Double Blind (18 page)

"If you know anything about business," Wintersole informed him, "then you know that the most profitable deals result when both sides use the other for their own purposes. That's how the business world works."

The old man appeared to think about that for a while.

"You would supply the weapons —"

"And the ammunition and the training, if they need it," Wintersole completed the statement.

"Right." The old man nodded agreeably. "And they, in turn . . ."

". . . will do whatever they wish with their new resources," Wintersole finished. "Which is precisely what we would like for them to do . . . although perhaps with an additional refinement or two that we might suggest," he added with a tight smile.

"Additional refinements, huh?"

The old man seemed to find those words intriguing.

"However, if this group you describe wants to maintain their purity of spirit, or whatever they choose to call it," Wintersole went on, holding up the grizzly-bear-claw necklace, "then I suggest they set up a savings account and start putting away the profits from their Apache Indian battle charm business. It shouldn't take more than oh, say, the profit on a half dozen of these things to pick up a functional assault rifle through the underground market. Of course, you add a decent supply of ammo, mags, webbing, flak vest, night-vision gear . . . and then take into account the possibility that the ATF may be monitoring your purchases." The hunter-killer recon team leader shrugged.

"You are a businessman, aren't you?" The Sage grinned openly now.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"And you want me to introduce you to these people, so you can use each other for your own purposes?"

"For a reasonable fee, of course."

The old man immediately sat upright in his chair and leaned forward.

"How much would you say —?" he began, but Wintersole cut him off.

"I think we should look upon this as a standard finder's fee situation," he announced curtly. "Perhaps a thousand down, and another two thousand within thirty days — assuming we're satisfied with the manner in which our donated equipment is used, of course."

The old man smiled. "I think —" But then never got a chance to finish that statement either because the woman suddenly approached them.

"You rattling on about the damned government again, old man?" She nudged him playfully as she placed the bill on the table.

"Hey, I didn't have to work real hard to convince these two," the Sage chuckled as Wintersole tossed three ten-dollar bills on the table. "Just like the proverbial preacher reading gospel to his choir. Turns out they don't like the federal government any better'n I do."

"So who does?" She shrugged, then immediately glanced down when the creature beside her started to growl softly.

"She fascinates you, doesn't she?" the woman asked, watching the man with the strange gray eyes stare at the clearly displeased cat while he fingered his bear-claw necklace.

Wintersole nodded his head slowly.

"Most likely because you're fascinated by violent death — probably your own." The woman sighed. "So if I'm going to keep you around as a paying customer, I guess I need to work something out that both you and her can live with."

Her long hair cascaded over Wintersole's shoulder when she reached down and took the necklace out of his hand.

"Is this one yours?" she asked, caressing each one of the claws separately.

Wintersole nodded silently.

"Then here's what we'll do." She unbuttoned her shirt, slowly rubbed the grizzly claws against the exposed curve of her neck and shoulder for a few moments, and then slipped the necklace over his head. "I'm not guaranteeing that's going to help any if you seriously piss her off," she warned as she picked up the three ten-dollar bills and put them in her apron pocket, "but it just might keep her from ripping out your throat someday when she's in a bad mood."

"Can't hardly ask for a better charm than that, can you?" the old man chuckled.

"Next time you come back, let me read the cards for you," the woman volunteered. "Then you'll understand."

"How do you know I'll be back?" Wintersole studied her more carefully.

A faraway look subtly altered the woman's exquisite features for an instant. Then she smiled.

"Because I see it happening."

Chapter Seventeen

"So, guys, what do you think?" Bobby LaGrange stepped back from the smoking grill where a dozen inch-thick steaks sizzled their way toward medium-rare.

From their seated positions around the table, leaning back in their cushioned chairs and smiling cheerfully, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, Mike Takahara, and Thomas Woeshack all raised their wineglasses in salute.

"Gotta hand it to you, Bobby," Larry Paxton congratulated their host, "for an old run-down homicide detective who unfortunately got saddled with Henry for a partner during his formative years in law enforcement, you really do appreciate the finer things in life."

"First-class hut," Thomas Woeshack agreed.

"Yeah, too bad we keep showing up," Mike Takahara observed.

"Actually, I seriously considered locking the gate, barring the door, and calling the sheriff to run you guys out of the county," Bobby La-Grange admitted. "But I figured, what the hell, how much trouble could you get me into all the way out here in the middle of Oregon?"

"You don't want to know," Dwight Stoner warned, glaring ominously at Larry Paxton.

Henry Lightstone stood in the middle of the expansive wooden deck and stared up at the angular face of the towering three-story cedar-log-and-glass structure. Then he surveyed the gently rolling hills, the stretches of bright green pasture, the glistening surface of the two-acre pond, hundreds of scrub oak trees, and the high shale-faced mountains that formed a protective bowl around Bobby LaGrange's brand-new home.

"To tell you the truth, Bobby," he remarked after he completed his inspection, "I didn't know places like this existed except in movies. How many acres did you say?"

"Six-forty on the nose."

Larry Paxton blinked.

"Six hundred . . .?"

"One square mile, Larry, my man. Otherwise known as a 'full square' among us Oregon rancher types."

"I knew it." Paxton shook his head in wonder. "The man really was running dope off that big yacht."

"Good thing we sank it, huh?" Thomas Woeshack put in.

"Don't remind him," Stoner growled. "We haven't got fed dinner yet."

"I need to sit down for this." Lightstone sought the comfort of one of the thickly padded deck chairs, then he stared up at his ex-partner. "Okay, now let me get this straight. You, Bobby LaGrange, are an honest-to-God Oregon rancher . . . as in cattle ranching?"

Bobby LaGrange smiled cheerfully.

"And those really are cows out there — your cows?" Lightstone gestured in the direction of several dozen tiny black and brown figures scattered across the distant pastures.

"That's right. One hundred and ninety-two heifers, two hundred and nine steers, and at least one honest-to-God bull. Four hundred head of genuine livestock, on the hoof, more or less. Actually, less one," he added, glancing down at the sizzling meat. "I believe we're dining on Harold this evening. Or maybe Harriet. I really didn't look all that close."

"You butchered your own cow?" Thomas Woeshack gasped, duly impressed.

"Oh hell no." Bobby LaGrange gave the Native American Special Agent a disapproving look. "I just pointed at one of the damned things and told my foreman we wanted it for dinner."

"Man even has a foreman to do the dirty work." Larry Paxton nodded approvingly. "I like that. Ol' Bobby here's got style, even if he does have questionable taste in his partners and dinner guests."

"Getting back to four hundred head 'more or less,' " Henry Lightstone persisted suspiciously, "I bet you don't have the slightest idea how many of those dark spots out there really are cows, much less how many of them actually belong to you, right?"

"Well . . ."

"Ask him what happened when he took off in his brand-new four-wheel RV and tried to use his brand-new cattle prod to figure out how many of those animals we supposedly own are honest-to-God bulls," Susan LaGrange's voice rang out from the open kitchen window.

Lightstone raised an eyebrow.

"It was an accident," LaGrange muttered. "I was just trying to move its tail out of the way. How the hell was I supposed to know the damned prod was contact activated?"

Henry Lightstone shook his head slowly in amazement.

"I assume you no longer own a brand-new four-wheel recreational vehicle?" Larry Paxton asked cautiously.

"Tell him what the insurance man said, honey," Susan LaGrange's cheerful voice floated through the window. "How he'd never seen a four-wheeler that badly damaged since his tour of duty in Kuwait."

"The woman exaggerates," Bobby LaGrange growled defensively.

"And don't you dare leave out the part where I had to call the neighbors to move the bull to another pasture and get you down out of that tree."

Susan LaGrange walked out onto the deck with a huge platter of baked potatoes. Dwight Stoner immediately lunged out of his chair, took it from her, and placed it in the center of the table in a reverent manner while their hostess disappeared into the house again.

"These would be your genuine Oregon rancher neighbors, I take it?" Lightstone guessed. "The ones who actually know something about cattle?"

"Nice people," Bobby LaGrange commented as he poked cautiously at one of the steaks.
 
"You guys real picky about how these things turn out?"

"Absolutely not," Dwight Stoner declared quickly before anyone else at the table could answer. "They'll eat what they get, and like it . . . or I'm gonna eat it for them," he added, glaring at his fellow agents.

"I'm used to eating raw whale blubber," Thomas Woeshack announced casually, "so any way it comes out is fine with me."

"Did somebody mention raw whale blubber out there?" Susan LaGrange's distressed face appeared at the kitchen window.

"Never mind." Dwight Stoner flashed the diminutive Special Agent/ Pilot a threatening look. "One more comment like that and he's not going to be eating with us anyway. Can I help you with something else?"

"Well, I have this big pan of roasted corn on the cob and —"

Dwight Stoner and Mike Takahara immediately disappeared into the house.

"Bobby, do you have any idea what you're actually going to do with six hundred and forty acres and four hundred cows, more or less?" Henry Lightstone asked reasonably when Stoner and Takahara reappeared holding two huge foil-wrapped pans and with big grins on their faces. Susan LaGrange followed closely behind with another heaping bowl of salad.

"Well, according to my neighbors, who've been doing this sort of thing ever since God made sunsets," Bobby LaGrange commenced describing the nitty-gritty of ranching, "every year or so, my foreman and I hire ourselves a couple of trusty cowhands, saddle up the horses, ride out on the range, round up everything that looks like a cow, herd them into the corral, separate the big ones from the little ones, whack the balls off all the new guys, brand everything in sight with a bare butt, turn everybody loose, and go back to the house for a beer. Which reminds me" — LaGrange reached into the nearby cooler and pulled out a pair of dripping bottles — "anybody ready for more wine?"

"Allow me," Larry Paxton volunteered, taking the bottles and holding them carefully in his scarred hands.

"Somebody better help him with the corks," Mike Takahara advised. "I don't think he knows how to open anything without a pull tab."

"Have you know I can drink fine Oregon Chardonnay with the best of them." Larry Paxton popped the cork on the first bottle and sniffed appreciatively. "Fact is, I may never leave this place. You real fond of that foreman, Bobby?"

Susan LaGrange stuck her head out of the kitchen window. "Before everybody starts eating," she announced with a grin, "save some room because I've got two apple pies cooling on the deck."

"Forget it, Paxton," Dwight Stoner warned in a deadly serious voice once he spotted the pies. "Anybody around this table gets to retire to this piece of heaven, it's gonna be me."

"I don't know, Bobby." Mike Takahara looked at their host. "If you're gonna have to pay Stoner in free meals, you'd better get that bull back into production real quick-like."

While Paxton poured the wine, they all helped themselves to the corn on the cob, baked potatoes, and salad, while Bobby LaGrange distributed the steaks, thoughtfully dropping two of the huge chunks of mildly charred meat onto Dwight Stoner's plate.

For about ten minutes, only the sounds of clattering silverware and pure unadulterated satisfaction accompanied the disappearance of a sizable amount of food.

Finally, Henry Lightstone put down a thoroughly cleaned ear of corn and turned to Susan LaGrange.

"Susan, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but Bobby and I grew up on fifth-of-an-acre suburban lots in El Cajon. Closest we ever came to livestock was the local meat market and our neighbor's Great Dane. Fact of the matter is, your husband wouldn't recognize a cattle ranch if he tripped over a branding iron and fell face first into a cow patty."

"Been there, done —" Susan LaGrange started to say, and then ducked a handful of thrown olives. "Hey, don't blame me, buddy boy," she protested cheerfully. "Who was it who said you were losing your mind when you first started talking about moving to Oregon and buying a ranch and a canoe with the insurance money?"

"All true," Bobby LaGrange admitted. "But the way I look at it, we're a hundred miles from the nearest ocean, and that pond out there is only six feet deep. So if anybody takes it into their mind to try to blow up my canoe with a wheelbarrow full of C-4, I ought be able to wade to shore without having to fight off a goddamned hammerhead shark or damn near drowning in the process. So as long as Bravo Team, Division of Law Enforcement, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service stays the hell out of Oregon, I ought to make out just fine. Which reminds me," he added suspiciously, "just what the hell are you guys doing in Oregon?"