“Absolutely.” Achara extended the green bean in front of Bulatt who groaned, leaned forward, bit off half, and then sank back into the cushions with another contented sigh as Achara popped the remaining bean half into her mouth. “It’s just a matter of carefully controlling the heat.”
“And you know how to do that.”
“Absolutely.”
Achara glanced over at the twins, eyeing them with an expression on her face that Bulatt couldn’t quite interpret, shook her head, and then turned to Bulatt.
“Speaking of which, I assume you do realize that we could have had a much more intimate dinner if you hadn’t brought along the chaperones,” she added in a quiet voice, her facial features shifting to an expression that was much easier to read. “Tell me you did that because you want very badly to find the men who killed my brother and shot my father.”
“Definitely because of your father,” Bulatt said, meeting her gaze. “I promised him I would find and deal with the men who killed your brother and his Rangers.”
“My brother is at peace with my mother, my father is a very understanding man, and that was an evasive answer,” she said softly.
“Yes, it was,” Bulatt agreed.
“But you still plan on sleeping out here on the couch, guarding the door all night; just in case this John Smith character figures out where we are, and tries to interfere with our investigation again?”
Bulatt glanced down at his wristwatch. “Smith isn’t going to find us, even if he’s awake and looking, which I seriously doubt; and, in about three more hours, he’s going to be much too busy to care about us at all. So, to answer your question: yes, I am going to stay here on this couch and keep an eye on those two, because they’re my biggest concern at the moment,” Bulatt said, nodding his head in the direction of the twins.
“Why, because you’re concerned they might go too far?”
“No, actually, I’m concerned they might be too afraid of their mother to go far enough.”
“Ah.” Achara considered the implications for a few seconds. “And while all of this illicit probing and data mining is going on, you really think the little ones are going to be sufficiently… distracting?”
“Not necessarily, but I do think they’re going to scare the shit out of Smith and his pals for at least fifteen seconds — and make them a lot more thoughtful about other possible consequences down the road — while they’re busy discovering that all their tires are flat, all their car-door keyholes are filled with glue, all their lock releases are duct-taped, and all the Satellite Security systems are disabled. And after that, they’re going to be very busy trying to figure out how to get their trussed-up watchman out of that SUV without breaking a window and setting off the car alarms and waking up the neighborhood.”
“Or getting bit, I suppose.”
“That too,” Bulatt agreed.
“And you’re sure Smith won’t try to hurt them?” Achara asked, looking concerned.
“Oh I’m sure he’d get around to thinking about hurting them, eventually,” Bulatt said. “But, long before that happens, he’s going to find himself confronted by a team of pissed-off special ops agents who are going to want all of their evidence back; and who are going to be very upset if a single hairy leg is harmed.”
“You’re talking about Henry Lightstone, that agent who you said couldn’t tell a dead Cat Island turtle from a live one?” Achara said dubiously
“Henry is making dramatic improvements as a wildlife agent,” Bulatt said, smiling. “And he’s actually getting pretty good at telling dead turtles from live ones. He just doesn’t like getting bit.”
“By turtles?”
“By just about anything; it’s sort of a personality quirk.”
“But you did say he’s more aggressive than you are?” Achara pressed, still sounding dubious.
“Henry is definitely more aggressive than I am, in a devious sort of way; Larry knows every bureaucratic trick in the book; Mike’s off the chart in terms of technical skills; and Dwight’s perfectly capable of ripping arms and legs off guys like Smith and his associates,” Bulatt said. “All things considered, I don’t think you have to worry about the little ones at all.”
“Well, in that case,” Achara said, making an unsuccessful attempt to mask another yawn, “I’m going to go to bed, and I’m taking our little ones with me.” She got up from the couch, bent down, and picked up the cardboard file box. She started toward the bedroom on the left, paused, looked back at Bulatt — who was in the process of stretching his legs out on the couch — lifted one end of the box top slightly, reached in, pulled something out, and then walked back to the couch. “But I wouldn’t want you to get lonely out here, all by yourself,” she added with a dimpled emphasis as she dropped a little furry bundle on Bulatt’s chest.
Bulatt and the twins all watched Achara walk into the bedroom and close the door.
“Wow,” the boy at the computer keyboard said, “she is definitely hot.”
“Classic warrior-princess babe,” the other brother agreed.
“Hey, and if you’re not interested in her,” the first boy said, glancing over at Bulatt, “we’ll be happy to — ”
Bulatt reached down to his chest, picked up the furry bundle, and placed it on his knee. Instantly, the little furry body rose up on all eight legs and scampered back up to Bulatt’s chest.
“Holy shit!” both boys screamed in unison.
“What’s the matter, I thought you guys liked to play with little spiders?” Bulatt inquired, watching with amusement as the furry creature stared at him with glistening eyes and then settled back down in the center of his chest.
“That’s not a little spider,” the first boy whispered.
“That’s not even… little,” the second rasped.
Both boys looked as if they were about ready to faint.
“No, I suppose not,” Bulatt agreed. “He’s actually a red-kneed tarantula. One of our special ops teams seized about seven hundred and fifty of these guys last year. Hell of a bust.”
“You have… seven hundred and fifty of those… things?” The boy could barely get the words out.
“More or less,” Bulatt said. “I’ve got the one here, Achara’s got fourteen more in the box, and — at the moment — we’re storing the rest out at the Windmill Inn.”
“How can you let it just… sit there?” the boy at the keyboard said, looking like he was about ready to cry.
“Just a personal preference, I suppose.” Bulatt shrugged. “Some people are terrified of tarantulas. Other people — like Achara, for example — let them wander around their bedrooms at night.”
“You mean she — ?”
“All night — ?”
“Walking around on top of her bed?”
“On top of… her?”
“Sure, why not. They won’t bother her,” Bulatt said as he picked up the tarantula again, this time dropping it gently onto the floor. “Mostly, they like to wander around on the floor looking for food.
Suddenly alert, the tarantula squatted up and down a couple of times — like he was warming up with some eight-legged knee bends — and then scampered over to the floor where one of the boys had dropped a piece of pizza.
“Don’t worry, he’s just looking — ” Bulatt started to say when both boys screamed in unison; quickly unplugged the laptop from the wall; grabbed up the laptop, the printer and the bucket of sodas; and then disappeared into the far right bedroom with a solid slam of the door.
“- for crickets and other things that like to hang around scraps of pizza,” Bulatt finished as he got up, shut off the lights, settled back into the couch, and closed his eyes with a contented sigh.
At four-thirty-two in the morning, a light tapping on the hotel room door caused Bulatt’s eyes to snap open. After a quick look through the peep-hole, he pulled the couch aside and opened the door.
“George Reston,” the tough and very tired looking man said, holding out an opened federal agent credentials case. “I believe you were the designated kid-sitter this evening?”
“Ged Bulatt,” Bulatt said as he shook Reston’s hand, motioned him inside, and then quietly shutting the door. “Appreciate the use of your boys; they turned out to be extremely helpful, once I got them away from their
