Authors: Ken Goddard
The cat paused mid-purr, fixed the federal agent with her two glowing orbs for a brief, heart-stopping moment, and then — to his utter amazement and relief — resumed rubbing and purring even more intensely . . . plus occasionally pausing to lick her elevated foreleg and paw. As she did, Lightstone felt the claws of that paw extend and dig farther into the palm of his hand. Slowly and methodically, he worked his hand up the cat's leg . . . and then her shoulder . . . until, finally, his fingers stroked the deep crevice between her muscular shoulders.
The cat's purring and rubbing increased even more in volume and intensity until suddenly, without warning, she let out a blood-chilling roar and sprang away.
She landed in a crouch, muscles tensed and canines bared, glaring balefully at Henry Lightstone, her black pupils like small black dots in the center of those terrifying yellow eyes.
As Lightstone held his breath, the cat turned and padded out of the room, emitting an eerie sound somewhere between a purr and a high-pitched yowl.
For a long moment, he sat there, aware of the tingling in his arms and the cold chill running up his spine.
Then he slowly let out his breath and turned to the woman.
"What was all that about?" he whispered, not wanting to break the spell.
"She's agitated," the woman replied, standing in one smooth, athletic motion that didn't completely mask her own considerable agitation.
If he'd done that to me . . .
she thought, and then forced the disconcerting images out of her mind.
Later, when they stood on the patio squinting in the bright sunlight, Henry Lightstone suddenly became aware of how intensely good it felt to be alive.
Adrenaline response. Just like going in on an armed suspect, he tried to convince himself, but he knew there was more to it than that. Much more.
The woman studied him long and carefully enough to make him feel uneasy.
"She does that to you," she finally remarked in that soft, husky voice Lightstone found increasingly appealing . . . but also threatening for some reason. "And in case you were wondering, yes, the sensation is very addictive."
"I can believe it," he readily agreed, although he was very much aware that he couldn't tell her why he knew about adrenaline addiction. "I know I have no right to ask, much less intrude on your privacy," he ventured instead, "but —"
"Can you see her — or perhaps us — again?" The woman smiled and nodded knowingly.
"It's been a long time since I was twelve," Lightstone replied in what he hoped sounded like a lighthearted tone.
Fortunately, it turned out to be exactly the right thing to say. She smiled broadly for the first time, a smile that, unfortunately, tore right into Henry Lightstone's heart.
"Yes, I can tell." Her sensuous lips pursed in amusement. She hesitated, and for the briefest of instants, her gold-flecked green eyes gleamed dangerously.
"Please do come back when you can." She held his hand in a grip that was, somehow, soft and yielding but also firm and controlling, and accompanied him to the gate. "I think both of us would like to see you again."
"What about breakfast tomorrow? Would that be pushing my luck?"
The woman nodded slowly.
"Breakfast tomorrow would be fine." She laughed lightly. "We open at six. However, I should warn you: Before I let you interact with Sasha again" — she allowed her eyes to lock onto his for one more brief moment — "I must read your fortune."
"You really think that's a good idea?" Henry Lightstone purposefully lingered so he could maintain contact with her hand.
"Oh yes," she announced firmly as she released his hand and stepped away from him. "It's absolutely essential."
Chapter Twenty-two
Awareness came to Wilbur Boggs in brief flashes.
First, a feeling of being trapped in the ropes and nets . . . struggling in the darkness, unable to move his arms to free himself of the obstructions covering his nose and mouth . . . then drifting away as soothing voices reassured him that everything was okay.
Then, some unknown time later, bright lights, and a horrible dryness in his mouth . . . then darkness again, and then a cold hand holding his wrist.
He blinked his eyes, trying to see who it was.
"Well now," a cheerful voice greeted him, "it's about time you started coming around. We were beginning to get worried about you."
Boggs tried to say something, but his dry tongue and mouth refused to cooperate.
"Thirsty," he rasped in a voice that he didn't recognize as his own.
"I'll bet you are, hon." The nurse dipped a clean cloth into a water flask and wet his lips. "How does that feel?"
"More?"
"Hold on just a minute, there's somebody here who wants to talk to you."
Still lost in a foggy daze, Wilbur Boggs felt the cool hand pat his arm, heard footsteps hurrying away . . . and then a very different, masculine voice jarred him awake again.
"How are we doing?" the voice asked.
Boggs thought about that for a long moment while he tried to sort out all of the confusing images that tumbled through his head.
A boat accident . . . or was it a car accident? Some kind of accident, though, because he remembered being in a great deal of pain. But that didn't make any sense because he couldn't feel anything at all now. In fact, his entire body felt numb, so numb that whatever he tried to remember kept drifting . . .
The masculine voice again, asking something . . . name?
What name?
No matter how hard he tried, Boggs simply couldn't remember any names. Which was odd, he decided, because a federal agent ought to be able to . . .
"What did he say?" The resident physician looked up at the floor nurse.
"I think he said federal agent."
The resident physician's eyebrows furrowed. Leaning down, he whispered into Boggs's ear: "Do you want to talk to a federal agent?"
It took every bit of strength that Wilbur Boggs could summon to shake his head slightly.
Remembering the limited nature of the clothing the emergency room staff had removed from her patient, the nurse leaned forward and asked skeptically, "Are you a federal agent?"
Boggs tried to nod, but he had no idea whether his head actually moved. So he tried to whisper the answer instead, but it came out a weak hiss.
"You are a federal agent?" Boggs heard the disbelief in her voice.
This time he managed to nod perceptibly.
"What's your name?" she pressed, taking his limp hand in hers. "Can you tell us your name?"
The nurse put her ear right next to his mouth, but it still took Boggs three tries before she made any sense out of the sounds.
"Did you say Wilbur?"
He smiled weakly, but the sharp-eyed nurse caught it immediately.
"Okay, Wilbur it is. That's wonderful, Wilbur." The nurse grinned cheerfully and the resident physician made a congratulatory thumbs-up sign, then leaned forward again. "Now, just one more question and we'll let you rest. Can you tell me your last name?"
Boggs thought he could. But when he tried, everything started to drift away again, and he realized how tired he was, and how good it felt simply to lie back and . . . sleep.
"Well I'll be darned." The floor nurse looked up at the attending physician. "Do you believe that?"
"I'd sure like to," he replied as he made a few notations in Boggs's chart. "It'd be nice to have a patient with a real, honest-to-God medical coverage for a change."
The duty agent took the call, listened politely, wrote down the caller's name and number in his official notebook, then walked into the back room of the Medford, Oregon, field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Just got an interesting call from Providence Hospital," the young FBI agent reported to the two older agents. "They've got an unidentified patient over there, pretty badly injured, who just regained consciousness, and is claiming to be an FBI agent. They were wondering if we were missing anybody?"
"What did you tell them?"
"That everybody here at the office was accounted for, but I'd put out a teletype."
"Good, that'll keep the hospital administrator and the county folks happy." Senior Resident Agent George Kawana turned to his guest. "You guys missing anyone on your detail?"
Assistant Special Agent in Charge A1 Grynard's eyebrows shot up. "I sure as hell hope not," he replied. "Did they give you a description?"
The young agent referred to his notes.
"White male, six-one, two-ten, brown eyes . . ."
"Not one of ours." Grynard shook his head, visibly relieved.
". . . short gray hair, first name possibly Wilbur." The young agent finished.
"I know two or three Wilburs in the bureau, but none of them live around here," Grynard elaborated. "There's Wilbur Collins in the Philadelphia Office, Wilbur Fox in Miami, and . . ."
"You know who that almost sounds like?" A thoughtful look appeared in the senior resident agent's eyes. "Wilbur Boggs, out in Jasper County."
The young agent looked down at his notes again.
"Could be, I suppose," he admitted dubiously.
"Who's he, one of our retired agents?" Grynard asked.
"Nope, Fish and Wildlife."
A1 Grynard's eyes snapped wide open.
"What?"
"Did I strike a nerve?" George Kawana cocked his head curiously.
"In a manner of speaking," Grynard admitted. "I had some dealings with a Special Ops team of Fish and Wildlife Service agents a little while back, and the entire experience damned near drove me out of my mind. All things considered, the idea that any covert Fish and Wildlife Service agent — much less that particular Special Ops team — might be wandering around this part of the country right now is not a cheerful thought."
"That bad, huh?"
"A walking nightmare would be a very polite description."
"Well, I don't think you have to worry about Wilbur Boggs being part of a Special Ops team . . . or at least not around here," George Kawana offered.
"Really? Why not?"
"For one thing, he wouldn't be able to maintain any kind of cover around this area for more than about fifteen minutes, max. This is hunting and fishing country, and anybody who does either in Jackson, Josephine, or Jasper Counties knows old Wilbur Boggs. Classic old game-warden type. Take an extra fish, duck, or deer over the limit or out of season, and you'll find Wilbur leaping out of the bush with a smile on his face and a ticket book in his hand. And don't even think about trying to talk or badge your way out of a violation notice."
"You speaking from practical experience, George?"
George Kawana smiled. "Fortunately not. But I know a couple of local officers who made the mistake of thinking they could roll the gold and bullshit their way past Wilbur. Bad mistake."
"Not exactly your low-key, low-profile, covert-agent type, huh?"
"Hardly." The senior resident FBI agent chuckled. "You know, though, now that you mention it, I think I do recall hearing something about those Fish and Wildlife guys. Didn't some heavy-duty, multinational counterterrorist group working for some political type out of Interior target them, and then those agents wound up whipping a bunch of counterterrorist butts?"
"They lost a couple of good guys in the process, but yeah, they did a hell of a job," Grynard grudgingly conceded.
"It's all coming back." George Kawana smiled. "You got caught up in it when you were working out of Anchorage, following up on the shooting death of that Fish and Wildlife Service supervisory agent. Only the way I heard it, you put a Russian Embassy-level tail on one of those wildlife agents because he kept popping up as your number one suspect. But then he kept on breaking out of the box . . . and eventually led everybody to the bad guys. What was his name again?"
"George, I've got more than enough problems in my life as it is right now, and you're not helping things any," A1 Grynard warned.
"Come on, what was his name, that agent who gave you such a bad time?" the senior resident agent pressed.
"Lightstone." A pained look appeared on Grynard's clean-shaven face. "Henry Lightstone."
It was probably just as well that FBI Supervisory Agent A1 Grynard had no idea that at the very moment he and Senior Resident Agent George Kawana worked out the final stages of a long-term and exceedingly complex FBI surveillance operation, two of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's three Special Operations teams — eleven agents in total — were actively engaged in supposedly unrelated covert investigations within a hundred-mile radius of the FBI's Medford, Oregon, field office.
All things considered, though, that bit of knowledge probably wouldn't have bothered Grynard anywhere near as much as the realization that the one covert investigator who had caused him the most trouble during the past two years — Special Agent Henry Lightstone — was, at that very moment, less than two miles from the FBI's Medford field office, poised to set events into motion that would cause the supervisory FBI agent even more grief in the days to come.
Ten minutes after Henry Lightstone and Bobby LaGrange walked in through the glass-door entrance to the National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Lab in Ashland, Oregon, and checked in with the receptionist, supervisory forensic scientist Ed Rhodes hurried into the lobby, buttoning up his lab coat as he walked.
"Henry?"
"Hey, Ed! How're you doing, buddy?"
"Great." Rhodes smiled cheerfully as he shook Lightstone's hand. "And, come to think of it, you look a whole lot better than when I saw you last," the wildlife forensic scientist noted.
"The job's a lot more fun when people aren't shooting at you."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"Ed, this is Bobby LaGrange, my old homicide detail partner from San Diego PD. I'd tell him what you do around here, but I have no idea," Lightstone confessed.
"Today, I'm acting lab director, chief computer repairman, and number two assistant on the mop detail. We just had a water pipe break, which is what took me so long to get out here."