Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

“Ah, a good place for Dino and me to hide, if the bad guys show up.” She closed it again, making it a seamless bookcase again.

“We’re off,” Holly said, and she and Viv went downstairs. Stone and Dino went back into the bedroom, turned the chairs toward the TV, and pulled up their ottomans. Jim came in with a pot of coffee and cups and set it all on the table between them, then went back downstairs.

Dino poured them a cup each. “I’ve been talking with Bill Wright about who the assailants were on Islesboro.”

“Any conclusions?”

“He got a call from the FBI while we were talking. The Bureau thinks we’re dealing with some sort of militia — white supremacists, probably.”

“I suppose it could be.”

“They could be misogynists, as well,” Dino said. “The reasoning is that while having a woman as president was bad, having two in a row is intolerable. At least one group has been suggested by a watchdog group in Alabama, but nobody has taken credit.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Stone said. “If somebody takes credit, the media will know it happened and go nuts. That would make it a lot more difficult for us to move around, assuming we want to.”

“I think we should stay here for as long as everybody can stand it,” Dino said.

“Okay with me,” Stone said, “but eventually, cabin fever will set in, and we’ll have to find a new cabin.”

Two agents and a German shepherd awaited on the front porch, and the group, wearing rubber boots and swathed in waterproof clothing that concealed the agents’ guns, started down the driveway. They could now see that the property was surrounded by deer fencing, and they let themselves out through a pedestrian gate next to the main gate, which was blocked by a black SUV, resting on the deer grate that barred the animals from entry.

Holly and Viv started down the road, which was somewhat sheltered by forest on either side. Holly looked to her left and saw an agent wading. Apparently, there was a swamp on that side of the road. They passed a couple of houses that appear unoccupied and continued down the road. They had climbed a little hill and reached the top, when Viv spotted the blood.

“Everybody stop,” she said, holding up both hands.

“What is it, Mrs. Bacchetti?” an agent asked.

“Blood on two trees, there and there,” she said, pointing. There was probably a lot more of it, but the rain must have washed some away. A dog began to bark somewhere in the woods.

The agent spoke into his fist, and there was a return radio call, then a shout. “Down here!” he called.

“Ladies, please remain where you are,” the detail leader said, producing a small machine gun and racking the slide. He went on talking to his fist.

An agent appeared out of the gloom from the direction of the shout, carrying something in one hand.

“What on earth is that?” Holly asked.

“It’s the head of a young buck deer,” the agent replied. “Appears to be a four-pointer.” He raised a hand to his other agent. “Just leave it there. We don’t need to see any more.”

The agent tossed it back into the woods, out of sight, then joined them on the road. “Somebody shot the deer and butchered it back about forty yards that way. Looks like somebody needed meat.”

“How much of it did they take?”

“Only the haunches,” the man replied.

“Could you tell what it was shot by?”

“The neck was torn up, so I reckon a military round, from an assault weapon. A hunting rifle round would have been a lot neater.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Nope, but the carcass wasn’t frozen, and it was pretty cold last night, so they must have taken it early this morning. The rain and wind were noisy, so we might not have heard a single shot.”

“Did they leave any tracks?”

“I saw half a footprint. It’s a Vibram sole, so it could have been a hiking boot, but it’s too wet back there for tracking. The dog couldn’t make anything of it.”

“Direction?”

“Away from the road.”

“There’s another road out there, called Broad Cove Road.” The detail leader began talking into his fist again. Finally, he addressed Holly and Viv. “I’m sorry, ladies, but we’re going to have to return to the house. Shortly, there’ll be a lot of people searching these woods, and we don’t want somebody to mistake us for the deer hunters.” He beckoned, then they started back toward the house.

Dino and Stone were half asleep in their chairs, books in their laps, when Holly and Viv walked into the bedroom, stripped of their waterproof clothing and boots.

“That was a short walk,” Stone said.

Holly explained their experience.

“Well, they didn’t come this way,” Dino said, “or they’d have run into an agent or two, maybe even you.”

“So,” Viv said, “what do we do now?”

“Find a book,” Dino said.

“We’ll go down to the study,” Holly said, “and leave you two alone.” They went back downstairs.

The study was at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen and contained a corner computer station, a sofa, a pair of wing chairs, and a large fireplace. There was a turret at the other end of the room, with a circular staircase, and under that a coffee table and an Eames lounge chair next to the windows.

Holly went to a bookcase, and her eye immediately fell on a title: 1942, The Year That Tried Men’s Souls , by Winston Groom. She took it and settled into the Eames chair.

Immediately, a head leaned out from the turret on the upper floor. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m afraid that’s an insecure location. You’re too easily seen from outside.”

“Right,” Holly said, and moved further inside to a wing chair and turned on a floor lamp next to it.

Viv was already settled on the sofa. “Would you like a fire?” she asked.

“Oh yes.”

The fireplace was already laid with hardwood. Viv found a gas valve and a box of long matches, and immediately had a blaze going.

“Much better,” Holly said.

Later, Bill Wright knocked on the doorjamb and came into the room. “Lunch in half an hour,” he said.

“Any result from your search party?” Holly asked.

“They found some truck tracks on a neighboring road to the south where they could have loaded their kill and driven away,” he said. “No telling where they went from there.”

“Thanks, Bill. Stone and Dino are upstairs. You might let them know when it’s lunchtime.”

Bill went away, and Holly and Viv settled back with their books.

Colonel Wade Sykes, U.S. Army (Ret.), sat at his desk in a book-lined, walnut-paneled study of a comfortable stone house near McLean, Virginia, working on an op-ed piece for the Washington Stalwart, which came close to being a paper version of Fox News, except that there was no unslanted news reporting printed in this newspaper. He wrote for them and other publications under the pseudonym Watchman. The cell phone in his shirt pocket hummed.

“Yes?”

“Are you encrypted?”

“Always, on this line.”

“Would you care for some fresh venison?”

“Good God, don’t tell me you’ve been hunting!”

“Quite by accident. We were walking the area, looking for the house, when a buck popped up, and Harold got him from the hip. Pure instinct.”

“I hope it didn’t wake anybody up.”

“Nobody to hear it, and at that hour the wind was howling.”

“Are there no people out there?”

“Apparently, it’s nearly all snowbirds,” Rudy said. “Last night there were lights in only one house, some distance away. We saw a car drive away very early, as if it had a long commute.”