Authors: Ken Goddard
Chapter Thirteen
David Halahan, chief of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's covert investigations branch, looked up when his obviously frustrated deputy walked into his office.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"They can't find Boggs."
Halahan frowned.
"What are you talking about? Who can't find Boggs?"
"Charlie Team . . . and Boggs's secretary," Moore explained. "Riley just called in. They've been out to his office and his house a couple of times, left a half dozen messages on his answering machine. Checked in at a couple of his favorite watering holes. No Boggs."
"What does his secretary say?"
"Well, apparently it's not unusual for him to be out in the field two or three days without calling in."
"Yeah, but he knew we were sending Charlie Team out there —" Halahan started to protest, but then hesitated.
"Assuming he got the message in the first place," Moore verbalized the thought in both of their minds. "He never did call us back to confirm."
"Yeah, that's right."
"And to make things just a little more confusing, Riley says his house is locked up tight, the government rig's in his garage — they could see it through the side window—and his personal truck and boat are parked in the carport."
"What about the government boats, other vehicles?"
"He's got two boats and a four-wheeler assigned to his office, and they're all present and accounted for in the storage shed next to his office."
"Maybe he went out on a detail with some of the state guys?" Halahan suggested.
"Yeah, Riley's checking on that now. Thing is," Moore went on uneasily, "we don't want to burn the guy or his operation if he's got something going that we're not supposed to know about, but . . ."
"But he's a district agent, not a covert operator, and he's supposed to keep himself available," Halahan finished.
"Yeah, right." The deputy Special Ops chief nodded glumly.
"What's Charlie Team doing now?"
"Riley's got them staying in a couple of the local hotels while they work out vehicles and comm links. The plan is to break them up into three units — Donato and LiBrandi for the hunts, and Riley, Wu, Green, and Marashenko for the two rotating cover units, but we're going to have a problem with transportation if we don't get hold of Boggs pretty soon. We can get by on a rental for Donato and LiBrandi, no problem, because they're acting like they've got more money than brains anyway. But I was counting on Boggs to track down a couple of trucks and a van with Oregon plates for the cover units. Jasper County's a place where you pass your old car down to your kids, then go out and buy a newer used one. Brand-new rental cars won't blend in too well out there."
"Christ, I never thought about that."
"We can always wire them more money to pick up a couple of halfway decent clunkers from a used-car lot," Moore suggested, "but we've got to be careful about buying local. It'll look pretty suspicious if somebody starts poking around, tracks down some sale or registration paperwork, and then starts comparing dates."
"These Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal characters don't like or trust the government," Halahan reminded his deputy. "You really think they'd walk into the DMV and ask for information?"
"No, but the way our luck's been going lately, Riley'd probably end up buying a car with a countywide history from some Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal member's used-car-dealing uncle. Far as we know, all of the members of the group were born and raised in that area."
"Good point."
"So I figure the best thing to do is send them over to Jackson, or even better, Josephine County, where they can spend a little more money and get something only a couple of years old that they can depend on not to fall apart in an emergency."
"And in the meantime," Halahan grumbled to his deputy, "Donato and LiBrandi get to troll themselves through the local bars like a couple of county-next-door idiots looking for a quick and easy way to connect with a big-game trophy hunt. Jesus."
Freddy Moore shrugged. 'Yeah, I know, but what else can they do if they can't find Boggs? I sure don't want them trying to approach one of these paranoid Seventh Seal militants out of the blue and try to bring the conversation around to illegal hunting. That's something a guy like Lightstone might be able to pull off, but he's in a different league."
"Just make sure they know to take it slow and easy. I don't want them pushing too fast and blow the whole operation. We've got to respond to that congressional in a reasonable amount of time, but we're not in that big of a hurry."
"Slow and easy are my middle names," the Southern-born deputy Special Ops chief replied with a smile.
"You and Paxton, God help us all." Halahan grinned, but then immediately grew sober again. "Getting back to those vehicles. Another thing to keep in mind is that the more time those kids spend wandering around outside the target area, the more likely they'll run across Bravo Team, or vice versa. We don't need that right now, either."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I wanted to talk to you about wiring the money this afternoon. According to my schedule, the shipments from Newark and Miami should be arriving by air freight" — Moore glanced down at his watch — "right about now."
The deputy Special Ops chief smiled cheerfully at Halahan.
"I figure that by tomorrow morning, our favorite band of renegades ought to be fully occupied with a little matter of unpacking."
Chapter Fourteen
At eight o'clock that Tuesday morning, the Sage was sitting in his accustomed booth adjacent to the rest rooms at the back of the Loggerhead City Pancake House, sipping a cup of hot chocolate, when Sergeant Aran Wintersole suddenly slid into the bench seat opposite him.
The old man jerked back in surprise, then leaned forward and lifted his dark glasses to appraise his uninvited guest with squinted, bloodshot eyes.
Casual clothes: old flannel shirt, old jeans and — the Sage looked under the table — worn boots. Close-cropped grayish brown hair, muscular hands, large military-style watch with a Velcro cover, no rings or other obvious jewelry. But what really got him were the eyes: flat, gray, cold as a winter sky. And there was something funny about them, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. They so unnerved him, he stood and leaned over the table to stare at the stranger's belt buckle — a miniaturized brass replica of the Liberty Bell — then sat back down, returned his dark glasses to their familiar position on his deeply sunburned nose, and continued his evaluation.
"Yes?" the Sage finally asked, when it became apparent the man with the chilling eyes and the disconcertingly relaxed and confident expression on his smoothly shaven face felt perfectly content to be examined in detail.
"I understand you sell Indian jewelry?"
"I might," the Sage acknowledged.
"Might?"
"And might not. It depends."
"On what?"
"What you want. What I've got. Who you are. Who I am. Where I'll be. Because nothing is ever as it seems," the old man rattled off the familiar litany until he sensed it only amused the man sitting across the table.
"Where would you like to start?" Wintersole asked easily.
"I always start at the end," the old man retorted tersely. "It's much easier to predict the future that way."
"And you predict the future?"
"Of course I do."
"I see."
"No, you don't see. I do," the Sage corrected him, hitting his ever-present white walking stick against the wall of the booth for emphasis. "If you did, you wouldn't ask me these questions." Then he set the walking stick back against the wall and chuckled to himself as he sipped his rapidly cooling cocoa.
Wintersole's strange eyes flickered curiously. "In that case, what do I want?"
The Sage reflected on that for a moment.
"You are a hunter," he finally announced. "Not from around here."
"A reasonable assumption."
"You haven't had much luck hunting lately."
"Luck can always be improved," Wintersole acknowledged.
"Which means you need an Apache Indian hunting charm."
"Ah."
"The old way. Guaranteed to bring your prey to you," the old man promised.
"I suppose that could be useful," Wintersole allowed. "Just what, exactly, are we talking about here? I've never seen an Apache Indian hunting charm."
The Sage leaned forward. "Bear-claw necklace," he whispered hoarsely, "to match your spirit."
Wintersole's right eyebrow rose.
"You think I have a bear spirit?"
"Yes, of course you do. It's obvious to anyone who cares to look."
"Are we talking the genuine article here? Bear claws from a real bear?" Wintersole's slightly bemused smile never wavered.
The Sage appeared offended by the implication.
"The mothers of young warriors made these charms to ward off evil spirits during their son's first hunt," he explained patiently. "No Indian woman would send her son out into the wilderness with a fake. That would have been unthinkable."
Wintersole stared at him skeptically.
"Many of these charms have been passed on from generation to generation, treasured by the sons and grandsons of their spiritual ancestors," the Sage rushed on in an obvious attempt to dispel his potential customer's skepticism. "Which, of course, is why they're so difficult to obtain."
"But assuming that one of these genuine Apache hunting charms might actually become available," Wintersole played out more line, "how much could someone expect to pay . . . someone with a bear spirit, such as myself?"
"Money is not the issue here," the old man replied. "A seer has no real use for money."
"Other than perhaps to pay for his hot chocolate?" the hunter-killer team leader suggested dryly.
"I do accept a minimal finder's fee," the old man conceded self-righteously, "but only for the purpose of enabling my physical self to ward off the winter chill."
"Which would bring the grand total for one of these genuine bear-claw necklaces to —?"
"Two hundred and ten dollars," the Sage replied. "I would keep the ten to pay for my hot chocolate."
"Of course you would," Wintersole nodded agreeably. "And if that same person wanted to buy an additional six charms?"
The Sage cocked his head curiously.
"There are seven of us," Wintersole explained. "We work together, and hunt together, and I'm sure that we all could use some good luck. And as you already mentioned," he went on when the old man remained speechless, "money is certainly not the issue here."
The Sage lifted up the dark glasses again to peer intently into the stranger's expressionless gray eyes for a brief moment. Then he nodded in satisfaction.
"I think you are the darkness," he whispered, his dry lips curling faintly upward in a knowing smile, "but I am not altogether certain."
Wintersole recoiled imperceptibly.
"What makes you think that?" He looked curiously detached.
The old man shrugged. "What causes me to see the things I see is not important. What's important is that I do see, and that I will find the charms that you and your friends will certainly need." He hesitated for a moment, then went on. "I believe I could talk the tribe into a price of one thousand dollars total for the seven necklaces, if they are to be found — which is by no means certain," he warned.
"That sounds like a very fair price."
"In that case," the Sage added thoughtfully, "my fee would be fifty dollars."
"For more hot chocolate to soothe the spirit?"
The old man didn't miss the sarcasm in Wintersole's voice.
"It's been a cold winter, and the spirit cannot always warm the body," he explained, staring down at his thin hands.
"And what about the taxes?"
The old man brought his grizzled head up sharply.
"What about them?" he demanded.
"Surely you don't begrudge the government their fair share of your, uh, spiritual efforts?"
"I believe very strongly in the separation of church and state, especially when they're both working together to stick their hands in my pockets," the Sage retorted furiously, his graveled voice raising in pitch. Then he glared at the stranger suspiciously. "You wouldn't be one of them damned sneaky federal government tax agents, would you?"
Wintersole smiled. "I don't think they'd want somebody like me in their government," he emphasized the word "their," and the old man picked up on it immediately.
"You don't like them federal government types, either?"
"Let's just say that we have our differences."
"Ah." The Sage nodded his head knowingly. "So it's a good thing you're a man of peace, or you might not take kindly to their evil ways. Is that it?"
"Who said I'm peaceful?" Wintersole countered coldly. "You are right when you said I'm a hunter. But I didn't say what my favorite prey is."
The Sage stared once more into Wintersole's eerie gray eyes.
"You know, sonny," the old man smiled in a conspiratorial manner, "maybe I misjudged you."
"Really? How so?"
"Maybe you ain't so dark as I thought you was."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." The Sage chuckled to himself. "Just something us seers think about when we're not busy helping folks with their problems."
"Speaking of problems," Wintersole returned to his topic of interest, "how soon do you think those necklaces might be available? My friends and I want to begin hunting as soon as possible."
The old man shrugged. "It's possible that I could have them for you as early as this evening, but if I did," he added emphatically, sweeping the small restaurant with one of his sun-wrinkled hands, "I sure as hell wouldn't bring them here."
"No, of course you wouldn't," his companion readily agreed. "Where would you want to meet?"
"There's an old inn built around a great big tree down by Loggerhead Creek, at the end of Brandywine Road, that's pretty much the local community center, a restaurant, and post office. Called the Dogsfire Inn. You know it?"
Wintersole drew in his breath slightly.