Prey by William W. Johnstone Page A

looked tired and was tired. This session of Congress had been grueling on everybody in both parties in both houses. “I sure wish we could. I’d like to just disappear into the woodwork for the entire month.”
    â€œThat is never going to happen, Cliff,” the chief aide said in low tones. Even though they were good and close friends, Ed never used the Speaker’s first name unless they were alone together. “Not until you retire, and that is years away.”
    â€œHopefully, Ed,” the Speaker said with a smile. “Years away, hopefully.”
    Laughing, the two men walked away.
    * * *
    Seconds after he picked up the scent of his old adversary, John Ravenna, Barry ducked behind some thick underbrush and dropped to a crouch.
    He did some fast thinking. If Ravenna was here—and there was no doubt about that; Barry’s nose didn’t lie—trouble was sure to be hanging around the man like a shroud . . . a very deadly shroud. But what type of trouble? Directed against whom? Not against Barry, for the two men would accomplish nothing by fighting. Stormy? Maybe. But somehow Barry didn’t think she was Ravenna’s target. Then . . . who was it?
    It had to be Speaker of the House, Cliff Madison.
    Barry knew that John Ravenna’s deadly services were very expensive. Indeed, Ravenna was a wealthy man, amassing a fortune over the bloody centuries. He certainly did not have to work. Ravenna killed because he liked to kill.
    Barry sniffed the air again. The scent was quickly fading. Ravenna was gone.
    But Barry was certain of one thing: Ravenna would be back.
    * * *
    Sheriff Don Salter sat in his office and looked at the information he had just received by fax. The shooter behind the rifle out at Cantrell’s property did indeed belong to a very radical antiabortion group; a group that was suspected of several abortion clinic bombings and burnings. The guy was wanted up in Michigan for arson and attempted murder. So that cleared up the warning Miss Knight had received before leaving New York City.
    Don looked up as Chief Monroe tapped on the doorjamb. “Come on in and take a load off, Russ. Coffee?”
    The chief sat down. “No, thanks, Don. I cut myself back to two cups a day. Both of them in the morning. Feel better. You seen Jim Beal today?”
    â€œI haven’t seen Jim in, oh, a week or better. Why?”
    â€œThat’s a mighty worried man. Something is gnawin’ on him, big-time.”
    Don looked at his empty coffee cup, started to get up, then thought better of it. Maybe he should cut back on caffeine, too. And cigarettes. “You still think Jim and his bunch are up to something, don’t you?”
    Russ shook his gray head. “No. But I think they, or at least Jim, know something that we ought to know. By the by, I just saw a lady that is the spittin’ image of that reporter, Stormy Knight. Damn near run my car off the road lookin’ at her.”
    â€œWell, I guess it’s no secret anymore, Russ. That was Stormy. She’s stayin’ out at the Cantrell place. She and Barry have this little thing goin’.”
    â€œNo kidding! The man must have hidden talents.”
    â€œAnd good taste.”
    â€œDamn right. And that was no woofer with Stormy.”
    â€œThat was probably her camera operator. Barry told me about her. Ki Nichols. She was jerked up just north of here, little town in Missouri. Anyway, Stormy said that in about three/four days, we can expect this area to be flooded with reporters.”
    â€œWonderful,” the chief said, no small amount of sarcasm in his tone. “I just can’t express how much I love those liberal bastards and bitches. And since we’re not exactly overrun with black folks, you can bet the networks and newspapers will send black reporters in to cover the Speaker’s vacation. That’s the way they operate.”
    Don could not contain his laughter at the