Ken Goddard - Double blind

"Dear God," Lightstone whispered.

He remained silent for a few moments, still trying to capture that elusive thought, listening to the sounds of the rapidly approaching FBI and Fish and Wildlife Service boats, and watching Grynard and Boggs handcuff and search Rustman and Tisbury before going back to retrieve a grateful Simon Whatley while leaving a furious Regis J. Smallsreed handcuffed to the float strut and dangling in the cold water.

He gave himself over to the thought so completely he didn't realize the beautiful covert FBI agent was studying him carefully until she spoke.

"You don't really believe it, do you?" she finally asked. "You don't think that all of the evil ones are here."

Her certainty caused Lightstone to recall how he had looked up with Sasha into the dark sky and saw nothing… but knew that something truly evil and threatening was there.

"No," he conceded quietly, "I really don't believe they're all here."

She reached out for his hand and the two of them stood in the bobbing blind, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

"So tell me," he finally said, "setting aside the problems of your crazy-old-fart father and reassuring mother for the moment, what made you so sure that Wintersole would keep wearing that bear-claw-necklace transmitter?"

"Actually, I think we can thank Sasha for that." Karla smiled back at him. "Nothing quite like a little adrenaline surge to make the typical macho male deeply superstitious."

Lightstone glanced down at the cougar-claw necklace he still wore around his own neck.

"That goes for you too, sport," she replied with a mischievous grin. "However, in your case, I think there may have been some rampant hormones involved in the process."

Henry Lightstone nodded sheepishly. "I guess I have to plead no contest on that one."

"Bet your ass," she nodded. "And speaking of pleading, you think Rustman or Whatley will testify against Smallsreed? He's the one Grynard really wants."

"What do you think?"

"Well, unlike our dear departed Sergeant Wintersole and very possibly Lieutenant Colonel Rustman, Mr. Simon Whatley and the Honorable Regis J. Smallsreed don't strike me as guys who would back each other up to the death," she said, rubbing the small of Lightstone's back. "I think it's probably more a question of who gives the other up first with the best supporting evidence. What was that you called them when they went into the water?"

"The congressman and the bagman." Henry Lightstone smiled at the memory of Charlie Team agents Donato and LiBrandi struggling helplessly in the bottom of the Glynco septic tank. "Hell of a pair from day one."

"And we got it on tape, too," Karla tapped the waterproof tape recorder strapped to her waist.

"You got it?"

"Every word. Including, I believe, some interesting comments earlier this morning relating to the death of someone named Lou Eliot

… which, as I understand the situation, should please the indomitable agent Boggs as much as that female Ranger's confession."

"It will please Mike, too. He went to a lot of work installing those microphones in that blind."

"He's a nice guy. Too bad he couldn't be here to see it."

"Actually," Lightstone mused thoughtfully, "knowing Mike, I'd be willing to bet a nice bottle of wine and a cozy evening without Sasha hanging around that he mounted a video camera somewhere in this blind."

"No bet," she laughed. "I'm wearing one of them."

"Really?" Lightstone looked suspiciously at the ornate clasp that held the purple scarf above his partner's Kevlar and flotation-vest-padded chest.

"Where?"

"None of your business. Not yet, anyway."

"Ah."

They both remained silent for a long, more tantalizing than contemplative moment.

"Just one more question before they come for us, Agent Lightstone?"

"Yes?"

"Were you really serious… about what you said this morning?"

"You mean…?"

"Uh, huh."

Lightstone hesitated.

"Well, now that you mention it… maybe it's not such a great idea after all. I mean, you saw it with your very own eyes."

"You trying to take the chicken-shit way out on me again, Special Agent Henry Lightstone?" A soft smile formed on her lips.

Lightstone shook his head. "Nope. I don't think I could ever top my last chicken-shit act. And besides, I wouldn't necessarily call it being chicken shit. It just seems to me that if we really are going to spend some time together in a remote Alaskan wilderness cabin, without Sasha like you promised, then maybe we should find ourselves a better bush pilot to get us there."

"What's the matter with Woeshack? I think he's wonderful. Just because he scared A1 half to death with that evasive-maneuver landing

"No, it's not that," Lightstone sighed as he put his arm around the ever-enticing federal-government postmistress, witch, FBI agent, waitress, and fortune-teller who — it suddenly occurred to him — might or might not really be named Karla, another little detail they'd yet to discuss.

"I just thought you ought to know, that's pretty much the way he always flies… and lands."

"Oh." Her eyes glittered in anticipation. "Well, you did promise me the trip would be interesting. Something I've never done before. I'm sure that Woeshack's flying will be a memorable part of that experience."

"If we actually get there in one piece, I'm sure it will be, too." An odd look suddenly crossed Lightstone's face. "And speaking of memorable experiences, I just remembered: I'm supposed to tell you that our crime lab people are very interested in that hair you gave me."

"Really? How come?"

"Well, according to their report, the hairs are bear-like and primate-like, but they don't match any bears or primates in their collection."

"How odd." Her gold-flecked green eyes suddenly lit up with amusement.

"That's pretty much what they said, too, since as far as they know, they've got hair samples from every species and subspecies of bear- and primate-like creatures in the world. So what they'd like to know is, first of all, what is it? And second, where did you find it?"

A mysterious smile played on her sensuous lips.

"Well, I really don't know what she is, but I do know she's quite happy living on your friend's ranch — with the others."

Henry Lightstone tried to say something but at first nothing came out.

"You mean…" he finally got out, but she quickly put her finger on his lips.

"There's a little one, too, Henry, and she's precious. Let's let them be."

"But…"

"Like Dad always says," she whispered in a distinctly sultry voice that instantly made Henry Lightstone forget all about mythical creatures who might be real, "nothing is ever as it seems."

Aldridge Hammond, the spotted, reclusive, and deadly chairman of ICER sat alone in the dim light of his private office, allowing the memory of the incredible chain of events that had — once again — claimed a powerful member of his carefully orchestrated conspiracy, to flow through his mind.

He was still sitting there, an hour later, when his executive assistant entered the private office through a side door, placed a state-of-the-art infrared videocassette on his desk, and whispered a question in his ear.

He nodded his mottled head silently.

Some moments later, Hammond watched in fascination as the two camouflage-clad green figures instantaneously recoiled from the door of the helicopter, first in shock… then in death.

He had his assistant stop the tape at that point, freezing the almost painfully sharp image at that precise moment of betrayal, the instant First Sergeant Aran Wintersole realized he was to be sacrificed in a failed — and in retrospect, meaningless — attempt to protect Tisbury and Smallsreed.