Ken Goddard - Double blind

Wintersole stared at him skeptically.

"Many of these charms have been passed on from generation to generation, treasured by the sons and grandsons of their spiritual ancestors," the Sage rushed on in an obvious attempt to dispel his potential customer's skepticism. "Which, of course, is why they're so difficult to obtain."

"But assuming that one of these genuine Apache hunting charms might actually become available," Wintersole played out more line, "how much could someone expect to pay… someone with a bear spirit, such as myself?"

"Money is not the issue here," the old man replied. "A seer has no real use for money."

"Other than perhaps to pay for his hot chocolate?" the hunter-killer team leader suggested dryly.

"I do accept a minimal finder's fee," the old man conceded self-righteously, "but only for the purpose of enabling my physical self to ward off the winter chill."

"Which would bring the grand total for one of these genuine bear-claw necklaces to — ?"

"Two hundred and ten dollars," the Sage replied. "I would keep the ten to pay for my hot chocolate."

"Of course you would," Wintersole nodded agreeably. "And if that same person wanted to buy an additional six charms?"

The Sage cocked his head curiously.

"There are seven of us," Wintersole explained. "We work together, and hunt together, and I'm sure that we all could use some good luck. And as you already mentioned," he went on when the old man remained speechless, "money is certainly not the issue here."

The Sage lifted up the dark glasses again to peer intently into the stranger's expressionless gray eyes for a brief moment. Then he nodded in satisfaction.

"I think you are the darkness," he whispered, his dry lips curling faintly upward in a knowing smile, "but I am not altogether certain."

Wintersole recoiled imperceptibly.

"What makes you think that?" He looked curiously detached.

The old man shrugged. "What causes me to see the things I see is not important. What's important is that I do see, and that I will find the charms that you and your friends will certainly need." He hesitated for a moment, then went on. "I believe I could talk the tribe into a price of one thousand dollars total for the seven necklaces, if they are to be found — which is by no means certain," he warned.

"That sounds like a very fair price."

"In that case," the Sage added thoughtfully, "my fee would be fifty dollars."

"For more hot chocolate to soothe the spirit?"

The old man didn't miss the sarcasm in Wintersole's voice.

"It's been a cold winter, and the spirit cannot always warm the body," he explained, staring down at his thin hands.

"And what about the taxes?"

The old man brought his grizzled head up sharply.

"What about them?" he demanded.

"Surely you don't begrudge the government their fair share of your, uh, spiritual efforts?"

"I believe very strongly in the separation of church and state, especially when they're both working together to stick their hands in my pockets," the Sage retorted furiously, his graveled voice raising in pitch. Then he glared at the stranger suspiciously. "You wouldn't be one of them damned sneaky federal government tax agents, would you?"

Wintersole smiled. "I don't think they'd want somebody like me in their government," he emphasized the word "their," and the old man picked up on it immediately.

"You don't like them federal government types, either?"

"Let's just say that we have our differences."

"Ah." The Sage nodded his head knowingly. "So it's a good thing you're a man of peace, or you might not take kindly to their evil ways. Is that it?"

"Who said I'm peaceful?" Wintersole countered coldly. "You are right when you said I'm a hunter. But I didn't say what my favorite prey is."

The Sage stared once more into Wintersole's eerie gray eyes.

"You know, sonny," the old man smiled in a conspiratorial manner, "maybe I misjudged you."

"Really? How so?"

"Maybe you ain't so dark as I thought you was."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." The Sage chuckled to himself. "Just something us seers think about when we're not busy helping folks with their problems."

"Speaking of problems," Wintersole returned to his topic of interest, "how soon do you think those necklaces might be available? My friends and I want to begin hunting as soon as possible."

The old man shrugged. "It's possible that I could have them for you as early as this evening, but if I did," he added emphatically, sweeping the small restaurant with one of his sun-wrinkled hands, "I sure as hell wouldn't bring them here."

"No, of course you wouldn't," his companion readily agreed. "Where would you want to meet?"

"There's an old inn built around a great big tree down by Loggerhead Creek, at the end of Brandywine Road, that's pretty much the local community center, a restaurant, and post office. Called the Dogsfire Inn. You know it?"

Wintersole drew in his breath slightly.

"I think I can find it," he assured the old man.

"Meet me there at five o'clock this evening," the Sage ordered. "I like to eat early. Easier on the digestion at my age. The woman who runs the place can feed us — your treat, of course. And if you'd like, she can verify the authenticity of the charms, too."

"This woman can recognize a genuine Apache Indian hunting charm when she sees one?"

"Of course she can." The Sage grabbed his white walking stick, slid out of the booth, and peered down at Wintersole through his dark, protective lenses. "She's a witch."

Special Agents Larry Paxton, Henry Lightstone, and Dwight Stoner stood in the roll-up doorway of the United Airlines terminal at the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon, and stared numbly at the three six-foot-square pallets of plywood shipping crates stacked head high inside the small warehouse.

From their position, some twenty feet away from the pallets, the agents counted a minimum of seventy-two 2'x4'xl' crates, each drilled with numerous small holes, tightly secured with steel bands, and covered on all sides with bright red warnings labels.

From their position in the doorway, Paxton, Lightstone, and Stoner could easily read several of the labels:

DANGEROUS! HAZARDOUS CARGO! LIVE REPTILES! DO NOT DROP! POISONOUS SNAKES… USE EXTREME CAUTION WHEN OPENING!

And the most intriguing label of all:

FRAGILE

"They can't be talking about the crates being fragile." Stoner stepped forward another six inches to get a closer look. "That's three-quarter-inch plywood, and they must've used a couple hundred wood screws in each one. Man, those things look like they were made to ship artillery rounds."

"We should be so lucky," Lightstone grumbled.

"One of you guys happen to be Larry Packer?" an extremely pale uniformed warehouse attendant asked hopefully as he hurried forward with a clipboard in his hand.

"Uh…" Paxton started to say.

"They told me that a guy named Larry Packer would be here at one o'clock with a Ryder truck and a couple other guys to sign for this stuff." The attendant hurriedly held out the clipboard and a pen. "It's one o'clock, and that sure looks like a Ryder truck, and there's three of you, so if you'll just sign here."

"Don't you want to see any ID?" Paxton stared down at the shipping bill as if it were his own death sentence. Finally, after closing his eyes and shaking his head sadly for a brief moment, he scribbled his name across the face of the form.

"Mister, you want to know the honest-to-God truth?" the attendant asked as he nearly ripped the clipboard out of Paxton's hand, "I really don't care if your driver's license says 'John Smith, Dishonest Snake Smuggler.' You signed for these things, so they're all yours."