'For more hot chocolate to soothe the spirit?'
The old man didn't miss the sarcasm in Wintersole's voice.
'It's been a cold winter, and the spirit cannot always warm the body,' he explained, staring down at his thin hands.
'And what about the taxes?'
The old man brought his grizzled head up sharply.
'What about them?' he demanded.
'Surely you don't begrudge the government their fair share of your, uh, spiritual efforts?'
'I believe very strongly in the separation of church and state, especially when they're both working together to stick their hands in my pockets,' the Sage retorted furiously, his graveled voice raising in pitch. Then he glared at the stranger suspiciously. 'You wouldn't be one of them damned sneaky federal government tax agents, would you?'
Wintersole smiled. 'I don't think they'd want somebody like me in their government,' he emphasized the word 'their,' and the old man picked up on it immediately.
'You don't like them federal government types, either?'
'Let's just say that we have our differences.'
'Ah.' The Sage nodded his head knowingly. 'So it's a good thing you're a man of peace, or you might not take kindly to their evil ways. Is that it?'
'Who said I'm peaceful?' Wintersole countered coldly. 'You are right when you said I'm a hunter. But I didn't say what my favorite prey is.'
The Sage stared once more into Wintersole's eerie gray eyes.
'You know, sonny,' the old man smiled in a conspiratorial manner, 'maybe I misjudged you.'
'Really? How so?'
'Maybe you ain't so dark as I thought you was.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Nothing.' The Sage chuckled to himself. 'Just something us seers think about when we're not busy helping folks with their problems.'
'Speaking of problems,' Wintersole returned to his topic of interest, 'how soon do you think those necklaces might be available? My friends and I want to begin hunting as soon as possible.'
The old man shrugged. 'It's possible that I could have them for you as early as this evening, but if I did,' he added emphatically, sweeping the small restaurant with one of his sun-wrinkled hands, 'I sure as hell wouldn't bring them here.'
'No, of course you wouldn't,' his companion readily agreed. 'Where would you want to meet?'
'There's an old inn built around a great big tree down by Loggerhead Creek, at the end of Brandywine Road, that's pretty much the local community center, a restaurant, and post office. Called the Dogsfire Inn. You know it?'
Wintersole drew in his breath slightly.
'I think I can find it,' he assured the old man.
'Meet me there at five o'clock this evening,' the Sage ordered. 'I like to eat early. Easier on the digestion at my age. The woman who runs the place can feed us — your treat, of course. And if you'd like, she can verify the authenticity of the charms, too.'
'This woman can recognize a genuine Apache Indian hunting charm when she sees one?'
'Of course she can.' The Sage grabbed his white walking stick, slid out of the booth, and peered down at Wintersole through his dark, protective lenses. 'She's a witch.'
Chapter Fifteen
Special Agents Larry Paxton, Henry Lightstone, and Dwight Stoner stood in the roll-up doorway of the United Airlines terminal at the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon, and stared numbly at the three six- foot-square pallets of plywood shipping crates stacked head high inside the small warehouse.
From their position, some twenty feet away from the pallets, the agents counted a minimum of seventy-two 2'x4'xl' crates, each drilled with numerous small holes, tightly secured with steel bands, and covered on all sides with bright red warnings labels.
From their position in the doorway, Paxton, Lightstone, and Stoner could easily read several of the labels:
DANGEROUS! HAZARDOUS CARGO! LIVE REPTILES! DO NOT DROP! POISONOUS SNAKES… USE EXTREME CAUTION WHEN OPENING!
And the most intriguing label of all:
FRAGILE
'They can't be talking about the crates being fragile.' Stoner stepped forward another six inches to get a closer look. 'That's three-quarter-inch plywood, and they must've used a couple hundred wood screws in each one. Man, those things look like they were made to ship artillery rounds.'
'We should be so lucky,' Lightstone grumbled.
'One of you guys happen to be Larry Packer?' an extremely pale uniformed warehouse attendant asked hopefully as he hurried forward with a clipboard in his hand.
'Uh…' Paxton started to say.
'They told me that a guy named Larry Packer would be here at one o'clock with a Ryder truck and a couple other guys to sign for this stuff.' The attendant hurriedly held out the clipboard and a pen. 'It's one o'clock, and that sure looks like a Ryder truck, and there's three of you, so if you'll just sign here.'
'Don't you want to see any ID?' Paxton stared down at the shipping bill as if it were his own death sentence. Finally, after closing his eyes and shaking his head sadly for a brief moment, he scribbled his name across the face of the form.
'Mister, you want to know the honest-to-God truth?' the attendant asked as he nearly ripped the clipboard out of Paxton's hand, 'I really don't care if your driver's license says 'John Smith, Dishonest Snake Smuggler.' You signed for these things, so they're all yours.'
Already looking decidedly less pale, the man quickly tore off the bottom copy and handed it to Paxton.
'By the way,' he added almost cheerfully, 'you want to know what the pilots said when they landed here, after flying all the way from Portland with those damned things like they were crates full of nitroglycerin?'
'No, I don't think so.' Paxton shook his head again. 'Probably just make us feel a whole lot worse than we already do.'
'I doubt that,' Stoner muttered.
Ignoring his huge partner, Paxton turned to the now broadly grinning United Airlines employee. 'Uh, seeing as how you probably don't want us to drive our truck inside your hanger here, you want us to just back up to the door so that you folks could…?'
'Hey, don't worry about it. Far as I'm concerned, you can back that truck right up next to those pallets and take all the time you want to load,' the warehouse attendant informed them hurriedly. 'I'd, uh, be glad to help you guys, but I'm running kinda late. Got a date to meet my, uh, wife for lunch. So go ahead and load up, and then just close the door and shut the gate behind you when you leave. The manager's inside in her office; but to tell you the truth, I really don't think she'll come out until you guys are gone.'
The three agents stood at the front of the warehouse and watched the warehouse worker hurry around to the front of the terminal building, hop into a car, and then quickly accelerate out of the parking lot.
'I wonder if he's really got a wife?' Lightstone mused.
'Or if that's really his car?' Stoner added.
'What the hell's the matter with you guys?' Paxton demanded. 'You think a guy like that's gonna lie about a lunch date with his wife, then run out and jump into the first car he finds with the keys in the ignition and take off just because he's got a few snakes and spiders in his warehouse?'
'I would have,' Stoner said.
