Double Blind (27 page)

"And caught it with his bare hands, too," Thomas Woeshack reminded them.

"The bastard knows something about snakes." Larry Paxton looked like someone who had been thrashing in a pond convinced he was about to drown at any moment, only to discover that the person sitting on shore observing him was an off-duty lifeguard.

Henry Lightstone shrugged. "Bobby and I were interested in herpetology when we were kids."

"But that was before we discovered girls." Bobby LaGrange smiled helpfully. "I take it you guys are still working yourselves up to that stage?"

Larry Paxton stood momentarily speechless.

"You mean you —" It took the nearly apoplectic Bravo Team leader several seconds to finally get the words out. "You left the four of us here — four people who don't know shit about snakes, in a freezing warehouse full of some of the most poisonous snakes in the whole damned world —to try to figure out how to put snakes that are too big into terrariums that are too small . . . with nobody bothering to tell us that some of the damned things might be pregnant and start squirting out baby snakes right and left . . . while you and your ex-partner here —"

"Were out risking our lives purchasing Bigfoot evidence?" Henry Lightstone finished with an innocent look on his face.

"Actually, that's not exactly true," Bobby LaGrange pointed out. "I didn't risk anything except my reputation and my bank account. And the way you explained the situation to me, you really didn't buy anything from her, Henry. It was more like a gift, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, good point."

"Her?" Four voices practically howled in unison.

"The witch," Bobby LaGrange explained helpfully. "Personally, I think Henry's in love. I've seen that look in his eyes before, but he won't admit it."

"You let him buy Bigfoot evidence from a witch?" Dwight Stoner demanded. "What happened to the old fart soothsayer?"

"Wow." Thomas Woeshack looked duly impressed.

"What does she look like, Henry?" Mike Takahara asked.

"Well, I think she's pretty attractive . . . as far as witches go, anyway," Lightstone added with a cheerful smile as he looked around the warehouse. "I would've called and told you guys all about her, but I gather you haven't installed the phones yet?"

"Next item on the list," Mike Takahara promised.

"And while we're on the subjects of lists," Lightstone interrupted. "You guys need to cut down on your lights in here, or do a lot better job in sealing off under the roll-up door, around the window and door shades, between the aluminum siding and the roof. Looks like a carnival show out there."

"Door, window, and roof seals, check," the tech agent muttered as he made a few cryptic notes.

"Another thing," Lightstone went on. "Looks like I'm going to need some halfway decent ID after all."

"Okay." Mike Takahara looked up from his notebook. "What do we know about you so far?"

Lightstone paused for a moment. "Let's see, I'm in between jobs, my girlfriend took off on me a few weeks ago, and I'm out here to look up Bobby — a guy I went to school with when we were kids."

"Any particular discussion on location where you two went to school?"

"No."

"What about your name?"

"I'm locked in on 'Henry,' but no last name yet."

"Okay. Bobby's got a pretty strong Southern accent for somebody who grew up in San Diego. Why don't we see if we can get you away from the West Coast. Maybe somewhere back East. How does North Carolina sound?" The tech agent looked over at Bobby LaGrange.

"Why don't you make it South Carolina," Bobby LaGrange suggested. "I've got relatives down in Beaufort, so I can fill Henry in on the appropriate local color. And as far as the local people around here are concerned, all they know about us is that we moved here from Miami."

"South Carolina's fine with me," Lightstone agreed. "Just get it as soon as you can, and make sure whatever name you come up with can stand up to a half-decent background check."

"Yeah, that's right, you never know what a witch can find out if she really puts her mind to it," Thomas Woeshack pointed out.

"I think I need to sit down." Larry Paxton fumbled for one of the overturned boxes.

"Uh, not there, Larry." Lightstone quickly reached past the Bravo Team leader with the snake hook, knelt, and stood with another tiny wiggling black snake. "Kinda cute little critters," he remarked to Takahara. "Got another bag?"

"Don't worry, Larry, he always did that when we were kids, too. Used to drive me crazy." Bobby LaGrange smiled sympathetically as he watched the visibly shaken Bravo Team leader gingerly kick at the box, move it out into a bare patch of concrete floor, then look around once more before finally sitting down uneasily.

"That's twenty-five, Paxton," Dwight Stoner pointed out with a menacing edge to his deep voice. "What about that 'two-times-twelve is twenty-four' bullshit you've been handing us all evening?"

"Actually, those clutch and litter numbers are usually plus or minus a whole bunch," Henry Lightstone pointed out. "At least that's the way it worked for all the North American snakes Bobby and I raised, and I'll bet it's pretty much the same thing for Australian snakes, too. So if I were you guys, I'd keep my eyes open, just in case."

Larry Paxton gave him a venomous look.

"And just what, exactly, makes you think any of us intend to have any part of our anatomy anywhere near this place from now on, now that we know about you two junior herpetologists?" he asked reasonably.

"Hey, Bobby and I'd be glad to help. Honest. Giant spiders give me the willies, but snakes are cool. But as it turns out, I've got a date with the witch for breakfast tomorrow, and unfortunately" — Lightstone looked down at his watch — "I told the folks at the forensics lab to call me at Bobby's house around ten to tell me what they found out about the Bigfoot hair we dropped off this afternoon."

"Those lab folks must not have much of a social life," LaGrange observed. "But then, I suppose if they started hanging out with people like you and your witch friends instead of working all night" — he poked his ex-partner good-naturedly — "they'd probably end up having to exorcise the whole lab on a regular basis."

"Which reminds me," Henry Lightstone added after he dropped his latest captive into Takahara's snake bag, "Bobby and I probably should keep our distance from this place for a while. We're pretty much linked together now as far as my cover goes, and with all the bright lights, yelling, and screaming going on here, you guys are about as covert as a carnival. If anybody like the Sage or the Witch spots Bobby and me out here, they're liable to think we're a couple of federal wildlife agents running a snake scam on some poor Mexican Mafia gang down in Nogales. Then they'll never show us their mythical beast."

"Or offer to sell us any of their genuine mythical souvenirs," Bobby LaGrange added.

"Which probably wouldn't make Halahan very happy, although why he could possibly care, one way or the other, completely escapes me." Lightstone admitted.

"However, he is the boss." LaGrange reminded his ex-partner.

"Exactly. Which means we'd better get going." Lightstone looked around one last time. "You guys going to be okay out here on your own for a couple more days?"

"Oh hell yes." Larry Paxton stretched his arms to take in the expanse of Bravo Team's assigned warehouse operation. "We've only thirty deadly poisonous snakes, a dozen man-eating crocodiles, and 750 giant tarantulas to transfer into 120 terrariums in the middle of a freezing warehouse which we can't warm up because if we do, everything in the crates will go bat-shit . . . and if we don't get them into the terrariums pretty soon, we're going to be up to our butts in thirsty baby snakes, and probably baby spiders, too, for all I know.

"Plus," he went on dramatically, "it only took the four of us twelve hours, $2800.00 in tools and lumber and shit, one squashed rental car, two rolls of duct tape, and a down payment on my nervous breakdown to unload one whole crate, which means we've only got seventy-one measly crates to go. So don't you worry none about us. We'll be just fine."

"See," Henry Lightstone assured his dubious former partner as they headed back to the truck, "I told you they'd be okay once they got a system going."

Chapter Twenty-five

At precisely 4:00 that following Thursday morning, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed placed a call from his Virginia estate to Simon Whatley, waking the physically exhausted district manager out of a sound sleep to demand a verification that the "sensitive material" on their project had been delivered as ordered.

Having no idea what Smallsreed was talking about, Whatley mumbled something to the affirmative . . . and immediately fell back to sleep after the congressman snarled "good," and hung up without any further comment.

Smallsreed immediately called Lt. Colonel John Rustman to advise his field project leader that everything was back on schedule and a "go" as far as he and his clients were concerned.

Much later that morning, a more or less rejuvenated Simon Whatley would not remember receiving Smallsreed's call.

At precisely 7:00 A.M. the six youthful wildlife special agents of Charlie Team met for breakfast at a small diner a few miles outside Loggerhead City to decide what to do next.

After considerable discussion, they came to the very logical conclusion that their first field operation wasn't likely to go anywhere at all until they found and talked with the elusive Special Agent Wilbur Boggs.

At precisely 8:32 that Thursday morning, the floor nurse at Providence Hospital took her fingers off Wilbur Boggs's wrist, made a notation in the chart, then looked up as the resident physician entered the room and quietly shut the door.

"Any changes?" he asked in a soft voice.

She shook her head.

"How long has it been this time?"

The resident nurse looked at her watch and consulted Boggs's chart.

"Almost twenty hours since he last regained consciousness," she replied.

Pursing his lips in concern, the resident physician took the chart and quickly scanned the last series of notations.

"If his vital signs weren't so steady, I would seriously consider another CAT scan," he muttered mostly to himself as he handed the chart back to the floor nurse. As he did so, he noticed the chart still read John Doe "Wilbur."

"Any more luck on tracking him down?" he asked.

The floor nurse shook her head again. "Nothing so far."

The resident physician sighed tiredly.

"Well, I suppose someone is bound to come looking for him eventually. Keep me posted, and have someone notify me right away if anything changes in the next twenty-four hours," he said as he walked back into the hallway to continue his rounds.

Chapter Twenty-six

"You seem surprised to see me," Henry Lightstone remarked when the woman placed a menu on the place mat, and filled his cup with steaming coffee. "Did I give you the impression I was unreliable already?"

She had dressed for the colder weather that morning: soft white cotton long johns with hand-crocheted trim edging at the ends of the long sleeves and scooped neckline, faded small-bib denim overalls with a hand-stitched panther head — complete with bright yellow eyes — over the left breast, and a pair of well-worn, low-cut hiking boots. A self-assured woman dressing for herself who made no particular effort to show off her taut, curvaceous, and yet slender figure.

Yet to Lightstone, everything about her appeared sleek, sensual, and alluring.

"You may not have noticed, but nine o'clock's a little late for most working people around this town." Karla lightly tossed her head and her long hair fanned out toward the empty tables. "And besides, predicting the future isn't always an exact science," she added with a mischievous grin.

"That's the advantage of being between jobs — every now and then, when your rancher buddy isn't dragging you out to some cow-related project, you get to sleep in." Lightstone picked up the hand-printed menu. "And speaking of predicting the future, I don't suppose you checked out the cook's tea leaves this morning?"

She shrugged, causing the soft cotton fabric of the long johns to stretch invitingly across her full breasts.

"Sorry. You really can't tell much from a short-order cook's coffee grounds, especially the way this one makes coffee. But Danny's pretty good with scrambled eggs — if you like them with lots of chopped green onions and China peas. On the other hand, his hash browns definitely need help. He claims he's working on the problem. But his jambalaya is fantastic — except not for breakfast, unless you're real adventuresome."

"The scrambled eggs sound fine. Extra onions and peas, if that's an option . . . but I think I'll skip on the hash browns —probably forever — and the jambalaya for now."

"Good choice."

Lightstone made a show of looking around the enclosed porch. "I don't see your helper today."

Karla gave him a cool, appraising look. "Apparently this was one of those mornings all the 'between-job' types decided to sleep in."

"Ah."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then suddenly turned and retreated to the kitchen.

When she returned about thirty seconds later, she carried an ornate ceramic cup. Wordlessly, she pushed Lightstone's coffee cup aside, set the steaming cup in front of him, walked around to the opposite side of the table, sat down with her chin resting on her interlaced fingers, and commanded, "Drink."

Henry Lightstone's brows furrowed in confusion as he stared into the woman's gold-flecked green eyes for a brief moment, then into the cup.

"Tea?"

"That's right."

He smiled in sudden understanding. "Are you serious?"

"Very," she answered in a voice that offered no compromise.

After shrugging agreeably, Lightstone cautiously brought the steaming cup to his lips, and winced.

"It's hot."

"Drink it anyway."

He allowed his gaze to settle on those seductive gold-flecked green eyes for another brief moment. Then he obediently brought the cup to his lips, drank the hot tea in several long sips, and set the ornate cup back on the table.