Ken Goddard - Double blind

And as the Falcon 900-XE crossed over the high desert of eastern Oregon at precisely 5:42 P.M. local time — with Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed enjoying a delightfully sensuous neck and shoulder massage from the multi-skilled flight attendant, while Sam Tisbury nodded sleepily under the equally soothing influence of a half bottle of expensive Chardonnay — Henry Lightstone finally met Tech Agent Mike Takahara in the woods about a half-mile west of the Chosen Brigade's training compound…

And obtained his snake…

And then went on to describe, in great detail, the final necessary elements of his plan.

At exactly 5:45 that same Tuesday evening, an exhausted A1 Grynard, who was determined to maintain as much contact as possible with the agents assigned to his special investigations team, finally returned to the FBI's resident agent office in Medford, Oregon.

"Looks like you had a long day," Senior Resident FBI Agent George Kawana commented as Grynard collapsed into the chair behind his borrowed desk.

Sighing heavily, A1 Grynard closed his eyes and leaned as far back as he could in the amazingly uncomfortable government executive chair.

"So help me God," he vowed, half to himself, "if I ever agree to take on another assignment like this, somebody please have the decency to collect my gun and credentials, and file my retirement papers."

George Kawana nodded sympathetically. "I think everybody in the agency agrees that you definitely set a new standard with this investigation."

"A new low, you mean."

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that is what I meant," the senior resident agent conceded. "But I was trying to look at it from a positive point of view."

"There is no positive point of view on this case, George," A1 Grynard announced tiredly, keeping his eyes firmly closed as he tried to find a comfortable position in a chair obviously designed for someone with no lower back. "The whole thing sucks, no matter how you look at it."

"I suppose that means you don't want to see the latest set of, uh, surveillance photos?"

A1 Grynard's left eye slowly opened.

"What do you mean by 'uh'?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Oh nothing, really." The senior resident agent shrugged indifferently. "I mean if it was my case, I'd certainly want to see those photos. But I can see where someone in your position might not necessarily want to know what…"

A1 Grynard came straight up in his chair with both eyes open.

"Where are they?"

"Manila envelope, right in front of you."

Grynard reached for the envelope and hurriedly unwound the string tie.

"And then, too," Kawana went on as he watched his longtime friend and fellow agent pull a dozen eight-by-ten glossy color photos out of the envelope, "if this was my case, and I knew I'd be held completely responsible for anything that went wrong, I'd probably be a little curious as to what…"

A1 Grynard emitted an explosive curse that almost caused the senior resident FBI agent of the Medford office to choke in surprise.

"You know, Al," Kawana pointed out after he regained his composure and observed the stunned expression on Grynard's decidedly pale face, "all these years we've known each other, I don't believe I've ever heard you utter that word inside an FBI office."

"That's… that's Lightstone. Goddamned Henry fucking Lightstone," Grynard sputtered angrily as he hurled the photo onto the desk like a hot coal that burned his hand.

Senior Resident Agent George Kawana slowly got up from his chair and walked to Grynard's desk to reexamine the photo he and his colleagues had already examined with great interest a few hours earlier.

"So that's Henry Lightstone, huh? Your old wildlife agent buddy? We kinda wondered who he might be. Not to mention what he was doing lying around naked and bleeding with that…" Kawana continued, but Grynard no longer listened.

As Senior Resident Agent George Kawana watched in amazement, A1 Grynard lunged out of his chair, ripped open a nearby weapons locker, pulled out a pump shotgun, a vest, and a box of four-ought buck, and ran for the door.

At precisely 6:04 that Tuesday evening, at the very moment the Falcon 900-EX private jet bearing Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, Sam Tisbury, and Simon Whatley touched down on the main runway of the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon — coming in almost directly over the rapidly accelerating sedan driven one-handed by supervisory FBI Agent A1 Grynard, who shouted into the cell phone held in the other — the woman known as Karla carried a shovel, broom, mop and scrub bucket into the interior enclosure of the Dogsfire Inn where her awesome pet spent her unsupervised hours of the day.

The panther greeted her mistress with a complaining yowl.

"I don't want to hear about it," Karla muttered as she scooped and swept, then began mopping the concrete floor with an antiseptic solution, very much aware that the panther no longer used the fenced-in area outside her enclosure and adjacent to the Dogsfire Inn to relieve herself.

If anything, the panther's response sounded even more plaintive.

"Look, he's not here. He's out doing his own thing. That's what males do, so you might as well get used to it."

Evidently unwilling to accept the well-intentioned advice, the huge cat emitted an irritated snarl and lunged into her overhead loft. Moments later, the sound of ripping paper filled the air.

Jesus, Karla thought to herself, next the two of us will start discussing our dating problems like a couple of sexually frustrated teenagers!

She had just resumed her mopping when shredded pieces of paper began to rain down upon her.

"Hey, what are you doing up there?" Karla demanded, but the shower of paper continued unabated, punctuated by occasional frustrated yowls.

Muttering to herself, the resident cage-cleaner knelt and was starting to pick up the pieces of paper sticking to the wet concrete floor when a very familiar image suddenly floated by.

What the…?

As she leaned forward to catch the partially shredded, folded sheet, the identity of the image crystallized in her mind.

Henry?

What the hell?

Having no idea at all why a torn picture of Henry Randolph Lee should flutter down from the loft inhabited by her pet panther, Karla carefully unfolded the wet paper… then blinked in shock when her eyes saw the name beneath his photograph.

Henry Lightstone?

Special Agent Henry Lightstone?

Oh my God.

Stunned and disoriented, it took her several moments to collect her thoughts. Then forgetting all about Sasha, she stumbled to her feet and ran to the phone in her bedroom.

She punched in the number from memory and let the phone ring eight times. Fighting off a growing sense of panic, she tried a second number, and got an answering machine.

"Goddamn it, where are you?" she screamed in frustration as she slammed the handset down.

Realizing that she had to warn them, right now, before it was too late, she reached under her bed, pulled out a sawed-off 12-gauge pump shotgun and a bandoleer of shotgun rounds, and ran for the door.

She was in her truck and fumbling with the key in the ignition when she felt something heavy hit the bed of the vehicle.

What?

She had already reached for the door handle with her left hand and started to come around with the shotgun clenched in her right, when a flash of black in the rearview mirror caught her eye.

A pair of bright yellow eyes with coal black pupils stared back at her calmly.

Sasha? How…?

The image of the open enclosure door filled her mind.

Oh shit!

She hesitated, torn between conflicting emotions.

Goddamn you, Henry Whoever-you-are!

Unwilling to lose the time necessary to return the agitated panther to her enclosure, Karla shook her head in frustration, invited the panther into the cab, and quickly fitted the crucial control collar over the complaining animal's thick neck.