"That's one of the problems," Freddy Moore admitted. "You know Boggs. He never was much for paperwork and following standard protocols, but he sure gets the job done when he puts his mind to it."
Halahan hesitated for another long moment.
"Let's give him another day or so," he finally said. "If he hasn't checked in by close of business Monday, we notify his boss that we can't find him."
"Okay, fair enough."
Halahan could sense the uncharacteristic hesitation in his deputy's voice.
"You think we're leaving Charlie Team a little open, cutting off their liaison with the regional agent like that?"
Freddy Moore chuckled.
"No, not really. I guess that's part of the second problem."
"You think Bravo Team's disobeying your directive to stay away from Charlie Team?" Halahan guessed.
"I don't think they'll make contact. And from what Takahara said — and didn't say — in his e-mail message, I get the impression that they've got their hands full with that warehouse situation. But I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they put somebody out on the perimeter to keep an eye on things."
"You mean someone like Lightstone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why so?"
"You know Henry," Freddy Moore replied. "How likely is it that he's so concerned about maintaining contact with some demented old fart who rides a motorbike while pretending to be blind, and an innkeeper slash post-office employee who thinks she's a fortune-telling witch, that he goes out and buys a motorcycle an hour after he abandons his truck — and before he checks in with the rest of his team?"
"As opposed to him wanting some immediate and fast transportation, such as a motorcycle, because he didn't take well to being tagged like that?"
"That's right."
"You want to pull them out?"
Freddy Moore snorted with amusement.
"Which team?"
"Either one, or both," Halahan replied. "You call it."
"Gut feel tells me to pull Charlie Team, and leave Bravo in place. Logic says leave them both in place and see what happens. I'd like to go with logic, but I'm not sure that my gut's going to leave me alone for the next couple of days."
"What, no bureaucratic intuition?" Halahan teased gently, wanting to get the measure of his deputy's sense of uneasiness. He had chosen Freddy Moore as his deputy because the ex-military officer and experienced wildlife agent was a skilled survivor as well as a top-notch field supervisor.
"If I had any bureaucratic sense at all, I'd pull everybody back to DC and put in for Boggs's job myself," Freddy Moore replied, laughing.
"Okay," Halahan said, "let's leave them out there for a while. And in the meantime, let's see what you and I can do about trying to find Boggs."
Chapter Forty
At almost nine-thirty that Saturday evening, Henry Lightstone walked into the dining room of the Dogsfire Inn with a brown paper grocery bag in one arm, and went directly to an empty table.
His alert and cautious eyes located her immediately, setting bowls of hot berry cobbler and ice cream in front of the only two diners in the restaurant. She turned, saw him, turned back to her youthful customers, said something apparently amusing to the young woman, and patted the young man on the shoulder.
Then she walked casually over to Lightstone's table with one of the hand-printed menus in her hand.
"Nice to see repeat customers," she greeted him in a neutral voice as she placed the folded menu in front of him. "Can I start you out with something to drink?"
"Actually, I was thinking of starting you out with something, my treat," Lightstone replied, staring up into her gold-flecked green eyes.
The woman hesitated, maintaining a careful distance — mentally and physically — and looked at him suspiciously.
I'll bet you'd be real good at verbal judo, lady. Probably a natural, Lightstone thought to himself, sighing inwardly as he continued to leave himself wide open in an attempt to penetrate the protective barrier she'd erected around herself.
"Somehow I didn't think flowers would work on you." He shifted his gaze to the grocery bag sitting on the adjoining chair.
Her eyes followed his… and considered the bag for a moment.
"So just what, exactly, did you think might work?" she finally asked.
"Actually, it was a pretty tough decision. I finally decided to try a couple bottles of homegrown Oregon wine, some homemade tofu from a little place in Ashland, five pounds of top sirloin for any serious carnivores in the house, and a sack of fresh shrimp supposedly flown straight in from the Gulf. I thought maybe I could talk Danny into making some of that fantastic jambalaya you told me about… especially if we're willing to share it with him."
"You really think that'll work?"
Lightstone allowed himself to glance into those gold-flecked green eyes long enough to ascertain that they no longer seemed quite so aloof.
"I seem to recall you saying something about double-Xs being easily distracted by picnic baskets."
This time, a slight smile appeared at the corner of her lips.
"I don't know." She played with her pen and order pad. "Danny can be a little overly protective at times."
"I've heard good cooks can be like that…" Lightstone paused long enough to give special meaning to his next words, "… about their special recipes."
"Certainly seems that way." She smiled almost wistfully.
"Well, that's okay." Lightstone shrugged. "Like I said, I'm willing to share."
"Can you see them from there?" Larry Paxton whispered softly into his headset microphone more than an hour later.
"Uh-huh," Mike Takahara replied.
"Well, what the hell are they doing?"
"Eating dinner."
"That's all?"
"No, they're drinking, too. Some kind of white wine — looks very expensive. Probably spent our entire per diem on that bottle."
"Not mine, he didn't," Dwight Stoner warned over the scrambled short-range communications system.
"I don't give a shit what they're drinking," the Bravo Team leader retorted. "Who's that with them?"
"Looks like the cook." The tech agent shifted his spotting scope and refocused. "Holy shit, look at that thing," he whispered.
"Where?" Stoner and Woeshack's voices echoed in the headsets.
"Down and to the left, next to Henry's chair."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Larry Paxton demanded. "I can't see anything with these damned binoculars."
"Jesus," Stoner whispered.
"That must be the panther Henry told us about. Wow, isn't she something." Thomas Woeshack's awe-filled voice sounded childlike over the scrambled communications system. "Hey, what's it doing now?"
"Looks to me like it's nuzzling Henry's crotch."
"What? Gimme one of them scopes!" Larry Paxton demanded.
"No, wait a minute, I guess that was just to distract him. Looks like she really wanted his shrimp. Hell of a move for a supposedly dumb animal," Dwight Stoner chuckled.
"Who said cats were dumb?" Woeshack asked.
"Probably not anyone with a full-grown panther sitting in his lap," Mike Takahara guessed.
The four agents all focused their spotting scopes and binoculars on the slightly blurred image of the huge black cat bracing her front paws on Henry Lightstone's lap as she licked his plate clean.
"Uh, oh, looks like the lady's pissed," the tech agent observed.
"Yeah, and there goes the cook with the panther in tow," the young Eskimo agent/pilot spoke excitedly into his mike. "Man, this is really neat! I wonder what's going to happen next."
The four of them waited silently.
"Looks like the lady's about to make a move on Henry's shrimp, too," Dwight Stoner commented.
"Yeah, but she's too late," Thomas Woeshack reminded him. "The panther already licked his plate clean."