At 8:05 that Friday morning, with his heart pounding in his chest, Congressional Aide Keith Bennington stumbled into the Dogsfire Inn Post Office, fumbled with the key, and then blinked in surprise when he saw the inch-thick manila envelope lying sideways in box fifteen with another much thinner envelope.
'Christ, it's about time somebody finally put something in the damned thing,' he muttered, heartsick because the presence of the envelope would make it even more difficult to convince his boss that there wasn't much point making two trips a day out to the rural post office — at 8:00 A.M. and 6:00 P.M. — to check on an empty mailbox.
This was Bennington's third trip to the Dogsfire Inn since that fateful night when his attempt to deliver the federal-agent profiles resulted in his horrifying confrontation with the nightmarish creature whose hovering — and glowing — yellow eyes still haunted his dreams. And it hadn't gotten any better. In fact, it took every ounce of resolve that the young congressional aide could muster just to get out of his car and enter the post office.
He had hoped to talk Maria Cordovian into taking over — or at the very least sharing — the drop-off and pickup runs, but the strikingly attractive young intern hadn't spoken three words to him since the weekend hunting trip at Rustman's, and office rumor hinted that Smallsreed wanted her to fill an open slot at his DC office.
Bennington tried not to think about the other — more lurid — aspects of that rumor.
Not that Whatley would listen to me anyway, he thought morosely as he pulled the envelope out of the mailbox, quickly relocked the small metal door, and hurried back to his car.
Ever since his red-eye flight to DC the previous Wednesday, Simon Whatley's mood had vacillated wildly between rabid dementia and manic-depression, a fact not lost on any member of the congressional district office staff.
And that was after just one flight, Bennington reminded himself, breathing easier once he locked all the car doors and turned the key in the ignition. God, what's he going to be like tonight?
Probably either homicidal or suicidal, Bennington decided as he hurriedly started up the car, gunned the engine, backed up, and accelerated out of the parking lot… then pinned his hopes on 'suicidal' as the better option of the two.
Chapter Thirty-two
'You two planning on getting out of bed sometime today?'
Henry Lightstone blinked slowly awake… and immediately found himself staring into a pair of adoring bright yellow eyes.
The shock of waking up six inches from the muzzle of a fully grown panther still surged through his nervous system when he became aware that his right forearm throbbed painfully.
The panther rumbled a greeting. And all of the relevant pieces began to fall into place in his sleep-starved mind.
'What time is it?' he mumbled as he cautiously turned over and looked up at the slender woman leaning in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest.
'According to my watch, about twenty after eight.'
'How long've you been up?'
'Since about five-thirty this morning. I've got a restaurant and a post office to run, a government to curse, and fortunes to tell, remember?'
Lightstone blinked some more, heaved himself up on his elbows, and then looked at the panther, stretched lazily out on the bed with her eyes closed, her head resting against her right shoulder, and her right forepaw pressing against his arm. Then full awareness struck home.
'You left me alone in this bed with her… for three hours?' he sputtered.
'Sure, why not?' Karla shrugged, although a hint of a smile appeared at the corner of her lips. 'It's common knowledge you men are pretty useless once you fall asleep.'
'And a cheerful good morning to you, too.'
'Although come to think of it,' she added thoughtfully, 'from the looks of that bed, I'm not sure how much sleeping the two of you did after I left.'
Henry Lightstone stared in disbelief at the patterns of dried blood that covered what little remained of the torn sheets.
'Jesus Christ,' he muttered as he sat up in the bed and looked around.
'Mother warned me about letting strange men in my bed,' Karla commented, 'but I think this particular situation far exceeds anything she possibly imagined. Maybe I should send her a copy of the photo. Better yet,' she smiled brightly, 'I wonder what the National Enquirer would pay?'
'You took a picture of me lying here?'
'I can just see the headlines now,' Karla went on, ignoring his question, ''FEMALES SCORNED. CATFIGHT LEAVES BOYFRIEND WITH HURT FEELINGS.''
'Is there some purpose to this visit, other than to give me a bad time about your sheets?' Lightstone inquired tersely.
'As a matter of fact, there is. I came to let you know that breakfast will be on the table at nine sharp… unless, of course,' she smiled brightly again, 'you'd like it served in bed?'
At ten minutes to nine, Henry Lightstone entered the screened dining area with a tight-jawed look on his face, the panther following closely at his side.
'And how are we doing this fine morning?' Karla inquired cheerfully as she put a bowl of water on the floor for the panther, attached the control collar around her neck, and poured Lightstone's coffee.
'I have to go to the bathroom,' the covert agent muttered irritably.
The sensuous young woman cocked her head.
'Is this one of those 'my boyfriend has this really bizarre problem' situations they write about in Cosmo?' she whispered hopefully. 'Or are you just asking permission?'
Lightstone leaned toward her until their heads almost touched.
'What I'm asking,' he hissed through gritted teeth, 'is for you to keep that damned cat here, and distracted, so that I can go into the bathroom, unzip my pants, and take a leak without having a hundred-pound panther nuzzle at my crotch.'
'I don't know, that sure sounds like a bizarre guy-problem to me.' She smiled brightly and glanced down at her watch. 'However, I think I can guarantee you a maximum of nine minutes, following which your breakfast will be placed on the table and all bets are off.'
'Deal.'
Three minutes later, Lightstone emerged from the public rest room and entered the back room of the post office, determined to find a cancellation stamp for the letter he'd dropped in box fifteen the previous evening. However, he then noticed that box fifteen was empty, heard footsteps, and was in the process of pulling the door to the back room shut behind him when a FedEx agent hurrying down the hallway with a package almost knocked him over.
'Excuse me, my fault,' Lightstone apologized.
'Oh, uh, no problem.' The uniformed deliveryman offered a brief but harried smile. 'Say, uh, you wouldn't happen to know if the postmaster… or postmistress,' he corrected himself, looking over Lightstone's shoulder at the not-quite-shut office door with a hopeful expression on his face, 'is around anywhere?'
'Last time I saw her, she was heading toward the kitchen. She should be out in a few minutes.'
'Oh… uh, do you work here?'
'Well
No, of course I don't work here, you idiot. I'm just snooping around the back office when the postmistress isn't looking, Lightstone thought to himself, willing the man to go away before the woman showed up and started asking questions he didn't even want to think about trying to answer.
'Look, I'm running kinda late, and all I need is a drop-off signature. If you don't mind?'
'Sure, no problem.' Lightstone accepted the pen and clipboard. 'Say,' he asked as he scribbled an illegible signature in the designated block, 'when did FedEx start doing pickups and deliveries at post offices?'
