'E-mail message from Freddy Moore. Came in a few minutes ago.'
Henry Lightstone scanned the paper quickly.
''Charlie Team was assigned to observe and infiltrate a local militia group known as the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal in Jasper County, Oregon,'' he read out loud. ''That being the case, it's not surprising that members of the Brigade might monitor their movements; however, the group as a whole is believed to represent a minimal threat. Accordingly, Bravo Team will continue with its assigned project, and shall avoid contact with Special Agents assigned to Charlie Team unless so directed.''
Lightstone looked up at the team's tech agent in disbelief. 'Minimal threat? What the hell's he talking about?'
'You got me,' Mike Takahara confessed. 'The way I read that message, we're dealing with one of two likely situations. Either this whole thing really is a game, like Larry said — which probably means your tripping across that spooky sergeant spoiled some aspect of the surprise, but Halahan still wants to keep the scam going — or there's something going on here that's a lot more serious than either Halahan, Moore, or Charlie Team understands. Which reminds me,' the tech agent added, 'what did you find out about Boggs?'
'Nothing that makes me feel any better about option number two,' Henry Lightstone said as he tossed the paper down on the couch.
'How so?'
'As best I can put it together, sometime before five A.M. last Monday, Boggs got into some kind of accident with his boat — his personal boat, not the government one,' he clarified — 'that probably involved getting the motor caught in some fishing nets. I'm not positive about the net angle, but what happened almost certainly occurred at a fairly high speed, because he managed to knock a couple of his front teeth out on the steering wheel and left a lot of his blood all over the instrument panel, windshield, and deck.'
Mike Takahara's eyes widened. 'You sure it was Boggs who got hurt?'
'Oh yeah, I don't think there's much doubt about that.'
'Why not?'
'Well, mostly because at five A.M. last Monday, a neighbor found him unconscious in the cab of his truck, wearing only a pair of jeans and a down jacket — no socks, shoes, underwear, or shirt — after Boggs backed that very same boat into the neighbor's mailbox directly across the street, again at a fairly high rate of speed.'
'What the hell was Boggs doing dressed like that and driving crazy at five in the morning?' the tech agent demanded. 'Drunk?'
'Possibly.' Lightstone shrugged. 'At least that might explain the driving and clothing parts. But from then on, things get a little more complicated.'
'How so?'
'Well, first of all, the paramedics who responded to the scene transported Boggs to the local emergency room here in Loggerhead City. But the attending physician immediately medevacked him to Providence Hospital in Medford, where they're better equipped to treat head injuries.'
'Makes sense.' Mike Takahara shrugged. 'So?'
'So Boggs gets checked in to Providence as a John Doe,' Lightstone went on, 'because he wasn't carrying any identification, and the paperwork from the traffic-accident investigation — assuming there even was one — never caught up with him. He regains consciousness at least once, starts mumbling to the floor nurse and on-duty resident about being a federal agent, and then goes out on them again before they can get a name. In the meantime, the resident continues to treat Boggs for a concussion, broken nose, broken hand, loosened teeth, assorted cuts and scrapes and bruises on his hands and feet — including one really good bruise on his right shin — and exposure.'
'Exposure? So whatever happened with his boat occurred real close to the time of his truck accident.'
'That's how I read it. But it also implies that Boggs was running his boat at high speeds in the middle of the night, which doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense for a guy who's spent the better part of his life on the water,' Lightstone reminded the tech agent.
'No, it doesn't,' Mike Takahara agreed.
'But according to the emergency-room physician's notes,' Lightstone went on, 'Boggs's overall condition — which specifically included reduced mean body temperature, bluish fingernails, severely wrinkled skin, weed and algae fragments in his hair, etc. — was consistent with a person who had been exposed to very cold lake water for several hours.'
'Several hours?'
'Right. But then,' Lightstone went on, 'before anyone at Providence Hospital can put all of this together and get a few answers out of their John Doe patient, he regains consciousness when no one's around — as best anyone can tell, sometime after the floor nurse made her rounds at about two o'clock yesterday afternoon. Shortly thereafter, he — the hospital staff is assuming Boggs did this all on his own, because no one saw him with anyone else — shut off his monitor, removed his IV and a set of electronic sensors, exchanged his hospital gown for a pair of hospital pajamas, slippers, and robe, walked out of his room using the IV rack as a prop, and managed to get all the way out the front entrance of the hospital without anyone asking who, what, or why. Then, in some as-yet- undetermined manner, he effectively disappeared.'
'In Medford? Wearing pajamas, slippers, a bathrobe, assorted bandages and a cast on one hand, and dragging an IV bottle rack down the street?' The tech agent raised his eyebrows skeptically.
'They found the IV rack at the curb.'
'Meaning somebody probably picked him up?'
Henry Lightstone brought his palms up in a who-knows gesture.
Takahara observed his companion pensively.
'So how does all this link up with Charlie Team and those militant idiots we think slapped a MTEAR on your truck?'
'That's the jackpot question,' Lightstone admitted. 'We know Charlie Team's been looking for Boggs in a very low-key, behind-the-scenes manner, which is exactly what they ought to be doing if they're really working a legitimate assignment and want to pick up some hints on the local environment. And whatever Boggs is up to sure as hell isn't a game, unless he's got a serious masochistic streak.'
'Speaking of games, that reminds me.' Mike Takahara walked over to the small desk, where he'd connected his computer notebook and small portable printer to the telephone jack, and picked up another piece of paper. 'Take a look at this.'
'What is it?'
'Preliminary examination report on those supposed Bigfoot hairs you and Bobby dropped off at the lab last Wednesday.'
Lightstone quickly scanned the report, his eyes furrowing in confusion. He read it a second time, much more slowly and carefully.
'Did you look at this?' he asked.
Mike Takahara nodded.
'So what do you make of it?'
'Makes about as much sense as everything else,' the tech agent replied, dusting off his keyboard with his sleeve.
'Which means damned little,' Lightstone muttered.
'It's just a preliminary report,' Takahara reminded him. 'Which, I guess, does make some sense, when you stop to think about it. Obviously not the kind of thing a forensic mammalogist runs across every day.'
'I guess not. But what does it mean, technically?' Lightstone pressed.
'Well, among other things, I'd say it means your new playmate is deeply involved in this, all the way up to her pretty little eyeballs
… either way you look at it.'
'Exactly.' Henry Lightstone tossed the report down, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself.
'Hey, it could be worse,' Mike Takahara attempted to console his teammate.
'Yeah? How?'
'Well, if it really is a game, then the rest of us could just as easily be involved in it, too. You could be out on the limb all by yourself on this deal… with the possible exception of Larry, who's suffered more than anybody,' the
