Ken Goddard - Double blind

"It sure does look that way." Lightstone shook his head slowly, trying to ignore the apprehension that continued to plague him as the pieces of the puzzle apparently fell into place. "One big game, and we're the target."

"You mean we were the target," Dwight Stoner corrected him.

"Exactly." Larry Paxton smiled again. "So where do we find Special Agent Wilbur Boggs these days?"

"You'll love this part," the tech agent predicted.

"What?"

"If I remember my map correctly, we're about twenty minutes from his office right now."

Awareness, when it came to Wilbur Boggs again, freed him from the stupor that enveloped him like a dank, impenetrable cloud.

The vague feelings of fighting the ropes and nets, struggling in the darkness, or trying to work himself free of obstructions trying to cover his nose and mouth vanished.

Instead, he awoke to a sense of freedom, and brightness, and general well-being marred only by the persistent dryness in his throat, the gentle numbness that didn't quite mask the pain which emanated from several parts of his body, and most unsettling of all, the confusion regarding where he was… and why.

Because of this, it took the federal wildlife agent several long moments finally to understand that the wires and tubes attached to his arms probably signified something important.

Monitors? IVs? Bright lights. Must be in a hospital. No wonder everything feels numb. Probably giving me drugs.

In that case, he decided, in order to figure out what happened, he needed to stop the mind-numbing flow.

Accordingly, Wilbur Boggs carefully reached around with his left hand — for some reason his right hand felt heavy and immobile — followed the thin plastic tubing with his numbed fingers until it ended under a strip of medical tape attached to the inner elbow of his right arm, peeled up the tape, then slowly pulled the IV needle out of his arm.

For reasons he couldn't quite grasp, he'd expected alarms to go off, and people to come running… and felt momentarily confused when nothing happened.

Supposed to happen, because that's what always happens on TV, he finally managed to reason out, but with no idea why that bit of knowledge might be important, much less true. But they wouldn't need to rig any kind of alarm on the IV, because they've already got me connected to at least four or five other electronic doodads and that big monitor over there… with the big ON/OFF switch… right next to the bed. Ah.

Special Agent Wilbur Boggs slowly sat up with his legs dangling over the side of the bed, after finally deciding it might be a good idea to make sure he was more or less okay before he disconnected himself from the monitor. However, then his tongue felt an unfamiliar empty space in his mouth.

What the hell happened to my front teeth?

He brought his right hand up to feel for his missing teeth — and saw the cast on his right hand for the first time. When he did, the memories began to trickle into his head.

Boat.

My boat.

All tangled up and broken, goddamn it, because they…

They?

His eyes grew wide as he continued staring at the thick plaster cast on his right hand. What the hell…?

Rustman.

Whatley.

And Smallsreed. That goddamned sleazy…

Wait a minute. Sleazy what? Congressman? No, something else.

Sleazy bagman. That's it. Political bagman, guy named Simon Whatley. Smallsreed's man. Him and who? The new guy Eliot said scared the shit out of everybody at Rustman's place?

Eliot? Who's that?

Something about Eliot's name made Boggs feel anxious.

Oh yeah, that's right.

Got to tell them about Lou Eliot.

The memories came faster now.

Gotta warn them.

Them? Who's 'them'? And why do I have to…?

And then the flood gates opened, and the entire day's events surged through the agent's dazed mind.

Shots fired.

Two shots, far apart, execution style.

Gotta warn them. Tell them about Lou Eliot… he never showed up.. and the new guy. The one Eliot was afraid of. Sergeant somebody.

Somebody cold and empty, just like win -

Wintersole.

Sergeant Wintersole.

He knew he had it now — almost within his grasp — and Wintersole was the key. If he could just get a focus on that last murky element drifting around in the back of his mind. Something about help. Needing help. Calling for…

Was that it? Calling for help?

No.

He felt a cold chill start up his spine.

He didn't have to call for help because… why?

Because help was already coming.

That's right. They're already on their way, thanks to good old Halahan. Goddamned stubborn Irishman. He'll take care of everything.

But…

But what?

Got to warn them. Gotta tell… Charley?

He blinked again, then immediately felt dizzy and sick to his stomach as the spine-chilling awareness hit home.

Charlie Team. The kids. Oh Christ.

Boggs fumbled for the phone on the monitor table, but he immediately gave that idea up when he realized he couldn't remember a single phone number. Not a one. He thought about asking someone for a phone book, but the door to his room was almost shut, and he didn't feel strong enough to yell. Instead, he simply reached over, shut the monitor off, ripped the rest of the electronic sensors off his head and arms, then staggered to the nearby closet.

And discovered, to his amazement, nothing but a pair of white hospital pajamas, a white bathrobe, and a pair of flat cloth slippers.

Wait a minute. What happened to my clothes?

He tried to remember how he'd wound up there, but the only memory he could dredge up out of his aching head had something to do with crawling toward his truck on his hands and knees, which didn't make any sense at all.

So lacking a better plan, Wilbur Boggs pulled himself out of the open-backed hospital gown, worked himself into the pajamas, robe, and slippers — trying, as he did so, to ignore the cast on his hand — re-taped the IV needle to his arm, and then did what he vaguely remembered seeing someone do on TV.

He got up and staggered out the door of his room and into the wide hallway, dragging the IV rack in his wake.

Incredibly, he made it all the way to the lobby, and then through the wide automatic door and across the covered entryway before anyone reacted to his presence — and appearance — with anything other than a brief, professional smile.

"Mr. Boggs?"

Wilbur Boggs blinked in the unaccustomed daylight.

"That's right," he replied in a raspy voice, trying to remember if the muscular yet attractive young woman standing in front of him was his nurse.

"Are you going somewhere?" she asked hesitantly.

"My office," he mumbled, wondering if he could muster the strength to shove her aside and make a run for it, or find a taxi before she called the security guards to drag him back to his room.

No, probably not, he told himself glumly.

"Oh really?" The young woman smiled. "Do you have a ride?" He looked around the entryway. Except for a single truck parked at the far end of the driveway, it was empty.

"Uh, no, I guess not."

"Well then," she beamed at him, "may I offer you one?"

Mike Takahara had based his time estimate for locating Wilbur Boggs on rough distance and the clearly marked speed zones through town, rather than the speed and mobility of the small Honda.

And the uneasy determination of Henry Lightstone.

Consequently, it took Lightstone five minutes less than the tech agent's estimate to find Boggs's office. But he then spent another ten slowly circling a four-block area — until he felt reasonably certain he hadn't been followed — before he risked entering the small office building through a door that opened into the back alleyway.