Warren Murphy: Prophet Of Doom

Esther had decided not to ask how Kaspar knew for certain that his master was returning. But as she crossed the platform, it came to her.

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She could see down through the grate beneath the small stool. The stone urn had been replaced on the outcropping of rock within the jagged crevice. And Esther saw with alarm that the yellow powder within it was glowing.

Harold W. Smith had locked his briefcase in the trunk of his rental car before hiking more than three miles to the center of Thermopolis, Wyoming.

He guessed by the choke of cars parked at the outskirts of town and the increasing noise as he got closer to Arapahoe Street that the Hot Springs State Fair was a big event in this part of the state. But still Smith was surprised by the sheer numbers of people who had migrated to what was just an ordinary sleepy Western town.

Compared to the state fair, the rally held for Senator Cole a few weeks earlier looked, in retrospect, like an anemic Rotary Club meeting.

That was not to say the earlier event hadn't been large for a town Thermopolis's size. It was just that the state fair was something everyone in the area could enjoy, election year or not.

The downtown area had been blocked off to all through traffic. Dozens of large green-and-white-striped tents had been propped up in the park across from city hall. Some straddled the asphalt strip on Arapahoe Street between the small brick library building and the new post office/minimall.

Hundreds upon hundreds of people were crowded into the vicinity of Arapahoe between Cottonwood Street and Beartooth Road. The park was clogged with a sea of bobbing heads.

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There were still a great many Cole banners flapping gaily in the seasonably cool breeze. Signs in support of the senator hung on telephone poles as far as the eye could see. One had been slung down the side of the four-story office building adjacent to the city hall, but few people paid them any attention. This was a day to forget about politics.

There were no Calhoun posters in sight—the few who had hung signs in defiance of the overwhelming support for Senator Cole having lost their nerve since their candidate dropped out of the race. A coming grand-jury investigation into the molestation charges didn't bolster partisan confidence any.

As Smith moved uncomfortably through the sea of pedestrians, he thought it odd that there seemed to be almost as many Mark Kaspar posters in the crowd as there were Jackson Cole placards. In a few acts of random political zealotry, some had been stapled over Cole posters. But most were mingling within the body of the crowd, carried on poles by roving ideologues. It seemed to Smith he could not walk ten feet without bumping into noisy Kaspar supporters.

On the posters Mark Kaspar's face showed an uncharacteristic grin from a larger-than-life center square that was framed on three sides by a patriotic red, white and blue border. Beneath the picture on a block of white, large stenciled letters proclaimed Mark Kaspar, Man Of The Era.

His supporters carried Kaspar's reptilian face around determinedly on the ends of their sticks, annoying the hometown crowd who overwhelmingly supported the popular incumbent senator.

Smith asked around and found that Cole had not yet

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made his appearance. When asked where the senator might be, a few people pointed vaguely in the direction of a potbellied man in an out-of-style polyester suit and a big foam campaign hat.

Smith found, upon questioning the man, that he was mayor of Thermopolis and that, even though he wasn't really supposed to tell anyone, he'd let Smith in on a little secret. The senator was in the last closed-off tent beyond the peanut vendors.

"And he better get out here soon," the mayor enthused. ' 'This is a big, happy hometown crowd. Great place for a politician to press the flesh. Damn great place." Someone called out to him, and the mayor made a beeline back to the Buckhorn beer booth.

As he hurried to the last tent, nearly colliding with one of the pole-carrying Kaspar supporters, Smith wondered how many other people the mayor had spoken to.

At the tent Smith found his path barred.

"Excuse me, sir," a Cole staffer said firmly. "No admittance to the general public. But I'll convey your support to the senator." He tried to steer this gray-flannel supporter away from the flap of the senator's tent, but found that he would not be moved.

Smith produced a card that identified him as a member of the United States Secret Service and held it beneath the upturned nose of the senator's staffer.

The clean-shaved young man checked the card scrupulously. He then looked the unhappy-looking man in the nondescript gray suit up and down critically.

"You're a little old for Secret Service, aren't you, Pops?"

"It is not your place to make that observation,"

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Smith said forcefully, as if to explain away his advanced years. Experience had taught him that most things said with authority were accepted without question. He returned the ID to his pocket.

"Guess not," the man said agreeably. He was nervously scanning the crowd, concerned the senator's tent would be overrun if he left his post for a minute.

Smith glanced at the crowd. Although there appeared to be more Kaspar signs gathered at this end of Arapahoe Street than anywhere else, no one seemed much interested in the last tent. In point of fact, it was the presence of the overly vigilant staffer who had planted himself outside the closed flap that seemed to have attracted the most attention.

When the staffer was finally persuaded things would not fall apart if he abandoned his post for a few seconds, he led Smith inside.

The atmosphere within the tent was not quite that of a political nerve center. About a dozen people milled about. Some local politicians in sweat-stained suits, taking their jobs on the Thermopolis city council far too seriously; a few Cole aides; a couple of the senator's friends—local business people who had stopped to wish him well and ended up chatting among themselves.

Senator Jackson Cole was in his shirtsleeves, sitting cross-legged on one of the several dozen metal folding chairs that had been left in the tent for his convenience. Most were folded and leaning up against a rickety old table, but the senator had found himself a nice spot on the trampled grass floor to unfold his seat. He was scanning a few sheets of fax paper through a

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pair of granny-style bifocals. He looked like a balding condor in cowboy boots.

"Senator Cole," Smith said, stepping away from the tent flap.

The senator glanced up, seemingly annoyed at the unfamiliar voice. He gave his nervous assistant a displeased look.

"It's okay, Senator," the young man explained, motioning to Smith. "He's Secret Service."

Cole looked at the proffered card suspiciously, then returned it to Smith.

"So what do you want?" he asked. His voice suggested a perpetual peevishness, and a slightly protruding lower jaw caused him to whistle softly when he pronounced the letter 5.

"The President was concerned for your safety, sir," Smith said. "With the strange circumstances surrounding this campaign so far, he thought it best you have some kind of protection."

"So he sent you?" Cole said with a tired chuckle. "You look like you last saw duty under ol' LBJ."

"He was concerned," Smith repeated, unfazed by the senatorial dig.

Cole removed his glasses and wearily massaged his eyelids beneath large bony fingers.

"You're a couple days too late. You realize that, don't you, Smith?" he asked.

"I was given a full briefing before leaving Washington," Smith replied. "I am sorry about your daughter."

The staffer visibly winced. It was obvious the campaign staff had been avoiding the subject of the kidnapping.