The Flock (6 page)

Levin nodded. “Yeah. Seen it a time or two, myself. And they just lay their eggs right there on the bare ground. No nesting material at all.”

“Yep.”

Taking a second to glance back at Riggs, Levin spoke again. “So. What brings Fish and Wildlife here to the mighty compound?”

“Kate Kwitney brought me,” he said.

“Ooooooooooooh.” The biologist nodded knowingly.

“I just met her, actually. Out in one of the savannas a few miles from here.” Ron coughed.

“Just met her, you say?” Levin was cutting and squeezing his gory prize.

“Yep. Couple hours ago, is all.” He tossed the empty water bottle at the nearest trash bin, but it hit the rim and clattered to the floor. “Oops.”

“So, then. You don't…
know
her that well.”

Ron grunted as he picked up the bottle and tossed it at the bin again. Once more it hit the rim and bounced off and clattered to the floor. “Shoot,” he muttered. “Um. Yes. I mean, no. I don't know her well. Just met her, I said.” He picked up the bottle and put it in the bin.

“What do you think of Kate?” Levin was sawing and squeezing, looking down at the last meal of a carrion eater.

“Well. She's pretty sharp. Very smart lady. Knows what she's talking about when it comes to the local flora and fauna. Knows more than I do, I'd say. Seems to know more than anyone back at the office, actually. And…”

“And?”

“Well, she's good looking. I think she's really pretty.”

Levin chuckled. “Air she purdy?”

The guy was getting on Ron's nerves. Maybe he was a boyfriend of Kate's. Maybe not. Riggs couldn't ignore him, though. Levin had pushed just a bit too far. “Yeah, I think she's good looking. I'd like to be alone with her and bang her for an hour or two.”

“Why, Ron! That's not very nice.” It was Kate, of course, having arrived, having watched the exchange from the open doorway.

Adam Levin, whose back was still to the whole scene, his hands full of buzzard guts, let out a full, belly laugh that, for Ron, went on for far too many painful minutes.

Dodd did his best to keep up with Colonel Grisham, but it wasn't easy to do. He had to practically run just to stay ten feet behind the old soldier. Coupled with the need to take a look behind every quarter mile or so, it was almost going to be impossible to not lose sight of his new companion.

“What the
hell
did you think you saw, anyway, son?”

The reporter almost ran into the retired officer, since his attention had been on the forest they had just traversed rather than where he was headed. “Damn,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

“Well…I don't know, really.” Dodd had decided along the miles they had already walked that he didn't want to tell this frankly scary fellow what he had seen. Especially not if what he had seen was real, and not just part of his panic at being lost and disoriented.

“What do you mean? When you came bustin' out of that thicket it sure looked to me like you knew what you saw. And it didn't seem like it was no cottontail, either.” Grisham was set solid, glaring eye to eye at the torn and bloodied Dodd.

Clearing his throat, getting ready to lie (something he did well, on occasion), Dodd's mind danced. “First of all, I got lost. I
thought
I was following a trail that led around the north side of Salutation. But after a while, I knew that wasn't right, because I wasn't coming back to any of the neighborhoods and the roads. I was just getting deeper and deeper into the woods.

“And then, when I came out into that big field-looking place…”

“A
savanna,
son. They call that type of habitat a savanna. Got lots of it in Africa, not much of it here.” Grisham was rapt, examining his charge.

“Okay. A savanna. Yes. Anyway, I
really
got lost when I was out there. I couldn't tell which way I had come in. I couldn't figure out which way to go to get back to that trail, which I had lost track of before I got out there in the first place.” He picked at a thorn mired in the tender flesh in the pad of his thumb. A bright dot of blood welled up where the thorn had been.

“You've got no sense of direction, do you boy?”

“Eh. No. I guess not.” He cleared his throat again, afraid to look the retired colonel in the eye. A man like that might be able to spot a lie in a man's eyes. “And so I stopped by this big tree that had fallen over. And while I was standing there, this big blackbird, sounded like a damned foghorn…well, it came out of the bushes and scared hell out of me.”

Grisham was chuckling, now. That was good, so Dodd continued. He wasn't really lying, yet. “And right after that, I put my foot down and this big brownish and orange snake crawled over my foot and almost scared me to death. I thought I was going to have a heart attack, for sure.”

“Corn snake. Just a harmless old corn snake,” Grisham told him.

“Well, I didn't know that. I do now, thanks. After that, I walked off from the tree, and then I heard something moving in the bushes. I thought it might be a bear or one of those Florida panthers I've read about. So I started running. And that's when you happened along.” He smiled sheepishly and looked away, hoping that Grisham wouldn't mention his camera and ask him if he'd taken any photos.

“And that's when you trespassed, Mr. Dodd. You came across a posted boundary. That's private property.”

“I'm sorry. Really, I am. I respect private property. I just didn't see the signs.”

“You know, boy. I'm from South Georgia, and where I come from you do
not
dick around with a man's private property. It's sacred ground, another man's land. You don't go where you ain't supposed to be.”

“I understand. I truly didn't mean to offend you or violate your rights.” Dodd swallowed, was aware of his thirst, which he'd forgotten in all of the excitement. He was really parched.

“Apology accepted. Now, what the heck were you doing out here, anyway? I mean, other than trying to see where that trail went? I've been reading your stuff. Hearing some things. What's this about a giant snake? You guys on the level?”

Dodd looked around, trying to see if there was anything to see other than trees and brush, anything that might look like comfort. Why, this man could kill him out there and no one would ever know. Grisham was certainly no stranger to death. His reputation as a warrior was quite formidable. “To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what's going on in Salutations. They're stonewalling me. I do know that pets are missing. Cats. Some dogs. We think there might be an escaped python or something like that around the town.”

Grisham laughed, a big, braying cackle, and slapped his thigh. “You
guys
. You guys are something. You know that? Hell. It's probably just a gator or bobcat killing some pets.
Giant snake
. You're a real joker, Dodd. You know that?”

“Yes sir. I try.”

Grisham's hand was up in the air, Dodd noticed, as his eyes followed it. And suddenly the woods came alive with men. Formerly invisible figures came out of the trees and up from the earth where they had been waiting. Perhaps they had been following along all the while, or maybe they had been waiting here. He didn't know, and now he was truly, completely afraid.

“Meet some of the boys,” Grisham said. He nodded toward the camouflaged soldiers edging toward them, their faces painted in greasy stripes of gray and brown and green. As the group closed in, Grisham stepped up very close to Dodd. “Now. You really
were
out here to do a story about a giant
snake,
right? I mean,” and he chuckled, “you weren't here to spy on an old, retired
colonel,
were you?”

Bringing his hands up, palms out, Dodd took half a step back. “No sir. I swear. I was just here to do a story about Salutations. I promise you I wasn't here to spy on you. Swear it.”

There was a long period of silence. No one spoke. Dodd could hear his own breath, but oddly could not hear breathing from any of the others, though there were at least ten of them, now. Gnats sang in his ear, but he did not brush them away. His hands remained out, palms up, toward Grisham.

And finally, the old colonel laughed again. It was a cruel laugh, but welcome just the same. “I believe you, son.” Grisham turned his head and barked at his fellow militiamen. “Come on, boys. Let's get this citizen back to his car.”

As the formerly invisible soldiers marched off, westward, Grisham patted Dodd on the back, his funny
compadre
. “Let's go, Mr. Dodd. I'll take you to my ranch and drive you to Salutations. Believe it or not, my house ain't but two miles from here. Me and the boys were just doing a little…
practice
when you interrupted us.” He pointed at one of the men quickly vanishing ahead of them.

“Old Wylie, there. I'll bet you think old Wylie's a nigger. Huh? You think he's a nigger?” Dodd shook his head from side to side, speechless. “He ain't a nigger. He's a Cherokee Indian. God, I swear I purely love our Native Americans. Did you know that Indians make up only one percent of the population, yet they are
eight percent
of our veterans? Did you know that?” Dodd shook his head in the negative again. “Well, it's true. Best damned soldiers you could ask for. God
love
'em, I say. God love 'em.”

 

True to his word, they soon came out of the woods and began to skirt the edge of a big pasture. There were cattle in the field, and the scent of manure soon came to them. “Beef cattle,” Grisham said. “I farm beef here. Florida's great for beef. I've got me a thousand acres out here, and I wish I had more time to farm beef. But, you know, there's more important things to do.”

Dodd was quiet. He was going to do his best to keep his mouth shut until he was off this man's property.

“This country is in trouble, you know. Deep trouble.”

“I know what you mean,” Dodd told him. He was peering around, trying to see if there was a car or truck parked nearby. There didn't seem to be, although he finally spotted a large barn and what might be the edge of a very big farmhouse.

“Take these wilderness types. I'm all for parks. It's good to go out and take in the fresh air and see the sights. But when these
socialists
think they can tell a man what he can and cannot do with his private property, then things are out of hand. You see what I mean?” They were rounding the end of the pasture. The cattle watched them with great, bored, half-lidded stares.

“I know exactly,” Dodd agreed. Certainly the man had a truck somewhere.

“These government agencies. They're out of hand. Telling a man dry ground is a
wetland,
for Christ's sake. It's insane. Telling a company they can't build a factory with jobs for people because of a
minnow
.” He breathed in. “A damned
minnow
.

“That's why, you see, we need people like me. Like me, and my friends you just met. We're kind of like a counterbalance to some of that craziness. Something to make some sanity out of it. Make them see the light, so to speak. You understand?”

Dodd nodded his head up and down, his curly hair damp with sweat. “Yes, I do.”

“If I ever give you permission to write about me, you remember some of what I've told you. Okay?” Grisham slapped Dodd firmly on the back. Hard enough to clear Dodd's lungs.

Dodd coughed. “Yes. I'll remember it if you think you'd like us to do a piece on you.”

“You've probably already heard it on my radio show, anyway.”

In fact, Dodd had never heard Grisham's rants on radio. He had actually forgotten the man
did
radio. But it was true. He was carried on a number of AM stations around the country, although mainly he broadcast on shortwave.

As they rounded the pasture, the barn and the house came into full view. Some men were closing the doors of the huge barn, and it was very dark in there, but as it was closed up, Dodd was certain that he had glimpsed an armored personnel carrier parked inside. He stared at the ground and pretended he'd seen nothing. And, anyway, a shiny red Chevrolet truck was parked not a hundred feet away.

“You ready for a ride?”

“A ride?”

“A
ride
. Back to your
car
.” Grisham smiled.

“Yes. Yes, thanks. That would be most appreciated, sir.”

The two of them headed toward the new red truck and, once there, Grisham emptied the chamber of the gun and released the full clip. He stowed the gun on a rack behind the seat and put the clip and bullet in an ammo box on the floorboard. Dodd eyed the bullets so that he could look them up and figure out what type of guns he'd seen. “Climb on in, son.”

As the reporter opened the passenger door and slid in, Grisham produced a key and started up the engine. It purred beautifully and soon the air conditioner was blasting. “One more thing, Dodd.”

Dodd looked at him. “Yes?”

“On the way out, don't take any pictures. And don't try to snap one of me when I drop you off. You got that?”

“Got it,” Dodd told him.

And each was as good as his word.

When Ron was able to turn around with a straight face, Levin's chuckling still going strong, he turned toward Kate Kwitney, the woman he'd just met and who he had already succeeded in alienating. He assumed, at least, that he'd alienated her. And as he turned to give her his most sheepish expression, Ron noticed that someone else had walked in with her. Merely from the way Kate deferred to this new occupant of the room, merely from her body English, Riggs immediately knew that this was Holcomb.

He was a bit younger than Ron would have thought. He'd heard of him for years, had read about some of his exploits since he was a youngster just out of high school. Ron took the hand that was extended to him. “Hello, Mr. Riggs. I'm Vance Holcomb. Call me Vance.”

“Hello.” He squeezed back and looked into Holcomb's face. In his early fifties, the billionaire had obviously spent a lot of time in the outdoors. His blond hair was still thick, tinged just a bit with gray, and his face was permanently tanned from years spent in the sun. Currently, the darkness of the skin around his eyes and nose was accented, since he had obviously recently shaved off what had been a long held beard. The skin on his chin and around his lips was noticeably lighter, more like the complexion he'd probably sported in younger days. His features were appropriately chiseled for an outdoorsman, Ron thought; he was almost lantern-jawed, but just shy of that. There was a long scar along the left side of his face: pale skin that puckered slightly. Ron wondered how he'd gotten that, and why his millions hadn't bought the plastic surgery to hide it. Perhaps he thought it gave his face character. If he did think that, he was right.

“Kate here tells me she stumbled across you on one of the longleaf savannas.” Holcomb took a half step away and put his hands behind his back, as if standing at attention. He was as tall as Kate was.

“Yes. But I'd hardly call it stumbling. Even though I was sitting down, eating my lunch, she picked me right out and headed straight over.” Ron looked over at Kate, who was smirking at him. “I don't know how she did that.”

“Oh, Kate knows the area, she does. I suspect she would have picked you out even if you'd been half a mile away. Kate's got a sharp eye out there in the forest. She's the best damned field taxonomist I've ever met.” Holcomb looked her way and winked.

“Well, I thought I did, too. But I couldn't even tell what she was until she was right up on me.” Ron shrugged, still feeling foolish despite Holcomb's manners.

“What do you think of the place, Mr. Riggs?” Holcomb raised his arms to encompass the room.

“I'm impressed. What I've seen of it. You've obviously gone to some great expense.” He made eye contact with Kate. There didn't seem to be anything beyond mischief in her eyes. That gave him some relief. “You've got a nice lab here. And you certainly seem to have decent security around the place.”

Holcomb shrugged. “Yes. I need the security. You never can tell what kind of problems we might encounter here. I'm not particularly popular with a lot of powerful folk, just now.” He sighed. “But I'm used to it. I'm accustomed to making people angry.”

“So I've heard,” Ron admitted. Indeed. Ron knew that even a lot of people and organizations
within
the environmental movement did not care for Holcomb. Some said he that he caused more trouble than he was worth. There was his crackpot reputation, for one thing. He'd spent hundreds of thousands of dollars hunting for the Loch Ness Monster. And he'd claimed to have located a herd of Imperial mammoths living isolated and forgotten in Nepal. The claim concerning the mammoths had nearly proved true, but it had turned out to be a population of very large Indian elephants who were genetic throwbacks to another type of extinct species. While they were certainly mutants, they weren't mammoths. And Holcomb had even gone chasing after
Sasquatch
in the wild country of the Northwest.

However, he also could be effective in saving wild places that were worth preserving. The USA was dotted with lands he had bought up and donated to various state governments around the nation. When he was feeling cooperative was when he did the most good. From what Ron had read, he was not feeling cooperative where
this
place was concerned.

“Tell me something, Mr. Riggs. What exactly are you doing here? Why is Fish and Wildlife back here after publishing that
ridiculous
impact statement?” Holcomb had his hand on Riggs' shoulder and was leading him back out into the hallway. Ron allowed himself to be led.

“Actually, I'm just here to look for sign of a large constrictor, Mr. Holcomb.”

“Vance. Call me Vance. Please.”

“Um. Sure. You see…the folk from Salutations gave us a call. Said they were having trouble with pets disappearing. Dogs. A couple cats.”

“Cats wander off all the time,” Holcomb said. “Wander off and go feral and kill hundreds of birds a year. They're pure
hell
on native birds.”

“Eh. Yes, sir. I know.”

“Ouch. Sorry, Ron. I get so used to preaching and teaching that I forget myself. Sorry.” Holcomb's eyes were downcast. He truly seemed apologetic.

“So, we think it's a python someone released. Maybe even an anaconda. It's not that rare, you know. Maybe one of the soldiers who was stationed here years before this place was decommissioned decided the pet python he'd bought had gotten just a bit too large, and maybe he let it go in the woods, thinking he was doing the right thing. Happens frequently, as you well know.” Holcomb had led them down the hallway where Kate had disappeared when they'd come in. The rich man was taking Ron toward an opened doorway at the far end.

“I'm actually surprised they called you on this.”

“Matter of fact, the studio seemed rather concerned that they not break any environmental laws. I think they might have handled it themselves if they'd known that there's no Federal protection for an alien species such as a python.”

Holcomb threw back his head and laughed. Ron was strangely reminded of Burt Lancaster in his later years. Not so much Holcomb's physical appearance, but his mannerisms. “I can see some lame-brained executive making a dumb move like that. They were probably kicking themselves after you told them.” He pointed at Ron. “You
did
tell them, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did.”

Holcomb threw back his head and laughed again. “I like you, Ron. You've got a good sense of humor.”

By then, they were at the doorway, and a pale light spilled out of the partially opened threshold. Vance Holcomb pushed it wide. Ron almost fell on his ass.

The room was
huge
. At least, huge for what it was. An office, apparently, but larger than any office in which Ron had ever set foot. A quick guess was that the room was easily three thousand square feet. Twice as big as Ron's own house. It was brightly lit and luxuriously, if sparsely, appointed. If Holcomb liked to do good deeds with his money, he was certainly not averse to lavishing himself with it, either. “This is your office?” Ron's voice was a squeak.

“Yes. Yes, it is. I like a big space where I work,” he said. “If I've got to be inside, then I need lots of room to make me feel at ease.”

“I see.” The place, though huge, was not at all crowded. In fact, for the size of the room there was actually a ridiculously small amount of furnishings.

Seeing the unspoken question on Ron's face, Holcomb addressed it. “I take the Japanese view toward furnishings. Just what is necessary for comfort. Nothing more. Mainly, I just want the space.”

“I can understand that,” Ron told him, wondering what Holcomb would think of his own cluttered place. Ron followed Holcomb's lead toward a huge desk that was larger than he had thought from across the room, and he had a seat in a big, solid-looking chair that was softly upholstered. Cow leather, he noticed, sitting there. Holcomb was certainly not one of the no-meat, no-furs crowd.

Holcomb took his post on his side of the desk, settling down in a chair that reeked of expense. There were even buttons on one of the great arms, and Ron wondered what the hell they were for. For just a second he thought of the floor opening up beneath him while Holcomb laughed maniacally. He banished the thought.

“What do you plan to do, provided you find evidence of a snake? Or if you actually find the snake, itself? Supposing that there
is
a snake.” The rich man found the humidor on the desktop, and he slid the top back along carefully fashioned grooves and took out a pair of cigars. “Do you take a cigar, Ron?” He offered one up.

“Sure,” Ron said. “I like a cigar now and again,” he lied. He figured if it was a cigar off of the desk of a billionaire, then it had to be expensive and he was willing to see what it was like. Holcomb trimmed both cigars and lit Ron's for him, then his own. The two sat and sampled the flavor. Actually, for a non-smoker, Ron was handling it well. Not bad, he thought.
I could get into this
.

Holcomb chewed his cigar, puffed a great billow of smoke. “Well?”

“Oh. About the snake. Yes.” Ron took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it, looked at Holcomb. “Well, we're obligated to call in someone.”

“Someone?” Holcomb's brow went up.

“One of the fellows who contracts with the state to capture problem animals. Usually, it's gators, of course. But sometimes they can come in and take raccoons. And I guess snakes.” Ron did not like the look on Holcomb's face. It wasn't anger, exactly, but he didn't look entirely happy.

“They kill those alligators. Correct? And the raccoons? They skin them all out and sell their pelts. All for being crowded out of their habitat by humans.”

“Um. Yes, sir. The alligators and the raccoon are sold to markets. Or, rather, their skins are. In the case of the gators, even the meat is sold.” Ron spread his hands. “The alligator in Florida is no longer endangered. You know that. It's not a problem to harvest them from time to time anymore.”

Vance Holcomb leaned forward and eyed Ron, his demeanor no longer completely friendly. There was now an adversarial feel to their meeting. Maybe it had become a confrontation. “And what will happen to this snake? If it
is
a snake?”

“I'm not entirely sure, if they capture a large snake. I would assume that it would be worth more to a zoo alive than to someone dealing in leather goods.”

“But you aren't certain?”

Ron slumped in the chair. He'd been enjoying the day, until then. “No. I honestly can't say. But I don't think it would just be killed outright. We don't do things that way anymore.”

Holcomb rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “
Please
. Spare me that. Of
course
things are still done that way.”

“Well…
hell
.” Ron wilted a bit more.

Holcomb turned his back on the desk, swiveling his chair. Ron saw him depress one of the buttons on the arm of the chair. On the far side of the room, what Ron had assumed was a wall slowly eased back in almost complete silence. If he strained, he could
just
hear the perfect whirring of finely tuned machinery. A gigantic window of truly impressive proportions was slowly revealed. Ron could see the view Holcomb had whenever he wished it. The forest was there, outside the great window, just beyond the chain link fence, no wooden barrier on this side of the compound. The view was impressive: cypress, gum, oaks, pines. Birds were moving across the afternoon sky, heading for roosts: ducks, birds of prey, egrets, cranes, storks. Incredibly, Ron saw a black bear moving at the verge of the forest, its snout testing the winds.

“I'll be damned,” Ron said.

“This place
must
be protected, Mr. Riggs. I'm going to do whatever it takes to save it.”

“I don't blame you,” he said, the cigar loose in his fingers, his voice feeling like a whisper.

“I think we'll try to locate this snake before you and your animal killer do so. I really don't want the wrong kind of people mucking about around here. Understand?”

“Understood, Mr. Holcomb.”

He faced Ron again, his face stern. “Please. Call me Vance.”