The New Madrid Run (29 page)

Travis had just stepped around the soldier to Christina when a hard, gravelly voice from the barn doors yelled, “Nobody move!” In the opening stood four more Arkansas militiamen with their guns leveled at Travis and his companions. One carried a rope. The officer in the middle, with the harsh voice, looked at the two men on the ground, then at Travis and his friends. “I don’t know who you boys are, but you’ve caused your last bit of trouble here.” Behind them appeared their battered companions, the ones the sensei had dealt with earlier, pushing the preacher along. They shoved the old shrimper into the center of the barn, and he moaned with pain as he struck the ground.

The others moved into a semicircle around Travis and his group while one of them threw the rope over a beam. The leader stepped forward. “You boys are about to get a taste of Provincial Government justice. In your case it’ll be your first and last. As for the lady, we’ll save her for questioning . . .”

Travis charged forward only to be stopped by a rifle butt to the side of the head, felling him.

The man looked down. “Don’t be in such a hurry to die, mister. Hell ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

They dragged Travis to his feet and slipped the noose over his head. One of them pulled an old milking stool from a nearby stall and forced Travis to balance on it while the rope was drawn tight, making him stand on his toes. Then they tied it off on a post.

The leader walked over to Travis and stared up at him, smiling. “Say hello to the devil for me,” he said, and kicked the stool away. Christina cried out, and the sensei charged forward to catch and support Travis. But just as the weight of Travis’ body tightened the noose, the deafening thunder of a Thompson machine gun shattered the silence in the old barn. The rope, as well as the beam that held it, splintered and split, dropping him into the sensei’s arms. As the startled soldiers spun around, a line of automatic weapon fire stitched the ground up to and between the feet of the officer, who instinctively dropped his gun and put his hands up. Another burst of a Thompson echoed out, and the dirt in front of the other militiamen shuddered from the impact of heavy .45 caliber slugs. The soldiers immediately threw down their weapons and raised their hands.

In the doorway, flanked by two huge, almost identical-looking men cradling machine guns, stood a man with long blond hair, bright, iridescent blue eyes, and a droopy “Custer” mustache—William J. Cody. Travis, working the rope off his neck, couldn’t believe his eyes.

Cody quickly surveyed the scene, his eyes stopping on Travis. “Well, I’ll be damned! Travis Christian! You been hanging around here long? Bad joke—sorry. You okay, buddy?”

“I am now,” replied Travis as he jerked the noose over his head and threw it down.

Cody noticed the blood on the side of Travis’ face, and his eyes flashed back to the soldiers. There was an angry glint in those iridescent orbs. “Which one of you hit that man?” For a moment no one spoke, but a burst from the Thompson at their feet brought fingers pointing to the leader. “Cover them,” Cody Joe said casually to his friends as he walked over to the officer. Stopping in front of the fellow, he smiled disarmingly; then, without a word, slammed the butt of his gun between the man’s legs with enough force to lift him off the ground. The soldier’s eyes went wide with pain and surprise as a guttural scream escaped his mouth. He hit the floor and doubled up in a fetal position, moaning, not moving.

Cody turned to Travis. “You feel better now? I do.”

Travis chuckled. “Yeah, I feel much better.”

“Okay, Travis,” Cody said, “have your people get their weapons.” Then he turned to the soldiers. “Now listen, boys, I want you to take your clothes off—every goddamned piece. You’ve got thirty seconds. Anybody with a stitch of clothing on after that, I shoot.”

There was a moment’s hesitation from the soldiers. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven,” Cody yelled as he raised his gun, and the men began tearing at their clothing. Cody looked at the officer on the floor, then at Travis. “I’m not worried about that one. He’ll be lucky if he’s walking in a week and he’ll never sing bass again.”

Travis laughed. “God, I’ve missed you, Cody.”

“Missed you too, buddy. ” Cody paused for a moment, looking at his friend. “Sure as the sun rises . . .”
“And the moon sets,” Travis said quietly.

Travis grabbed the rope that would have hanged him, and he and

Carlos tied the naked soldiers to one of the beam posts.

When they were finished, Travis turned to Cody. “Well, I guess we better get the hell out of here.”

“We’ve got some catching up to do, Trav. Your place or mine?” “Come on out to my place, and I’ll treat you to a bottle of ol’

Will’s mulberry wine.”

“Done,” replied Cody. “Let’s go. As they turned to leave, the leader of the soldiers rasped, “You’re dead men, all of you.”

Cody turned and walked back, squatting by the injured man, who knelt on the floor. He smiled. “Somehow that’s not all that threatening coming from a man with his balls around his Adam’s apple.”

They grabbed their supplies from the hardware store, thanking the owner once again, jumped into the van, and headed out of town with Cody Joe and his boys following in their Jeep.

As they drove, Christina turned to Travis. She grinned mischievously. “So that’s Cody, huh? You didn’t tell me he was gutsy
and
good-looking.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “You and every other woman in the country . . .”

“So what’s his story? Somehow I suspect it’s an interesting one.”

Travis nodded and smiled. “You have no idea. William J. Cody is, or was, a smuggler—sort of an outlaw with a conscience . . .”

As they drove Travis explained there was no doubt that Cody could have made a fortune smuggling cocaine or heroin—several times more money than he made on the gems, paintings or money transfers he dealt in—but he didn’t care much for drugs. He’d seen what they did to people, close friends, and he didn’t like it.

“Cody enjoyed the game of smuggling: the excitement of challenging his intellect and his talent, with freedom as the wager,” Travis explained. “And he liked the money. But what he brought in didn’t hurt anyone. Cody always said he wouldn’t be responsible for importing someone else’s misery, and as far as I know, he’s always lived by it.

“He invested his money wisely, having anticipated this disaster all along. He owns several airplanes, a handful of vehicles from four-wheel-drive trucks to Corvettes, and, until the islands disappeared, a number of very expensive boats. His home in Arkansas is state of the art—alternative energy, powered exclusively from solar and turbine sources. He has a two-thousand-gallon natural gas tank and a two-thousand-gallon fuel tank buried on his property. He owns real estate all over the west and pays a loyal crew of men exorbitant salaries to pay attention to his business and his back. Even with the change, or perhaps because of it, he’s probably about as set as a man could be.”

She nodded, impressed. “He made enough money to buy Miami and didn’t piss it all away, to misquote Jimmy Buffett.” She paused for a moment. So what was that between you two about the sun rising and the moon setting?”

A faint smile brushed Travis’ mouth, as if her words had touched a distant memory. “It’s an old Caribbean expression—actually dates back to the days of the buccaneers. It means, no matter what, I’ll see you again . . .”

By midday the gang was back at the ranch. Introductions dispensed with, and refreshments in hand, they sat on the porch while Cody entertained them with stories of earlier adventures. Cody’s large companions, identical twins who resembled lumberjacks on steroids, guarded the drive and the front of the house.

“Security,” Cody said with a grin. “A habit of mine, which has preserved my health and lifestyle.”

They reminisced for a while, then the conversation turned to politics. Travis looked at Cody, who was slouched in an old rocker in the corner of the porch. The smaller man’s long hair was pulled back in his usual ponytail. There were a few more lines around his eyes than the last time Travis had seen him, but those incredible eyes of his still glowed with mischievous exuberance; he still had that aura of barely contained energy about him.
Same old Cody
, thought Travis warmly, incredibly pleased to see his friend again.

“What do you know about this Rockford guy and his New Provincial Government?” he asked. “From all that I’ve seen and heard, the whole thing smacks of Hitler gone country.”

“Well, up until today, my people and I have done our best to avoid the thugs he calls soldiers,” Cody said. “We haven’t made any political waves, and he’s known we’re a pretty tough bunch, so there’s been no percentage in hassling us. But now, the complexion of this whole thing will probably change.

“Rockford’s boys aren’t used to being manhandled. They’re the only organized force in the area, and they’ve taken advantage of that. In fact, they’ve enjoyed it. We’d both better pay attention for awhile in case they decide to retaliate.

“As for Rockford himself, I think your Hitler analogy is pretty close. I don’t believe for a moment that most of the people are on his side, but he’s the one making the most noise, and his opposition keeps having accidents. He does have a core group of followers who stand to benefit from his rise to power; they range from a handful of crooked politicians and power brokers to the conglomerate of have-nots that he calls an army. They all want what he’s promising—a chicken in every pot, the minorities in their place, and prosperity from a new world order.”

They talked through the afternoon and polished off a couple more bottles of Will’s dwindling supply of wine. Cody brought Travis up to date. Cody had never really given up “the business,” as he called it; he’d just slowed down and chosen his times and places more carefully. The FBI, however, had been breathing down his neck for the past year, so the big shake was just about the best thing that could have happened for him. The down side was, with the present condition of the world, there was little demand left for the finer things in life, and virtually no restriction on imports or exports, which all but put Cody Joe out of work.

But with the day’s events, there were more pressing problems. The conversation came back to Rockford. Travis stood and paced the length of the porch once, then turned to his old friend. “I don’t see any way around this but to fight this guy. What it really boils down to is, do we take him out now, or later? I say let’s get him while he’s still organizing. A year from now, if he does end up in control, we’ll have a harder time dealing with him. His system might be so entrenched that his followers could simply pick up where he left off. I don’t want to give him that time to settle in.

“Now, I’m not saying that you and I should take him on single-handedly. What I am saying is this: There’s some solid, but poorly organized opposition to Rockford out there. It revolves around a congressman named Turner.”

“Yeah,” Cody interjected, “I’ve heard about that guy. Sounds like a pretty good man.”

“From what I hear, he is. I met one of his supporters the other day; I’d like you to meet him, too. His name is Judge Harcourt.”

“Heard of him, also,” Cody said. “He’s been getting in Rockford’s way, politically. I’m surprised he’s still around.”

“He wouldn’t be if we hadn’t come along when we did. It was sort of a fortunate meeting on both our parts. Anyway, he wants to go after Rockford and his army—he’s just not sure how. The guy’s got good connections, and I think he’s a man of his word. I’d like to take you to meet him tomorrow. Maybe we can find the colonel’s Achilles’ heel. What do you say?”

“Well, I guess you’re right. We fight him now or we fight him later.”

About six that evening, after dinner and one more bottle of Will’s wine, Cody and his men headed back to their ranch, which was less than an hour from Travis. He had agreed to return the following morning so he and Travis could meet with the judge, and figure out “how to kick Rockford’s ass.”

After Cody Joe had gone and everyone was settling in for the evening, Travis and Christina sat on the front porch and watched the yellow Arkansas moon crest the pines and bathe the valley in soft luminescence.

Travis put his arm around her as they looked out over the pasture. “Well, what do you think of Cody?”

“You talked about him on the trip a couple times, but to meet him is something else. He’s like a ball of very cool perpetual energy.”

“That’s Cody. But don’t be fooled by that ‘let it all hang out’ attitude. He’s one sharp cookie; he plans things out, and he doesn’t make many mistakes.”

“I hope not, because you two are about to play hero again and, Travis, I don’t want to lose you.”

He pulled her to him, their faces only inches apart. “Honey, I’m sorry about this. I know I promised you we’d be safe here. I just didn’t know—how could anyone have known—that we’d have to deal with some maniac who wants to be king?”

CHAPTER 19

Cody showed up early the next day, and after a quick breakfast, he and Travis were off. They took Cody’s Jeep, leaving the van for the others should they need it. As they drove, the two reminisced over Key West summer nights and the Caribbean capers they had shared. Cody was in the midst of telling a story about a smuggler he knew who used to fly so low coming into the Keys, that he always had pieces of flying fish stuck to his windshield, when Travis looked up and saw a sign that read CHERRIES FOR SALE.

“Cody wait! Take this road coming up!”

“Travis, cherries are out of season. There won’t be any for another couple of months.”

“I know, I know. I want a tree, not the cherries. I promised the sensei a cherry tree to remind him of his home.”

They pulled into a drive next to the faded sign and drove up to a quaint little farmhouse nestled in an orchard of blooming cherry trees. Travis looked out at the blossoms and smelled the fragrance. “God, the sensei would love this. I’ll have to bring him here sometime.” Then, turning to Cody he said, “I owe that man more than I can ever repay him. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him—not once, but several times. He wants a cherry tree and, by God, if I have to dig it up and carry it back myself, he’ll have one.”