Ken Goddard - Prey

As A1 Grynard stood behind the dark wooden desk in the borrowed office he listened to the senior forensics specialist describe the significance of a recovered. 416 Rigby bullet that had almost certainly been fired through a Holland and Holland rifle, the unique etching of a wolf that was spelled "W-O-L-F-E," and the strip of hide that Lightstone had recovered from the Kenai Peninsula.

Larry Paxton leaned over and whispered in Lightstone's ear, "Don't think I've ever seen an FBI man look that pissed before."

"You can see his point, though," Lightstone nodded, speaking quietly as he observed the gradual change in Grynard's expression. "He's got a hell of a case. Only trouble is, three of the guys I'm supposed to have killed at least once are sitting here in this room."

"Think he's gonna hold that against us?" Paxton asked after a moment.

"If I were you, I wouldn't piss him off any more right about now," Lightstone advised.

"Yes," A1 Grynard was saying into the phone, "I would appreciate that. Yes sir, thank you very much."

As Henry Lightstone, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara watched in respectful silence, A1 Grynard stood for a moment with his finger on the disconnect button in apparent indecision.

Then, seeming to nod to himself, he dialed a four-digit number, spoke softly into the mouthpiece, hung up and then sat down in the padded executive chair. He turned around to face the four agents.

"In my entire law-enforcement career," Grynard said after a moment, "I don't think I've ever come across a case quite like this."

"It is a little unusual," Lightstone conceded agreeably, waiting to see which way the veteran FBI agent would decide to play it.

"Did I tell you that we located your duty weapon?"

"In the water?" Lightstone guessed.

A1 Grynard nodded. "About fifteen feet offshore, pretty much in a straight line from where you claimed to have shot the one suspect. Two Model Sixty-sixes, yours and the refuge officer's, as well as a bipod-mounted M-Forty sniper rifle and one H amp;K nine-millimeter submachine gun, along with three or four handfuls of expended brass."

"Brass?"

"We sent a diver down," the FBI agent explained. "He found over a hundred and fifty expended casings before we finally made him come out. We've got him at Lake Tustumena right now. We received a report from a couple of fishermen who saw a blue floatplane land and then sink out there. One of our technicians picked something up on sonar about a thousand feet down. May have to use a submersible to get to it."

"Clean up the scene and dispose of the evidence." Lightstone shook his head slowly. "These guys are thorough."

"Yes, they are," A1 Grynard agreed as the door behind the four wildlife agents opened and two FBI agents entered the room carrying a pair of cardboard boxes. After receiving a confirming nod from Grynard, they carefully placed a stainless-steel Rolex watch, three. 45 SIG-Sauer automatics, a 10mm stainless-steel Smith amp; Wesson, four shoulder rigs, and four sets of credentials on the table, then left as quietly as they entered.

"Your equipment, gentlemen," Grynard said. Takahara, Paxton, and Stoner gladly reached for their weapons and IDs. Grynard looked over at Lightstone, who was staring at the Rolex. "Mrs. McNulty said her husband would want you to have his watch," he said quietly.

Henry Lightstone started to speak, but just blinked and nodded instead. He held the Rolex in his hand for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket.

"Special Agent in Charge Paul McNulty was killed with a. 357 Ruger that was left at the scene," the FBI agent went on. "Prints on the weapon belong to Butch Chareaux, who was shot with McNulty's SIG-Sauer, which was also left at the scene. And whoever killed Scoby used a couple of Model Sixty-sixes, but definitely not the ones issued to you and Jackson. So what it all comes down to, Henry," Grynard said with a tired smile, "is that while we think the scenes were rigged, we don't think you did it."

"I see," Lightstone said noncommittally.

"You haven't gotten anything on the fingerprints?" Mike Takahara asked quietly.

"No, nothing." A1 Grynard shook his head. "Far as Interpol's concerned, those four individuals do not exist."

"Shit," Larry Paxton murmured.

"So now what?" Lightstone asked, watching the FBI agent carefully.

"We're digging into Reston Wolfe's background right now," A1 Grynard replied, "and we seem to be hitting a lot of brick walls. He was supposedly just a junior-grade political appointee. He'd been out of the office on travel a lot, but his secretary didn't seem to know where he's been, or why, and there weren't any travel vouchers or plane reservations to trace. Nobody at Interior seems to know much about him or, for that matter, to particularly care."

"Whoever's running this thing decided to cut him loose," Lightstone shrugged. "That's what he was there for."

"Right," the FBI agent nodded. "So now all we have to figure out is who these people are and what the hell they're up to."

For a long moment, the two special agents stared at each other.

"All we know for sure is that we tripped over something big when we went after the Chareaux brothers. Somebody with a lot of influence went after us, and Wolfe was our only lead," Lightstone said carefully.

"No idea what it was you tripped over?"

"No, none at all."

"Oh, by the way," Grynard added as he stood up. "There's a sergeant from the Louisiana Department of Fish and Game out in the lobby. He'd like to ask you some questions about Alex Chareaux."

"Oh, really?" Lightstone said as he and the others followed Grynard toward the door.

"Tell you the truth," Grynard said as he accepted Henry Lightstone's handshake, "I'm not sure where our jurisdiction lies with this thing anymore, but if this sergeant from Louisiana knows anything, or you happen to run across another lead-"

"You'll be the first guy we call," Lightstone promised solemnly.

"I'd appreciate that," the FBI agent nodded without the slightest change of expression in his dark, brooding eyes.

A half hour later, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara introduced themselves to the five somber-faced Louisiana State Fish and Game officers in the lobby of the J. Willard Marriott Hotel on 14th Street. Henry Lightstone was at one of the lobby phones dialing a long-distance number.

"Forensics lab, Rhodes."

"You guys ever go home?" Lightstone asked.

"Doesn't seem like it some days," the senior electronics specialist chuckled. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to call back."

"What have you got?"

"It's not me. Biggs. Hold on just a second."

"Hi," the familiar voice came on the line. "This is Joe Biggs."

"The guy with the DNA probes," Lightstone said, remembering the term but having no real idea of what a DNA probe was.

"Yeah, right," the serologist chuckled. "Hey, listen, we happened to trip across something weird down here and I thought you might want to know about it."

"Oh, really? What's that?"

"You remember those sets of camouflage gear we got in from the Army Crime Lab when you guys were here? The ones that had blood all over them?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Well, we ran the stains with those new probes I told you guys about, and guess what? The computer popped up with a match."

"A match with what?" Lightstone asked.

"You."

Lightstone blinked. "What?"

"To be more accurate," Joe Biggs said, "you and the bear. Your blood on one set and the bear's on both."

"My blood was on those clothes? Are you sure?"

"The odds against it are about one in a hundred million for you, and maybe one in fifty thousand for the bear," Biggs replied. "That makes it… um, fifty thousand times a hundred million… about five trillion to one that another bear and another human, both with the exact same DNA patterns, put that blood on those cammies. I'd say that makes it a pretty decent match."