radio character, Senator Claghorn. The man’s accent and inflections almost mirrored that of the old comedy routine. That’s a joke, son, Dodd thought.
Finally, Dodd found his voice. “I. Back there. Something was chasing me.” He clipped the words off between gasps of air.
The man looked off in the direction from which Dodd had come. He still looked puzzled. “I don’t see a damned thing, boy. What are you talking about? There’s nothing around here that wants to chase you. Unless it’s a man wants to chase you off his private property.”
“Eh?” Dodd was on his hands and knees, trying to stand. His chest felt as if it would burst at any second.
“You are on private property, boy. You understand me? I own this land. Not you. Not Berg Brothers Studios. Not the damned Wilderness Society. Me. Winston Grisham.”
By then, Dodd had found his feet. “Colonel Grisham. Yes. I know who you are.” Dodd extended his wounded right hand. Grisham eyed the bloodied paw, and reluctantly took it.
“My daddy taught me never to refuse another man’s hand, boy.” He quickly released it, checking his own skin for contamination. “You wouldn’t be queer, now, would you?”
“Uh. No.” Dodd got a good look at Grisham. The other man was not much taller than he was, but wider, more compact and muscular. It was obvious he was in exceptionally good condition for a man of his years. “I’m lost.”
“You sure are. Didn’t you see my no trespassing notices?”
“No, sir.”
“Damn, boy. I’ve got them posted every ten yards all along my eastern boundary. You’d have to be a blind bat to miss them.” He eyed Dodd suspiciously. “Who are you, anyway? I’ve shot at men for trespassing here.” He wasn’t lying.
“I’m Tim Dodd. I’m a reporter.”
Grisham shouldered his rifle. “Reporter? Stinking liberal reporter, are you? Here to help out those tree-hugging wimps trying to tell private property owners what they can and can’t do with their land? You one of those?”
“No, sir. I try to stay neutral on such matters. I’ve been covering the difficulties Salutations has been having lately.”
Grisham’s lined face cracked, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “You’re that guy that’s been calling that blight Jurassic Park, aren’t you? You’re that guy writes for the Inquirer.”
“That’s me,” Dodd admitted, smiling, too. “You enjoy those?”
“Anything that keeps those jerks one step behind my lawyers. That’s all I care about. And anything that’ll keep a few more damned Yankees out of the area.” Grisham sighed. “Damn, but I hate Yankees. You know…I bought this place so I could retire here and not have a bunch of Northerners around. I thought I’d be sharing this place with my cattle and my family and a few screaming jets now and again.
“Damned Democrats and their military downsizing. Screw that. Now not only do I have to deal with damned environmentalists poking around looking for endangered species, but there’s a town full of damned Yankees being built on my doorstep.” Grisham turned and began to walk away.
“Um. Sir?” Dodd took a step toward him, following, looking back to see if anything was coming. Grisham must have scared it off, he figured.
“What?”
“Can you help me find my way back to my car?”
Grisham stopped, looked back at the bloodied, disheveled reporter. “Shit. An old soldier’s work is never done.” He shook his head. “Just follow me, son. I’ll get you out of here. Come on.”
Dodd had an awful time keeping up.
Chapter Seven
Riggs followed Kate for some time, admiring her rear end. She had glanced back a couple of times and had noticed where Ron’s gaze was centered. She’d merely smiled. Men. God love ’em.
The two were moving gradually south by southwest through the savanna. “We’ll come to Carson Stream pretty soon,” Ron said.
“You’ve been here?” Kate asked.
“No. But I know my maps, and if we keep going this way we’ll hit that stream. It drains into a large wetland, right? We’ll have a hard time crossing there without getting pretty soggy.” Ron spotted a small copperhead coiled and resting in the shade of a palmetto, but saw no reason to mention it. They were completely harmless unless you stepped on one. Most people didn’t know that the last thing a pit viper generally wanted to do was waste its poison on a creature far too large for it to eat. But he found himself wishing he had brought along a walking staff. They were going to be in cottonmouth habitat pretty soon, and those snakes were a lot more aggressive