I really prefer the wilderness areas, but they’re getting hard to find.”

Sheriff Don Salter hesitated. He’d been a cop all his adult life. Started out as a deputy, then chief deputy, then ran for the office and to his surprise was elected. He was just starting his second term. Not bad for a man in his late thirties. Don was on very shaky legal ground with Barry Cantrell, and he knew it. He had no warrant to be here, had not apprised the man of his rights, and knew that anything he might learn, more than likely, could not be used in a court of law.

“I came here from out west, Sheriff,” Barry said. “Idaho, to be precise. I was homesteading a piece of land in the wilderness area. You might recall there was a lot of trouble out there last year . . . ?”

Don nodded. “I sure remember seeing that on the TV and reading about it. You were there?”

“I was close enough to it to get real nervous. I could sure hear the gunfire, and there was a lot of it. I decided to move to a more peaceful area.”

“I don’t blame you for that. That was a real mess. But some good did come out of it.”

“A lot of shake-ups in the FBI and ATF. And the IRS got its nose bloodied, too.”

Don smiled. Like a very large percentage of Americans, he had absolutely no use for the IRS and the dictatorial way in which they operated. He looked at Barry. He couldn’t push this much further, not without stepping off into a very chancy area.

“We have several survivalist groups in this area, too, Barry.”

“They don’t bother me. Most of them are Americans who just don’t like the direction this nation is heading. And I sympathize with them. It’s the hate groups that I try to avoid.”

“We have a couple of those in this area, too,” Don said softly.

“I didn’t know that. But I am very sorry to hear it.”

Don believed him. He didn’t know why, but he did. Something in Barry’s tone, he guessed. “Jim Beal is the leader of the larger, but not necessarily the more dangerous, of the two groups around here. Victor Radford ramrods the second bunch. They re much smaller, but much more dangerous. They’re neo-Nazi. I’m surprised you haven’t been approached to join one or the other.”

“I don’t get out much, Sheriff. Maybe they don’t know I’m here.”

“Oh, they know, Barry. Believe that. Beal has at least one man in my department, but I don’t know who it is. It’s the same in many, if not most, departments all over the nation.” Don hesitated, picked up his glass of iced tea, and leaned back. He smiled. “You’re a very easy man to talk with, Barry. Why am I telling you all this?”

Barry shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you don’t have anyone else to talk with, Sheriff.” He matched Don’s smile. “I do know the feeling.”

President Richard “Dick” Hutton had weathered many a firestorm in his relatively short political career. He had been a lawyer, had run for state representative as a very young man, been elected, then after three terms, when he was just old enough to do so, had been elected to the United States Senate. Twelve years later, he was elected president, just squeaking by the sitting president.

He was starting the second year of his first term, and knew he was in big political trouble. To his mind, it all started with the opposition party gaining control of both houses, followed by scandals that he had not been involved in but took the blame for anyway. Then last year all that trouble out in Idaho with rogue federal agents running wild, killing innocent people. Then right on the heels of that, all that mess with IRS agents and the killings in Texas and New York. Then the Coyote Network started a news department and sank its teeth into the government and wouldn’t let go. Now anytime the IRS froze a bank account or seized property, there they were, filming and interviewing people and in general making the entire government look like heartless bullies and bad guys.

His ratings were the lowest since he’d taken office. Some in his party were already talking about dumping him, and unless he did something to turn those ratings around, he was through. After the disastrous four years of his predecessor, his party was in trouble.

What President Richard “Dick” Hutton didn’t know was that a few in his party were ready to take some rather drastic steps to be rid of him. Permanently.

The Coyote Network’s news department was now recognized worldwide as being one of the most aggressive news-gathering organizations ever put together ... as well as one of the most conservative. And their reports had irritated a lot of people ... mostly politicians and hanky-stomping liberals. The former because Coyote constantly held their feet to the fire; the latter because Coyote laid the blame for criminal behavior directly on the criminal, not on a poor diet, or because the punk didn’t get enough presents at Christmas, or because the kid next door had a fancier bicycle, or because the devil made them do it, or any of the other bullshit that the hard-working, law-abiding, tax-paying American citizens had been forced to endure from the mouths of liberals for forty years.

In other words, a rose was a rose was a rose.

As Stormy Knight, one of Coyote’s ace field reporters, stated in an editorial, “It is past time for us all to accept that to a very large degree, the individual controls his or her own destiny. If we fail in one endeavor, the fault is ours; it is not the fault of society. People who turn to a life of crime do so knowingly and willingly. They are not forced into it. Criminals deserve our contempt, not our pity. Many great and successful men and women have risen from the grips of abject poverty without whining or turning to a life of crime or blaming society for their lot in life. This reporter is sick to the core of liberals attempting to explain away why this or that criminal behaves as he or she does. This commentator is tired of reporting about some no-good jerk being released from prison and then raping or assaulting or killing some innocent person seventy-two hours later. It is my opinion that there are only two kinds of people in the world, decent people and indecent people. And the sooner we find a way to either permanently contain or do away with the indecent, the better off society will be.”

In North Arkansas, as Stormy’s beautiful face faded from the TV screen, Barry leaned back in his chair and laughed. “That’s my girl,” he said.

Stormy had entered what used to be called Idaho’s Great Primitive Area just a year ago in search of a story. She had found her story, but instead of going on the air with it, she had fallen in love with the subject.

Vlad Dumitru Radu, known then as Darry Ransom, now going by the name of Barry Cantrell, had saved Stormy’s life. The two of them were forced to hide out in the wilderness area for days while a battle between misinformed and poorly led federal agents and a band of innocent campers, hikers, river rafters, and militiamen raged all around them.

Long years before Stormy met “The Man Who Could Not Die,” as the mysterious and elusive Vlad had been dubbed, Stormy had carefully put together Vlad’s life story. It had been a pet project of hers since high school days. This time, Vlad knew he was caught.

But before Stormy could make up her mind about filing the story, the pristine wilderness had erupted in battle and they’d had to run for their lives.

Now, a year later, Vlad had once more changed his name and location, but with technology advancing at nearly mind-boggling speed, his running and hiding was becoming increasingly more difficult. He did not know how long he could continue evading not only the press, but also the relentless pursuit by the men and women hired by the billionaire industrialist, Robert Roche. Roche wanted Barry for study, in hopes of learning the secret of eternal life. That was a joke, as far as Barry was concerned, for there was no medical reason for his stroll through the centuries, no gene that gave him the powers to shape-shift, no gland that gave him the ability to never age. He and the others like him—and there were more than a few—were that way because a higher power so decreed it. If Robert Roche wanted the secret, he might consider prayer. That was the only response Barry could possibly give him.

Barry did not possess magical powers. He could not make articles disappear; he could not snap his fingers and produce wondrous things, all materializing in a puff of smoke. He simply did not age and could not die, and he could shape-shift at will. But the ability to shape-shift was nothing new. Indians had known of shape-shifters for thousands of years. Barry knew the white man could learn a lot from the American Indian; they had only to listen and believe. But while many listened, few believed. And therein was the hitch.

“You could call him and tell him you’re on the way,” Ki Nichols said to Stormy, sitting in her office in New York City.

“No phone,” Stormy said with a grimace. “You know how he feels about phones.”

Ki laughed at her friend’s expression. Then she sobered. “Stormy? What are you two going to do? How are you going to work this out?”

Stormy, nicknamed the Ice Queen because of her sometimes standoffishness, but mostly because of her astonishing Scandinavian beauty, sighed and shook her head, a thick strand of very blond hair falling out of place, almost covering one eye. “We take it one day at a time, Ki. Or one visit at a time. Barry realizes that technology is rapidly catching up with him. But he’s made up his mind to resist going public for as long as possible.”

“Do you fault him for that?”

Stormy shook her head. “No. Not now. Maybe at first, but certainly not now.”

Ki closed the door to the office and sat down. “He’s really talked about going public?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

Ki stared at her. Ki’s hair, worn short, was as black as a raven’s wing. While Stormy was tall, Ki was almost petite. But while Stormy was city born and reared, Ki had been raised on a working farm in Missouri, and could be as tough as wang leather. Ki was one of the top camera-persons in the business, and liked to work with Stormy. Both of them had been known to take incredible chances in getting a story. “Explain roundabout.”

Stormy fiddled with a pencil, tapping it nervously on her desk. “Barry knows these two things to be fact: The military wants to study him. The CIA wants him as an agent. He knows but can’t prove that the billionaire industrialist, Robert Roche, hired those mercenaries to come after us last year in Idaho. Roche wants to see if he can learn the secret of eternal life from Barry.”

“I’ll bite. Can he?”

Stormy shook her head. “No. All Barry knows is that it is a gift. He’s firmly convinced, now, that the Almighty gives certain people that gift. As far as his ability to shape-change, he says that shape-shifters have been on the earth for thousands of years. He says it’s all in the mind. He told me it took him years to finally learn how to control the shape-shifting.”

Ki nodded her head. “Changing the subject only slightly, how do we get to this little town in Arkansas to watch the Speaker of the House glad-hand?”

“We can either fly into Springfield, Little Rock, or Memphis and rent a car.”

“You ready?”

Stormy grinned. “I thought you’d never ask!”

The Speaker of the House, since he, or she, is next in line for the Oval Office should anything happen to the president and vice president, is provided security when he travels. They can be Secret Service, FBI, or Deputy U.S. Marshals. Local police, sheriffs deputies, and state police or highway patrol (and there is quite a difference between the two) are also used, at the discretion of the local, county, and state officials. If the police and sheriffs departments are small ones, the visit can put a hell of a strain on local authorities. And Sheriff Don Salter and Police Chief Russ Monroe did not have large departments.

“Hell, the Speaker travels all over the country,” Don said to the police chief, the morning after his unexpected visit with Barry. “There’s never been any trouble. At least not that I know of.”

“Those other areas didn’t have Jim Beal and Victor Radford,” the chief reminded the sheriff.

Don leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “Russ, we have one of the largest militias in the state located not twenty miles from here. We have about a hundred people who subscribe to the Tri-States’ philosophy living just outside of town. They’ve never caused any trouble.”

The police chief shook his head. “Oh, hell, Don! I. . .