'Works for me,' Lightstone agreed.
'Well, while you crybabies go in there and start figuring out how you're gonna load them things,' Paxton announced, 'I'm gonna go get the truck.'
The two agents waited patiently right where they were until the Bravo Team leader cautiously backed the Ryder truck about halfway inside the roll-up doorway of the warehouse — still a good ten feet from the pallets.
'That's good!' Stoner called out, and then turned to Lightstone. 'No sense in letting him get too close.'
'Yeah, no kidding.'
Paxton hopped out of the truck and stared at his two subordinate agents.
'Well, you two got this all figured out?' he demanded.
'Yep,' Stoner replied.
'Good. I'll stand by the door and make damned sure nobody — ' Paxton's words ended abruptly when a huge hand closed around the front of his shirt and lifted his entire 185-pound frame a good foot off the floor.
'Don't look upon this as insubordination, Paxton,' Dwight Stoner suggested, glaring into Larry Paxton's widened eyes as he relaxed his massive arm enough to allow his supervisor's shoes to touch the ground. 'Look upon it as constructive criticism.'
'Not to mention a unique opportunity to demonstrate uncommon leadership,' Lightstone added.
'Yeah, that too,' Stoner agreed. 'And besides,' the huge agent muttered ominously as he opened his hand and then smoothed out Paxton's bunched-up shirt, 'all we'd have to do is show them a copy of that shipping invoice, and not a jury in the world would ever convict us.'
Thirty seconds later, having reached a mutual agreement as to the division of labor on this particular assignment, the three federal agents cautiously approached the stacks of crates together.
'Which ones do you think have the spiders in them?' Stoner whispered when they stood about six feet away from the closest pallet.
'If there really are 750 of the damned things, then my guess would be every one that isn't labeled 'poisonous snake,'' Lightstone suggested. 'But don't forget,' he added thoughtfully, 'we could be talking wildlife-agent sense of humor here.'
'Bunch of whiny little crybabies, afraid of a few itty-bitty spiders,' Larry Paxton muttered as he gingerly moved to within three feet of the pallet and leaned forward, trying to peek through the numerous quarter-inch holes drilled along the upper edge of one of the top crates on the pile.
'See anything?' Lightstone whispered.
'Not a damned thing,' Paxton replied nervously.
'It looks like there's some kind of screening on the inside of some of the boxes covering the air holes,' Stoner noted, squatting down to examine the pile from a much safer distance. 'I wonder what that means?'
'Means whatever's in this one can't get out through a quarter-inch diameter hole,' Paxton proposed hopefully.
'Well, you ought to be able to see something through those holes,' Lightstone reasoned. 'Why don't you move in closer?'
'Don't rush me, goddamnit!'
'Now that's what I call leadership by example,' Dwight Stoner grunted approvingly.
Moving very slowly and cautiously, and keeping his fingers well away from the drilled holes, Paxton placed his hands along the lower sides of the heavy crate he was examining, and ever so gently pulled it about two inches toward him.
Nothing.
'See, I told you little crybabies — ' Paxton berated them in a soft voice as he carefully lifted the heavy box off the stack… and then screamed 'SHIT!' when something thrashed heavily inside, sending both the team leader and the box tumbling backwards.
Larry Paxton landed solidly on his back on the concrete floor, forcing most of the air from his lungs in a loud, explosive gasp — followed by another an instant later when the now wildly thumping crate landed on his chest, causing the wide-eyed team leader to scream 'SHIT!!!' again in an even louder, higher-pitched voice.
Shoving the heavy container aside with the last vestiges of air in his lungs, Paxton leaped to his feet and staggered behind Dwight Stoner as the huge agent drew his 10mm Smith amp; Wesson semiautomatic pistol out from under his jacket and aimed it at the crate — which thumped and jerked a couple more times before suddenly becoming silent.
For about five long seconds, only the sound of Larry Paxton's labored breathing filled the warehouse. Nobody spoke a word.
Finally, Henry Lightstone broke the silence.
'I don't know about you guys,' he ventured in a hushed voice, 'but I sure as hell hope that's not one of the spider boxes.'
Chapter Sixteen
Darkness had already fallen when the Sage puttered up the road on his noisy, smoke-belching motorbike. The narrow headlight beam wavered among the surrounding trees as the old man wobbled to a stop next to a pair of wooden benches beneath a brand-new post-mounted wooden sign that said The Dogsfire Inn where First Sergeant Wintersole and the communications specialist of the hunter-killer team awaited him.
'Ah, I see you found the place.' The scraggly-bearded old man carefully leaned the motorcycle against a tree, struggled to remove his helmet and backpack, pulled a pair of dark glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on, then unstrapped his white walking stick from the bike frame.
'At the end of the road, beside the creek. An old house with a tree growing out through the roof.' Wintersole shrugged. 'It wasn't difficult.'
'Who's she?'
'This is one of my associates, named Azaria.' Wintersole turned to the young woman. 'Azaria, the Sage.'
'Pleased to meet you.' The attractive but decidedly hard-looking young woman offered a muscular hand.
'Oh, uh, yes… pleased also.' The Sage grasped the young woman's hand briefly. Then he quickly hobbled onto the spacious wooden deck that extended from the inn and attached screened porch to the dirt road on one side and creek on the other. Several dozen glowing yellow light bulbs both within and outside the enclosed porch added to the already eerie atmosphere of the old house.
The communications specialist gave Wintersole a puzzled look, but he simply motioned for her to follow the old man into the huge screened area, then sat down at one of the rustic tables surrounding a circular pit with a bell-like brass chimney over a blazing log fire.
'I like to eat outside,' the old man explained as he sat in the chair closest to the fire and leaned his walking stick within easy reach against the table. 'Gets a mite chilly sometimes, but a good fire warms my bones better than any modern heating system.'
'Fine.' Wintersole barely glanced at the fire as he and Azaria joined the old man at the table.
'Things are a little slow around here,' the Sage advised as he picked up one of the handwritten menus and held it up to the firelight. 'Just the new owner and a young feller doin' the cooking and everything else. But that's okay 'cause the hot chocolate's just as good as ever.'
'So how did the search go?' Wintersole inquired openly. 'Any luck?'
'Hell yes, I had some luck,' the old man retorted. 'Fact is, I had to sweet-talk a couple of them Indian folks something fierce to round up these beauties.' He turned his backpack upside down, and seven ornately beaded and feathered necklaces dropped onto the wood slab tabletop. 'Got three from one old woman who planned to save them for her grandsons, but I guess she decided the money meant more to her. Said the kids don't care about the old ways anymore. Guess that's pretty much the way everywhere.' The bearded old man sighed deeply.
'But then, too, some would say that children have never cared about such things,' Wintersole suggested as his eyes scanned the enclosed porch and surrounding deck.
The old man's dark glasses reflected the warm glow of the fire as he cocked his head curiously.
'What have we here?' he addressed Wintersole suspiciously. 'A hunter and a philosopher?'
