Choppy Water - Stuart Woods Page 0,10

movie on TV.”

As he said that, the picture on the TV seemed to shatter into pieces.

“Satellite TV doesn’t like heavy precip,” Stone said. “You’d better find a book.” He pointed at a long line of small books on the top shelf over the TV. “There’s the complete works of P. G. Wodehouse; that should keep you in laughs for a few weeks.”

“Suit yourself,” Holly said. “Oh, there’s something I want to show you, Stone, if you can get out of bed long enough.”

Stone struggled to his feet. “Lead on.”

She led him out of the room to the landing, where there was a pair of wing chairs and a bookcase covered a wall. “All World War II history and biography,” Holly said.

“Wonderful!” Stone enthused.

“But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” She took hold of the center of the bookcase and pulled. The case swung open, revealing a kitchenette and laundry room behind it.

“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.”

8

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