Orchid Blues

13

Ham turned up at eight o'clock- late, for him-and demanded coffee before they left for their trip.

"I guess we're fishing in more ways than one, huh?"

"Yep," Holly said.

"What are we fishing for?"

"Bank robbers, but I don't suppose they'll be wearing ID tags. Apart from that, I just want to get a close-up look at the place, get the feel of it."

"Okay, you're the boss," he replied, downing the last of his coffee.

"Daisy, sit," Holly said to the dog. "No dogs today, you're staying home."

Daisy looked hurt.

"Don't try the guilt thing," Holly said sternly. "Stay. Let's go, Ham."

Ham had loaded a light aluminum skiff, a couple of rods and a tackle box into the bed of his pickup truck. "Camouflage," he said, nodding at the dingy. They got into the truck and started toward the mainland.

"I hope you aren't packing," she said.

"Funny you should mention it," he replied.

"Give it to me," she said.

He handed her his Beretta 9mm, and she stuffed it into the glove box.

"Lock it when we get there," she said.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I'm light. I don't want anybody thinking we're the law."

"I'm a retired military guy," he said. "You're the law."

"I'm retired military, too, and don't forget it today. Forget about the law part. Oh, I almost forgot." She took out her cell phone, dialed the station and asked for Hurd Wallace.

"Deputy Chief Wallace," he drawled.

"Hurd, it's Holly. Ham and I are going out to Lake Winachobee to take a look at a little town on its northern bank."

"Okay," Hurd replied.

"I want to be cautious about this, so I'm going to call in every hour at fifteen minutes past, give or take. If you don't hear from me for two hours in a row, call the sheriff and come find me, and bring some backup, too."

"What are you getting into, Holly?"

"I don't know, and that's why I'm being cautious. Don't do anything rash, but if I miss two calls, come get me."

"All right, but you watch yourself. Ham, too."

"Thanks, I'll talk to you later." She punched out.

"You really think that's necessary?" Ham asked.

"I sure hope not."

As they approached the turnoff to Lake Winachobee, they ran into a line of stopped traffic, and two minutes passed before they were able to turn left. A sheriff's deputy, probably an off-duty hiree, was directing traffic, and they followed a dozen other cars down the dirt road.

"We must be in the next county," Holly said, checking the map. "That's not an Indian River County deputy. Yes, here it is-Deep Lake County. I've never even heard of it."

"Doesn't seem to be much to it," Ham said, glancing at the map.

"Except all this traffic."

"Maybe they're having a fishing tournament," Ham said.

"You see any fishing gear on these cars and trucks?" Holly asked.

"Now that you mention it, no, but I see a lot of rifle racks."

"Who are these folks? What do you think?"

"They look pretty ordinary," Ham said. "There's one truck just like mine, the rest are American cars or SUVs. I don't see any Japanese or German stuff."

"So they're patriots."

"Automotive patriots, anyway," Ham said.

"I guess we're dressed the part," Holly said. They were both wearing old camouflage fatigue tops over jeans, their usual fishing outfits. There was a faded spot on Ham's sleeves where his stripes used to be.

The traffic moved swiftly down the dirt road, kicking up dust. Ham rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioning.

Holly could see the row of Main Street buildings ahead, but before they reached them, another deputy directed them to turn right, along with all the other traffic.

"I hope this isn't some kind of Klan meeting," Ham said. "I might have to shoot somebody."

They were directed into a large clearing in the pines, and ahead stood a tent that would house a small circus. They parked the truck, and Holly insisted that Ham lock the glove box. Everybody was filing toward the tent, and they fell in with the group.

They were an ordinary, blue-collar-looking group, Holly thought, though some of them looked more prosperous than that. There were families with small children and teenagers, all neatly dressed-no long hair or tattered jeans.

"Must be a revival meeting," Ham said. "These look like church folk."

Holly looked around for posters or flyers advertising the event, but saw nothing. Just outside the tent they joined a line that had formed, and a couple of minutes later they were approaching a ticket desk, except no tickets were being sold. Instead, people were laying twenty-dollar bills on the counter, and they were being put into a box.

"Thank you," a woman behind the table would say, as the people laid down their money.

Ham came up with two twenties, put them on the table and got thanked, but no tickets were offered, no hands stamped. They pushed past a canvas flap and stepped inside the big tent.

Holly stopped and blinked. At least three hundred people were milling about among exhibits, and there was a loud murmur of constant conversation. The tent, to her surprise, was air conditioned, and it seemed to be filled with displays of guns-everything from pistols to assault weapons. There were booths with World War II Nazi memorabilia and displays of Confederate swords and uniforms. Everybody was busily doing business, buying and selling.

Holly and Ham exchanged a glance.

"I wasn't expecting this," Ham said.

"Neither was I," she replied, "but if we're going to blend in, we'd better start shopping-window-shopping, at least."

They moved off to their right, toward a large display of black powder handguns.

Ham picked up an old Colt Buntline revolver and handed it to Holly. "Can you imagine wearing that thing on your hip?"

"Nope," Holly said. "Not without developing a list."

They moved slowly on, taking it all in, then Holly stopped and stared. "What the hell is that?" Holly gasped.

Before them lay a weapon a good five feet long, made of black steel, with a stock of some sort of plastic and a very large scope.

"That, my dear, is a Barrett's fifty-caliber rifle," Ham said.

"What is it for?"

"Just about anything you want it to be, I guess. I saw one used during Desert Storm. A sergeant I knew put two phosphorus-tipped shells through an Iraqi armored personnel carrier and blew it to hell. The other carriers in the column stopped, and troops started pouring out of them; they couldn't surrender fast enough." Ham reached into the display, picked up a cartridge and handed it to her. "This is what it fires."

Holly was astonished. The cartridge was six inches long and seemed to weigh half a pound.

"They developed that ammunition for the Browning machine gun in World War One, but it didn't really get used much until World War Two. You can put one of those babies right through an inch and a half of rolled steel armorplate."

Holly set the cartridge back where it came from. "That's downright spooky," she said.