by Ken Goddard
"And?" Wintersole pressed her for details.
"Putting a bunch of things they said together, I got the impression that everybody on their team — except for the three we keep seeing," she emphasized, "go out looking for Boggs every day."
"That doesn't make any sense." Wintersole lowered his voice as he looked around at the members of his hunter-killer team. "Why would an undercover team of federal wildlife agents try to make contact with the local resident wildlife agent — a man so well known throughout the county he could easily blow their cover — when they're supposed to be covertly working their way in on the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal?"
"Maybe they think he could help them pinpoint specific members of the group — the ones who might be more approachable?" one-seven suggested.
"If that's the case, then why can't they find him?" Wintersole asked reasonably. "He lives only a few miles from his office, and we know he was out at the lake last Sunday."
"And we also know his vehicles are still at his house, both government and personal," one-three added.
"And so do they," one-five reported. "They were out there this evening and sure acted like they knew the place. One of them just jumped out of the car, ran up to the front door, knocked, tried the knob, and then took a quick look through the garage window. Didn't even bother going around to the back."
"You think they checked his office?" one-three asked.
"First thing," one-four responded confidently. "If he was there, all they would've had to do was make a simple call-in asking for a meet at a remote location. Which means Boggs probably isn't out on assignment or on leave," he added.
"Maybe he just took off without telling anyone," one-three suggested. "You think he'd be allowed to do that?"
"Pretty damned loose outfit if he could," one-two commented.
"According to Rustman, the man doesn't take real vacations," Wintersole reported thoughtfully. "Spends his days off out on the lake fishing. But that brings up an interesting point," the first sergeant added. "If those agents have checked his office and his house — probably more than once from the sound of it — and they're still looking for him instead of doing what they were sent out here to do, they must have a real good reason for wanting to talk with him. Which could help us, because we need some way to bring them all together at one location at a specified time."
"So if we find Boggs first, we can use him as bait," one-three came to the obvious conclusion.
"Exactly." Wintersole nodded grimly. "The question is, how do we do that before they do?"
"Man likes to fish, but he probably won't want to do much of that for a while," one-two suggested with a smile. "Last time we saw him at Rustman's place, he was bleeding from the nose real bad, and it looked like at least one of his hands was broken. He must have spent at least four hours in the water cutting all that rope and netting loose."
"He did look pretty wiped out by the time he got that boat back to shore," one-seven confirmed. "Gotta hand it to him. He's a tough old bird. If I'd been hurt that bad, I'd have called for a medic straightaway."
Wintersole turned to the team's communications specialist/medic and smiled thinly.
"The hospital," she whispered softly, when the realization hit her suddenly. "I'll bet that's exactly where he is right now."
Chapter Thirty-one
At 8:05 that Friday morning, with his heart pounding in his chest, Congressional Aide Keith Bennington stumbled into the Dogsfire Inn Post Office, fumbled with the key, and then blinked in surprise when he saw the inch-thick manila envelope lying sideways in box fifteen with another much thinner envelope.
"Christ, it's about time somebody finally put something in the damned thing," he muttered, heartsick because the presence of the envelope would make it even more difficult to convince his boss that there wasn't much point making two trips a day out to the rural post office — at 8:00 A.M. and 6:00 P.M. — to check on an empty mailbox.
This was Bennington's third trip to the Dogsfire Inn since that fateful night when his attempt to deliver the federal-agent profiles resulted in his horrifying confrontation with the nightmarish creature whose hovering — and glowing — yellow eyes still haunted his dreams. And it hadn't gotten any better. In fact, it took every ounce of resolve that the young congressional aide could muster just to get out of his car and enter the post office.
He had hoped to talk Maria Cordovian into taking over — or at the very least sharing — the drop-off and pickup runs, but the strikingly attractive young intern hadn't spoken three words to him since the weekend hunting trip at Rustman's, and office rumor hinted that Smallsreed wanted her to fill an open slot at his DC office.
Bennington tried not to think about the other — more lurid — aspects of that rumor.
Not that Whatley would listen to me anyway, he thought morosely as he pulled the envelope out of the mailbox, quickly relocked the small metal door, and hurried back to his car.
Ever since his red-eye flight to DC the previous Wednesday, Simon Whatley's mood had vacillated wildly between rabid dementia and manic-depression, a fact not lost on any member of the congressional district office staff.
And that was after just one flight, Bennington reminded himself, breathing easier once he locked all the car doors and turned the key in the ignition. God, what's he going to be like tonight?
Probably either homicidal or suicidal, Bennington decided as he hurriedly started up the car, gunned the engine, backed up, and accelerated out of the parking lot… then pinned his hopes on "suicidal" as the better option of the two.
Chapter Thirty-two
"You two planning on getting out of bed sometime today?"
Henry Lightstone blinked slowly awake… and immediately found himself staring into a pair of adoring bright yellow eyes.
The shock of waking up six inches from the muzzle of a fully grown panther still surged through his nervous system when he became aware that his right forearm throbbed painfully.
The panther rumbled a greeting. And all of the relevant pieces began to fall into place in his sleep-starved mind.
"What time is it?" he mumbled as he cautiously turned over and looked up at the slender woman leaning in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest.
"According to my watch, about twenty after eight."
"How long've you been up?"
"Since about five-thirty this morning. I've got a restaurant and a post office to run, a government to curse, and fortunes to tell, remember?"
Lightstone blinked some more, heaved himself up on his elbows, and then looked at the panther, stretched lazily out on the bed with her eyes closed, her head resting against her right shoulder, and her right forepaw pressing against his arm. Then full awareness struck home.
"You left me alone in this bed with her… for three hours?" he sputtered.
"Sure, why not?" Karla shrugged, although a hint of a smile appeared at the corner of her lips. "It's common knowledge you men are pretty useless once you fall asleep."
"And a cheerful good morning to you, too."
"Although come to think of it," she added thoughtfully, "from the looks of that bed, I'm not sure how much sleeping the two of you did after I left."
Henry Lightstone stared in disbelief at the patterns of dried blood that covered what little remained of the torn sheets.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered as he sat up in the bed and looked around.
"Mother warned me about letting strange men in my bed," Karla commented, "but I think this particular situation far exceeds anything she possibly imagined. Maybe I should send her a copy of the photo. Better yet," she smiled brightly, "I wonder what the National Enquirer would pay?"
"You took a picture of me lying here?"
"I can just see the headlines now," Karla went on, ignoring his question, "'FEMALES SCORNED. CATFIGHT LEAVES BOYFRIEND WITH HURT FEELINGS.'"
"Is there some purpose to this visit, other than to give me a bad time about your sheets?" Lightstone inquired ters
ely.
"As a matter of fact, there is. I came to let you know that breakfast will be on the table at nine sharp… unless, of course," she smiled brightly again, "you'd like it served in bed?"
At ten minutes to nine, Henry Lightstone entered the screened dining area with a tight-jawed look on his face, the panther following closely at his side.
"And how are we doing this fine morning?" Karla inquired cheerfully as she put a bowl of water on the floor for the panther, attached the control collar around her neck, and poured Lightstone's coffee.
"I have to go to the bathroom," the covert agent muttered irritably.
The sensuous young woman cocked her head.
"Is this one of those 'my boyfriend has this really bizarre problem' situations they write about in Cosmo?" she whispered hopefully. "Or are you just asking permission?"
Lightstone leaned toward her until their heads almost touched.
"What I'm asking," he hissed through gritted teeth, "is for you to keep that damned cat here, and distracted, so that I can go into the bathroom, unzip my pants, and take a leak without having a hundred-pound panther nuzzle at my crotch."
"I don't know, that sure sounds like a bizarre guy-problem to me." She smiled brightly and glanced down at her watch. "However, I think I can guarantee you a maximum of nine minutes, following which your breakfast will be placed on the table and all bets are off."
"Deal."
Three minutes later, Lightstone emerged from the public rest room and entered the back room of the post office, determined to find a cancellation stamp for the letter he'd dropped in box fifteen the previous evening. However, he then noticed that box fifteen was empty, heard footsteps, and was in the process of pulling the door to the back room shut behind him when a FedEx agent hurrying down the hallway with a package almost knocked him over.
"Excuse me, my fault," Lightstone apologized.
"Oh, uh, no problem." The uniformed deliveryman offered a brief but harried smile. "Say, uh, you wouldn't happen to know if the postmaster… or postmistress," he corrected himself, looking over Lightstone's shoulder at the not-quite-shut office door with a hopeful expression on his face, "is around anywhere?"
"Last time I saw her, she was heading toward the kitchen. She should be out in a few minutes."
"Oh… uh, do you work here?"
"Well
No, of course I don't work here, you idiot. I'm just snooping around the back office when the postmistress isn't looking, Lightstone thought to himself, willing the man to go away before the woman showed up and started asking questions he didn't even want to think about trying to answer.
"Look, I'm running kinda late, and all I need is a drop-off signature. If you don't mind?"
"Sure, no problem." Lightstone accepted the pen and clipboard. "Say," he asked as he scribbled an illegible signature in the designated block, "when did FedEx start doing pickups and deliveries at post offices?"
The driver shrugged. "I deliver wherever it says on the address, and pick up just about anywhere in town… even the local girly-joint if they've got something to go." The driver smiled as he accepted the clipboard and handed the package to Lightstone.
"So you guys deliver at the industrial complex out on the west side of town?" Lightstone asked as an idea suddenly occurred to him.
"Sure do. In fact, that's where I'm headed now."
"You have time to pick up another package for delivery out there?"
"Always time to pick up new business. But it won't get there until tomorrow."
"Why not?"
"It has to go through one of the central routing points first."
"You mean you guys would actually fly a package all the way to Memphis or San Francisco, fly it back to Medford, and then truck it all the way back to Loggerhead City?"
"You bet." The driver smiled again. "That's what you pay for — twenty-four-hour guaranteed service. Not necessarily efficient service, but definitely guaranteed."
"What if I offered you a hundred dollars for a one-hour guaranteed delivery?"
"A hundred dollars?" The driver gasped. "Are you serious?"
"I am as long as the package gets there before ten this morning."
"Well, I don't know…"
"Listen," Lightstone quickly pulled out his wallet, "if it makes you feel better, send another empty package the long way around through Memphis, full fare… just as long as the first one gets to the warehouse by ten this morning." He handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill. "Deal?"
The driver looked at the money, hesitated once more, then directed Lightstone to follow him out to his truck.
Five minutes later, Bravo Team's wild-card agent hurried back into the restaurant with a FedEx package in his hand and sat down at the table just as Danny came out of the kitchen with a steaming tray balanced on his shoulder.
"That was close," the woman commented, looking down at her watch. "Only fifteen seconds to spare."
"Figured I'd better do something worthwhile to earn my keep around here," Lightstone explained, handing her the package as the cook set the tray on a nearby table.
"Don't tell me you're angling for a job with the post office?" The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced at the package before she set it aside.
Lightstone laughed. "Not hardly. I don't think I'd make a very good federal employee."
"Oh really? Why's that?"
"The federal government and I don't exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things," Lightstone told her truthfully. "Fact of the matter is, until I met you, I kinda figured they were all just a bunch of lay-about good-for-nothings pigging out at the government trough. You know the type. Too lazy to go out and get a real job."
"As opposed to your standard, skinny, hardworking, good-for-nothing male who just happens to be — how did you put it — 'between' real jobs?" Karla smiled.
"Exactly," Lightstone nodded agreeably. "Man has to know his place in this world."
"Actually," the slender young woman studied him thoughtfully, "I bet you'd be a perfect candidate to give some of those higher-ups in Washington a few well-deserved coronaries."
"That's been mentioned before," Lightstone admitted.
"Yeah, I'll bet it has." Karla chuckled, making no attempt to restrain her good-natured sarcasm. Then she smiled in gratitude when the cook placed a steaming plate of scrambled eggs with minced China peas and sliced mushrooms, and one of toast, on the table in front of her.
"Danny, you are a gem. Remind me not to ever let the federal government steal you away from here."
"Yes, ma'am, that I am… and no, ma'am, there ain't no chance of that ever happening." The young cook smiled cheerfully. "Added the mushrooms for a little variety." He gestured toward the contentedly sleeping panther. "Figured y'all might need your strength this fine morning."
The cook then deliberately glanced down at Lightstone's bandaged forearm, shook his head, smirked, placed a second steaming plate in front of the covert agent, and walked back into the kitchen humming a cheerful Cajun tune, seemingly oblivious to the glares the two diners aimed in his direction.
Chapter Thirty-three
"Why the hell didn't you think of something like this in the first place?" Larry Paxton asked reasonably after he examined Mike Takahara's latest construction project.
"Lack of perspective," the team's tech agent replied.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"A couple days ago, I wouldn't have thought that building something this elaborate just to drill a four-inch-diameter hole into the side of a shipping crate would have been worth the effort."
"Chasing little baby poisonous snakes around a frozen warehouse for eight hours straight tends to give you a whole different perspective on a lot of things," the Bravo Team leader commented grimly.
"Amen to that."
"Yeah, no shit," Dwight Stoner agreed as he and the other three agents watched the first red-kneed giant tarantula step cautiously into the twelve-inch segment of four-inc
h-diameter clear plastic tubing that now connected one of the wooden crates to ten feet of flexible black irrigation pipe and the feeding tube of one of the special terrarium tops.
As the covert agents watched, fourteen more giant tarantulas followed each other into the thin, opaque, corrugated plastic pipe.
"Well, it looks like this contraption just might work," Paxton commented with a decided edge of skepticism in his voice.
They waited patiently — for one minute, a second, and then a third — for the tarantulas to drop into the terrarium.
Nothing.
"Now what the hell's going on?" Paxton finally demanded.
"They're not going into the terrarium," Mike Takahara observed.
"I can see that," Larry Paxton retorted as he knelt down by the terrarium and turned his head sideways to try to see inside the black corrugated pipe. "What I want to know is why."
"I don't know, maybe they're afraid of strange new environments," the Tech Agent suggested as he gently tapped the thin, flexible four-inch-diameter pipe. They heard the whisper sound of scurrying feet within the tube, but not a single tarantula ventured into the terrarium.
"Bullshit," Paxton muttered. "Spiders are the primary reason everybody else is afraid of strange new environments."
"Maybe they don't see it that way," Thomas Woeshack offered.
"Hit it harder," Stoner suggested.
Takahara cautiously shook the flexible pipe, causing considerable more scurrying but no giant spider appearances. The terrarium remained empty.
"No, no, not like that. Like this." Paxton grabbed the pipe and gave it a hard shake.
"Wait, Larry, don't…!" Mike Takahara tried to warn his boss, but it was too late.
To the horror of all four agents, the ten-foot length of thin, corrugated black pipe pulled loose at both ends.
"Oh SHIT!"
Larry Paxton and Dwight Stoner instinctively lunged for an end of the pipe. Without stopping to think, they lifted the ends off the floor and quickly covered the four-inch opening with their free hands.
