'What the hell's the matter with this bastard?' Dwight Stoner grumbled as he held on to the armrest to balance himself against Lightstone's frenzied driving.
'I don't know,' Larry Paxton growled, 'but I'm telling you, if this guy makes us follow him all night, and we have to eat cold, fucking hamburgers instead of Little Joe's barbecue, I'm gonna-'
Before Larry Paxton had a chance to describe in detail his intentions in greater detail, Lightstone brought the van to a tire-screeching stop in front of the 'C' Street entrance of the Main Interior building.
Moments later, he and Paxton were in a heated conversation with the federal security guard.
'Hey, look, man, it ain't my job to keep track of all the people who come in and outta here.' The guard shook his head emphatically. 'All I do is watch the building, you know what I mean?'
Larry Paxton was just about to rip into the self-righteous uniformed guard when the duty sergeant came up to the door.
'Anything I can help you gentlemen with?'
'I'm Special Agent Lightstone, and this is Special Agent Paxton,' Lightstone said as he displayed his credentials, not trusting his more volatile partner to speak. 'We're looking for Dr. Reston Wolfe. He was apparently dropped off here by a taxi about a half hour ago.'
'Wolfe? Oh, yeah, sure. He just left a couple of minutes ago,' the uniformed sergeant nodded.
'He say where he was going?' Lightstone asked, looking around quickly at the surrounding buildings.
'Hell, that man don't never say nothing to us peons,' the uniformed sergeant shrugged. 'All I know is, he went out the westside door and… hey, isn't that him down there? Yeah, there he goes, right there, guy in the blue raincoat heading down Nineteenth Street toward the gardens!' The guard pointed to a hunched figure walking hurriedly down the dark, wet sidewalk.
'Get in the van,' Lightstone yelled back at Larry Paxton. 'See if you can cut him off.' Then Lightstone took off in a sprint.
Lightstone was within fifty yards of Wolfe when the distraught executive director apparently heard the slapping sound of Lightstone's shoes on the wet cement, looked back, then broke into a frantic run out across Constitution Avenue right into oncoming traffic.
The driver of a Mercedes, trying desperately to avoid hitting Wolfe head-on, jammed his brakes hard, sending his car sliding sideways on the wet asphalt, across the main divider, and into the path of a brand-new BMW.
Incredibly, in the midst of the ensuing jumble of swerving vehicles, screeching tires, shattering windshields, and dull crunches of chromed steel and sheet metal, all punctuated by the screams and curses of enraged and frightened drivers, Reston Wolfe somehow managed to stumble across all six lanes of traffic without once being hit.
Running frantically and gasping for breath, Wolfe could hear Lightstone yelling behind him. Through the darkness and rain, Wolfe saw the three agents coming around in the van to his left, and he started to run to his right. But he found himself blocked by the Reflecting Pool. He staggered from the impact of the first bullet as it caught him high in the chest and punctured his right lung.
Lightstone was already yelling 'don't shoot!' at Paxton and Stoner and Takahara before he realized that he hadn't heard a gunshot.
Instinctively, Lightstone dove to the ground and rolled to a prone position, his 10mm automatic extended at he searched hopelessly for a target.
Reston Wolfe was still on his feet when the second, third, and fourth bullets ripped through his thoracic cavity, tearing through his heart and both lungs. He died before his limp body touched the ground.
'Goddamn it,' Lightstone whispered as he watched the elimination of their one and only link to the men and women who had mercilessly executed Paul McNulty and Carl Scoby. He was still breathing heavily from his run when the area in front of the Reflecting Pool was suddenly crisscrossed by six pairs of headlights.
'Henry Lightstone, this is the FBI. Put your weapon down on the ground, and put your hands up in the air, right now.'
Chapter Forty-Four
Saturday September 25
'I'd really appreciate it, Ed,' Henry Lightstone said and then handed the phone to Assistant Special Agent in Charge A1 Grynard, who had a decidedly unpleasant expression on his unshaven face.
As A1 Grynard stood behind the dark wooden desk in the borrowed office he listened to the senior forensics specialist describe the significance of a recovered. 416 Rigby bullet that had almost certainly been fired through a Holland and Holland rifle, the unique etching of a wolf that was spelled 'W-O-L-F-E,' and the strip of hide that Lightstone had recovered from the Kenai Peninsula.
Larry Paxton leaned over and whispered in Lightstone's ear, 'Don't think I've ever seen an FBI man look that pissed before.'
'You can see his point, though,' Lightstone nodded, speaking quietly as he observed the gradual change in Grynard's expression. 'He's got a hell of a case. Only trouble is, three of the guys I'm supposed to have killed at least once are sitting here in this room.'
'Think he's gonna hold that against us?' Paxton asked after a moment.
'If I were you, I wouldn't piss him off any more right about now,' Lightstone advised.
'Yes,' A1 Grynard was saying into the phone, 'I would appreciate that. Yes sir, thank you very much.'
As Henry Lightstone, Larry Paxton, Dwight Stoner, and Mike Takahara watched in respectful silence, A1 Grynard stood for a moment with his finger on the disconnect button in apparent indecision.
Then, seeming to nod to himself, he dialed a four-digit number, spoke softly into the mouthpiece, hung up and then sat down in the padded executive chair. He turned around to face the four agents.
'In my entire law-enforcement career,' Grynard said after a moment, 'I don't think I've ever come across a case quite like this.'
'It is a little unusual,' Lightstone conceded agreeably, waiting to see which way the veteran FBI agent would decide to play it.
'Did I tell you that we located your duty weapon?'
'In the water?' Lightstone guessed.
A1 Grynard nodded. 'About fifteen feet offshore, pretty much in a straight line from where you claimed to have shot the one suspect. Two Model Sixty-sixes, yours and the refuge officer's, as well as a bipod-mounted M- Forty sniper rifle and one H amp;K nine-millimeter submachine gun, along with three or four handfuls of expended brass.'
'Brass?'
'We sent a diver down,' the FBI agent explained. 'He found over a hundred and fifty expended casings before we finally made him come out. We've got him at Lake Tustumena right now. We received a report from a couple of fishermen who saw a blue floatplane land and then sink out there. One of our technicians picked something up on sonar about a thousand feet down. May have to use a submersible to get to it.'
'Clean up the scene and dispose of the evidence.' Lightstone shook his head slowly. 'These guys are thorough.'
'Yes, they are,' A1 Grynard agreed as the door behind the four wildlife agents opened and two FBI agents entered the room carrying a pair of cardboard boxes. After receiving a confirming nod from Grynard, they carefully placed a stainless-steel Rolex watch, three. 45 SIG-Sauer automatics, a 10mm stainless-steel Smith amp; Wesson, four shoulder rigs, and four sets of credentials on the table, then left as quietly as they entered.
'Your equipment, gentlemen,' Grynard said. Takahara, Paxton, and Stoner gladly reached for their weapons and IDs. Grynard looked over at Lightstone, who was staring at the Rolex. 'Mrs. McNulty said her husband would want you to have his watch,' he said quietly.
Henry Lightstone started to speak, but just blinked and nodded instead. He held the Rolex in his hand for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket.
'Special Agent in Charge Paul McNulty was killed with a. 357 Ruger that was left at the scene,' the FBI agent went on. 'Prints on the weapon belong to Butch Chareaux, who was shot with McNulty's SIG-Sauer, which was also
