by Ken Goddard
For a few long moments, Henry Lightstone watched as the severely injured female on the ground continued to thrash around while her crippled but still mobile companion struggled to put more distance between herself and the hunting party.
Then finally, out of pure revulsion, Lightstone brought the. 300 McMillan up to his shoulder with the intention of finishing off both animals, when Alex Chareaux's voice made him pause.
"No," Chareaux whispered as he came up beside Lightstone. "Not yet."
As Lightstone watched the crippled female elk stumble away, the two male hunters continued to hover around their own female companion, the Oriental offering his congratulations, while the other man-the ever-pompous Walters-made a show of rubbing her almost certainly bruised shoulder. Then, after a couple of minutes, all three of them walked over to Chareaux and Lightstone, their rifles in their hands.
"We'd like to move over toward those rocks," Reston Wolfe said to Chareaux, pointing toward a large pile of boulders about a half mile east of the clearing. "That's where your brothers saw the bear last night, right?"
"Yes, in that area," Chareaux nodded. "Go on ahead. We will check the kills and then be over there with you in a moment."
Chareaux waited until the three had gone about fifty yards. Then he walked over to the tree that Lisa Abercombie had used as a brace and poked around with a stick until he had located all four of the spent casings. After picking them up and slipping them into his jacket pocket, he waited again until the three hunters had disappeared from sight before he brought the small packset radio up to his mouth.
Moments later, a shot rang out from the general area where the buck had first emerged, and the staggering female elk dropped to the ground and lay still. A second shot, moments later, ended the agonized thrashing of the other one.
Lightstone couldn't tell one rifle shot from another, but he figured that the killing slugs would probably turn out to be from an old 7mm Winchester Model 70. The one that Alex Chareaux had given to his youngest brother, Butch, many years ago.
"You disapprove," Chareaux said, slipping the packset radio back into his jacket pocket as he came up beside Lightstone. The way he spoke the words, it was a statement, not a question.
"If I had ever let a cripple run like that when I was a kid, my grandfather would have taken out his razor strop and beaten me half to death," Lightstone said, aware that he was allowing some of his own background to merge into his Henry Allen Lightner persona.
"Yes, mine also. But I must tell you that most of my clients have had no such training. That is why I must be sure that my brother is always there with his rifle."
"But you waited," Lightstone said half-accusingly.
"The animals are there to be hunted. That is why they are put on this earth." Chareaux shrugged. "And besides, one must always be a businessman first," he added as if that explained everything.
Which it probably did to a cutthroat opportunist like Henry Allen Lightner, Lightstone thought, reminding himself to stay in character.
"So what was that last one, a five- or six-hundred-yard shot?" he asked, making a deliberate effort to shift the topic of conversation.
"Perhaps," Chareaux nodded. "Butch is capable of that, certainly."
At that moment, four quickly spaced shots rang out. Both Lightstone and Chareaux turned in time to see the pair of soaring golden eagles tumble through the sky in a burst of feathers before spinning down to the ground.
"I think, perhaps, that we should catch up with our clients," Chareaux said, "before they kill everything in the valley and draw too much attention to our little game."
Chapter Fourteen
"McNulty."
"We just checked into the Baxter Holiday Inn, out at the north end of town," Carl Scoby said into the phone, moving aside as Dwight Stoner and Larry Paxton came into the room, their arms loaded with duffel bags and equipment cases.
"Everything clear?"
"So far."
"What have you got for rooms?"
"Mike and I are in two-ten, Dwight and Larry are in two-twelve. Two-fourteen's yours, and we've got two- sixteen on hold for Henry or Len. We've been paying cash for everything, like you said. Had a little trouble with the car rentals. Mike finally had to use a credit card from one of our stand-by dummy businesses."
"Which one?"
"Herpitol Imports, the one we were going to use for the Caiman hide trade."
"Anything going to come back to us on that?"
"Not as long as we pay cash when we drop the cars off," Scoby said. "Of course that assumes we turn them back in one piece," he added thoughtfully. "If not, we're going to end up putting a pretty big dent in our petty-cash account."
As the two muscular agents began to set duffel bags and equipment cases against the wall that separated the two queen-sized beds from the small bathroom, Scoby gestured to Mike Takahara, who quickly put down his soldering iron and moved forward to shut the door and pull the blinds.
"Okay, I'll get all that settled with Purchasing," MeNulty said. "What about the comm link?"
"I'll let you talk to Mike," Scoby said. He held the phone out to Takahara. "He wants to know how soon you're going to have that computer hookup ready."
"All set to go, boss." Takahara spoke into the mouthpiece as he reached over and unplugged the soldering iron. "I've got the modem hard-wired into the phone in our room, using one of our handy-dandy little switch boxes as the primary link. I checked out the phone lines, and they're pretty decent. Shouldn't run into any more breakdowns like we had in New York."
"Christ, I hope not," McNulty swore, not wanting to even think about the time he had suddenly lost contact with three of his covert agents-just moments after he had received word from a reliable snitch that the buy of rhino-horn pills that they were scheduled to make from a gang of six armed Haitians had gone sour-when the lines between New York and New Jersey had overloaded and shut down.
It had taken Mike Takahara nearly two hours to restore the contact so that McNulty could finally learn that Scoby, Stoner, and Paxton had survived the incident with only four of the six Haitians sustaining injuries that were serious enough to require hospitalization.
"You can trust me on this one," Takahara chuckled. "We're cool."
"How did you rig the switch?"
"Standard codes. Figured we'd better stick to those because they're the only ones that Henry's worked with so far."
"Straight-in call?"
"Right. All you have to do is ring our room, wait for the tone, and then add the two-digit code for access. Anything else gets you a busy signal."
"Good. What about the lifeline? You manage to get that set up?"
"First thing I did when I got here," Takahara replied. "The eight-hundred number will ring once back at the office, twice at your home as an alert, and then bounce back to the switch box here. You can pick it up at your place or let it go, doesn't matter. Either way, as long as Henry remembers the number and can get to a phone, we'll have him."
"Okay, good. Listen, can you change the dial-up number for my home?"
"Uh, yeah, sure. What's the number?"
McNulty read off a new phone number with a 303 area code.
"Okay, got it," Takahara said. "What happened, you start getting some crank calls?"
"Something like that," McNulty muttered and then smoothly switched the subject. "Any problem with the phone company this time?"
"Nope, we got lucky. I managed to track down a guy at Ma Bell who shows up at some of our tech meetings every now and then," Takahara said. "Turns out he's more of a bigwig than I thought. Took time out from his afternoon tea and crumpets to drop in the connections himself. His boss is going to be calling you for an after-the-fact verification, and I owe him a couple of six-packs. Other than that, it looks like we're home free."
"Okay, we're going to keep the telephone calls in the room down to a minimum anyway," McNulty said. "We'll stay with the computer link for outside messages unless there's an emergency time fac
tor."
"You really think the Chareaux brothers are that sophisticated?"
"No, not really, but we know they're dangerous, and I don't see any sense in taking chances. Which also means that you watch yourself out there at the airport if you get anywhere near that plane," McNulty emphasized.
"You got it, boss."
"Okay, let me talk to Carl."
Mike Takahara handed the phone to Carl Scoby, then returned to the task of putting away his tools and electrical equipment.
"Okay, I'm back on," Scoby said.
"I'm heading for the airport in a few minutes. Anything else you guys need out there?"
"Name of the airport manager, for a start," Scoby said, looking over at Takahara, who nodded. "Then you might start looking for a friendly magistrate in case we need a warrant."
"Hold on," McNulty said as he flipped back through two pages of his notebook.
"The manager sounds like he's older than the hills, but he's friendly and cooperative over the phone. Probably ask for him at one of the airline counters. He knows somebody's going to be coming by."
Scoby quickly wrote the name down on one of the motel note pads. He tore off the page and handed it over to Mike Takahara, who glanced at the paper and slipped it into his pocket, then pulled on a light jacket to cover his shoulder-holstered semiautomatic, grabbed one of the small packset radios off the bed and headed out the door.
"Okay, Mike's on his way," Scoby said.
"Good. I'll call the regional office, ask them about the magistrate, see who they got to down there."
"Any word on Henry?" Scoby asked hopefully.
"No, but it's still too early," McNulty said. "We know he rented the car at Bozeman at about eleven forty-five. Assuming he left the airport right away, I figure the earliest he could have met Chareaux and been out on the road would be about one thirty. So that's what, three hours at the outside? Hell, even if they just went out in the woods for a couple of miles and started shooting right away, I don't see how they could possibly get back to the motel before dark."
"Assuming they do come back," Scoby muttered darkly.
"Stay positive, Carl," McNulty said, his voice calm and firm. "Henry's a survivor and his cover is tight, so let's keep our focus on Len and see what we can do there. What's the status on Dwight and Larry?"
Scoby looked over at the two agents who were in the process of reassembling their armory. Larry Paxton was fitting and securing the short barrels of a pair of Remington Model-870 pump shotguns into their dull Parkerized receivers, while Dwight Stoner was taking five-round boxes of deer slugs and double-ought buck out of one of the heavy duffel bags and tossing them onto the bed. A pair of extra- large Kevlar vests, three identical SIG-Sauer. 45 semiautomatic pistols, leather gear, and extra magazines were already laid out on the bedspread, along with three small scrambled radios and six sets of handcuffs.
"They're loading up for bear and getting ready to hit the streets right now. I'm going to have them make a sweep of the bars and lounges, see if they can get lucky."
"What about the other motels?" McNulty asked.
"The phone directory lists seven places in Bozeman," Scoby said. "We contacted every one of them, and a couple more places outside of town. Far as we can tell, nobody named Ruebottom has checked into a motel anywhere near Bozeman today."
"He might have had help," McNulty reminded. "You use his description?"
"No, I just went with the operators," Scoby said. "Asked them if they'd connect me to his room. Figured we didn't want to take a chance with the desk clerks. Knowing Chareaux, he's probably paranoid enough to have at least a couple of them working on a retainer."
"What about Sonny or Butch? You ask about them, too?"
"No. I didn't want to risk that just yet either," Scoby said. "They're still hanging around Bozeman, and anybody but Alex rings their room, everybody's gonna start getting jumpy. I didn't figure that Henry needed that kind of confusion right now."
"Yeah, you're right," McNulty agreed. "We'll stay clear of the motel lobbies for a while unless we get something specific. What about license plates?"
"We've got four knowns, but they like to switch vehicles a lot," Scoby said. "Dwight and Larry are going to check the parking lots anyway, but I figure if they're worried about the Lear, they're probably going to use something we haven't seen before."
"Makes sense," McNulty agreed again.
"So what's the plan at your end?" Scoby asked, watching as Dwight Stoner and Larry Paxton worked themselves into their shoulder holsters, their normally animated faces now somber. They were experienced field operatives and could sense that something had gone horribly wrong with the Chareaux investigation. Something that most likely involved a careless rookie agent named Len Ruebottom.
"I've got a five-o'clock flight out of Stapleton," McNulty said. "I'll pick up a car at the airport and meet you at the motel."
"You going to rendezvous with Mike when you land, and help him check out that plane?"
"No, I don't think so. Too risky. If these guys are paying attention, they're going to put a tag on Mike the moment he steps foot inside that plane. No sense in burning two of us right off the bat. Which reminds me, you better get him a room in another motel, just in case."
Scoby hesitated for a moment.
"We can probably reserve a couple of rooms at the Prime Rate," he finally said. "It's right across the Interstate. Easy to keep an eye on things."
Paul McNulty had not risen to the position of supervising a covert operations team by being insensitive to the moods of his agents.
"Something the matter?" he asked.
"I guess that's what we're wondering," Scoby answered carefully. "I guess we're all wondering why you've got us jumping through so many hoops to work a bunch of low-lifes like the Chareaux brothers. Comm links, message switching, motel cutouts. Christ, you've even got Mike looking over his shoulder. He must have swept this place for bugs at least three times in the past half hour."
Carl Scoby paused, as if hoping that McNulty would break in and offer some sort of explanation, but he didn't.
"Look, Paul," Scoby went on, "we all know that the Chareauxs are dangerous and that this deal with Len Ruebottom is rough, but those guys aren't exactly the KGB either."
"No, they're not," McNulty finally said in a quiet voice. "But I've been picking up some quiet rumblings from the Washington office the last couple of days."
"About what? Our investigation?"
"No, I don't think so," McNulty said. "It's something else. Nothing I can really put my finger on, but there's a bunch of people who are getting awful curious all of a sudden about what kind of cases we're working. Law Enforcement in general, and Special Ops in particular."
"You mean people in the Service?"
"Them, and Interior, and maybe even higher up," MeNulty replied evenly. "The last guy I talked with was one of the PR types. He got a little more specific. He wanted to know if we were working anything interesting in Idaho, Montana, Colorado, or Wyoming. Looking for some background stuff, so that he could brief the local senators, was the way he put it."
"You're shitting me."
"Then I got a call from one of my old Marine buddies who happens to be one of the top headhunters for the J. Edgar team. He wanted to know if I was bucking for some kind of political appointment. Figured it had to be one hell of a deal to justify a priority screening."
"Somebody's running a background on you?"
"On the two Special Ops teams," MeNulty said. "All ten of us," he added pointedly. "And apparently a bunch of other people, too. Law enforcement types from the other Interior agencies. Park police and park rangers especially. My friend wouldn't say, but I got the impression that it's a pretty big list."
"So it's just some sort of overall departmental sweep?"
"Maybe," MeNulty said. "Let's put it this way, you ever been to Terry Grosz's place?"
"You mean his rib joint? Yeah, sure. Why?"
"I'm sitting in Ter
ry's office right now."
"Oh, yeah? I didn't know they were open on Sundays."
"They aren't," MeNulty said. "I talked Terry into lending me a key. And while I was at it, I made arrangements for Martha to stay with them for a while, until I get back. That's why I had Mike switch the alert phone to Terry's house."
"You moved Martha out of your house?" Carl Scoby blinked in surprise.
"We had an interesting caller yesterday while I was at the office," MeNulty went on calmly. "Guy in his mid-thirties coming around asking for donations, some kind of environmental fund."
"Your typical yuppie activist," Scoby chuckled sympathetically. "We get our share of those, too."
"Yeah, well, according to Martha, this one looked a whole lot more like the lead man on a SWAT team."
Carl Scoby felt a cold chill run down the back of his neck.
MeNulty didn't have to explain the significance of his statement. Everyone on the team knew that Martha McNulty's older brother had recently retired as commander of the Los Angeles Police Department's Special Weapons and Tactics Unit. The McNulty household had been a social gathering point for many of LAPD's finest when Paul McNulty was senior resident agent of the Fish and Wildlife Service's Long Beach office.
And having served more meals to more special agents, game wardens, cops, narcs, and SWAT team members than she cared to think about, Martha McNulty often claimed that she could walk into a room and pick out the covert operators almost immediately. Something about the set of their shoulders, and their eyes, and the way they moved.
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Scoby suggested cautiously.
"No, it doesn't," McNulty agreed. "But Martha remembered that the guy had personal checks from a couple of our neighbors on his clipboard, so this morning I went around and talked to the people in our cul-de-sac. Seems that he made his pitch to three houses before us, but nobody after us."
"Okay, but-"
"And before I forget," McNulty interrupted, "tell Larry that I made similar arrangements for Dasha and the kids. They're getting on a plane for Jamaica tomorrow morning. Going to stay with the grandparents for a couple of weeks. I told her it was a surprise from Larry, to make up for him being gone all the time."
