Double Blind (44 page)

"I'm not going to wave flags, or march in any parades, or throw any bombs," Lightstone explained patiently. "At best, I'm just going to teach those idiots how to survive a fistfight. And if that's all it takes to overthrow the federal government these days, then the government's in a hell of a lot worse shape than I think it is."

"You're really determined to do this, aren't you?" She tapped her slender fingers on the table.

"I'm not sure that 'determined' is the right word. I just can't see any reason not to do it. But if the idea really bothers you . . ." he added to see how she'd respond, "I'll reconsider. I'm not that hard up for money."

The woman sat quietly for a while, then suddenly got up. "I'll be right back," she murmured softly, and disappeared into the Inn.

Four minutes later, she returned with a claw necklace in her hand which she draped over his chest and tied securely behind his neck.

"What's this?" Lightstone asked as she sat down opposite him again.

"A cougar-claw necklace."

Henry Lightstone looked down at the eight sharp claws surrounding what appeared to be a thick light green jade medallion with a cougar carving on its face, all of which was strung on a beaded leather cord.

"Cougar claws? Why a cougar?"

"Because you're a cat, Henry," the sensuous young woman explained with a sigh. "A bear-claw necklace would do absolutely nothing for you."

"But where did you . . . ?"

"We witches have our sources," she replied cryptically. "Do you still have that Bigfoot hair I gave you?"

Lightstone nodded, and felt distinctly uneasy when he lied to her.

"Good. Keep it on your person at all times. And no matter what happens," she insisted gravely, "don't take that necklace off until you finish that job and come back here."

"I don't understand." He peered inquisitively into the woman's intense gold-flecked green eyes as he gingerly fingered the sharp claws. "What's it supposed to do?"

"It's an ancient Indian battle charm."

"Battle charm?" He cocked his head, his lips forming a slight smile.

"It's coming, Henry. Right here to Jasper County. A major conflict between darkness and the light. Maybe you can't sense it, or maybe you don't even realize you're part of it . . . but you are," she emphasized, making no effort to conceal the half-worried and half-angry look in her eyes.

"And if you’re going to continue confronting your demons, Henry, the least I can do is try to keep you alive."

Chapter Forty-two

Simon Whatley woke up at a little past ten that Sunday morning with a queasy stomach and a massive headache . . . the predictable aftereffects of far too many hours spent in cramped airplanes eating lousy food and surrounded by obnoxious children, not to mention sitting in noisy airport lounges filled with more obnoxious travelers and equally lousy food.

Only the alcohol had saved him, the congressional district office manager now remembered, remorsefully rubbing his aching head.

Whatley's primitive survival instincts told him to roll over and go back to sleep. But his stomach continued to churn, and his head continued to throb, so he finally got up and rummaged through the medicine cabinet for anything that appeared remotely like a proper antidote and consumed it in large quantities.

A half hour later, he felt good enough to get up again. This time he managed to shave, shower, and brush his teeth before his churning, throbbing hangover drove him back to the soothing stability and comfort of his bed.

Whatley knew he had things to do — important things, like reviewing the drop-box messages — that he simply must get done. But the mere thought of another mind- and body-numbing red-eye flight to Washington, DC, that evening proved more than he could bear.

"It's not right!" he ranted to himself. "I'm a goddamn congressional district office manager. A person of power and influence who controls a wide range of congressional office perks and privileges. One phone call from me, and a friend or associate of Regis J. Smallsreed — or someone who desperately wants to be a friend or associate of such a notoriously powerful and influential congressman — and . . ."

Simon Whatley blinked at what began as a frustration-relieving diatribe ended with a brilliant idea.

He smiled and rubbed his aching neck.

So many special perks and privileges that a congressional district office manager could hand out for services rendered, even in a rural enclave like Jasper County, Oregon . . .

But the special services of Rene Bocal rank right up there at the top of the p-and-p list, Simon Whatley thought to himself, resting his throbbing head gingerly on his pillow as he dialed the familiar number, identified himself, then provided the address and necessary details.

Whatley felt vaguely guilty as he hung up the phone. A call to Rene Bocal constituted an expensive perk, one generally reserved for Smallsreed himself or one of his most favored clients. He wavered. Maybe he should call back and cancel the reservation. But then Whatley remembered the remark made by Sam Tisbury, one of Smallsreed's most favored clients and certainly most favored political donors.

. . . better keep him out of first-class. Make the reservations under different names, random locations in the back cabin, inside seats whenever possible . . .

Simon Whatley closed his eyes, wincing at the memory.

Oh yes
, he thought,
I do deserve this. Matter of fact, I damned well earned it.

So by the time the very professional-looking young woman in the very professional-looking business suit arrived at his door with the thin, executive-style briefcase in her hand, the congressional district office manager no longer felt the least bit guilty about adding a fifteen-hundred-dollar charge to Smallsreed's special account.

And by the time the senior congressional staffer stretched out face down on his bed, and the young woman kneaded his narrow and decidedly tense shoulder and neck muscles, her carefully oiled breasts and thighs sliding deliberately but distractingly against him, Simon Whatley could not have cared less about the important work he must get done.

There would be plenty of time for that on the plane, this evening, when he would feel much better . . . and much more up to the task at hand.

At one o'clock that Sunday afternoon, the first trace of a smile finally broke the tense contours of Bravo Team leader Larry Paxton's face.

It had been a long time coming.

Given the very same circumstances, Paxton decided as he glared down at the finally cooperating arachnids with no little satisfaction, even a potential saint like Mother Teresa undoubtedly would have allowed disparaging remarks to escape her lips.

Christ, what the hell do they expect?
The Bravo Team leader immediately abandoned his holy thoughts in favor of a more practical one as he waited patiently for the last of the fifteen giant red-kneed tarantulas to venture out of the jury-rigged clear-plastic tunnel and drop into the waiting terrarium, where fourteen of his or her fellow tarantulas investigated a clear plastic box filled with scurrying crickets.
I'm sitting here in an unheated warehouse in the middle of Oregon, freezing my ass off with a kid-agent-pilot who's afraid to fly, thirty deadly snakes, 750 giant spiders, and a dozen baby crocodiles that attack anything that moves; I've got a rookie covert team that isn't even supposed to be here being tagged by a bunch of militant idiots who may or may not be attaching bombs to our vehicles; I've got two of my best agents tagging the rookie team and the taggers in direct violation of direct orders from Halahan, instead of helping Woeshack and me figure out how to move the goddamned spiders into the goddamned terrariums; and I've got a wild-card agent who's supposed to be out buying Bigfoot evidence running around with a blind-man soothsayer who rides a motorbike, and shacking up with a beautiful post-office worker with a goddamned panther who thinks she's a witch.

And if anything goes wrong with all that, anything at all, Larry Paxton reminded himself, it's gonna be my fault.

And they wonder why I get upset? Shit

Then, to Paxton's absolute amazement, the last red-kneed tarantula dropped into the terrarium with a barely audible thud.

The Bravo Team leader's face broke out into a beaming smile.

Hot damn
, he thought, as he quickly disconnected the tubing, pulled the string to open the small plastic box — sending dozens of crickets scurrying in all directions, pursued by fifteen apparently ravenous tarantulas — and hurriedly duct-taped a piece of cardboard over the ragged hole in the stamped-aluminum terrarium top.

"Hey, Thomas, how you coming with that next cricket box?" Paxton yelled across the warehouse.

"Not too good," the team's quasi-pilot confessed. "It's really hard to make a hundred crickets go into a box this small all at the same time. A lot of them are getting loose. You sure we need a hundred?"

"Whatever." Paxton dismissed the younger agent's question with a wave of his right hand. "Just hurry it up. I'm on a roll over here."

"You mean your invention works?"

The young special agent/pilot's head popped up in surprise.

"Hell yes, it works. What did you expect?" A pained expression flashed across Paxton's face. "You think I need an electronic genius like Mike to come up with something simple like this?"

"We always did before," Woeshack pointed out truthfully.

"Well, you can forget what happened before, 'cause from now on, things are gonna be different around here," the Bravo Team leader predicted as he worked his jury-rigged device into the crude hole drilled in the next aluminum terrarium cover. "Seeing as how I'm the boss around here, things are gonna go my way for a change."

Which, coincidentally, was exactly what Simon Whatley was thinking, too, until the phone next to his bed rang.

Chapter Forty-three

At 6:35 that Sunday evening, Keith Bennington handed a numbed and glassy-eyed Simon Whatley his suit bag, briefcase, airline tickets, and the pair of letters that he — Bennington — had picked up from the drop box at the Dogsfire Inn post office.

He then watched his boss toss the two letters into the briefcase, on top of what Bennington immediately recognized as the other packets and letters that he'd collected from the designated drop box over the past two days . . . all of which clearly appeared unopened.

Christ,
the young Congressional aide thought,
hasn't he even looked at that stuff yet?

Then, deciding that the contents of those drop-box messages definitely didn't concern him, Bennington hurried on with his briefing.

"Don't forget, sir, you transfer from the Horizon flight from here to the United flight in Portland which will take you to San Francisco, where you'll catch the American red-eye to Washington Dulles. They're getting ready to board now, so you better go through security."

Simon Whatley looked at the line disdainfully.

"Wait a minute. Why can't I check my luggage?" he demanded petulantly. "This damned suit bag's heavy. Christ, I'm only going for the day. Why did you pack so many clothes?"

"Sir . . ."

"And why the hell do I need to fly all the way to Portland in one of those damn little puddle-jumpers, and change planes and fly all the way back over Medford, to get to San Francisco? What happened to the goddamned 737 direct flight?" the congressional district office manager whined in a decidedly childlike tone of voice.

"Sir, I . . ."

"Why can't I fly direct into Washington National instead of landing all the way out in goddamned Dulles and spending a goddamned hour driving through the goddamned rush-hour traffic?" Whatley stopped, visibly out of breath and dangerously flushed.

"That's what I tried to tell you when I called earlier, sir," the aide explained patiently for the third time, hoping that his boss was more alert now that he'd had some time to recuperate in the car.

A frantic Keith Bennington had passed the brightly smiling, heart-achingly attractive, and all-too-familiar young woman from the Rene Bocal Agency at the door to Simon Whatley's expensive apartment. Trying not to think about what the young woman wearing the professional-looking business suit and carrying the executive briefcase had actually done in Whatley's apartment, Bennington had hurried inside and found his exhausted, bleary-eyed boss in the shower, trying with minimal success to wash off what looked like a great deal of lipstick and body oil from various parts of his pale, slender body.

For some incredible reason that defied logic — or at the very least, Keith Bennington's limited imagination regarding such sordid events — Whatley's hair lay in a mass of slippery, oil-soaked and soap-resistant tendrils atop his slightly pointed head. It took the congressional aide almost two hours to get his boss properly scrubbed, rinsed, dried, dressed, packed, into the staff car, and to the airport.

Like bathing a damned dog
, he thought ruefully as he glanced down at his watch.
Thank God I left early
.

"The direct flight from Medford to San Francisco was canceled because of a mechanical problem," Bennington repeated for the third time. "I busted my butt to get you on this flight . . . which is boarding right now," he reminded Whatley firmly. "And as soon as you get off this plane, you've got to grab your luggage and run because even if you make it to Portland on time, you've only got twenty-three minutes to make your next flight. And don't forget, the United terminal's up that long ramp and way over on the far side of the terminal."

"Twenty-three minutes?!" Whatley squawked. "But that . . . that isn't even legal!"

"No sir, it's not." Bennington leaned forward and lowered his voice. "In fact, they didn't even want to issue me the tickets. I had to mention Congressman Smallsreed's name twice before they agreed to make an emergency exception. Even then, they wouldn't promise to hold the plane in Portland. That's why you can't check your luggage, sir, because if you do, it simply won't make the connection in Portland."