Barking Dogs

42

Prologue

HE HADN’T counted on the dogs. They’d caught his scent on the wind. His mouth opened to curse them. Immediately, he overrode the impulse by gritting his teeth. The wind was his friend; it made the killing possible.

Around him, the forest groaned under the onslaught of a particularly strong gust. Fifty miles an hour, he guessed. Enough to start the dogs barking even harder.

God, how he longed to shoot them. Send them yelping head over heels into oblivion. But he couldn’t see them in their fenced run, wouldn’t be able to for another few minutes. Until dawn.

He took a deep breath. The hot wind intensified the smell of lodgepole pine, Rocky Mountain cedar, and the thick drought-stricken chaparral that was only a spark away from incineration.

By rote, his hands worked in the dark assembling the rifle. It was child’s play. But that was German engineering for you. A .22 by Anschutz. The brand name made him smile. He rolled it on his tongue. The feel of it was lethal, like the name of one of those concentration camps.

Still smiling, he worked the bolt action and fed in five rounds of RWS subsonic, sound-moderating ammunition. A laugh bubbled inside him. He swallowed to keep the sound from escaping into the wind, to keep it from being carried to the settlement that was only fifty yards away.

Sound-moderating, he mouthed, savoring the words inside his head. Such a refined, genteel way of saying that the hollow-point, 40-grain ammunition—traveling at one thousand feet per second—would kill without the warning sound of a sonic boom. Add to that his Maxim silencer, and the settlers, every last one of them, wouldn’t hear what killed them.

Sighing, he ran the barrel along his cheek. The smell of gun oil relaxed him. It brought back memories of his mother, who’d taught him how to shoot. The Maxim had been hers, her legacy to him. Silencers had been legal in her time. Rabbits eating your garden? Get rid of them without disturbing your neighbors. No fuss, no muss.

He turned slowly, checking the perimeter. On his right dawn was just beginning to silhouette the Bitterroot mountains. Full sunrise was less than five minutes away. Usually the wind died down at dawn. But this was a hot south wind. Red winds, they were called, nerve-racking at the best of times, downright incendiary during drought times like now.

He wet his lips. Weather reports said this part of Idaho was in for another twenty-four hours of wind. The kind of weather he’d been waiting for all summer.

Nodding to himself, he laid out the ammunition in piles of five on his ground sheet. He moved the flares and starter fluid well away from the firing area where hot, ejected shells would land.

The wind gusted again, triggering a fresh round of barking. One of the dogs howled. Another picked it up. Soon they were all howling.

He closed his eyes, picturing the settlement, counting dogs in his mind. Four. No, five. He saw the structures too, a dozen rough-hewn cabins plus the meeting hall and outbuildings. All were surrounded by a dense, second-growth pine forest. Tree branches, shedding brittle pine needles in the heat, overhung every roof.

A door opened, spilling light on the mutts, two of which were loose but too cowardly to come out after him. From the doorway someone shouted, Quiet out there!

The howls gave way to throaty rumbles. The door closed.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and aimed at the dog sounds, squeezing off imaginary rounds.

Patience, he told himself. More lights went on inside the compound. People were waking up, getting ready for sunrise services. That’s when he’d go to work. Kill the men first. Those young enough and strong enough to rush him, those who might force him to make a mistake. After that, it was merely a matter of time. Wait them out or hunt them down at his leisure, the result would be the same.

He went over the strict, self-imposed rules one more time. Don’t rush. Aim carefully. No head shots. No telltale skull holes.

The sun rose. Compound doors opened. Men, women, and children streamed out. As one, they knelt in prayer.

The sun was in their eyes, blinding them, when he began to shoot.

1

KEVIN MANWARING was staring at Vicki Garcia, about to add to his fantasy life, when the high-speed printers hesitated. Such hesitations preceded feast or famine. If the latter, the Associated Press wire service was having line trouble or, worse yet, computer glitches. If the former, Manwaring would have something else to think about besides Vicki.

Alarm bells rang. A bulletin was on the way. Vicki would have to wait.

He left his desk to read over Ross Eccles’s shoulder.

IDAHO FALLS, IDAHO (AP)—A wind-driven forest fire is burning across drought-stricken southern Idaho today. A small army of firefighters is being mobilized to stop the blaze before it reaches Yellowstone National Park. The Idaho National Guard has been placed on alert.

Idaho belongs to us, Eccles said. Get on the phone and confirm the story before Chicago tries to steal it.

They’re too far away, Manwaring said, giving token resistance only. Just last month the Chicago bureau had beaten them to a serial killer in Colorado, though technically speaking everything west of the Rockies came under the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles News Bureau.

While Eccles checked in with Herb Reisner, the Evening News producer in New York, Manwaring used the automatic dialing system to call the ABN-TV affiliate in Idaho Falls.

News desk, said a harried voice. Gossett speaking.

Kevin Manwaring at the network bureau in L.A. What have you got covering the fire?

Two cameras. Everything we can spare. We’ll service you on the satellite as soon as our crews get back.

Manwaring glanced at the newsroom clock. It was 9:30 in the morning. Adding an hour for Idaho’s Mountain Time zone, he had six and a half hours to get Vicki to the fire and onto the Evening News.

Is Yellowstone going to burn again? Manwaring asked.

The fire’s got a long way to go before that happens.

Anyone hurt? Manwaring asked. The AP says—

Jesus, man, Gossett said, a whole town’s gone.

Bingo, Manwaring thought, and immediately felt a twinge of conscience. Like it or not, though, he had to live by the American Broadcasting Network’s rules. Unless lives are lost, let the local yokels cover it. It’s cheaper.

How many casualties are we talking about? Manwaring said.

We don’t know yet.

What’s the name of the town?

Defiance.

Manwaring signaled to Vicki, who was standing at the black glass windows that looked down on Fairfax Avenue. No doubt she was seeing herself instead of Los Angeles’s Jewish ghetto.

Manwaring kept waving until she acknowledged his reflected signal and turned around to face him.

Bring me the atlas, will you, Vicki?

Don’t bother, Gossett said. You won’t find it. It’s more of a religious retreat than a real town.

What kind of religion?

Mormons to start with, all the way back to Brigham Young’s time. Later on, there was some kind of schism and they broke with the church.

Are we talking one of those polygamist cults? Manwaring said.

Those days are long gone, the way I hear it.

That still doesn’t tell me how many people we’re talking about.

Some of the locals are saying a dozen families live in Defiance, Gossett said, but nothing’s been confirmed.

Manwaring did the arithmetic in his head. Counting parents and children, at least thirty people had to be missing. Maybe a lot more.

Defiance, Idaho, Manwaring said to Vicki. Look it up, Icky.

Is that Vicki Garcia you’re talking to? Gossett asked, awed.

I’m her field producer, Manwaring said.

You lucky bastard.

Vicki was staring at the atlas as if she couldn’t understand how it got into her hands.

Is she as beautiful in person as she looks on the news? Gossett said.

Even better.

Jesus. Tell her for me that Defiance is about three miles northeast of Ellsworth.

You’d better look up Ellsworth, Manwaring relayed.

Vicki marked a place in the atlas and handed the book to Manwaring. Before he could read it, Ross Eccles, the bureau chief, came on the line. Manwaring summarized the situation for him.

Eccles said, Idaho. What’s the chance of containment?

None until the wind stops, Gossett said. That won’t be for another day or two, according to weather forecasters. Even then, it’s rough country around Ellsworth. Heavy forest with few roads in or out. On top of that, we’re in a drought up here.

In that case, Eccles said, New York wants us there. Can you provide transportation?

Everything we can spare is already on the fire line.

OK, we’ll be in touch. Eccles disconnected.

Thanks for your help, Manwaring told Gossett. I’ll buy you dinner if I ever get the chance.

I’ll take a date with Vicki, the desk man said before hanging up.

Manwaring joined Eccles and Vicki at the newsroom map. Their coverage area, the western states and Alaska, was tinted a bright yellow; it was often used as a backdrop for live West Coast inserts into the network news. The town of Ellsworth was nestled in the Bitterroot Range, north and west of the Tetons and south of Yellowstone Park.

Eccles dropped a hand on Vicki’s shoulder. You’re in luck, my dear. Reisner says the Middle East is stagnant and the President is off somewhere vacationing with the rich. As of now, Reisner wants to lead the Evening News with the fire, live.

Eccles transferred his hand to the bald strip that ran down the center of his head. That doesn’t give you much time, Manwaring.

Kevin will get me there, Vicki said.

Without waiting for Manwaring’s confirmation, Eccles snapped his fingers at his assistant, Joyce Cody, whose desk stood at one end of the newsroom guarding the door to the bureau chief’s office. Three plane tickets to Idaho Falls. No, make that four. We’d better send along a portable satellite pack to feed the network. Rent a van, too, something rugged. A four-wheel drive, if you can get one. Better yet, charter a helicopter. They can pick up a van later.

Manwaring consulted the atlas. Gossett was right. There’s no mention of Defiance. Ellsworth’s population is listed as forty-two hundred.

How much time is Reisner giving us for the lead story? Vicki asked.

The usual minute-fifteen, Eccles said.

Did he say anything about a Q and A with the anchor desk?

Eccles shook his head.

Vicki turned to Manwaring with pleading eyes. What she wanted, he knew, was his support for more on-camera time. Even the most carefully scripted question-and-answer session with Lee Aarons, ABN’s anchorman, would guarantee her another thirty seconds of network exposure.

If the story holds up, Manwaring said, Icky will need two minutes, maybe more.

She smiled and licked her lips. His tongue mimicked hers.

Eccles snorted. You’re a pair, you are. You can talk to Reisner yourselves once you’re in Idaho.

As soon as Joyce came off the phone, Eccles said, What about it, kiddo, are they ready to go?

The tickets are waiting at the airport and the crew’s downstairs. You have one hour to make the plane.

Manwaring nodded. He’d made it in less time before, thanks to the prepacked suitcases he and his cameraman, Lew Holland, kept in their cars. Their only stop on the way to the airport would be Vicki’s apartment in Westwood to pick up her unwrinkled, on-camera outfits.

CBS got the last available chopper, Joyce added.

Take extra cash, Eccles told Manwaring. You never know what might need paying for.

Aren’t you forgetting something? Joyce said as Manwaring passed her desk.

He waited for Vicki to clear the bureau door before answering. I’m sorry about dinner tonight.

I was talking about your cash voucher. She thrust the paperwork at him and then licked her lips in an exaggerated parody of Vicki.

We’ll get together as soon as I come back, he said.

Do I get a minute-fifteen or two minutes of your time?

He scanned the six-desk newsroom for Eccles but the bureau chief had disappeared into his private office.

It’s my job to make sure she gets exposure and looks good.

Sure.

What do you want from me?

Receipts for everything you spend in Idaho.

2

MANWARING AND his crew picked up a Ford Explorer at the airport in Idaho Falls and drove north toward the Continental Divide, crossing the Snake River on the way. According to the Auto Club map, Ellsworth was seventy miles ahead on State Highway 20. At the moment, they were passing through cultivated fields that marked potato country. Pine forests, Manwaring remembered from a childhood trip, would begin as they got closer to Yellowstone Park.

He checked his watch with the dashboard clock. He had less than three hours to feed the network.

I want to be on the fire line in one hour, he told Lew Holland, who was driving.

Not on these roads.

Let me drive, then, Vicki said from the back seat.

An hour and a half, Holland conceded.

I’ll cut your balls off if we miss the network feed, she said.

Manwaring half turned in the passenger’s seat to see Vicki fold her arms and close her eyes. Judging from the expression on her face, she was counting off elapsed time inside her head.

Frank Wilcox, their satellite man, also a union-qualified cameraman in his own right, was sitting next to her. He ran his fingers through his prematurely gray hair and winked.

Vicki’s eyes popped open. Kevin, what should I wear for the fire?

You’re already wearing your ostrich-skin boots, your acid-washed jeans, and your khaki L.L. Bean shooting jacket complete with bullet pouches. What more could you want, Icky?

Are you being sarcastic?

Me?

This is important, for God’s sake. I haven’t been on the network news in a week.

Three days, Manwaring corrected.

Out of sight, out of mind. You know that as well as I do.

A gust of hot wind buffeted the Ford. The air conditioner groaned against the ninety-five-degree August temperature.

God help you, Kevin, she said, if we miss that deadline.

With a sigh, Manwaring turned back to watch the road.

Holland coughed for attention. Did you ever see Abe Lincoln at Disneyland?

Sure, Manwaring said.

He looks real for a robot. When you go in the auditorium to see him, he’s just sitting there. Then he stands up and gives the Gettysburg Address. It’s just as good as being there.

This was a conversation they’d had before, but never in Vicki’s presence.

What’s your point? Manwaring said to see just how far the cameraman would go.

They’re coming, you know. Robot anchormen. I’ve been predicting it for years.

Anchorpersons, Wilcox said, feeding the fire.

Holland nodded. One hand left the steering wheel briefly to scratch his close-cropped beard. They’re like computers. You program them to say whatever you want. After the newscast, you hide them away in a closet until they’re needed again.

You save on salaries, Wilcox said.

Manwaring eased down the sun visor so he could keep an eye on Vicki in the vanity mirror. Her eyes were closed again. Her lips showed a trace of smile, though that could have been a trick of the light. As always, her complexion made her look camera-ready without the help of makeup.

It’s not only salaries, Holland said. It’s wear and tear. It’s the back talk.

Are we talking correspondents here, too? Wilcox asked.

Absolutely, Holland said.

Manwaring began to suspect the two cameramen had planned the conversation in advance.

Correspondent robots pose a different problem, of course, Holland went on. They’re in the field, not hidden away on some sound stage. That means they’re going to get dirty and rained on, worse even. That could lead to electrical shorts and the like.

The union can issue us rubber gloves, Wilcox said.

Manwaring kept his eyes on Vicki.

Best of all, robots wouldn’t care how much time they got on camera, Holland said.

You’ve got eighty-five minutes to get me to that fire, Vicki said. Otherwise, you’re all dead men.

Holland snorted derisively but speeded up just the same.

Manwaring eased his seat