… the seat cushions…
And you wouldn't have been worried about her, or pulled out that old pistol of yours, if you knew the whole deal was a setup.
… and the flooring.
So that cuts you and Susan out of the grand conspiracy theory, leaving me to hook up with Sage the soothsayer on my own… however and whenever that might have happened. But not… uh oh, what's this?
Lightstone reached down under the driver's seat, came up with a bloody front tooth — and then another one under the cowling — sat down on the front passenger seat to consider this latest bit of evidence for a few moments, then moved to the back of the boat to re-examine the damaged transom and outboard motor.
Only when he began a detailed examination of the outboard motor shaft did Henry Lightstone notice the rope fibers and fragments of nylon netting. That discovery led him to the prop and the protective skeg, where he made another interesting discovery — which caused him to reexamine the damaged transom with a decidedly different perspective.
Boat's traveling at a high rate of speed, gets caught up in nets, rope, something like that, and comes to a sudden stop, causing Wilbur Boggs's face to smash into the steering wheel, knocking out a couple of his front teeth, and sending blood all over the place. Wilbur cuts the boat loose, tries to fix the engine — getting blood all over the cowling — but never gets it running again because there's still a bunch of netting wrapped around the propeller shaft, and finally ends up paddling to shore. Easy read. Trouble is, judging from the damage to the motor skeg and some — but not all — of the damage to the transom, the boat was going backwards at a fairly high speed at the time of impact.
Hell of a trick, Wilbur my man.
Unless…
Then Lightstone noticed the truck's broken rear window.
Ten minutes later, after expanding the scope of his search and placing several more very intriguing pieces of the puzzle at least within reasonable proximity to each other, Henry Lightstone walked across the street, rang the doorbell, and waited.
This time, to his amazement, he got a response.
'Yes?'
'Hi, I'm a friend of Wilbur Boggs, your neighbor across the street,' Lightstone began.
'Oh, I'm so glad you stopped by. How is he?'
'Well, we think he'll be all right,' Lightstone replied hesitantly, 'but I was examining his truck and boat trailer just now, and happened to notice your mailbox…'
'I planned to talk to Mr. Boggs about that once he got home from the hospital. I'm sure the entire situation was simply an accident on his part. As you can see, we don't have many streetlights around here, and it's pretty hard to see anything that early in the morning anyway. My homeowner's policy should cover the repairs just fine, but to tell you the truth,' the neighbor paused, 'I was hoping…'
'That's why I stopped by,' Lightstone interrupted, reaching for his wallet. 'Wilbur's terribly embarrassed about the entire incident, and doesn't want you inconvenienced any more than you've already been, so he asked me to try to set things right if I can.'
Lightstone pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and extended them toward the man. 'Will this cover the necessary repairs?'
'But that's… exceedingly generous,' the neighbor protested as he accepted the money after only the briefest hesitation.
'No, not at all. It can take a lot of time to locate a contractor, and then oversee the work. Besides,' Lightstone added with a wink, 'this way, neither you nor Wilbur need to bother your insurance agents, fill out all that paperwork, or more importantly, run the risk that they might raise your rates. You know how those things always seem to work out in the insurance company's favor.'
'Don't they ever,' the neighbor nodded his head vigorously.
'Anyway,' Lightstone went on, 'I know Wilbur would be grateful if you'd consider the money as his apology until he can get back home and apologize in person.'
'Of course,' the neighbor assured the agent hurriedly, trying very hard not to smile. 'And please, if there's anything else I can do for Mr. Boggs…'
'Well, there is one thing.' The wildlife agent smiled. 'I'm trying to help Wilbur get all the paperwork together on the accident, and we're having trouble locating the people who took him to the hospital. I was wondering…'
'I'm afraid you'll find that's pretty typical for local government around here,' the neighbor smiled apologetically. 'If our fire department's records are anything like those at city hall…'
Henry Lightstone nodded his head. 'I understand completely.'
It took the persistent ex-homicide investigator an hour and a half to determine that the extent of Wilbur Boggs's injuries got him transferred to Providence Hospital in nearby Medford… and the better part of another two hours to finally track down the supervising floor nurse at Providence Hospital, where he learned that patient John Doe — now positively identified as U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Resident Agent Wilbur Boggs — had disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-seven
After the unnerving arrival of the woman and her terrifying pet, the men of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal could come to no agreement about how to respond to the Sage's most recent pronouncement.
Or more to the point, even if they should respond at all.
Some of the men thought it unwise to violate their long-standing security policy and allow any more strangers into the compound, no matter how compelling the reason.
Others questioned the wisdom of allowing the crazy old seer into the compound any more either.
But these naysayers comprised a very small minority, and in truth, didn't feel entirely convinced by their own arguments.
So, at eight o'clock that Saturday morning, it came to pass that when the Sage's ancient motorbike finally puttered up the narrow, winding dirt path, all sixteen of the ranking officers of the Brigade (after ordering the women to prepare for a sudden and immediate evacuation to the back-canyon caves with little or no warning) waited nervously at the forested entrance to their well-concealed mountain-canyon training grounds, weapons at the ready.
Much to the Brigade members' surprise, five camouflage-garbed men riding atop five new, heavy-duty, camouflage-painted, four-wheel RVs — each with several wooden crates strapped to the back carrier — immediately followed the old man in a single file.
The Brigade's elder, a white-haired man of indeterminate age who proudly displayed the rank of colonel on his faded and tattered cammo gear, waited uneasily until all six men had disembarked from their vehicles.
Then, when it became apparent that the Sage cared more about cleaning his sunglasses than in making proper introductions, the group elder sighed, took in a deep steadying breath, and stepped forward.
'Good morning, gentlemen, I'm Colonel Rice, commander of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal.' He made a deliberate effort to conceal his anxiety by speaking in a slow, deliberate voice as he extended his hand. 'Welcome to our compound.'
'Thank you, Colonel. Glad to meet you, sir.' Sergeant Aran Wintersole came to attention, snapped a proper salute, then stepped forward to clasp the Brigade commander's hand.
The salute took the militant commander by surprise. For a moment, he wondered if he should release the other man's hand and return the salute, or simply continue on as if nothing unusual had happened. That became a moot point, however, when he established contact with cold pale gray eyes of the man standing ramrod-straight before him, and felt a sudden, terrifying pressure on his bladder.
'And you are?' He struggled valiantly to keep his voice from breaking.
'First Sergeant Aran Wintersole, sir.'
The group elder's eyes flickered down to the small, black, first sergeant's insignia on Wintersole's
