Double blind sahl-3

by Ken Goddard

  Every muscle in Henry Lightstone's own glistening body tensed as he fought to fend off a combination of physical and emotional sensations that seemed — from his highly stimulated point of view during those few uninhibited hours — determined to overwhelm him absolutely.

  "Not you — her!"

  "What?"

  Karla raised her upper body to peer over her shoulder, and then arched her back and moaned as his hands roamed over her slick swollen breasts gleaming in the glow of the night light.

  "When did… she get here? Supposed to be… locked up!" She briefly tried to control herself, but then abandoned that in favor of fully enjoying her fully aroused if slightly distracted partner.

  "No idea… never saw her come down." Lightstone gasped, torn between passion and self-preservation, when every shred of his awareness converged on the woman's increasingly focused, heated, and frantic movements. "I wasn't paying… any attention."

  "Good!" She began to kiss him passionately while rubbing her sweat- slickened breasts against his heaving chest.

  Realizing that all sense of control had rapidly deserted him, Lightstone growled deep in his throat, and then flipped them both over so she lay on her back with her long silky legs tightly wrapped tightly around his waist and her arms around his neck.

  You're insane, Lightstone, he told himself. Absolutely fucking insane.

  He sensed, in the midst of absolute bliss, the force of the panther's head butting hard against his own and, without thinking, he shoved the huge cat aside, then proceeded to ignore both the subsequent roar and the sharp pain across his arm as he gave in to an ancient and ultimately irresistible urge…

  Only later, as he lay on his back, trying very hard to control both his breathing and his emotions — Karla snuggled tightly against his right shoulder and sighing sleepily, and the panther snuggled in tight against his neck and other shoulder rumbling contentedly — did Henry Lightstone finally realize that a goodly amount of the glossy sheen on his chest, arms and shoulders was definitely not sweat.

  "Hey," he whispered to the sensuous creature laying against his right shoulder, while trying to ignore the other one rumbling against his neck.

  "Hummf?"

  "I think I'm bleeding to death."

  "Just some scratches. Don't be a wimp," Karla mumbled. "Betadine® in bathroom. Fix you up in the morn…" Her voice trailed off into an exhausted sigh that almost immediately gave way to the sound of soft, regular breathing.

  "What do you mean…?" he started to demand, but quickly shut up when the cat jerked awake, her bright yellow eyes suddenly appearing in the darkness and focusing on his for a brief moment before they closed again.

  Moments later, the deep feline rumbling against his neck and left shoulder resumed.

  Lightstone remained unmoving in the semidarkness for another ten minutes until the breathing of the enchanting but dangerous creatures on either side of him evened out into a deep-sleep rhythm.

  Then, ever so carefully, he slid out from between them. When he did, the panther gracefully rolled over into his abandoned spot next to her sleeping mistress, and with equal grace the woman wrapped her body around the big cat's.

  He remained motionless, silently watching the two of them until the deep rumbling slowly evened out again. Then he picked up his clothes and slowly worked his way to the bathroom door.

  After carefully pulling the door closed behind him, Lightstone turned on the bathroom light, squinted, and then stared in disbelief at his right forearm, where blood oozed from four deep parallel slashes.

  "Christ, no wonder it hurts," he muttered as he quickly confirmed that most of the blood covering his torso had apparently come from the wounds on his arm.

  After muttering a few other things under his breath, Lightstone turned on the shower, walked over to the mirror, then winced as he examined the various wounds that corresponded to numerous tender areas on his shoulders, back, hips, and buttocks. Even though they paled in comparison to the deep gouges that crisscrossed his calves and his right hand, to say nothing of the four outright slashes into his right forearm, a few of the human-induced scratches were deep enough to have bled slightly.

  You may have short nails, lady, but you sure as hell know how to use them.

  The warm shower felt wonderful, but the rivulets of diluted blood swirling around Henry Lightstone's feet reminded him of the real reason for his visit.

  He tried not to curse as he rubbed soap into the wounds, reminding himself that it would get a lot worse in a few minutes. He rinsed off, dried himself as best he could with the single large bath towel on the rack, used some folds of toilet tissue as a temporary compress, opened the medicine chest… and sighed.

  The antiseptic spray caused him to blink a few times when he awkwardly applied the stinging mist to the scratches that crisscrossed his shoulders, back, hips, butt, calves, and hand. But he knew that cat bites and scratches could be highly infectious, and he could think of no reason why panther claws would be any different.

  Which meant he needed something stronger.

  Must be out of my goddamned mind, he told himself as he reached for the small brown bottle on the top shelf of the medicine chest.

  Without thinking about it anymore than absolutely necessary, he quickly removed the makeshift compress, firmly placed his right hand palm down against the bottom of the porcelain sink, poured the Merthiolate down the full length of the first deep slash in his forearm…

  And then sprayed the rest of it all over the bathroom wall when he slammed his left hand against the sink while trying — with only minimal success — to contain an anguished scream.

  He was still trying to regain his senses when the door behind him burst open.

  "What in the world are you… oh my God!"

  "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he mumbled thickly, blinking back the tears as he tried to will away the agonizing pain in his forearm that knifed all the way up into the center of his skull.

  "I thought — Jesus, never mind what I thought," the woman muttered as she grabbed his arm, quickly examined the deep slashes, and then observed the empty Merthiolate bottle in the sink and the bright red spray pattern all over her bathroom wall.

  "I swear I don't understand you males," she continued muttering as she squatted down and removed a brown plastic bottle and a large tube of ointment from the cabinet beneath the sink, along with a handful of large gauze pads and a roll of medical tape. "Every damned one of you seems to go into arrested development the moment you turn twelve.

  "And by the way," she added absentmindedly as she removed the top from the larger bottle, "didn't I tell you to use the Betadine® solution?"

  "What's that?" Henry Lightstone's glazed eyes slowly began to focus, a process that rapidly accelerated when he realized that she was stark naked, and that he was actually seeing her that way — in the light — for the first time.

  "Tamed iodine," she explained. "Works just as well as Merthiolate, but doesn't make your eyeballs pop out of your head." Working quickly and professionally, she stoppered the sink, pushed his hand back down onto the bottom of the porcelain sink, then lathered and rinsed the bloody slashes in his forearm repeatedly.

  "There, isn't that better?"

  "Much." Lightstone nodded gratefully.

  "I don't know what got into her," the sensuous young woman apologized as she gently blotted the wounds dry with a clean cloth, smoothed a thick layer of antibiotic ointment over them, and neatly bandaged his arm.

  "If it's anything like what got into you, I don't want to know about it."

  Karla blinked, started to say something… then thought better of it.

  "You may be closer to the truth there than you think," she admitted, giving him the full benefit of her gold-flecked green eyes. But before Lightstone could say anything, she began examining his other wounds.

  "Hey, what's that all about?" she demanded, pointing to his shoulder.

  "As I recall, that's where you bit me." Lightstone tried
very hard to ignore the sensual impact of the woman's close and naked presence, and failed miserably. "I guess some women reach for a cigarette afterward, and others just try to rip a guy's shoulder off."

  "No, not those little things, I mean these, right here," she persisted, running her fingers lightly over the patch of ragged white scar tissue on his shoulder. "I sure as hell didn't do that… and these either," she added as she moved behind him to examine his back. "What caused all this?"

  "Well, uh…"

  "You know, several of these scars do look an awful lot like claw marks." She moved closer to examine the scar tissue and, in doing so, unconsciously pressed her breasts against his arm and back. "But I don't think a cat made them."

  "Bear," Lightstone mumbled, thinking, Jesus, I've got to get out of here!

  "What?" She pulled him around by his shoulders and stared into his pain-dulled eyes.

  Careful.

  "Bare. Naked. We're both standing here bare-ass naked — "

  His comment momentarily confused her until she looked down at herself. "Oh."

  "That's right, 'oh.' And it would be a lot easier," Henry Lightstone went on halfheartedly, "if you'd go get dressed before — "

  "Before what?" she deliberately lowered her voice to a sultry whisper and pressed her body firmly against his.

  "This isn't what it looks like."

  "It certainly looks like it to me."

  "That's not what I meant."

  I don't know what I meant, but that wasn't it, Lightstone tried to tell himself. And if it was, I don't want to know about it.

  "I know." She ran her fingers lightly over the irregular pattern of scar tissue on his shoulder again, and let them trail slowly and gently down his chest. "Just shut up and let me take care of it."

  Oh Christ.

  She was still moving her warm hands over his lower torso, thirty seconds later, when the sudden sound of sharp claws digging into the outside surface of the bathroom door, immediately followed by a loud and demanding yowl, jarred them both.

  "Ignore her," the woman ordered in that same sultry whisper.

  "Yeah, but what if — "

  "Don't worry, she can't get in here." She nibbled his earlobe.

  The sound of shredding wood grew louder and the yowling more insistent as the door rattled on its hinges.

  "Are you sure?" The look and feel of her warm and smooth body wrapping around his made it difficult for him to think clearly.

  "Trust me. It'll take her a while," she murmured, pressing her soft warm lips against his.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  By eleven o'clock that Thursday evening, Wildlife Special Agents Mark LiBrandi and Gus Donato of Charlie Team figured they had their surveillance system down pat.

  It's simply a matter of timing, Donato explained to LiBrandi as they drove into the parking lot of the Creekside Bar. Go in, find the closest thing available to a dark corner table, let the waitress take her own sweet time getting there, order a pair of drafts, put a few wrinkled one-dollar bills on the table — enough to cover the two beers plus a minimal tip, to discourage any further interest on her part — milk the beers as long as possible, then order a couple of coffees at the precise moment her patience finally runs out.

  With any luck at all, they could stretch that whole process out for at least an hour — ideally an hour and a half — thereby maintaining their surveillance for a reasonable time at each bar in town without undue risk to their covers, their covert per-diem limits, their sobriety, or their waistlines.

  "Hope that Sally gal isn't on duty tonight," Donato remarked as they approached the entrance. "I think she's getting kinda sweet on you. Must've come by our table at least a half dozen times the other night."

  "Maybe you tipped her too much?" LiBrandi suggested.

  "Fifty cents on a couple watered-down two-seventy-five beers?"

  "No, you're probably right," the young covert agent conceded. "She must be hot for my bod."

  "Well, try to keep it in your pants tonight. I don't think I can stand more than one cheap beer at this place, and I don't even want to think about their coffee."

  As it turned out, Sally was off on Mondays and Thursdays. And while several of the easily recognizable regulars slumped in the cheap, Naugahyde®-covered booths or hovered around the pool table, the booth in the darkened far corner of the bar was available. Accordingly, the pair of agents ordered their beers, took their turns at the pool table, tried to ignore the necking couple in the adjoining booth, engaged in a few casual conversations that never quite worked around to the local militia groups, and finally ordered two cups of the bar's predictably bitter coffee at twelve-fifteen.

  Ten minutes later, having dumped a good three-quarters of their coffee in the fake potted fern behind their booth, Donato and LiBrandi departed, trying to decide whether to finish the evening at the Gopher's Hole — a seedy sports bar with no apparent relationship to any kind of mammal, much less a gopher, but which offered an impressive collection of Confederate battle flags and other Civil War memorabilia — or go all out and splurge at the more upscale Gunrack Saloon, locally known for its decent beer and equally impressive collection of deer antlers.

  Busy arguing the investigative merits of the two local watering holes as they walked toward their rental car, the young and inexperienced covert agents failed to notice that the necking couple had followed them into the parking lot.

  A few minutes after one in the morning, Henry Lightstone slowly and carefully worked himself out of bed for the second time that night.

  It was much easier this time because the panther had retreated to her tree loft, and — judging from the audible snoring — slept soundly. He and the woman had finally managed to distract the big cat by retreating to the shower. While Lightstone held his bandaged arm high above the spray of water, the woman quickly rinsed off then ran dripping to open the partially shredded door. The panther leaped into the bathroom, padded to the shower, stuck her head around the curtain, and stared bleakly at Henry Lightstone through the spray for a few moments. Then she pulled her head back out, shook off the water, and exited the bathroom with a shrug of feline indifference that left Lightstone feeling inexplicably disappointed.

  And getting out of bed was also easier because Karla had fallen into a deep sleep within moments of her head hitting the pillow.

  Henry Lightstone could have duplicated that trick without the least difficulty, but he needed to do something very important before he allowed himself the luxury of a good night's sleep.

  It took him a few minutes to locate his clothes and put on everything except his shoes. Then he slowly worked his way through the adjoining tree-room, down the hallway, and into a small room he'd identified earlier as the postmistress's office.

  He didn't dare risk a light, but rather felt his way carefully in the dark until he located the old dial phone on the standard-issue metal desk. It had been so long since he'd used a dial phone, he had to open one of the window shades to let in some moonlight so he could see well enough to dial the number of the motel that Bravo Team had chosen as a home base.

  "Holiday Inn."

  "Larry Packer's room, please."

  "One moment."

  Lightstone heard the distant phone ring eight times before the operator came back on the line.

  "I'm sorry, sir, your party doesn't answer. Would you like to leave a message?"

  Yes, I would, Lightstone thought, but I wouldn't know where to start.

  "Could you try Dwight Stanley's room, please?"

  "Just a moment."

  This time the operator cut in after only seven rings.

  "Neither of your parties answer, sir. Would you care to leave a message?"

  "No, that's all right."

  Henry Lightstone pulled his watch out of his jeans pocket, then frowned at the 0132 digital display. Under normal circumstances, members of the covert team still could be out at this time of night, either working on some phase of the operation, or eating a l
ate dinner.

  But nothing about this entire operation has been normal so far, he reminded himself as he glanced down at his bandaged forearm.

  He felt tempted to call Halahan or Moore, figuring a 4:30 A.M. wake- up call was the least the two Special Ops branch supervisors deserved for the red-kneed spider business. But he also realized that local post office managers often checked the phone records of the small rural locations, to discourage personal use of official phones by the resident postmasters. The last thing he needed right now was the woman getting called in to explain a 1:30 A.M. phone call to an unlisted number on the East Coast.

  Nor could he use the cell phone because even if those real or fake soldiers didn't monitor calls in the middle of the night, he'd left it in the saddle bag of his motorcycle, and he couldn't get it because Karla had activated an alarm system after locking the outside doors and shutting off the lights in the restaurant. It was always possible that some of the windows weren't alarmed, but that would be difficult to determine in the darkness, and a triggered alarm would be equally difficult to explain.

  Using the little available moonlight, it took Lightstone another five minutes to confirm his suspicion that an old-time wildlife officer and resident agent like Wilbur Boggs wouldn't list his home phone in the directory. The local office number for the Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service was listed, but not knowing anything about local arrangements, or the backgrounds of any other employees who might have access to the answering machine there besides Boggs and his secretary, he decided to save that option until things became a bit more desperate.

  Ditto for the local FBI, DEA, and sheriff's offices. While Lightstone didn't question a local federal agent or sheriff deputy's ability to relay a carefully worded message, such a request — especially at one-thirty in the morning — would almost certainly require a personal display of his credentials or, at the very least, more of an explanation than he was willing or able to provide at that moment.

  Which only left one more option, and a very interesting question.

  If these military — or militant, that's always a possibility in this area of the country, he reminded himself — characters could tag a supposedly alert team of covert federal agents to what Lightstone assumed was Charlie Team's operational warehouse, what were the chances that this group had also tagged all of Bravo Team to Bobby LaGrange's ranch?