by Ken Goddard
"While Mr. Lightner certainly did take an active part in the hunt, it is not clear whether he actually shot at or killed any of these animals. Nor is it clear that he could be charged with transportation or possession, since he was apparently unconscious at the time.
"In essence," Crane explained, "it is our considered opinion that of all the subjects involved in this case, Mr. Lightner is the least vulnerable in terms of substantive charges, and therefore, the one most likely to consider a plea agreement with the U.S. Attorney's office."
"You mean testifying for the prosecution in exchange for a lesser sentence?" an ICER member asked.
"Or possibly he will face no prosecution at all," Crane nodded. "One thing we need to keep in mind about Mr. Lightner is that the majority of his injuries were apparently caused by misdirected gunfire
… that is to say, bullets fired by our clients."
Albert Bloom closed his eyes and shook his head slowly in disbelief.
"And that, ladies and gentlemen," Crane said quietly, "is the sum of all charges filed in this case to date. Are there any questions?"
"That's all?" Albert Bloom blinked.
"Yes, sir," Crane nodded. "As best we are able to tell so far, and-" he gestured toward the thick pile of documents that he and his highly paid team of private investigators had managed to collect during the previous twelve hours-"I would emphasize that we have only begun to sort things out. The focus of the federal investigation seems to have been on Alex Chareaux and his brothers. At this point, there is no indication that Dr. Wolfe or Miss Abercombie were ever targets of this undercover operation.
"In fact," Crane said as he carefully replaced his summary notes in the crisp manila file folder, "as far as we can tell, there is no indication that the federal officials are even aware that Mr. Wolfe and Miss Abercombie were ever involved in that hunt.
"But then, of course," he added, "so far, none of the individuals in custody have chosen to cooperate with the investigators by making a statement. Obviously, that could change at any time."
"What are we doing about that?" Bloom asked.
"As you know, we are currently representing the Chareaux brothers as their legal counsel; and we have, of course, advised them in the strongest possible terms to make no statements whatsoever. And as you directed, we have also offered our services to Mr. Jacall and to Mr. Lightner, making it clear that all costs will be borne by the Chareaux family… the very least that they could do under the circumstances."
"And their response?"
"It is our understanding that Mr. Jacall will accept our offer and sign the necessary papers this afternoon. We have been unable to reach Mr. Lightner in the hospital; however, we have been in contact with his family attorney, and the initial indications are that he will accept Mr. Chareaux's offer on behalf of his client," Crane said with an absolutely straight face. "Apparently this attorney has some limited experience with criminal law and is thus very impressed with the number and quality of the resources-trial attorneys and support staff-that we are willing to put to work in his client's defense. And it seems that he is perfectly willing to accept an appropriate retainer to act as co-counsel in this matter. I have been instructed, by the way, to tell you that Mr. Kole considers the terms of your contract to be exceptionally generous. As we discussed previously, the contingency provisions should cover any unexpected situation. And in any case, Mr. Kole feels that the bonus clause will certainly compensate us for any foreseeable overage costs at our end."
"Keeping in mind that the bonus clause applies only when and if you win," Bloom reminded.
"Yes, of course," Walter Crane nodded, actually smiling as he did so.
"Are there any other questions that I can answer for anyone at this time?" Crane asked politely.
"No, Walter. Thank you for coming," Albert Bloom said, getting up and shaking the chief investigator's hand as he led him over to the door.
After closing the door, Bloom walked back to his chair, sat down, and then stared down the full length of the teak- and-rosewood table at the two people whose inconceivable stupidity had triggered this multimillion-dollar coverup.
"Do either of you have a sense, any sense at all, of the damage that you may have caused with this, this… hunt?" he asked, his voice nearly choked with rage.
Lisa Abercombie knew Bloom well enough to keep her mouth tightly shut. But Reston Wolfe still viewed himself as a high-level government bureaucrat, one who would therefore have some degree of leverage over a mere captain of industry.
"I think you're overreacting, Mr. Bloom," Wolfe started in. "There was no reason at all for any of us to think that-"
But Albert Bloom cut him off in mid-sentence.
"No, don't you see, Mr. Wolfe, that is exactly the point," Bloom said emphatically. "There was every reason why you should have been thinking. Every reason in the goddamn world."
"But-"
"You repeatedly assured me that there were no federal investigations of any sort being run near the Whitehorse Cabin Training Center and that you had everything under control," Bloom rasped. "But there were investigations being conducted, and you didn't have everything under control, because you stepped right into the middle of a major covert investigation like it was a pile of horse shit lying there right in front of your goddamn eyes!"
Bloom paused as if determined to maintain some semblance of self-control.
"You may think that this is all just a sort of game, Mr. Wolfe," he said in a soft, menacing voice that barely carried across to the other end of the table. "But I want you to understand, very clearly, as clear as I can possibly make it, that Operation Counter Wrench is not a game. And it is not one of your infantile government projects where you can simply step back and blame one of your subordinates when something goes wrong."
"But-"
"Operation Counter Wrench, Mr. Wolfe," Bloom went on forcefully, ignoring his executive director's feeble protests, "is the most important and crucial project that you will ever be involved with in your life. And if you have caused it to falter-or, God forbid, to fail-because you couldn't resist the opportunity to go out in the woods and kill things with a goddamn gun…"
Bloom's face was red, his hands were extended out like claws, and he seemed to be temporarily incapable of doing anything other than shaking his head slowly in pure, incredulous disbelief.
"Mr. Bloom," Wolfe said after a few moments, using every bit of willpower he possessed to maintain what remained of his dignity, "I was assured by people high up in the Interior Department that there were no such investigations being conducted anywhere near Yellowstone National Park."
Wolfe paused, sighed deeply, then went on.
"I have no justifiable excuse for my behavior in this matter; however, I do believe that we may be able to take advantage of a procedural loophole to derail this investigation completely."
The word "derail" seemed to get Albert Bloom's attention. He blinked and then stared at Wolfe.
"Yes, go on," he growled.
"All major covert investigations conducted by our Fish and Wildlife Service officers must be approved at a higher level," Wolfe explained. "We insist on that to make certain that overzealous agents don't cause Interior undue embarrassment by conducting investigations that are, shall we say, politically inconvenient."
"You think that you can block this investigation on the basis that it might embarrass you?" Bloom whispered incredulously, finding it difficult to comprehend the arrogance and the stupidity of the man sitting before him.
"Oh no, of course not," Wolfe smiled. "What I'm talking about is a procedural issue. Or more to the point, a failure of procedure."
"Yes, go on," Bloom said, motioning with one hand impatiently.
"As best we can tell," Wolfe said with growing confidence, "this investigation was not approved at a higher level. At least there are no approval forms on record, which would suggest that the agents conducted the investigation on their own. Basically, a failure to follow proper administrati
ve procedures. It happens occasionally. Not necessarily the fault of the agents, of course." Wolfe smiled. "As we all know, they are a very dedicated group of men and women. But occasionally their dedication and their enthusiasm will carry them a little too far. And when that happens, the courts have no option but to drop the case."
Albert Bloom still wasn't smiling, but his face was more composed now, and he was starting to nod slowly in understanding.
"It's a shame," Wolfe went on, "especially when career criminals like the Chareaux brothers occasionally get off. But I believe the public understands that our system of justice is far too precious to be undermined by failures of procedure, well intentioned as they may be."
"Do you seriously believe that you can, as you put it, derail this investigation without attracting any suspicion to yourself or anyone else associated with ICER?" Bloom asked skeptically.
"Yes, I do," Wolfe said calmly. "In fact, I'm absolutely certain of it."
"Well, I'm not," Bloom responded, but the anger in his voice had clearly receded.
"Albert," Lisa Abercombie finally said in an uncharacteristically subdued voice, sensing her opportunity, "Reston and I realize that we have made a horrible and unforgivable mistake, but we are absolutely certain that we can recover."
"How, by invoking 'failure of procedures'?" Bloom demanded.
"That, and by making absolutely sure that no one can connect us to that hunt," Abercombie nodded.
"And how do you intend to do that?"
"Only three people can testify that they actually saw us hunting illegally," she said. "Alex Chareaux, his brother Butch, and this man Lightner. You have already made arrangements for their defense. We will simply add whatever incentives are necessary to insure their silence in the future."
"Will that work?"
"I'm convinced it will," Abercombie nodded. "We understand that the Chareaux brothers have had some previous difficulties with the law in Louisiana. Something about two game wardens being tortured and killed. Under the circumstances, they might even be agreeable to a complete relocation out of the country. As a matter of fact, South Africa strikes me as the perfect solution. A place where they could hunt and guide to their heart's content.
"And in the meantime," she went on, encouraged by Albert Bloom's grudging nod, "we will see to it that every one of the items that could possibly link Reston and me to that scene-vehicles, guns, everything- are immediately destroyed."
"Now wait a minute!" Wolfe started to protest. "I spent a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars on that rifle, and I'll be damned-"
"You will destroy it, immediately," Bloom snarled. "The rifle, and the paperwork or photographs or anything else that would indicate that you ever possessed such a weapon."
Then he shifted his gaze back to Lisa Abercombie.
"And what about this man Lightner?"
"Don't worry about that either," Lisa Abercombie said, her voice as cold and determined as always. "I will see to it personally that Mr. Lightner is taken care of."
"Are you still mad at me?" Lisa Abercombie whispered as she used her trembling arms to push herself away from Albert Bloom's amazingly hairy and muscular chest.
It was late, and they had argued some more over dinner, but Lisa Abercombie was patient because she knew that once they were back in Bloom's penthouse suite, she would have the advantage.
They had deliberately left the window open, and the hot, humid Washington, D.C., air had immediately filled the darkened and luxurious master bedroom, providing a continuous source of sweat that allowed their well-toned bodies to slide smoothly against each other.
Albert Bloom slowly slid his fingers up along Abercombie's sweaty torso until her slick and swollen breasts were resting in the palms of his hands.
"No, I'm not mad, I'm worried about you," he finally said in a soft whisper. "I know that you like to take risks, and I love you because of that, but you must never let it get out of control." Then he slid his thumbs across her hard nipples.
Lisa Abercombie moaned softly and brought her lips down against his ear.
"You know," she whispered in a silky-smooth voice, "that I never allow things to get out of control."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday June 6th
Supervisory Special Agent Paul McNulty looked at the five members of his Special Operations Bravo Team-two were lying in rented hospital beds, and one looked like a monstrous reject from a low-budged horror film-and raised his nearly empty beer bottle in salute.
"To the Chareauxs," he said, smiling contentedly. "May they rot in the can for a hundred years."
"Right on!"
"Hear, hear."
"Fuckin'-A."
"You betcha!"
"Banzai!"
McNulty's five covert agents responded from their chairs and beds by raising and then rapidly emptying their own beer bottles. Six more bottles were then lobbed into the general direction of the large plastic trash can that had been set in the far corner of the room, the corner walls showing the effects of several failed bank shots.
In the meantime, Dwight Stoner, their resident mummy, obligingly began to pull the caps off of another six-pack.
"Okay, boys," Marie Pascalaura said as she cautiously opened the door and then came into the room, looking thoroughly professional and absolutely beautiful with her darkly tanned facial features, her patient smile, and her long, dark hair flowing over her crisply white-albeit snug- nurse's uniform. "How's everyone doing in here? Is my house going to survive your visit?"
"Oh-oh, Henry. Watch yourself, it's the nurse," Mike Takahara observed, his face red from the two beers he had slowly but determinedly consumed. "She's probably tougher here than at the hospital."
"Yeah, man, better watch out for your ass," Larry Paxton advised. "That lady packs a mean needle."
"Oh, I don't know, I think she's pretty nice," Stoner said as he started handing out the open bottles, holding three in each thickly bandaged hand.
"I can see it coming, Henry," Carl Scoby warned as he accepted another beer from Stoner. "The monster falls in love with the hero's girl, the girl falls in love with the monster, and they run off into the sunset with each other."
"That's right. Happens in all the best movies," Mike Takahara confirmed.
"Hero, mah ass," Paxton grumbled. "Since when does a hero have to call nine-one-one to get his butt out of trouble?"
"That's a good point, Henry," Carl Scoby nodded. "Here we hire you as our ace crazy man, wild-card agent extraordinaire, and the first chance you get to show your stuff, you take the easy way out."
"Yeah, and then when he's conscious again, all he wants to know is who won some fucking ball game," Larry Paxton added.
"Hell of a disappointment, Henry," Scoby commented solemnly.
"Yeah, especially since Ah had to go out and save my partner's ass," Paxton complained. "And nobody never told me Ah could call nine-one-one to do it, either."
"Paxton, you couldn't save shit in a bucket," Dwight Stoner growled through his swollen and split lips as he made a threatening motion to smack Paxton with a handful of beer bottles. "All you did was walk in, start a bar fight, and then haul ass out the door. Left me there to fight three hundred goddamn drunken redneck cowboys and a flipped-out coon-ass all by myself."
"There were only two hundred drunk cowboys, a couple of Indians, and the coon-ass," Paxton corrected, then drained about half the bottle in one long gulp. "I counted to make sure before I went out to get the cavalry."
"Who immediately proceeded to run you over and throw your ass in jail," Scoby reminded.
"Yeah, well, they don't 'xactly make cavalry rescues like they used to," Paxton conceded.
"Did I come in at a bad time?" Marie looked over at Paul MeNulty, who seemed to be the only halfway sober member of the group.
"No such thing with these fellows, my dear," MeNulty said, shaking his head and smiling. "You are always a breath of fresh air, and we're certainly grateful for your help. I just h
ope we're not making too much noise."
"As long as they keep on hitting the walls and not the windows, I think the neighborhood will survive," she said as she walked over to Henry Lightstone's partially raised hospital bed and began to appraise her patient's condition.
"So how you doing, sport?" she asked as she reached down and peeled up Lightstone's eyelids, one by one, to check the dilation of his pupils.
"I think I need more medical attention," Lightstone replied with a cheerful leer.
"Yeah, I bet you do," Marie nodded skeptically.
"Shit, he's fine," Larry Paxton complained from the adjoining bed. "Ah'm the one who needs medical attention. And besides, how come he gets the girl?"
"'Cause he's the hero," Carl Scoby explained. "It always happens that way."
"Personally, I think this is starting to sound like an ethnic solution," Mike Takahara said.
"See! There, what'd I tell you?" Larry Paxton nodded. "And that's exactly what it is, too. Ah'm being prejudiced against."
"So I think I should get the girl," Takahara finished.
"Mah ass!"
"I don't suppose there's any point in asking anybody how many beers these two have had so far," Marie said, looking around the room.
"Uh, three?" Lightstone guessed, mistakenly holding up five fingers.
"Yeah, that's right, 'cause Ah think he drank one of mine," Paxton agreed.
"Uh-huh," Marie nodded, having confirmed her suspicions. "As I recall, gentlemen, the deal we agreed upon was very simple. No painkillers in the morning and the afternoon, and you could have three beers apiece. So what we've got here is a choice. You can either skip on that last six-pack, or you can wait until about six o'clock this evening for your next pain pills. Take your pick."
"Hell, Ah don't need no pain pills." Paxton shook his head bravely. "Ah'm tough."
"And if he's tough, then I'm tough," Lightstone nodded in agreement.
"You're both a couple of wimps," Dwight Stoner smiled as he drained his beer bottle in one gulp and reached for another.