Ken Goddard - Double blind

"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."

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."