by Ken Goddard
Reston Wolfe was still on his feet when the second, third, and fourth bullets ripped through his thoracic cavity, tearing through his heart and both lungs. He died before his limp body touched the ground.
"Goddamn it," Lightstone whispered as he watched the elimination of their one and only link to the men and women who had mercilessly executed Paul McNulty and Carl Scoby. He was still breathing heavily from his run when the area in front of the Reflecting Pool was suddenly crisscrossed by six pairs of headlights.
"Henry Lightstone, this is the FBI. Put your weapon down on the ground, and put your hands up in the air, right now."
Chapter Forty-Four
Saturday September 25
"I'd really appreciate it, Ed," Henry Lightstone said and then handed the phone to Assistant Special Agent in Charge A1 Grynard, who had a decidedly unpleasant expression on his unshaven face.
As A1 Grynard stood behind the dark wooden desk in the borrowed office he listened to the senior forensics specialist describe the significance of a recovered. 416 Rigby bullet that had almost certainly been fired through a Holland and Holland rifle, the unique etching of a wolf that was spelled "W-O-L-F-E," and the strip of hide that Lightstone had recovered from the Kenai Peninsula.
Larry Paxton leaned over and whispered in Lightstone's ear, "Don't think I've ever seen an FBI man look that pissed before."
"You can see his point, though," Lightstone nodded, speaking quietly as he observed the gradual change in Grynard's expression. "He's got a hell of a case. Only trouble is, three of the guys I'm supposed to have killed at least once are sitting here in this room."
"Think he's gonna hold that against us?" Paxton asked after a moment.
"If I were you, I wouldn't piss him off any more right about now," Lightstone advised.
"Yes," A1 Grynard was saying into the phone, "I would appreciate that. Yes sir, thank you very much."
As Henry Lightstone, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara watched in respectful silence, A1 Grynard stood for a moment with his finger on the disconnect button in apparent indecision.
Then, seeming to nod to himself, he dialed a four-digit number, spoke softly into the mouthpiece, hung up and then sat down in the padded executive chair. He turned around to face the four agents.
"In my entire law-enforcement career," Grynard said after a moment, "I don't think I've ever come across a case quite like this."
"It is a little unusual," Lightstone conceded agreeably, waiting to see which way the veteran FBI agent would decide to play it.
"Did I tell you that we located your duty weapon?"
"In the water?" Lightstone guessed.
A1 Grynard nodded. "About fifteen feet offshore, pretty much in a straight line from where you claimed to have shot the one suspect. Two Model Sixty-sixes, yours and the refuge officer's, as well as a bipod-mounted M-Forty sniper rifle and one H amp;K nine-millimeter submachine gun, along with three or four handfuls of expended brass."
"Brass?"
"We sent a diver down," the FBI agent explained. "He found over a hundred and fifty expended casings before we finally made him come out. We've got him at Lake Tustumena right now. We received a report from a couple of fishermen who saw a blue floatplane land and then sink out there. One of our technicians picked something up on sonar about a thousand feet down. May have to use a submersible to get to it."
"Clean up the scene and dispose of the evidence." Lightstone shook his head slowly. "These guys are thorough."
"Yes, they are," A1 Grynard agreed as the door behind the four wildlife agents opened and two FBI agents entered the room carrying a pair of cardboard boxes. After receiving a confirming nod from Grynard, they carefully placed a stainless-steel Rolex watch, three. 45 SIG-Sauer automatics, a 10mm stainless-steel Smith amp; Wesson, four shoulder rigs, and four sets of credentials on the table, then left as quietly as they entered.
"Your equipment, gentlemen," Grynard said. Takahara, Paxton, and Stoner gladly reached for their weapons and IDs. Grynard looked over at Lightstone, who was staring at the Rolex. "Mrs. McNulty said her husband would want you to have his watch," he said quietly.
Henry Lightstone started to speak, but just blinked and nodded instead. He held the Rolex in his hand for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket.
"Special Agent in Charge Paul McNulty was killed with a. 357 Ruger that was left at the scene," the FBI agent went on. "Prints on the weapon belong to Butch Chareaux, who was shot with McNulty's SIG-Sauer, which was also left at the scene. And whoever killed Scoby used a couple of Model Sixty-sixes, but definitely not the ones issued to you and Jackson. So what it all comes down to, Henry," Grynard said with a tired smile, "is that while we think the scenes were rigged, we don't think you did it."
"I see," Lightstone said noncommittally.
"You haven't gotten anything on the fingerprints?" Mike Takahara asked quietly.
"No, nothing." A1 Grynard shook his head. "Far as Interpol's concerned, those four individuals do not exist."
"Shit," Larry Paxton murmured.
"So now what?" Lightstone asked, watching the FBI agent carefully.
"We're digging into Reston Wolfe's background right now," A1 Grynard replied, "and we seem to be hitting a lot of brick walls. He was supposedly just a junior-grade political appointee. He'd been out of the office on travel a lot, but his secretary didn't seem to know where he's been, or why, and there weren't any travel vouchers or plane reservations to trace. Nobody at Interior seems to know much about him or, for that matter, to particularly care."
"Whoever's running this thing decided to cut him loose," Lightstone shrugged. "That's what he was there for."
"Right," the FBI agent nodded. "So now all we have to figure out is who these people are and what the hell they're up to."
For a long moment, the two special agents stared at each other.
"All we know for sure is that we tripped over something big when we went after the Chareaux brothers. Somebody with a lot of influence went after us, and Wolfe was our only lead," Lightstone said carefully.
"No idea what it was you tripped over?"
"No, none at all."
"Oh, by the way," Grynard added as he stood up. "There's a sergeant from the Louisiana Department of Fish and Game out in the lobby. He'd like to ask you some questions about Alex Chareaux."
"Oh, really?" Lightstone said as he and the others followed Grynard toward the door.
"Tell you the truth," Grynard said as he accepted Henry Lightstone's handshake, "I'm not sure where our jurisdiction lies with this thing anymore, but if this sergeant from Louisiana knows anything, or you happen to run across another lead-"
"You'll be the first guy we call," Lightstone promised solemnly.
"I'd appreciate that," the FBI agent nodded without the slightest change of expression in his dark, brooding eyes.
A half hour later, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara introduced themselves to the five somber-faced Louisiana State Fish and Game officers in the lobby of the J. Willard Marriott Hotel on 14th Street. Henry Lightstone was at one of the lobby phones dialing a long-distance number.
"Forensics lab, Rhodes."
"You guys ever go home?" Lightstone asked.
"Doesn't seem like it some days," the senior electronics specialist chuckled. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to call back."
"What have you got?"
"It's not me. Biggs. Hold on just a second."
"Hi," the familiar voice came on the line. "This is Joe Biggs."
"The guy with the DNA probes," Lightstone said, remembering the term but having no real idea of what a DNA probe was.
"Yeah, right," the serologist chuckled. "Hey, listen, we happened to trip across something weird down here and I thought you might want to know about it."
"Oh, really? What's that?"
"You remember those sets of camouflage gear we got in from the Army Crime Lab when you guys were here? The ones that had blood all over t
hem?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Well, we ran the stains with those new probes I told you guys about, and guess what? The computer popped up with a match."
"A match with what?" Lightstone asked.
"You."
Lightstone blinked. "What?"
"To be more accurate," Joe Biggs said, "you and the bear. Your blood on one set and the bear's on both."
"My blood was on those clothes? Are you sure?"
"The odds against it are about one in a hundred million for you, and maybe one in fifty thousand for the bear," Biggs replied. "That makes it… um, fifty thousand times a hundred million… about five trillion to one that another bear and another human, both with the exact same DNA patterns, put that blood on those cammies. I'd say that makes it a pretty decent match."
Suddenly the entire thing crystallized in Henry Lightstone's mind. Reston Wolfe and the woman, Lisa something, dressed in brand-new camouflage clothing and armed with incredibly expensive rifles, and the bear chasing him…
Can you hear me?
I'm going to try to move your arm.
Holding his head in her lap, knowing it was her because he could smell her perfume over the smell of the blood. His and the bear's.
Jesus!
"Joe," Lightstone asked in a voice as calm and quiet as he could manage under the circumstances, "do you have any idea of where the Army Crime Lab got those clothes?"
"Kinda thought you might want to know that," the forensic serologist chuckled. "Got a pencil?"
It was eleven-fifteen that evening when the phone in Paul Saltmann's carefully locked and secured underground room rang softly.
"Saltmann," he rasped sleepily, and then became wide awake as he listened to the familiar voice describe exactly what it was that it wanted done.
"Yes sir, Mr. Bloom," the curly-haired weight lifter and intelligence specialist finally said when the voice finished. "I understand completely. You can count on me."
Chapter Forty-Five
Sunday September 26th
Lisa Abercombie was furious.
"They can't do that!" she screamed into the phone.
"My dear, they not only can do it, they will do it if you don't find Chareaux and this Agent Lightstone immediately," Albert Bloom warned.
"But-"
"Lisa, listen to me. The FBI is beginning to probe into areas that we do not want examined. And if they ever manage to discover what you and Wolfe have done, there will be nothing we can do to protect you. Nothing."
The words "you and Wolfe" jarred at Lisa Abercombie's soul, but she forced herself to ignore their lethal implications.
"Albert, that's not fair," she protested in a raspy voice, finding it difficult to believe that she was actually using those words. "You provided the Chareaux brothers with the best legal team in D.C."
"Yes, but they had absolutely no connection to any of us," Bloom reminded. "You do, and we cannot allow it to go beyond you. Not something this big. You, of all people, should understand that."
"Albert, you have to tell them-" Abercombie started in, but her mentor and lover would have none of it.
"Lisa, listen to me," Bloom said in a calm, cold voice. "I can't tell them anything right now. They are telling me."
"But-"
"Find Lightstone and Chareaux, and dispose of them immediately," Bloom repeated. "It's the only thing you can do."
The phone disconnected with a loud click.
"Goddamn you, Albert, you spineless bastard!" Abercombie screamed, her face ashen with fury as she slammed the phone down on her desk and stormed out into the hallway.
"Where's Maas?" she yelled at the first person she saw. She followed the aide's stammered directions until she burst into the central conference room on the lower level to find Maas, Gunter Aben, Carine Mueller, and Kimiko Osan standing around the sprawled, dirty, and blood-splattered body of Alex Chareaux.
He was lying facedown on the floor, his wrists hooked together with nylon ties behind his back. Around his neck, a long chain was fastened, the end of which was held by Carine Mueller. Abercombie could see that Chareaux's eyes were blackened and swollen and that blood was dripping from his mouth, nose, and ears.
As she came forward, Abercombie also noted that Gunter Aben had what appeared to be a recently bandaged cut on his left forearm, and that Kimiko Osan had a similar wound across her left cheek. Of the four, only Gerd Maas seemed to be amused by the situation.
"Thank God you found him," Lisa Abercombie said fervently as she stepped into the loose circle formed by the four ICER team members, and then leaped backward in shock as Alex Chareaux suddenly brought his knees up to his chest, rolled, came up fast, growled in the depths of his throat, and lunged at her with his teeth bared like a wild beast… only to be hammered back to the floor with the butt of the shotgun in Gunter Aben's gloved hands.
"For God's sake, what did you bring him here for?" Abercombie demanded, shaken by the insane fury that she had seen in the Cajun poacher's reddened eyes. "Kill him right now, and then go out there and find Lightstone."
"Not yet," Gerd Maas said coldly. "It is better to use him."
"What do you mean, use him?" Abercombie's dark eyes widened in disbelief. "The Committee is getting ready to shut us down, right now, if we don't find this Lightstone bastard."
"There is no need to go after Lightstone," Maas smiled, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. "He will come to us."
"Maas, listen to me-" Lisa Abercombie started to plead, and then the excited voice of Dr. Morito Asai caught everyone's attention.
"We have a problem!" he yelled from the doorway leading to the conference room.
"What is it?" Abercombie yelled back.
"Park service people. They say they have an emergency situation. They must land. Injured people."
"For God's sake, no! Tell them they can't land here!"
"I will try, but-"
"Jesus Christ!" Abercombie cursed as she looked around wildly and saw Gerd Maas-with a wide grin on his face now-step forward and pull Alex Chareaux to his feet.
"Hey, where are you going with him?" Abercombie demanded, but Maas ignored her as he and the remains of his ICER assault group started walking toward the connecting hallway to the main training areas, dragging Alex Chareaux along as they went.
Still cursing and mumbling to herself, Abercombie ran to the command-and-control room and grabbed the microphone out of the hands of the radio-room technician.
"What's their call sign?" she demanded.
"Uh, Two-Five-Poppa-Sierra," the technician stammered.
"Two-Five-Poppa-Sierra, this is Whitehorse Cabin," Abercombie spoke into the microphone. "Do you read me?"
"Two-Five-Poppa-Sierra, that's a roger," the static-filled voice acknowledged.
"Two-Five-Poppa-Sierra, Whitehorse Cabin is a restricted area. You cannot land here."
"Uh, roger that," the pilot responded. "Be advised we have an emergency situation. The Park Service is fighting a brush fire in the southeast sector. I'm transporting three badly injured smoke jumpers to Gardiner, and I'm losing oil pressure. I have to put down, and these guys are in bad shape. We need help from your medical staff."
Abercombie looked up at the helicopter camera monitor that showed a white helicopter with a red cross on the side setting down onto the helipad in a swirl of dirt and leaves. Dark smoke was coming out of one of the engine exhausts. The side door slid open, and men in fire-fighting uniforms jumped out onto the asphalt pad, crouching down to avoid the swirling blades as they pulled the first stretcher out.
Abercombie turned to the technician. "Close and lock the emergency doors," she ordered.
"But they-" the technician started to protest, only to wither under Lisa Abercombie's rage as she screamed, "Do what I tell you, and do it now!"
The technician reached for the five levers that controlled the two upper-level and three lower-level emergency exit doors to the underground facility.
"What's the matter with you?
Hurry up and close those doors!" Lisa Abercombie yelled when nothing happened. The technician began to tug frantically on the individual levers.
"I can't! They're stuck. Somebody must have locked them open!"
"What?" Abercombie screamed as she watched the second and third stretcher being unloaded.
"Call MacDonald," Asai advised. "He will know what to do."
"Sergeant MacDonald, call the command-and-control room immediately," the technician spoke hurriedly into the intercom mike. "Repeat. Sergeant Clarence MacDonald. Call the command-and-control room immediately."
Abercombie and the technician waited expectantly, but there was no answer.
"For Christ's sake, I'm going to the training area to get Maas," Lisa Abercombie snarled, and then started for the door when the first shots rang out in the underground training facility.
The first stretcher team was waved through by Command Sergeant Major Clarence MacDonald and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gary Brickard, both dressed in full combat gear and armed with M-16 assault rifles.
As soon as they were inside, Paxton rolled off the stretcher. The carriers, both officers of the Louisiana Department of Fish and Game, let the stretcher drop. All three men, armed with shoulder-holstered pistols and wearing Kevlar vests under their fire-fighting jackets, took up defensive positions. Gunter Aben took one look and cut loose with a stream of 9mm submachine gun bullets that caught one of the Louisiana officers across the chest and throat. Aben immediately twisted away then and disappeared as a burst of 5.56mm ball ammo from MacDonald's M-16 and three evenly spaced hollow-point rounds from Paxton's SIG-Sauer shredded wood and plasterboard around his head.
The second stretcher team, consisting of Lightstone and Takahara as the bearers of a stretcher loaded with assault rifles, shotguns, stun grenades, ammo pouches, and first-aid gear, hit the floor to avoid the first flurry of gunshots. They disappeared then down the sloping helipad access tunnel, followed by MacDonald and Brickard and the Louisiana sergeant as the third stretcher team-consisting of the four remaining Louisiana officers and Stoner-moved into defensive positions and immediately went to the aid of the injured officer.
