Prey by William W. Johnstone Page B

expression on the chief’s face. Don remembered all too well when several very racist and antigovernment groups settled not too many miles away from town. Several reporters had insinuated, not too subtly, that Russ and Don were protecting those groups, and just maybe were actually a part of them. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but both men had been very unfairly tainted nonetheless.
    Don’s feelings toward the national press were not as virulent as Russ Monroe’s, but they weren’t too far behind the chiefs views. As millions of Americans had done, when the Coyote Network’s news department came to be, he had switched over to them for any and all news broadcasts. The Coyote Network people told it straight with no frills, and they gave Americans news about America.
    Don tapped a pencil on his desk, then lifted his eyes to look at Chief Monroe. “You’ve known Jim Beal for a good many years, right, Russ?”
    â€œAll his life. I know everybody in his organization. Jim is really not a bad person. When it comes to race, he is a separatist, but not a supremacist. Hell, I’m not tellin’ you anything you don’t already know.” The chief stood up. “I think I’ll just go have a little chat with Jim. He knows I’m not his enemy, and he just might level with me ... or at least give me a clue.”
    â€œRuss?”
    The chief looked at the sheriff.
    â€œWhat about that bunch of so-called skinheads that have formed up north of here?”
    â€œOh, yeah. I must be gettin’ old. I was gonna tell you about that. The word I get is that they’re about to link up with Victor Radford’s group. Vic is gonna give us some grief, I’m thinkin’.”
    â€œAnd you can bet he’s got it timed for Speaker Madison’s visit.”
    â€œYeah. That’s the way I have it figured.”
    â€œAre you going to call up your reserves?”
    â€œAll of them.” He smiled. “All eight of them.”
    Don laughed. “I’ve got about ten reserves that I know I can count on. I guess I’d better give them a call. They can handle traffic and crowd control and free up my people for everything else.”
    â€œIt’s about to get real interestin’ around here, Don.”
    â€œI hope that’s all it gets.”
    â€œI might know more after talkin’ to Jim. I’ll let you know what, if anything, I find out.”
    â€œI’ll either be here or in my unit.”
    â€œI’ll give you a bump whichever way it goes.”
    Russ closed the door behind him. The only sound in the office was the hum of the air conditioner, the window unit turned down low. Don felt jumpy, as if he’d been up a long time and was on a caffeine jag. But he knew that wasn’t it, for he’d gotten a good night’s sleep and hadn’t consumed that much coffee.
    He felt as though something, well, just plain awful was about to happen.
    A deputy tapped on the door and pushed it open. “You got a minute, Sheriff?”
    â€œSure, Al. Come on in and have a seat.” The young deputy seated, Don said, “What’s on your mind?”
    â€œIt’s probably nothing, Sheriff. But . . . well, I was over on the lake early this morning. Got called out of bed to answer a prowler call—turned out to be a raccoon—and I stopped by Will’s Grocery just as he was opening up and had a cup of coffee. He was telling me about this man who rented the old Hawkins camp. Said that man was spooky-lookin’. No sooner had the words left Will’s mouth when the guy in question walked in. Sheriff, you remember when you were a kid and went to see a real scary movie? You knew who the bad guys were right off the bat. They were, well, sinister-lookin’. Well, this man made chill bumps rise up on my arms. He’s about forty, dark complexion, real black hair graying at the temples, ‘bout six feet tall,