"I appreciate that," Martin said.
Austin left the car, went up to the front door, and knocked several times. No one answered. Nor was there a response when he twisted the knob of the old doorbell. He turned around and threw his hands apart so Martin could see. He descended the porch and walked behind the house to the barn. The only sound was the soft clucking of chickens and the occasional grunt from a rooting pig.
The barn door was open. He walked inside, thinking that barns smelled the same the world over, an unmistakable combination of manure, hay, and big animals. A horse snorted as he walked by its stall, maybe thinking he was bringing it sugar, but there was no sign of Martin. He called out a hello and when there was no response walked out the back door. The chickens under Wild Bill Donovan. I was what they'd call a hit man today. I pulled a few assignments after the war, then told them I wanted to retire. The boss said there was no way they could let me do that. I knew too much. So we worked out a deal. They'd keep me active for one more job. The only problem was, they didn't know when the order would be carried out. It could be five months or five years." He chuckled. "No one figured it would go on this long, especially me." Austin noticed that Martin had lost his folksy farm accent. "Who were you supposed to kill?"
"The government had this big secret they didn't want any one to know about. They devised a system so that if anyone started snooping and got too close, the protocol would be activated. Here's the real clever thing. They would make potential opposition come to me. They set me up here in the middle of nowhere. When you started poking around, it triggered a series of commands. One would tell you where I was. The last would tell me to carry out the original sanction against the speaker of the House. Seems he heard about the government's secret and was going to blow the whistle."
"This protocol you're talking about must be fifty years old The congressman you were supposed to kill has been dead for years."
"That doesn't matter," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm still under orders. Sad thing, that secret's so old it probably doesn't make a difference one way or the other." He lapsed back into his farm accent, and the blue eyes grew hard and cold. "Sure glad you came, son. I'm officially retired after this."
The gun came up. Austin braced himself for the deafening blast. He tensed his stomach muscles as if by sheer will he could prevent the slug from tearing into his rib cage. Had he time ~o think about it, he would have ruminated on the irony, after surviving countless near-fatal assignments, of dying at the hands of a half-deaf, near-blind, octogenarian assassin.
A figure suddenly materialized behind Martin. It was Buzz. The old man's sight was still keen enough for him to detect an
involuntary change in Austin's expression. He whirled around as Buzz cried out in surprise. "You're not my father!"
The old man's body had shielded the shotgun, but now Buzz's eyes dropped from Martin's face to the weapon in his arms. The farmer brought his gun up to his shoulder, but his reflexes were dulled by the years. Austin had to make a split second decision. He could put his head down and crash into the man's backside like an enraged bull. Not enough time, he decided
"Martin!" he yelled, at the same time yanking the pitchfork from the bale.
The farmer turned back to Austin, who whipped the pitchfork at him like a javelin. He was aiming for Martin's shooting side, but the old man stepped into the oncoming pitchfork and the tines perforated his heart and lungs. He cried out in pain, and the shotgun went off, barrel pointed toward the roof. The horse went crazy and tried to kick down its stall. The gun fell from Martin's fingers. His eyes rolled into his head, and he crumpled to the wooden floor.
Austin kicked the shotgun out of reach more out of habit than necessity. Buzz had been frozen with shock, but now he came over and knelt by the body. Austin turned it over so they could see the face.
Buzz studied the man's features for a moment and, to Austin's relief, softly said, "No, he's definitely not my father. He's too tall, to begin with. My father was stocky like me. And the face is all wrong. Who in God's name is he?"
"He called himself Martin, but that's not his real name. I don't know what it is."
"Why was he trying to kill you-I mean, both of us?"
"He didn't really know. He was like one of those trick bombs the Germans used to drop. They'd go off when the bomb squad tried to defuse them. By the way, I thought you were going to wait in the car."
"I tried, but I had to get out and walk. I went behind the house, didn't see anybody, so I came into the barn looking for you."
"I'm glad you did." Austin cocked his ear. "I think I hear something." He took a last look at the body. "Happy retirement, Bucky," he said, and walked toward the door.
Buzz followed him out into the yard as a black-and-white car with blue roof dome flashing burst from the woods and squealed to a stop in a cloud of dust. Printed in big letters on the car door was the word SHERIFF. Two men in blue uniforms got out. One was burly and young, and the other was slim and gray-haired. The younger man came over with his hand on his holster. His badge signified he was a deputy sheriff.
"Which one of you is Austin?" he said.
"That's me," Kurt said.
The deputy must have been prepared for an evasion because he didn't seem to know what to say next.
The older man gently pushed his deputy aside. "I'm Sheriff Hastings. Either one of you seen Bucky Martin?"
"He's in the barn," Austin said.
The deputy hustled into the barn, and when he came out a moment later his face was white.
"Jeezus," he said, fumbling for his sidearm, "Old Bucky is dead. Stuck with a pitchfork. Which one of you two did it?"
Hastings gestured for his deputy to calm down and call the county homicide team. "Could you tell me what's been going on,
Mr. Austin?"
"Martin tried to kill us with that shotgun next to the body. T had to kill him. I was trying to slow him down, but that's not the way it worked out."
"Thanks, but I mean what's real~7y going on with this whole thing, me getting calls from Washington and all."
"Washington?"
"You bet. First the governor's office calls and tells me to hold, then they patch through this maniac Admiral Sandecker He says his man Austin is in danger and I'd better get out to Martin's place or there will be a killing. When I asked what makes him think somebody's going to be killed, he promises to rip me a new belly button if I don't stop asking dumb questions and get on my way." He grinned. "Guess he was right." He turned to Buzz. "What's your name?" "Buzz Martin."
The sheriff blinked in surprise. 'Any relation to the de ceased?"
Austin and Martin looked at each other, not sure how to answer the question.
Finally Austin shook his head and said, "Hope you've got time, sheriff, because that's a long, long story."
Chapter 25
The drums had been beating steadily for an hour. The sound was cadenced at first, coming from a lone drum at the same throbbing tempo as a human heartbeat. Then other drums had joined in. The hollow thumping accelerated in pace, and a monotonous chanting could be heard in the background. Francesca paced back and forth in the throne room like a caged lion, her hands clasped behind her, head bent low in thought. The Trouts sat next to the throne, waiting patiently for Francesca to speak. Tessa had pulled her vanishing act again.
Something caused a commotion at the entrance. Seconds later Francesca's two handmaidens rushed into the throne room, threw themselves on their knees, and babbled excitedly. Calming the young Indians with her soft voice, Francesca gently lifted them to their feet and brushed their disheveled hair away from their faces. She listened to the women speak in turn, then took two bracelets made of airplane parts and slipped them onto their wrists. She kissed her attendants on the tops of their heads and sent them on their way.