Authors: Ken Goddard
The covert agent momentarily considered opening both envelopes, but then immediately rejected the idea. Tampering with US mail was a fairly serious felony, and he well knew that the probable-cause information he possessed was circumstantial at best — and certainly far less than any federal judge would require to issue a search warrant for a subject's private mail. Meaning that any leads he might obtain as a result of opening and reading those letters would inevitably fall under the "fruit-of-the-poisoned-tree" rule.
In all, three very good reasons to put both envelopes right back where he found them.
Lightstone started to do exactly that, but then noticed an assortment of letters and flyers in box thirteen. A quick check confirmed that mail had been accumulating there for several days.
Smiling maliciously, he put the thick envelope back into box fifteen, but slipped the thin envelope — the one he was almost certain the man with the cold gray eyes had addressed and sealed — into the middle of the mail stack in box thirteen.
Then he hurried to the nearby counter, pulled a sheet of paper and an envelope out of the supply stacks, picked up one of the available US government pens, block-printed five words, folded the paper and placed it into the envelope, block-printed the appropriate P.O. Box Fourteen and P.O. Box Fifteen addresses on it, tore a first-class stamp off one of the available sheets, put the appropriate change in the stamp tray, and was looking around for a cancellation stamp and ink pad when he heard footsteps.
Lightstone quickly tossed the envelope upside down into box fifteen and was heading for the door when he heard a voice outside.
"Henry?"
He barely had time to duck behind the counter before the door opened and the light came on.
He sensed Karla moving toward him, then heard a loud yowl that also caught her attention.
"Sasha?"
Another yowl, this time louder.
"What did I do, forget to lock up out here, and forget to feed you, too?"
If anything, the third yowl sounded even more insistent and demanding.
"Is that right? So what did you do with your buddy? Stash him up in the tree house?"
Henry waited until the sensuous young woman stepped back into the hallway and began walking toward the restaurant kitchen. As she did, he quickly and quietly stood up, slipped around the partially opened door and into the darkened hallway, and cautiously nudged the public bathroom door open. Then he lunged for the urinal, hit the flush lever, ran some water over his hands in the sink, wiped them with a paper towel, and hurried out into the hallway and around the corner. . .
"There you are!" Karla yelled as she stepped into view.
Lightstone froze, his eyes wide-open in surprise.
"Christ Almighty, that's a good way to give a guy a heart attack!" he complained as he stared down at the enticing body that was barely concealed by the thin cotton nightgown.
"Good. You deserve one."
"Oh yeah? How come?"
"I thought you might try to sneak out on me, which is about what I can expect from men these days. But then I find out you're even more devious."
"You call taking a leak in a portion of a house not inhabited by a bathroom-door-shredding panther devious?" Lightstone tried, uncertain of how much of his movements Karla had actually seen.
"No, this is what I call devious." She slapped the partially-eaten turkey sandwich into his hand.
"Oh, that. Well, uh, I can explain that," he began hesitantly.
"Go ahead. Explain to me why you only made one, and then didn't bother to wake me up to share it?"
"Well, uh, you looked tired." He looked down at the sandwich and then blinked. "Hey, wait a minute, I only took one bite out of this."
"I was tired, and I still am, but I'm also hungry." She gracefully led the way into the kitchen. "You ought to be grateful I only took the one bite and gave it back. And speaking of lucky," she added as she turned on the lights, "I'm amazed you found your way through this maze in the dark."
"I had help." Lightstone glanced meaningfully at the panther.
"So I see." Karla nodded as she watched the panther stare back at Lightstone, and then emit a much softer, protesting yowl.
"She complains a lot, too," he added.
"Life's tough when the men in your life won't cooperate."
Lightstone's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"
"She likes you."
"Yeah, so?"
"I mean she likes you. As in a lot."
Henry Lightstone blinked.
"You're kidding."
"I don't think so."
"You mean . . .?"
"Uh-huh."
"But I'm . . . I mean, she's . . ."
"Nobody ever accused us females of being smart or practical in our relationships, Henry. However," she added thoughtfully as she glanced down at the sandwich in his hand, "we can be distracted."
Taking advantage of the thoroughly stunned expression on Henry Lightstone's face, Karla snatched the sandwich out of his hand, took another large bite, handed it back, went into the refrigerator for a gallon jug of water and a half gallon of milk, and then noticed the bowl on the floor.
"I see she conned you into letting her into the kitchen."
"Uh, yeah, as a matter of fact, she did," Lightstone admitted. "Is that a problem?"
"Only if the county health inspectors find out." She smiled. "Grab that bowl, hang on to these, and we'll get her out of here."
She handed him the jugs of water and milk, got the sliced turkey and pumpernickel from the refrigerator, and picked up two empty glasses. Then she led him into a private employee's lounge consisting of a wooden table, two chairs, and an ancient refrigerator.
Kneeling, she poured about a quart of the chilled water into the bottom of a large stainless-steel bowl, then nodded in satisfaction when the panther quickly thrust her muzzle into the bowl and began lapping away.
"What?" the woman asked when the stunned expression on Henry Lightstone's face shifted to one of total disbelief.
"Let me guess.
She conned you out of the milk, didn't she?"
"Uh, well ..."
"Don't tell me. You gave her cream?"
Lightstone nodded glumly.
Karla closed her eyes and sighed. "Henry, do you have any idea what can happen when you feed a cat milk or cream?"
"I vaguely recall my grandmother saying it wasn't a good idea," Lightstone volunteered tentatively. "Will she be all right?"
"You mean Sasha? Oh, she'll be fine. You may not be, though, after you get done cleaning up."
"That bad?"
"A panther with the runs is an impressive sight, my friend. So much so, I strongly suggest you cross your fingers and pray to whatever gods you think might take an interest in your problem."
"Seems to me that sort of problem would probably rate pretty low on the old deity-response list."
"If I were a god, that's certainly the way I'd see it," the sensuous young woman admitted agreeably as she filled the two glasses with milk. "But then, too, I always thought you XYs were too damned gullible for your own good . . . especially when it comes to double-Xs."
She opened the ancient refrigerator, took out a large butcher-paper-wrapped package, unwrapped its contents, deftly hacked the hindquarters of a good-sized deer in several chunks with an ominously sharp cleaver, and dropped them into the large stainless-steel feeding pan next to the panther's water bowl.
"That's an interesting perspective," Lightstone commented as he watched the panther tear into the hide-covered meat with her teeth and claws.
"Don't ever forget what she is, Henry. A hundred-pound panther with very deep-seated predatory instincts," Karla reminded him very seriously. "And speaking of self-preservation," she added, looking down at the significantly reduced stack of turkey slices, "it's a good thing you left some of this for me, or you'd have to fight both of us for what's left of that sandwich."
"I think I'll stick to fighting the human XYs, if it's all the same to you two," Lightstone replied, eyeing the temporarily distracted panther uneasily.
"Good idea. You'll probably live a lot longer." Karla quickly built herself a sandwich just as thick as Lightstone's, then tossed the remaining scraps of meat into the panther's bowl.
"As long as we're on that topic," Lightstone ventured as they sat down at the table and started in on their sandwiches, "you got any suggestions about how I should deal with my problem?"
"By 'my problem,' I assume you refer to the common male fantasy of having two adoring females on your hands at one time, both of whom happen to live in the same house . . . as opposed to her problem, of course?" Lightstone could see a glitter of pure amusement in the young woman's eyes.
"Uh, no, that's not exactly what I meant."
"Well, Henry my friend" — Karla handed him the last two bites of her sandwich — "as one of the interested parties, I'm not sure I'm the best person to advise you on how to handle your 'problem.' However," she added, "I would say that I'm probably the best person around here to advise you on what you shouldn't do."
"Which is?" Lightstone asked warily.
The woman glanced fondly down at her pet snapping the deer femur like a toothpick with her powerful jaws, "you really shouldn't go wandering around with Sasha at night all by yourself anymore. Unless, of course, you take along a nice big picnic basket full of deer meat and turkey sandwiches."
"A picnic basket?"
"Like I said," she added with an ambiguous smile as she picked up her glass of cold milk, "we can be distracted."
Chapter Thirty
First Sergeant Aran Wintersole met with his team at an all-night coffee shop some ten miles distant from the Gopher's Hole, where Wildlife Special Agents Mark LiBrandi and Gus Donato of Charlie Team had finished their Thursday evening shift of bar-hopping.
"Did you send the photos?" he asked the team's communications specialist after the waitress had departed.
The young female soldier nodded her head solemnly. In a public restaurant, surrounded by civilians who might easily overhear any scrap of conversation, they automatically dropped the use of military demeanor and team-member designations.
"I had the negs processed and printed in Ashland, four-by-five color, and dropped them off at the post office at" — she hesitated briefly as she translated the military time — "a little after seven this evening. I included the primary subjects and the secondary’s. Figured the Colonel might want to see who these people have been contacting. The package should go out in the . . ." she paused only briefly this time, ". . . 8:00 A.M. pickup."
"Did you include the ones of the subjects at the drop point, including that character with the truck?"
"Yes."
"Good. We need verification, and I'm tired of waiting for those profiles." Wintersole nodded approvingly, then looked at the other team members. "How did it go this evening?"
"One thing for sure, those two at the Gopher's Hole were definitely trolling," one-five reported.
"For what?" Wintersole leaned forward expectantly.
"That I don't know," the civvies-dressed soldier admitted, "but the one time I talked with them, it was pretty obvious they wanted the conversation to work its way around to the local militant groups."
"They ever ask anything directly?"
"Never." One-five shrugged. "Just my impression."
"I agree with John," one-six added. "They brought up — or responded to — just about every related topic: right-wing politics, fundamentalist religion, guns, the federal government, you name it."
"So what do they want?" Wintersole addressed the entire group.
"Wilbur Boggs, for one thing," the communications specialist volunteered softly.
That brought Wintersole's head up in surprise.
"Are you sure?"
The communications specialist nodded. "David and I" — she nodded toward the injured member of the team — "managed to get close enough to dangle one of the pickup mikes over the back of their booth."
"And?" Wintersole pressed her for details.
"Putting a bunch of things they said together, I got the impression that everybody on their team — except for the three we keep seeing," she emphasized, "go out looking for Boggs every day."
"That doesn't make any sense." Wintersole lowered his voice as he looked around at the members of his hunter-killer team. "Why would an undercover team of federal wildlife agents try to make contact with the local resident wildlife agent — a man so well known throughout the county he could easily blow their cover — when they're supposed to be covertly working their way in on the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal?"
"Maybe they think he could help them pinpoint specific members of the group — the ones who might be more approachable?" one-seven suggested.
"If that's the case, then why can't they find him?" Wintersole asked reasonably. "He lives only a few miles from his office, and we know he was out at the lake last Sunday."
"And we also know his vehicles are still at his house, both government and personal," one-three added.
"And so do they," one-five reported. "They were out there this evening and sure acted like they knew the place. One of them just jumped out of the car, ran up to the front door, knocked, tried the knob, and then took a quick look through the garage window. Didn't even bother going around to the back."
"You think they checked his office?" one-three asked.
"First thing," one-four responded confidently. "If he was there, all they would've had to do was make a simple call-in asking for a meet at a remote location. Which means Boggs probably isn't out on assignment or on leave," he added.
"Maybe he just took off without telling anyone," one-three suggested. "You think he'd be allowed to do that?"
"Pretty damned loose outfit if he could," one-two commented.
"According to Rustman, the man doesn't take real vacations," Wintersole reported thoughtfully. "Spends his days off out on the lake fishing. But that brings up an interesting point," the first sergeant added. "If those agents have checked his office and his house — probably more than once from the sound of it — and they're still looking for him instead of doing what they were sent out here to do, they must have a real good reason for wanting to talk with him. Which could help us, because we need some way to bring them all together at one location at a specified time."