5
Jack Speed read the fax and handed it to Kathy Owens. “You're not going to believe this one,” he told her.
She read the order and looked over at her partner. “The Man Who Could Not Die?”
“That's what it says.” The fax machine clanged. “That would be a copy of the article. This should be real interesting reading.”
The small field office, located on the western side of Idaho, near the Washington state border, had not been open long. The agent-in-charge was due to retire in just over a year. He came out of his office, read the latest fax, and smiled at the two agents.
“You young people enjoy camping?”
“Oh, I just love communing with nature,” Kathy said.
“Me, too,” Jack said, very unenthusiastically.
“Wonderful!” the older man said. “How I envy you both this assignment.” That was said very drily. “You're going into rough country, so get outfitted.” He handed them a map. “The area is circled. Good luck.” He went back to his office and closed the door. Then he started laughing.
“I'm glad he thinks it's so damn funny,” Jack said. He looked at Kathy. “Do you like camping?”
“I hate camping!”
“Me, too,” he said glumly, then stood up. “You ready to go exploring?”
Kathy said a very ugly word.
* * *
The mercenaries left their vehicles miles north and east of the ranger station and, shouldering heavy packs, began marching into the designated area just about the same time Stormy and Ki arrived at the ranger station. Since the
National Loudmouth
was one of the newspapers he'd taken up to Darry's place, Rick had a pretty good idea why the reporters were in the area. Rick didn't believe a word printed in the
Loudmouth,
and he certainly didn't believe that Darry was almost seven hundred years old; but somebody obviously thought the story worth investigating.
Still, Rick wasn't about to give the reporter Darry's locationânot without Darry's permission. Rick shook his head. “This story sounds pretty far-fetched to me, miss. I don't know of anybody living in this area who is, ah, seven hundred years old.” He chuckled. “Although there are some mighty crotchety old characters living back in the wilderness.”
Stormy shook her head. “This man would look about thirty years old.”
Rick smiled. “All I can do is wish you good luck and give you the names of some local guides. There is a man who can helicopter you in, or you can rent horses and go in that way.”
“Horses sound good,” Ki said. “I used to ride every day back on the farm.”
Stormy was city born and reared. She gave Ki a very dark look. Then she sighed and nodded her head. “All right. We'll do it that way.”
Rick wrote out the man's name and gave the women directions to his place. They thanked him and left.
Rick immediately closed up the ranger station and set out for Darry's cabin. This time he saddled up and rode. Much faster that way.
“You're just in time for lunch,” Darry told him, holding up a string of fresh-caught trout.
“Sounds good to me. Let me loosen this cinch and I'll help you clean them.”
When the fish were battered and sizzling in the pan, Rick said, “There is a well-known reporter and cameramanâcamera-person, I guessâin the area. They're here about that article in the
Loudmouth.
The Man Who Could Not Die.”
“A major network is wasting its money on stuff like that?” Darry questioned.
“Darry? If there is anything in your past you don't want uncovered, I'd suggest you head for the wilderness and lay low for a time.”
Darry turned the fish. “I'm not a criminal, Rick. I have a bank account, a social security number, a valid driver's license, and a current hunting and fishing permit. You know all that. Why should I run?”
“Because there are things about you that don't add up, Darry. And if I can sense that, you know damn well a skilled reporter can, too.”
Darry smiled. “What is it about me that doesn't add up, Rick?”
“Even though you've tried to hide it, you're a very well educated man. I've seen your library, remember? Everything from Voltaire to William Buckley. You're somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old, a young and handsome man, yet you live like a hermit, with very little outside contact. Old Buckskin Jennings saw you playing with a wolf pack last year, Darry. He watched you for the better part of an hour. When you finished playing, you lay down with them and went to sleep. I'm the only one he told about it. You want me to go on?”
Darry pointed to the skillet and then to a plate. “Eat your lunch.”
They ate in silence for a time. Darry said, “So I have a way with wolves, so what?”
“A
way
with wolves? You lay down in the middle of a pack of wolves and went to
sleep,
for Christ sake! Darry, I've watched you from time to time . . . through binoculars. You move through the woods like a ghost. I've lost sight of you a dozen times when you were out in the open not a hundred yards away from me. Darry, I don't think for one moment that you're a criminal, or that you're wanted for anything. But there is a hell of a lot more to you than you've admitted thus farâat least to me. And this Stormy person is going to zero in on you like radar. And if you can't account for every minute of your back trail, she's going to cut you to pieces. So you'd better get ready for it.”
Darry said nothing. He speared another piece of fish and spooned more fried potatoes onto his plate. Pete and Repeat lay on the porch, snoozing in the shade. “Maybe it's time for me to move on,” Darry finally spoke.
“Run again?”
Darry shrugged.
“Darry, where were you born?”
“My birth certificate says I was born in Illinois.”
“Would it stand up to a thorough check?”
Darry smiled.
“That's what I thought. Darry, have you ever leveled with anyone about . . . whatever it is you're hiding?”
“A few people, over the years.”
“How many years?”
“Oh, as near as I can figure it, pretty close to seven centuries.”
Rick's plate suddenly fell out of numb fingers and clattered to the ground. He sat and stared at Darry.
* * *
“There has to be something to it,” the air force general said. “The CIA is on it and so is the FBI. By God, we're not going to be left out in the cold. Isn't Pete Cooper winding up an investigation in that area?”
“Yes, sir. He's close. Out at Mountain Home.”
“Tell him to get on it ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you suppose there is any truth to it at all?”
“I don't know. But if there is, do you realize what kind of a weapon this man would make?”
“Of course.”
“Find him!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“What in the hell is going on out in Idaho?” the general asked. “And why in the hell weren't we informed of it?”
Fort Meade, Maryland, home of the National Security Agency. A civilian agency, but always headed by a ranking military officer.
“I have no idea,” the deputy director admitted. “I just returned from vacation.”
“How was Bermuda?” the DIRNSA asked.
“Very pleasant. Relaxing. What's this about Idaho?”
“The CIA has sent a man in ... at the President's orders. Then the Bureau got their drawers in a wad about it, and they've ordered people in . . . at the request of Justice. Now the air force is sending a man in. We seem to be sucking hind tit on whatever is going on. I don't like that.”
“No,” the D/DIRNSA agreed. “We certainly can't have that.”
“Where is Al Reaux?”
The D/DIRNSA lifted an eyebrow at that. “You want to send in the first team?”
“Might as well. This has to be big.”
“It must be. Do you have any idea what it's all about?”
“Not a clue. But whatever it is, I don't want to be left out of it. Hell, we
can't
be left out.”
“I agree. We should have been the first to be notified.”
The general buzzed his secretary. “Find Al Reaux and get him in here.”
* * *
Rick Battle finally found his voice. “You're putting me on!”
Darry shook his head. “No.”
“But that is impossible!” Rick insisted.
“No. I'm told there are others like me, but they've managed to avoid detection over the long years. I have no idea where they might be. I met one during this country's civil war, but lost track of him at Gettysburg.”
“Are you sitting there and telling me straight-faced that you fought in the goddamn Civil War?”
“I fought in this country's revolutionary war.”
“Jesus Christ!” With a very shaky hand, Rick poured himself a fresh cup of coffee.
“I knew you suspected something after you brought me that copy of the
National Loudmouth.”
“I can't believe this, Darry. My mind just won't accept it.”
“I don't blame you.”
“Have you . . . ah ... ever been married, Darry?”
“No. That would be very unfair to the woman. She would age and I would not. I have had many close relationshipsâmany. But I always have to leave. Joan knew who I was, and finally sent me away.”
“Joan?”
“Jeanne d'Arc.”
“You had an affair with Joan of Arc?”
“Not a physical affair. But one of the heart.”
“Joan of Arc!”
“Yes. She was a saint. Truly. The Church finally realized that in 1920, under the rule of Pope Benedict the XV. One does not engage in pleasures of the flesh with a saint. It would be . . . unseemly.”
“Unseemly!” Rick shook his head, his coffee cooling and forgotten. “Were you . . . ah, there, ah . . .”
“When she was burned? Yes. That was . . . 1431. It was not pleasant to look upon. Our eyes met several times before her soul left her body.”
“You loved her?”
“Yes.”
“My God, my God!”
“Her final words.”
* * *
“This really pisses me off,” the general said, waving a sheet of paper at Army Intelligence Agency headquarters. “Everybody and their brother is racing toward Idaho, and we sit here with our thumb up our ass.”
“What's going on in Idaho?”
“Hell, I don't know. But it's big. Has to be. I want somebody on this and I want them on it right now.”
“Major Waters is wrapping up out at Fort Lewis.”
“Get him on this immediately. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
The vehicle unloaded, rafts inflated, supplies safely stowed and lashed down, Dr. Ray Collier smiled at his family. “Is everybody ready to go?”
“Yeah!” Paul and Terri shouted.
Karen smiled at her husband. Ray and Terri would be in the lead rubber raft, she and Paul in the second raft. They had all done this before, but never on a river this wild. They had talked about hiring a guide, but all had reached the conclusion that would take some of the fun out of the trip. They decided to go it alone.
“All right!” Ray shouted. “Man your boats!”
“Person your boats,” his young daughter corrected.
Ray laughed. “She'll be president of NOW before she's out of her teens.”
The Collier family shoved off and were soon lost from view around a bend in the river.
* * *
“If keelhauling was still in practice, I'd order it done,” the admiral said, obviously highly irritated. Headquarters, Office of Naval Intelligence. “How come we dropped the ball on this one?” He lifted a manila folder and tossed out the question to the men seated around the long table.
“Sir, I can't even get a fix on what is going on. Everything is screwed down tight.”
“Well, somebody had damn well better unscrew it and do it fast. It looks like we're the last ones to know.”
“Know what?” a ranking officer said.
The admiral slid the folder down the table. The officer opened it and stared at the single sheet of paper. “This doesn't tell me anything. What the hell is operation Mountain Goat?”
“That's what we're calling this,” the admiral said. “Where is Jay Gilmore?”
“Washington state.”
“I want him moving by twelve hundred hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“You're leveling with me, right? You're not pulling my leg, are you, Darry?”
“No. I'm telling you the truth.”
“But . . . how . . . ?”
“I don't know. For years I thought I was placed here by God for some reason. I rejected that theory centuries ago. I was a priest at one time; but I soon realized that was not my vocation and left the priesthood.” He smiled. “I like the ladies too much for that.”
“Wait until you see Stormy. She'll knock your socks off.”
“Stormy what?”
Rick told him.
Darry blinked. “You're kidding!”
“Nope. Catchy name, huh?”
Darry sat down on the ground and laughed until tears were running out of his eyes.
* * *
“I hate horses,” Stormy said. She hadn't been in the saddle an hour and her butt felt like it was on fire. Back at the outfitter's, Ki had told her to put on a pair of longhandles to help prevent chafing on her inner thighs. Stormy had refused. Up until now. “Let's stop,” she said. “I want to put on those longhandles.”