Double blind sahl-3

by Ken Goddard

  "But how can you investigate people for killing a Bigfoot?" Susan LaGrange asked reasonably. "They're mythical beasts."

  "Actually, it's a long story," Henry Lightstone sighed, "but — "

  Susan LaGrange looked over at her husband. "Should we tell them?"

  "No, absolutely not."

  Henry Lightstone looked back and forth between his two longtime friends.

  "Tell us what?" he asked suspiciously.

  "It's nothing," Bobby dismissed the subject quickly. "Just rancher stuff. You know, bullshit and cow shit, and crazy old coots you find wandering the back forty. Nothing you'd be interested in."

  Lightstone looked back at Susan again. "He knows something about this, doesn't he?"

  "Susan, I'm warning you…"

  "I'll tell you all about that agent gal — especially the body-rubbing stuff," Lightstone promised.

  "Deal." Susan LaGrange grinned victoriously at her husband and turned to Lightstone. "What your ex-partner doesn't want to tell you is that tomorrow morning he plans to buy a genuine Apache Indian battle charm, and maybe even a piece of Bigfoot fur to — get a load of this — ward off evil ranching spirits."

  Henry Lightstone blinked, then smiled broadly.

  "An Apache Indian battle charm, and a piece of Bigfoot fur… to ward off what?"

  "Evil ranching spirits." His hostess grinned cheerfully. "See, I told you he was losing his mind."

  "Hey, wait a minute…!" Larry Paxton started to protest, but Henry Lightstone waved him off.

  "Oh no, I want to hear more about this." Henry Lightstone turned to his ex-homicide detective partner. "Come on, Bobby, 'fess up. Just who do you intend to buy all these spiritual goodies from?"

  Bobby LaGrange glared at his wife. "I think I'm gonna need a lawyer."

  "Hey, buddy boy, I'm all the lawyer you're ever going to need, and don't you ever forget it," Susan LaGrange retorted. "And to answer your question, Special Agent Lightstone," she said, turning to Henry, "he's meeting some crazy old coot at the local pancake house tomorrow morning at 8:00 A.M. sharp."

  "And he really thinks these things will ward off evil ranch spirits?" Mike Takahara asked.

  "Ask him." Susan LaGrange shrugged dramatically.

  "Hey, if you'd been up in that tree for three hours before anyone bothered to come out and see if you were okay-" Bobby LaGrange retorted defensively.

  "I'd be nailing a whole damned Bigfoot hide to that tree, right alongside the bull," Stoner agreed, nodding between mouthfuls of baked potato and steak.

  "Us Eskimos usually just nail a walrus penis bone to the door," Thomas Woeshack volunteered graciously. "That usually works pretty good, too, especially once they start getting ripe."

  "Uh, this crazy old coot." Henry Lightstone pursued the subject of his greatest interest carefully. "You wouldn't happen to know his name, would you?"

  "You mean old Sage, the soothsayer? I'm not sure." Susan LaGrange looked over at her husband. "Do we know his real name?"

  If anything, Henry Lightstone's smile grew even broader as he turned to Larry Paxton, who looked totally stricken.

  "Tomorrow morning, 8:00 A.M. sharp, at the local pancake house," he repeated cheerfully. "Good old Sage, the soothsayer. Talk about a once in a lifetime opportunity. Can you believe it? My buddy, the illegal wildlife dealer, saves the day again."

  "What do you mean, illegal wildlife dealer?" Bobby LaGrange demanded.

  "How the hell does he do that?" Mike Takahara asked Woeshack and Stoner plaintively.

  "Karma?" Thomas Woeshack suggested.

  "Nah, just plain dumb luck," Stoner grumbled.

  "Lightstone, if you think you're gonna bail out on us on account of some stupid-ass coincidence," Paxton warned his wild-card agent darkly, "you can just…"

  "No, no, wait a minute," Henry interrupted, holding up his hand. "Halahan's briefing document, page twenty-nine, and I quote from memory: 'Special Agent Lightstone will endeavor to determine subject Sage's source of materials, as well as any links he may have with other illicit wildlife parts and products dealers in the area.' "

  He smiled smugly at his fellow agents around the table. "The way I just heard it, it certainly sounds to me like we just tripped across one of the Sage's primary dealers. A cattle rancher, right in the middle of Jasper County, Oregon. Who would have thought it?"

  "Wait a minute, I don't think — " Paxton started to say, but Lightstone quickly interrupted again.

  "'Course, I suppose I could always call Halahan and tell him that I'd really like to obey his direct order, but my boss insists that I help stuff a bunch of harmless little spiders into some little glass terrariums instead."

  "I am not a crook," Bobby LaGrange muttered darkly.

  "Sure you are, honey. Just not a very good one." Susan LaGrange gave her husband a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "After all, look at the kind of people you associate with."

  "Yeah, you've got a point there."

  "Now then, Susan" — Lightstone beamed cheerfully at his former partner's wife — "since it doesn't look like I'll need my quick reflexes tomorrow after all, do you think I could have an extra big slice of that delicious apple pie?"

  Chapter Eighteen

  At precisely eight o'clock that Wednesday morning, Henry Lightstone and Bobby LaGrange entered the pancake house, stood inside the doorway, and looked around.

  "You see him?" Lightstone asked.

  "Yeah, the guy with the ratty beard and dark glasses in the back booth, next to the rest rooms." Bobby LaGrange nodded toward the rear of the restaurant.

  "This the same crazy old fart who's supposedly blind, but rides a motorbike all over town?"

  "Uh-huh." A pained expression darkened Bobby LaGrange's tanned features even more. "You sure we've got to go through with this, Henry?"

  "You'd rather go over to the warehouse and help Larry figure out how to transfer 750 giant tarantulas and about thirty poisonous snakes into a couple hundred glass terrariums?"

  "Yeah, right, never mind," LaGrange muttered as they walked toward the booth.

  The Sage greeted Bobby LaGrange warmly.

  "You brought a friend?" he noted the obvious as he motioned the two men to the opposite bench where Wintersole had sat the previous morning.

  "He's an old school buddy of mine," LaGrange explained as they sat down. "Henry, Sage. Sage, Henry."

  The two men nodded at each other.

  "I told Henry about how we met at my ranch last weekend, and about those Indian battle charms you said you could get," Bobby LaGrange went on easily. "Figured you wouldn't mind if I brought along another potential customer."

  "I'm always interested in trying to help fellow travelers in this terribly confusing world." The old man lifted his dark glasses and appraised Lightstone with his squinting, red-streaked eyes. "Do you believe in ancient superstitions, Henry?"

  Lightstone shrugged. "I believe there's a whole bunch of things we don't understand. And my luck's certainly been down lately. Running across Bobby after twenty-some years is about the best thing that's happened to me since my girlfriend took off. So I figured, what the hell, an Indian battle charm might help some, and it sure as hell can't make things any worse."

  "Things are never as they seem, but they can always be better than they are," the Sage replied wisely.

  "You know" — Lightstone smiled — "my grandmother used to say things like that."

  "Really?" The old man leaned forward in the booth with his thin arms wrapped protectively around his cup and saucer. "Was she a seer?"

  "A what?"

  "A seer — someone who sees glimpses of the future," the Sage explained.

  "I have no idea. All I know is that she used to tell me stories about good and evil spirits."

  "The ancient stories. Good against evil. Light against darkness," the old man whispered excitedly.

  "Yes, that's exactly it," Lightstone replied, instinctively going with the flow of the conversation. "She talked about how the spirits
were in balance, harmony — I think she called it — like the day and the night, one following the other into eternity… except — "

  "Yes?" The Sage leaned forward so eagerly he seemed ready to pounce on Lightstone's next words.

  "I don't know. It's been a long time." Lightstone smiled apologetically. "As I recall though, she said some kind of disaster would occur if anything ever destroyed the balance. The darkness could gain strength and overwhelm the light. She called it something, but I can't-"

  "The Apocalypse?" the Sage whispered hopefully.

  Henry Lightstone smiled, this time in apparent recognition.

  "That's it, the Apocalypse. That's what she called it, too." He stared above the Sage's head at nothing, as if remembering something from his distant past. "Man, I'd forgotten all about those stories. You bring back some interesting memories."

  "Your grandmother was a seer," the old man stated flatly. "Which means you possibly received the Gift as well."

  "Really?" Lightstone eyed the old man skeptically. "I don't have any sense of that — being able to see the future."

  "No, of course not." The old man quickly glanced around the restaurant and lowered his voice. "You wouldn't be aware of it, until something — or someone — awakens the spirit within you. And even then, you would only see glimpses. We're never allowed to see the whole truth."

  Then, for thirty seconds or so, he seemed lost in thought, leaving the other two men to sit in silence.

  "So, you think a genuine Apache Indian battle charm might help me make peace with my ranch spirits, and get my buddy's life back on track?" LaGrange finally pressed the old man gently.

  The Sage appeared to rouse himself out of a deep trance.

  "Oh yes, without a doubt." He spoke hesitantly at first, but his voice gradually grew stronger. "Unfortunately, my sources at the reservation couldn't talk a very stubborn woman out of the particular charm I wanted for you." He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "It happens sometimes. Most of the Apache women will usually sell their family artifacts for a reasonable amount. But every now and then — " He held his wrinkled hands out as if to say, "What can you do?"

  "Do you think she's holding out for a better price?" LaGrange asked.

  "I really don't think so, but I suppose that's always possible," the Sage conceded. "If you like, I can offer her more. Would you be willing to go as high as three hundred dollars?"

  "For my buddy to change his luck? Hell, yes," Bobby LaGrange volunteered expansively.

  "Oh." The old man blinked in surprise. "I didn't realize you intended to buy a bear charm for your friend, too…"

  Without warning, he reached forward, took Lightstone's right wrist, pulled it toward him, and traced each of the major lines in the covert agent's palm with a wrinkled forefinger.

  As Lightstone observed the process patiently, the old man's eyebrows suddenly furrowed.

  Mumbling to himself, the Sage quickly retraced three of the lines. Still not satisfied, he pressed his fingertips firmly against Lightstone's knuckles and wrist, as if trying to judge strength and flexibility.

  Finally, he released the agent's hand, sat back in the booth, and shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Henry," he spoke with what sounded like genuine regret while staring into Henry Lightstone's eyes through the dark lenses. "Your friend is a generous man, but the bear-claw necklace is not for you."

  "Why not?" The federal wildlife agent felt his heart sink as he sensed his link to the Sage — and his miraculous last-minute escape from Halahan's malicious sense of humor — slipping from his grasp.

  "You don't have a bear spirit," the old man announced with certainty.

  "I don't?"

  "Definitely not."

  "But what — " Lightstone started to ask, but the Sage cut him off.

  "When you were a child, did you have any pets?"

  "Ah… I recall a dog or two. Tell you the truth, I really didn't pay much attention to them."

  "But you have no animals now — no pets?"

  Lightstone shook his head.

  The Sage closed his eyes behind his dark glasses and rocked back and forth in his bench seat as he apparently digested this information. Suddenly he smiled, opened his eyes, and stared directly at Henry Lightstone.

  "Did your grandmother own any animals?" the old man inquired softly.

  It shocked Henry when the memory came back so quickly and vividly.

  "An old black Manx used to hang around, but I wouldn't say she owned it."

  "Then there's your answer." The Sage smiled in satisfaction.

  "I… don't follow," Lightstone admitted hesitantly.

  "You're a cat."

  The revelation bothered Henry Lightstone far more than he thought it should.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Not literally, of course." The old man smiled understandingly. "You simply possess a cat spirit."

  "I do?"

  Bobby LaGrange burst into a brief fit of coughing that Lightstone thought sounded suspiciously like barely controlled laugher.

  "Yes, of course you do. Didn't you know?"

  "I guess I never thought much… about it," Lightstone confessed, starting to wonder if escaping warehouse duty for a day was worth all of the harassment he could expect to receive from his retired homicide detective buddy over the next few years.

  "It's nothing you have to think about, or do anything about, for that matter," the Sage explained soothingly. "It's simply there for your use — if you choose to use it. Not everyone does."

  "Well, uh, if a bear-claw necklace won't help my friend," Bobby LaGrange made an attempt to keep the conversation focused on the potential evidence, or at least what he thought might be potential evidence, "how about one of those Bigfoot artifacts you told me about?"

  The old man cocked his head, stared into Henry Lightstone's eyes again for a few moments, and smiled.

  "Do you know how to find the Dogsfire Inn?" he asked. "It's a small restaurant, post office, and community center at the intersection of Brandywine Road and Loggerhead Creek."

  Henry Lightstone looked over at Bobby LaGrange, who shrugged, then nodded.

  "We can find it," Lightstone replied.

  "Not both of you. Just you," the old man insisted emphatically.

  "Why would I want to do that?"

  "Don't you wish to explore your cat spirit?"

  "I'm not sure," Henry Lightstone responded after a particularly uneasy delay. "But I will admit you've made me curious."

  "If you want to satisfy that curiosity, be at the Dogsfire Inn at four o'clock today," the Sage ordered as he pulled himself out of the booth. "There's somebody there you should meet."

  Chapter Nineteen

  At precisely 9:35 A.M., eastern standard time, that Wednesday morning, Simon Whatley hurried into the private sanctuary of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, and was surprised to encounter not one but two visitors — one of whom sat in the shadows of Smallsreed's spacious congressional office.

  "About time you got here, Simon," the congressman commented dryly.

  "Delayed flight," Whatley explained, deciding to save his comments about absurd red-eye flights from Medford, Oregon, through San Francisco and on to Washington Dulles with long stopovers in Chicago. He always hated such flights, especially on short notice, but he particularly hated them when all of their first-class seats were booked, and he found himself crammed in with parents traveling with small children, all of whom spent all of their time screaming, crying, or running up and down the aisles.

  All in all, the congressional district office manager had had a miserable night. And given the expression on Regis J. Smallsreed's face, Whatley sensed that the morning wasn't going to be much of an improvement.

  "I believe you know Sam Tisbury, Chairman and CEO of Cyanosphere VIII." The congressman waved his hand in the general direction of his two guests.

  One of Smallsreed's two visitors — the younger, more visible one — nodded his head in Whatley's direction, but didn't
bother to get up.

  "I don't believe you know our other visitor, so let's just keep it that way." Smallsreed gestured to an empty chair in front of his expansive desk. "Sit down, my boy."

  As Simon Whatley sat, he realized that someone had adjusted the lighting in the room to illuminate him fully from all sides while leaving the other three men in the shadows. In fact, now he couldn't see the other visitor at all.

  "I believe you have something to report?" Smallsreed prodded.

  "Oh, uh, yes, I do," Whatley replied hurriedly. "I'm pleased to tell you that everything is in place. Our team and, uh — theirs," he hesitated, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing about Smallsreed's other visitor.

  "You can speak freely here," the congressman snapped impatiently. "We all know each other."

  You do, but I don't, Whatley thought uneasily, but continued on as ordered.

  "We're in the process of establishing contact with the militant group. That should occur" — Whatley looked down at his watch — "about eight hours from now."

  "Is this group credible?" Sam Tisbury directed his question at Smallsreed.

  "Oh hell yes," the congressman responded. "I know several of these people personally, since we were kids. Some of them even kept in touch after they dug themselves into the hills — I get a letter from them every now and then, hoping I'll use my influence to help them with their agenda, I guess — and as far as I can tell, they're all still as rabid as ever."

  "They may be rabid as fucking bats, but that doesn't necessarily make them credible," the wealthy industrialist pointed out.

  "Sam, I can absolutely guarantee that these people hate the federal government and everything it stands for, and everybody in my district knows it, too," Smallsreed insisted emphatically. "No question about it."

  "But do the people in your district consider them capable of taking on a team of federal agents?" Tisbury pressed. "I don't have to remind you, Regis, this whole exercise must be completely credible. If any one element looks the least bit suspicious, some goddamned journalist will start digging around asking questions. And if that happens, we're going to have an absolute disaster on our hands."