The Flock (9 page)

 

Denny Eagleburger had had no time to react. He watched his Number One Dog crash through the brush on the far side of the trail. His hand was fumbling for the big, metal flashlight on his right hip, the one that served both as illumination and as a blunt weapon, if the need was there. The guard was still poking at the
on
switch when he heard something—a
hissing,
like a quickly leaking tire—and suddenly.

He was struck in the chest. His dog, his Doberman, his one-man canine hit him like a sack of bricks.

The air whooshed out of Eagleburger's lungs at the impact. Despite the impossibility of it all, he immediately realized what was happening.
Someone has dropped kicked his one hundred and seventy pound Doberman pinscher
. Just like that. Man and dog tumbled to the ground in a heap, human limbs tangled with hound legs.

As the man caught his breath, sucking in air, he struggled away from the limp form of his animal. Thinking more of trying to see what had attacked the dog than of going for the pistol on his hip, he finally succeeded in firing the light that was still gripped in his right fist. A tight beam of yellow light arced out from his hand, and he shined it at the clump of oleander and bear grass where the action had taken place.

Except for the branches and limbs moving slightly, either from wind or the passing of something more solid, there was nothing. He aimed the beam further into the forest, toward the north where that entire wilderness lay. For just an instant, and he wasn't sure it wasn't just the sparkling of the stars he was seeing from the impact, he caught a brief glance of something red, something
scarlet
vanishing into the trees.

But he wasn't going to give chase. Whatever it had been, if it had been anything at all, was moving as fast as a car on a city street. He put out his hand and touched his dog. Number One whimpered and slowly got to its feet. The Doberman's back was arched, and if it still had any tail to speak of, it would have been firmly tucked between its shivering legs.

“Come on, boy,” Eagleburger said. “Let's get the heck out of here.” And the two limped back to the truck.

Tatum had been called into the main office in Orlando. And this was not some meeting with his immediate superior. This was Michael Irons,
The Man
. There was no one bigger in the company. His ideas and sense of commercialism had rescued Berg Brothers from two decades of mediocrity and flat profits. He was, in entertainment jargon, a
true genius
. Salutations had been his personal baby, and he had his reputation tied up in it. Every great plan had its rough spots and quirks, but this was starting to get out of hand. You would buy yourself out of most problems, if you could, and the company had deep pockets.

But there was a limit to Irons' patience.

Out in the plush lobby, Tatum had been left to cool, and to wait. His appointment had been at seven a.m., but it was almost eight, and all he'd seen of Irons had been his beautiful secretary's pouty lips whispering sweet nothings into her headset. He assumed she had a direct line to Irons, but Tatum couldn't be sure. You couldn't be sure of anything where that man was concerned. He waited, staring up at the brightly patterned tiles fourteen feet overhead.

The walls were decorated by floor-to-roof paintings of the studio's most famous cartoon characters. “You know who painted these?” he'd once been asked. When he'd been unable to answer, he'd been told. “Karl Tree painted these. You probably don't even know who Karl Tree
is,
but he created half the characters we animated up until 1965. The guy's a genius. He retired in '68, and lives in a trailer park near Boca Raton. But we got him out here to paint these things five years ago. Old guy's eighty-five, eighty-six years old.
Jesus,
he paints a beautiful picture. Still does, after all this time.”

Well, even Tatum, who cared little for such things, had to admit that the toon figures were beautifully crafted. He looked up at Grandpa Duck and Daisy Cow and Sheriff Dog. Every kid had grown up with them, and even Tatum, in all of his hard, buzz-cut glory, was no exception. If he hadn't been so nervous, he would have smiled.

Finally, the secretary looked up at him, her perfect Aryan features glowing just a bit more (if that were possible). “Mr. Irons will see you now,” she said, flashing flawless teeth that were about as white as Montana snow. Tatum got up from the plush comfort of the couch, and he marched stiffly across the foyer to a massive door of solid cherry, a hand-carved bas-relief of Sammy Squirrel grinning madly through the stained wood grain. Brass clicked perfectly under his fingers as he turned the knob.

He entered.

Irons' office was gigantic. It took a lot of space to accommodate such an ego. The room was large enough for a Cadillac to navigate a wide U-turn without ever bumping into anything. Tatum had been here before, and the size of the place always intimidated him, as it was intended to do.

The CEO was standing behind his equally gigantic desk, watching Tatum approach across the wide space. He was disconcertingly young for a man who made most of the big decisions for one of the world's largest entertainment businesses. Forty-three years old and ready, willing, and eager to shred anyone who wanted to try to wrest this juicy bone out of his tiger shark grip. He was smiling at Tatum: a full, toothy smile, and the resemblance between himself and a shark were closer than one might have thought, considering the traditional kiddy fare that poured out of the company. In fact, though, there was nothing very amusing about Michael Irons' demeanor. One had only to ask those who had gotten in his way.

Irons extended his right arm, stiffly, palm up. “Have a seat, Mr. Tatum.”
So. It wasn't “Bill” today
. “Do have a seat.”

Bill Tatum, security chief and company ramrod, did as he was told. He sat, obediently, like a dog. The CEO remained standing for a moment, still with that smile on. It was all Tatum could do not to squirm or wilt beneath that predatory visage. He did himself credit by enduring it stoically.

“Well.” At last, Irons sat, his chair not unlike a throne, of course. “Tell me about this latest development. Or develop
ments,
I should say.”

Despite not wanting to reveal his nervousness, Tatum swallowed, lubricating his dry mouth before he could speak. “Well, as the reports I e-mailed to you indicate, there might be some kind of contact between a number of the company's adversaries.” Irons' stare continued to be icy, unreadable. There might be rage underneath it, there might be calm. Only Irons knew.

“Explain in more detail,” he ordered.

“We've been watching Riggs. He's the official sent to us by Fish and Wildlife over our concerns about the, ah, problems some of our residents have experienced over missing pets.”

“And how have you administered this espionage, concerning Riggs?” Irons' perfect, manicured fingers lightly caressed the manila folder on the desktop. Tatum knew the files he'd sent had been printed out and were enclosed, and that Irons had read them all.

“A combination of visual contact, and video surveillance. The discreet placement of cameras only allowed limited access to Riggs' movements. He was inspecting an area that's part of Phase Three. We don't have that part of Salutations as well monitored, and I didn't feel comfortable having him tailed this early on. Riggs ended up going far deeper into the forest around the village than we had thought, so we only reported on his actions around the substation where he parked his vehicle.”

Irons tented his fingers and stared at Tatum. “
We? We
didn't feel comfortable having him tailed? Since when did I tell you to have your decisions vouched by anyone else?”

“
I
didn't want him to become suspicious. No one else, Mr. Irons. I want to see where he's looking for this damned snake so that I can have it taken care of without any outside publicity. No need to call in his animal control contractor when we can just do it ourselves, no one the wiser.”

Irons smiled, said nothing.

“What I did find interesting, and a bit disturbing, was the subsequent arrival of Tim Dodd.” Even Tatum noticed that Irons winced at the name. “The reporter had obviously been tailing Riggs and followed his route into the forest. I decided not to pursue him, also, to keep from arousing suspicion in either of them. I assumed that the last thing the studio needs at this point is a suspicious reporter creating another exaggerated headline for his paper.”

There was still silence from Irons, and no facial expression that Tatum could decipher. He took it for approval and continued with his verbal report.

“After that, the subjects' vehicles sat undisturbed for some hours. Until after nightfall in the case of Riggs.”

“Long walk, eh?” Irons fell silent again, his sarcasm thinly masking anger.

“The disturbing aspect of our observations came when Dodd and Riggs each returned, separately. First, we monitored a truck known to be licensed to Winston Grisham, and this truck arrived at Dodd's rental car and deposited him. There was some verbal exchange between Grisham and Dodd, but we couldn't read it from the distance we were recording. They both seemed rather calm, until Grisham left and Dodd proceeded at a relatively high rate of speed back to The Executive where he's booked.

“What is more telling are the images of Dodd coming into the hotel lobby.” Tatum stood and opened the manila folder that sat in his own lap. He extricated a grainy photograph and passed it to Irons who glanced down at it for just a second, for he'd viewed it previously. “As you can see, he's quite ragged looking there and in a state of agitation. Our own people, who were right there with him, concluded that he was covered in a number of minor scrapes and scratches, but not seriously injured.”

“A violent run-in with our militant neighbor?” Irons asked, referring to the retired colonel.

“I doubt that. If Grisham had wanted to get a point across, violently, I don't think we'd have seen a mark
on
Dodd. Or Dodd, himself, for that matter. No. I think he just got scraped and cut in the underbrush out there in the woods.” Tatum knew Grisham well. In fact, part of his own military career had been spent on the base at which Grisham had ended his long years in the armed forces. He knew the man's reputation as well as any.

“And what did Mr. Dodd do after that? Details, please.”

Tatum opened his file again and handed a second photograph to his superior. “This is from his room. The den area, where he set up his laptop. As you can see, he downloaded the images from that digital camera. In subsequent shots we have of him, he seems quite excited over the contents of that camera.

“We don't yet know what he has,” Tatum added reluctantly.

Irons frowned. That was an indication of extreme anger, Tatum knew.

“The rest of that night's surveillance is pretty bland. He bathed, he ate, he slept. He made no calls and made no attempt to electronically communicate the files from the camera. We don't know what he has in the way of images.”

“That's interesting,” Irons said. “I can think of a number of reasons he might be reluctant to have communicated what he has.” He didn't elaborate, but seemed pleased, which made Tatum feel a bit more comfortable.

The security chief handed Irons yet another photograph. “And this I personally find even more bothersome.” Irons was looking at an image of Ron Riggs standing beside a truck that belonged to that fool, Vance Holcomb. The picture had been taken with a night vision lens. “Riggs obviously met with someone working for Holcomb while he was out there in the forest. And they obviously were, at some time, in the compound over there. Again, we weren't able to eavesdrop very effectively, but the driver was identified at Kate Kwitney, who we know is a longtime employee of Holcomb's.”

“I know who she is,” Irons said. He eyed the photograph, his poker face as blank as ever.

“Those two did nothing very exciting after the drop. Kwitney drove back to Holcomb's compound, and Riggs returned to his home. We accessed his phone records for all of that day and night, and he made no calls.” Tatum placed his own folder on Irons' desk, although he assumed it was largely a duplication of the one he already had. He didn't ask.

“Well.” Irons sat and stared, gazing at nothing Tatum could see. “You were right. This is all very disturbing.” He smiled his shark's grin. “Some might say we're being paranoid. Eh?” He winked. “But in fact this does not look good to me. Or to you. Am I right?”

“You're right, sir.”

“Yes.” His eyes ranged around the room as he thought. “The last thing in the world we need just now is for Grisham and Holcomb and some damned government agency combining legal forces to stop our development of Salutations USA.” He stood.

“I'd thought we had the government aspect of the thing under control. But as we all know, it only takes one or two of these environmental impact statements to put a halt to any plans any company might have. Believe me. Just getting the first four phases of Salutations underway and seen through were more trouble than I'd care to repeat. And that was under far more friendly circumstances.” He sighed.

“Keep an eye on all of these parties,” Irons said, touching the files with his fingers spread, like a huge, pink spider.

“It's already done,” Tatum said.

“I thought I had this thing in the bag. Currently, we have the fate of about fifteen thousand acres of prime building space, all of the high ground north of Phase Three, awaiting final approval for our purchase and capitalization. God, I have some
great
plans for that area.” He felt his blood rising, as it always did when the ambition began to burn in him.

“So. Keep this bunch under your watchful eye, Tatum.”

“Yes sir.” Irons was quiet, and Tatum stood, ready to leave. He waited to be dismissed.

“And one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“I want to see what Dodd had in that camera of his.” He stared at Tatum, his face as flat as a dead calm lake. “Get those images for me.”

“I'll do it.”

He walked around the desk and extended his hand to Tatum. “I'm sure you'll do it.” And he gripped the other man's hand to transfer the confidence he felt in his abilities. “Until later, then.”

Quickly, Tatum was out of the room, leaving the building. He had his marching orders and did not even stop to take a last look at Irons' beautiful receptionist.