Prey (15 page)

"Here, you need your headset on, so we can talk," Chareaux said, reaching up and removing Lightstone's headset from the overhead clip, then helping him adjust the cord and earphones around his throbbing head.

"I said, are you not surprised by all of this?" Chareaux repeated, keying the switch for the cabin intercom on the headset cord as he spoke into the small mouthpiece speaker.

"Yeah, that's the word for it, Alex, no doubt about it," Lightstone nodded weakly.

"Here, we must use this intercom switch if we wish to talk among ourselves," Chareaux said, showing Lightstone how to go back and forth between the helicopter's cabin and pilot intercom systems.

Lightstone wanted Chareaux to take his cheerful little surprises, and the headset that was already starting to hurt his ears, and his goddamned intercom switches, and stuff them right up there along with his "special hunt." But he couldn't say so because, he figured, it would probably start a fight.

He could blame McNulty and Scoby right off for this, Lightstone told himself, since there had been absolutely nothing in any of the team's extensive intelligence reports to suggest that the Chareaux brothers had ever used any transportation equipment more sophisticated than a four-wheel-drive Jeep.

The background report on Alex Chareaux's illegal guiding operation had been over three hundred pages long. And among other things, it had listed in great detail the methods that Chareaux and his brothers had used during the past three years to take at least twenty-three subjects on a total of eighty-seven illegal hunts.

The information had also included the date and duration of each hunt, the state and county where the hunts took place, the number of species wounded or taken, types and calibers of weapons used, the makes and models of the suspect vehicles, license-plate numbers, types of clothing worn, game tags used or altered, access routes, meeting points, contacts with game wardens, and details of previous hunts discussed over evening camp fires.

Everything that an investigating wildlife officer could possibly want, except for current photographs of Butch and Sonny Chareaux, and the name and location of the taxidermist that the Chareauxs used for mounting their clients' illegal trophies, which was why McNulty had sent Lightstone in on the Chareaux brothers in the first place.

The thing was, Lightstone told himself, if there had been as much as a single instance in which the Chareaux brothers had even
talked
about using a helicopter in one of their illegal hunts, there would have been at least a half dozen cross-indexed references to that fact in the report.

But there had been no mention of helicopters. That was one thing he'd specifically looked for in the index because he was deathly afraid of helicopters. He couldn't imagine McNulty—or Scoby, who functioned as intelligence officer for the Special Operations Unit and had spent three months working up the information on the Chareaux brothers— being that careless.

"In case anybody back there is interested," the pilot spoke over the intercom, "we're just crossing over into Custer National Forest now."

There was something about the whole situation that nagged at the edge of Lightstone's subconscious. It just didn't read right. He had been working on the assumption that the hunt would have to take place within easy hiking distance of one of the few roads in or around Gardiner. There was no other way for five hunters to get far enough out in the woods on a Sunday afternoon to hunt successfully and then get back to Gardiner by nightfall.

Except, of course, by helicopter.

The helicopter in question was a brand-new Bell Ranger, with plenty of room for the pilot, the copilot, and five passengers with backpacks and rifle cases. According to the copilot, who seemed to know what he was talking about, the aircraft had cost somebody the better part of seven million dollars. Suddenly it dawned on Lightstone that Alex Chareaux's new clients owned the seven-million-dollar helicopter and that it was one hell of an expensive piece of equipment to be used with the likes of Alex and Sonny and Butch Chareaux.

"Are we anywhere near the battlefield?" Lisa Abercombie spoke into her headset speaker, starting to get caught up in the excitement of the hunt.

"You mean Little Bighorn?" the pilot asked, glancing back at Abercombie, who was strapped into one of the center seats just behind the copilot.

"Yes," Abercombie nodded. She turned to Reston Wolfe, who was sitting next to her. "Haven't you always wondered what Custer must have thought when he got up on that hillside and saw all of those Indians?" she asked.

"Last Stand Hill, the actual battlefield, would be, oh, about a hundred miles due east of here," the pilot informed them as he reflexively adjusted the controls to compensate for a sudden air pocket, causing the rumbling aircraft to shudder violently.

"Better hang on back there, folks. It's liable to be a little bumpy for the next couple of minutes," the copilot said cheerfully over the intercom.

Lightstone closed his eyes and gripped the armrests tightly, trying to console himself with the irrational thought that he would have chosen a confrontation with six thousand Sioux and Cheyenne warriors over a chopper ride any day.

"About how long would it take to make a quick loop over the battlefield?" Reston Wolfe asked after keying his headset speaker over to the pilot's channel.

"Oh, I'd say an extra hour, if we take her up to about six thousand feet and give her a little more throttle," the pilot answered. "No problem with the fuel, but it's liable to be a pretty bumpy ride. You sure everybody back there's up to something like that?"

Oh God, no, Lightstone whispered to himself. If he had to stay up in this helicopter another goddamned
hour
—just because one of Chareaux's clients wanted to impress some coldhearted bitch by showing her some goddamned battlefield—

"I think we are running late, so perhaps it would be better if we waited for the next trip," Alex Chareaux said, his gruff voice amplified by the aircraft's headset speakers.

Good man, Chareaux. I take back every lousy thing I ever thought about you,
Lightstone nodded gratefully.

"That's fine with me," Lisa Abercombie said agreeably as she gave Alex Chareaux another appraising glance.

"Okay, next trip," the pilot assented. "That's Granite Peak over to the right, and that little spot of water straight ahead is Mystic Lake," he continued in his cheerful litany.

"Is that where we're going to be putting down?" Lisa Abercombie asked.

"Just south of there," the pilot told her.

"It's a magnificent sight," she said as she leaned forward to look over the copilot's shoulder, giving the clear impression that she was just as indifferent to the air turbulence as the two pilots were.

"Worth the price of the ride all by itself," the pilot agreed, joining Lisa Abercombie in amused laughter as the helicopter shuddered violently once again.

Henry Lightstone had no way of knowing that he was in the highly competent hands of two U.S. Army warrant officers who flew armor-plated gunships for a living. These professionals thought nothing of flying an exceptionally airworthy craft like the Bell Ranger through a measly little Rocky Mountain storm, especially when no one was shooting rockets, missiles, or bullets in their direction.

Convinced instead that the aircraft was being flown by daredevil friends of Chareaux's wealthy and obviously insane client, Lightstone simply resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to die soon in a violent air crash. He tried to console himself with the morbidly cheerful thought that if they did crash, Alex Chareaux would die too, and Henry Allen Lightner's assignment would be concluded.

Chareaux covered the mouthpiece of his headset speaker with one hand and leaned over to talk directly against Lightstone's headset. "I am not one who enjoys flying so much, either." He gestured toward Lightstone's crumpled airsick bag.

"You don't like to fly?" Lightstone asked, reflexively covering his mike.

"No, not at all." Chareaux shook his head. "I would much rather walk for a month than fly for even an hour in an aircraft like this."

"So why the hell did you hire these guys in the first place?" Lightstone demanded weakly.

"Believe me, this was not my doing. All of this was arranged by them," Chareaux said, nodding in the direction of his three new clients.

"Wonderful," Lightstone muttered as he carefully set his head back against the vibrating bulkhead and closed his eyes, vaguely aware that something here seemed important.

"Do not worry, my friend," Chareaux said, patting Lightstone on the shoulder. "One way or another, this will all be over with very soon."

Chapter Thirteen

Paul McNulty had been waiting by the phone in his Denver office for almost a half hour when Carl Scoby finally called in to report that he, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara were on the last leg of a commercial flight to Bozeman.

"Any word on Ruebottom?" Scoby asked after he'd given McNulty the flight number and expected arrival time.

"Nothing so far," McNulty said. "According to the airport manager, the Lear's still sitting there on the tarmac with the wheels blocked and the doors shut. No sign of Ruebottom anywhere in or around the terminal."

"Anybody take a look inside the plane?"

"Not yet. I just finished talking with the airport manager a few minutes ago. It looks like Len amended his flight plan to give himself an open return flight to Great Falls."

"When did he do that?"

"About twenty minutes after they landed," McNulty replied.

"I thought the plan was for him to drop Henry off and then get the hell out of there."

"It was."

"Shit," Scoby cursed. "You know what it sounds like?"

"Ruebottom's hanging around Bozeman to act as a backup for Henry?"

"Exactly."

"You think Henry would go along with that?"

"Hell, no," Scoby snorted.

"So?"

"So that means he's probably doing it on his own, which also means that he's probably sitting on his ass in some bar in Bozeman right now, drinking a beer, with no idea at all that he's giving everybody else on this detail a goddamn coronary."

"I'd like to believe that," McNulty said. "But if that's the case, why hasn't he reported in?"

"Because he's a goddamn rookie, and we should have known better than to use him on a deal like this," Scoby muttered, irritated at himself because he was the one who had talked McNulty into borrowing the rookie agent-pilot from Halahan.

"Ruebottom's a trained agent, and he's supposed to know how to take care of himself in a situation like this," McNulty argued.

"Yeah, well, he's doing a lousy job of it so far," Scoby grumbled. "What about Henry? You hear from him yet?"

"No, and I'm not expecting to for at least another four or five hours. He's supposed to be out on a hunt with Alex Chareaux right now."

"No way to contact him."

It wasn't a question. Scoby knew how Henry Lightstone operated. Completely on his own. No beepers, no transmitters, no backup. Nothing on his person or in any of his luggage or equipment that could be found by the bad guys and used to break his cover. Nothing but guts, brains, incredibly quick reflexes, and an absolute refusal to lose, which was exactly why they had recruited him in the first place.

"Not until he gets back and calls in," McNulty said.

"Any idea where they're hunting?"

"Henry figured they'd end up somewhere between Gardiner and the northern border of Yellowstone, but he also said that Chareaux was pretty vague about the details."

"So you're saying he could be anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Gardiner."

"That's about it," McNulty said. "All we know for sure is that he rented the car in Bozeman at eleven forty-five and ended up at the Best Western in Gardiner some time before two in the afternoon."

"You sure he checked in?"

"Yeah. I called the motel and asked to speak to him, and they put me through to his room."

"Anybody answer?"

"No. I had one of the locals do a drive-by. They confirmed that his rental car is still out there in the parking lot."

"So hopefully Henry and Alex met like they were supposed to, then took off immediately on the hunt because they're getting such a late start," Scoby said.

"That's the way I figure it. Otherwise Henry would have called in."

"But either way, that still means he's a sitting duck if those bastards scooped up Ruebottom and broke him," Scoby growled. "You want us to try to pull him out?"

"I don't know how you could," McNulty said. "Tell you the truth, right now I'm more worried about Ruebottom than I am about Henry."

"What about Halahan? You going to fill him in?"

"No. Not until I've got something more to go on."

"Christ, this is just what we need—a blown investigation when every goddamn butt-protecting bureaucrat in D.C. is trying to shut Special Operations down."

"It's bad timing all the way around," McNulty agreed. "The way I see it, the only thing we can do now is to put the team in the area and play it by ear. I told the airport manager at Bozeman to stay away from the Lear until one of you guys gets there. No sense in making people suspicious if we don't have to."