The Flock (15 page)

Word had come by courier that William Davis Cauthen was on his way. It was important, it was big, and it was for Grisham's eyes only. That meant that there would be no bull on the table when Senator Cauthen got there.

Cauthen was a pal of Grisham's from way back. From before Vietnam, from before he was so much as a captain in the Marines. They had both attended the Virginia Military Institute together as young men, and before
that,
they had known one another. Even their families went back several generations; their great-great grandfathers had conducted business together. That was the mark of something that went deeper than friendship. That was the mark of two true-blooded American families. They were both steeped in the South and bathed in loyalty. Each knew that the other's word was steel. He looked forward to seeing Davis.

So, when his friend, the esteemed state senator from the panhandle of Florida called him to say that something big was in the works, Colonel Winston Grisham, U.S. Marines (retired) listened. He had told his wife to have the cooks prepare an early supper for his friend's arrival: a good, southern meal. Grisham was inspecting the kitchen, to see how things were going and what was being prepared. He stepped through the door that led from the parlor into the dining room, and the faint scents he had detected from the other side of the house were stronger.

Collards,
he thought. How he loved a good mess of collard greens. He straightened his shirt, tucked it neatly into his pants, his stomach still as flat and hard as it had been as a teen, and pushed on the lockless door that led into the kitchen. Wonderful smells surrounded him, and he smiled, his big grin cracking his weathered face.

“I see you ladies are busy,” he said, surveying the action.

“As long as you don't get in our way.” It was his wife, and she was overseeing the activities, as usual. Mazie was still beautiful to him. Like the Colonel, she was lean and erect, only the crow's-feet around her eyes, the whiteness of her hair proving that she was older than her figure would indicate. She could still fit into her wedding dress. Grisham knew, because he'd seen her in it not two months before. She'd been in the upper room, the main guestroom where she stored it, trying it on when he'd walked in.
God, I'm a lucky man;
he'd told her. Indeed he was.

There were three other women with her, doing their best to attend to her instructions, and to keep up with her when she put her own hand to the task. All of the women were black, and all of them had been with the Grishams since they had bought the land and built the farm twenty years before. These women knew that the Colonel was called a racist by many. But he had never shown them anything but kindness, had even hired their young sons to work around his farm when he wasn't being visited by the groups of stone-faced men who came to the farm from time to time to act like soldiers and troop out into the bush. Of course, none of the women had ever read Grisham's mind. If so, then they would all surely leave at once and never return. His mask of kindness where they were concerned was merely that: a mask.

Grisham breathed deep, sucking in the aromas. “Let me see,” he said, exhaling. “Collards, of course.” He sucked in again. “And sweet potatoes.” Again. “And okra, and squash.
Fried
squash.” Grisham stood on tiptoe to peer over his wife's shoulder. “Fried chicken, of course,” he noted, watching as Mazie moved breasts and thighs, drumsticks and wings about a truly huge cast iron skillet full of hot oil and frying chicken. The batter was turning a golden brown. “What's for dessert?”

“Shoo! You get out of here, now.” Mazie had turned on him, handing the big two-tined fork over to Elaine, one of her cooks. The place usually needed all four of them at meal times, especially when Grisham was running one of his military camps or training sessions. Which he was doing more and more often of late. Even at that moment, the bunkhouses and the apartments over the barn were filled with the serious men who came to talk and prepare for a time when they thought they would be needed to save the nation. Mazie knew what was going on. “You'll see what's for dessert when it's served this afternoon.” She prodded her muscular husband until he relented and backed out of the kitchen and returned to the dining room. “Now,
get
.” He let the door close in his face and he chuckled.

That woman. How she can work those niggers
.

Slowly, savoring what remained of the cooking smells that clung to him, he went out of the dining room, through the parlor, and into the foyer. There, he stood and looked around him, at the antiques he'd carried from his father's house to this one when he'd put up the farm more than two decades before. All of the furniture in that room had been in the Grisham family for generations. Some of it predated the War Between the States, in which his great grandfather had fought, in which his great uncles had all died, leaving the Grisham lands to the line that had culminated in Winston Grisham and his two sons.

And then he frowned, his mood broken by the reminders.

Both of his sons had been lost to him. One, Ronald, had rejected military life on so-called
moral
grounds, had even refused to join the Marines, and had spent his two years as a conscientious objector in the
Coast Guard,
of all places. But the worst of the two had been John, who was dead to him, if not in reality. Of course, he couldn't know, for sure. He'd forbidden anyone in the house to ever speak John's name, and he knew that there was no one with guts enough to break that particular taboo. Sometimes, Grisham did think of John, but he tried not to do it around Mazie, for she could see through his masks, could see exactly what was going on in his mind, sometimes. She would know if his thoughts ever turned toward memories of that traitorous, homosexual beast. Grisham rubbed his eyes, and John was gone again.

Today, he was tired. He was tired because he'd spent most of the previous two weeks out in the country with his boys. This was a particularly gifted group. Most of them had been talented soldiers until they'd been discharged, all of them honorably, within the past few years. These were good, brave, focused men, who were not yet ready to retire their anger and their talents. Grisham gave such patriots a place to prepare for the coming struggle, which they all knew must come sooner or later. He hoped it would come soon, sometimes. For despite his daily workouts and the fact that he was in enviably fine condition for a man of his years, he was getting on and the day would arrive when he'd no longer be able to lead these young soldiers into the bush to train.

Thinking of that, Grisham went through the wide foyer and out of the polished oak doors that led out to a covered porch that wrapped around the big farmhouse. He had planned and overseen the construction of every square inch of that porch. It was twenty feet wide, the roof twelve feet overhead, with silently, slowly spinning fans wafting air every eight feet the length of the porch. And there were oak rocking chairs all along the walls, thirty of them. He picked one out and sat down to relax and to think. It had been a long time—six months or more—since he'd seen his friend, Davis. It would be good to see him.

In a moment, although he hadn't asked anyone, a tall glass of iced tea appeared on the little table next to his rocking chair. He hadn't even noticed exactly who had brought it, only that it had been one of the colored women. He picked up the glass, put it to his lips, and enjoyed the sweet taste and the cool drink as it trickled down his throat.

And he waited for Davis.

 

The Mercedes arrived just before three in the afternoon. Grisham had actually dozed as he'd sat and rocked, and had only noticed when the big, white car had pulled up to the split rail fence at the edge of the lawn, about fifty feet away. Quickly, he stood, rod straight, and marched down the red brick stairs to meet his friend. He grinned in genuine pleasure as Davis Cauthen emerged.

Cauthen was currently serving his fifth term of office in the Florida State Senate. For years he had fended off the badgering requests of hundreds of men, local fans to real shakers and movers, that he run for some national office. It wasn't his style, he had told them. He did things best in the more informal state house, where he could get things done, where he could still have time for his family and his friends. Where he could still work the kinds of deals his father had worked, which his grandfather had worked, and at which even his great-great grandfather had already been adept those generations ago. His family had almost been original snakes in the grass. They were good at it.

Grisham, standing at the foot of the steps, greeted his old friend. They looked almost to have been stamped from the same mold. Tall, lean, weathered, both men were in better shape than they had a right to expect to be. But of course they expected nothing less than everything they ever wanted. And both usually got it.

“Davis, how are you doing?” The colonel's arm was extended and he took his old friend's hand and gripped it.

“I'm fine, Win. You know, I think you must have the only three-mile long driveway in the state of Florida. And I should know, because I've been down the ones at most of the really big estates. Can't recall another one quite this length, though.” He smiled back at his old school chum and both men went up the steps to the porch.

“Well, you know how I feel about things. Same as you, only I can't tolerate the Yankees and the niggers the way you do.”

“Just part of my job, old man. Part of the job.”

For a moment, the two merely stood on the porch, out of the hot summer sun. Off in the distance, in the far pastures, cattle were slowly chewing their way along; some lying in the shade trees spaced here and there, some wading in the ponds. The politician sighed and took it all in. “Wonderful place you have here,” he said. “I've been sorry to hear about your problems with those developers at your doorstep, but you know how things are.”

Grisham put his hand on Cauthen's shoulder. “And I've appreciated your sympathy, and all the help you've given me.” He followed Cauthen's gaze out toward the pastures and all of the cattle. “I assume this visit has something to do with that?”

“Winston, I'm not even here. I have a dozen witnesses who'll swear on a stack of Holy Bibles that I'm in my offices in Tallahassee right this minute. The waitress who serves me afternoon pie at my favorite diner will state that I was there an hour ago eating blueberry cobbler and had four cups of black coffee.”

“I understand, Davis.”

“Frankly, you're going to receive an offer of some import in a few minutes, but I don't know anything about it and won't until it becomes a matter of public record some months from now.”

“I see.” Grisham stood even straighter and taller now. “Should we sit here on the porch and discuss it? You know the only ears in this household are right here on my head.”

“Well, I know that, Win. But let's go to your office so you can see what's in this briefcase you're about to get. And then, after that…well, even from way out here I can smell a good meal cooking. What's Mazie got for me this time?”

The soldier laughed, and slapped his friend on the back. “You'll just have to wait a bit longer. I'm not going to spoil Mazie's surprises. She'd have my hide, you know.”

“Well, let's get this business over with as quick as possible. That cobbler just didn't hold me, for some reason.”

The two men chuckled as they vanished into Grisham's offices.

 

Long after Cauthen had left, after returning to his viper's nest in the state capital, Grisham sat at his desk and reviewed the papers, the photographs (which he was instructed to destroy), and to muse over the offer. It was beyond tempting. It was a taker. It was almost a dream come true.

His fingers traced over the crown jewel in a heap of glittering finery. The Berg Brothers Studio, which had first refusal on roughly 100,000 acres of what would be real estate prime for development, had deeded over to him a 15,000 acre tract of that land that abutted his own acreage. It would serve as a true buffer between his holdings and those that would soon be homes and businesses and streets and parking lots and well-groomed parks. He would still have his privacy and he would still have plenty of room in which to flex his military muscle. Seventeen thousand total acres was more than enough room in which to continue to train and to prepare. So what if filthy Jews were handing over the land to him? It was still going to be his.

Added to that was that he wouldn't have to pay for it. Not a dime. The studio would
settle
his suits, out of court, by buying the land and signing it over to him. The title would be his.

And all for doing something for which he was uniquely prepared to do. Something which he would actually
enjoy
doing. “Lock and load, boys. Lock and load,” he muttered, thinking of what was to come. Who would have thought that he'd be given everything he currently wanted, all for merely killing some big game and a few troublesome idiots?

He moved the land offer away; stacking the papers neatly in a pile to his left, and took out another set of papers. Grisham had been instructed to destroy them, also, but he wanted to linger over them, observe them. They were photographs of a most amazing sort. The pictures looked to have been taken in a hurry, and most of them were not well structured, and most of them were not very clear. But what they showed was something truly shocking.

Whoever had taken the pictures had come face-to-face with a creature stranger than anything Grisham had ever seen. And he had once killed a tiger in Vietnam, a tiger that had come into his camp one evening to drag away one of his junior officers. He'd killed the thing with a burst from his M-16. When they'd measured it, the thing had taped out at sixteen feet from nose tip to tail tip. He'd been told it would probably have been some kind of record, if he'd saved the skull and weighed the thing. But all he had to record it was a grainy photograph of himself and his men standing beside its hoisted corpse. But this…this was something else, entirely.