Wildfire (46 page)

Larry Paxton rested his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head slowly.

"What's the matter, Paxton, starting to feel your age?" Lightstone suggested with a certain degree of sympathy, because he too was finding it difficult to ignore the eye-catching movements of the muscular young woman. If pressed, he would have guessed that she was either fifteen or sixteen, but he wouldn't have been at all surprised if she turned out to be considerably younger or older. It occurred to him to wonder how and where she had managed to obtain her medical training.

"Maybe, but I'm not
about
to start feeling my son's age," the acting team leader muttered.

"Glad to hear it." Lightstone smiled, and then winced as he glanced down at his watch.

Henry Lightstone was starting to get uneasy because they'd been at the small Cat Island airport—which, as best he could tell, also served as the local customs office, police station, clinic, and island rental agency—for over half an hour now, trying to arrange a flight to Nassau. And the realization that they were leaving themselves exposed and vulnerable to whomever had been dogging their trial the last five days was beginning to work on his nerves.

It had taken Mike Takahara nearly a half hour to get the
Lone Granger
up and running again. Then it took the agents another forty-five minutes—with Takahara at the helm, Paxton monitoring the sonar screen, Lightstone and Stoner hanging out over the railings watching for reefs and coral heads, and using the red flashing lights on Arthur's Town's two- hundred-foot Batelco tower as a reference point—to cautiously approach and then anchor the huge boat in close enough to the northernmost town on the narrow forty-eight-mile-long island so that they could motor in to the dock with the much smaller Zodiac.

Figuring out how to anchor the massive yacht offshore, with only the owner's manual and Justin LaGrange's inexpert help as a guide, had been one of the more challenging problems of the entire trip. They finally solved it by sending Stoner down with the scuba gear again to move the forward and aft anchors into position with his bare hands and muscular shoulders. But in doing so, he managed to wrench one of his knees— which immediately began to swell—which meant they now had one more candidate for the Nassau hospital trip.

So now they were trying to negotiate a rental agreement for a fifteen-year-old, single-engined Cessna that was visibly held together in some places with strips of gray duct tape. And they hadn't seen any sign of anyone watching their movements yet. But just the same, Lightstone didn't want to push their luck any more than he had to.

"You know, Paxton, Snoopy's got a point about that cast," Lighthouse said thoughtfully. "If you guys end up having to ditch that plane in the water, you're gonna go down like a rock."

The young nurse turned around with an alarmed look on her face.

"No, that's all right, nothing to worry about. He's just making a joke," Paxton said hurriedly, giving his youthful nurse a reassuring smile that sent her happily on her way to check on Bobby LaGrange and Mo-Jo, both of whom were lying on a pair of cots in the back of the terminal building.

And probably to continue her flirtation with Justin,
Lightstone thought to himself with a smile, wondering if there had been any young women around like that when he had been Justin's age. He found it depressing to realize that he couldn't remember.

"And a bad one at that," Larry Paxton muttered, after the girl had disappeared through the door.

"Think maybe we ought to go back to the boat and get him one of those scuba tanks, just in case?" Mike Takahara suggested.

"Better pick up a couple. It's still a long way to walk," Lightstone smiled.

"Ah don't want to hear about it," the acting team leader growled.

But then, after a moment, Paxton brought his head forward, opened his eyes, and looked over at Lightstone. "What about it, Henry?" he asked. "You think Woeshack can pull it off?"

"What, you mean the demonstration?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, actually, all things considered, he's really not all that bad on takeoffs," Lightstone said.

"How many did you guys do when you were up there in Alaska?"

"A couple."

"They work out okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"What about the landings."

"You
really
want to know?"

"Probably not, but tell me anyway."

"Well, first of all, we were in a float plane, which probably isn't the same thing," Lightstone hedged.

"Come on, Henry."

"The first time we tried to land"—Lightstone shrugged—"we basically skipped like a stone for about half a mile before the engine cut out, or he shut it off, I'm not sure which. The second time we ended up in a tree and had to pull ourselves out before the plane burned. But that's only because he was going to try to hit the bad guys with the prop if I missed with the rifle," he added with a cheerful smile.

Paxton stared at his wild-card agent for a long moment.

"Tell me you're shitting me," he finally said.

"No, I wouldn't do that to you, Larry," Lightstone said with a straight face. "That's no way to show respect for a boss who really tries to do the right thing."

"Respect, mah ass," Paxton whispered hoarsely. "The last boss you had, you and LaGrange floated out in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of the night, in an exploding coffin." Larry Paxton had never gotten over hearing Rico Testano tell the story of what Henry and Bobby LaGrange had done to their boss on the San Diego PD at the homicide investigator's convention where Rico had met Henry Lightstone. Lightstone and LaGrange had launched their inebriated and unconscious boss out in the San Diego Harbor in a coffin packed with ice and Mexican firecrackers on a delayed fuse and had both been demoted for it.

"Well, yeah, but that was more a sign of affection than anything else."

"Henry, listen to me, serious now," Paxton said, looking over his shoulder to make sure that neither the resident manager of the airport or his daughter the nurse were within hearing distance. "Tell me the truth. You
really
think this is a good idea?"

"I wouldn't necessarily use the word
good,"
Lightstone admitted, "but I think it's probably the best choice we've got. The next scheduled flight isn't until Monday, and I don't think we can wait that long to get Bobby and Mo-Jo to that hospital in Nassau. And Stoner's knee's looking worse every hour.

"Besides," he added in a quieter voice, looking around to make sure that the nurse was still gone, "I want to get Justin out of here as fast as I can, before that asshole on the aqua-sled starts trying to blow us up again."

"We could still try to make it with the boat," Paxton said.

"What do you think, Snoopy?" Lightstone asked, looking up at their tech agent. "Any second thoughts?"

"Same deal, no guarantees we'd ever get there." Mike Takahara shrugged. "We're talking about a hundred-mile run with an electrical system that's cut out on us twice already. Besides, with Mo-Jo and Bobby out of operation, none of us knows anything about all the tides and buoys and coral heads and crawfish traps around here. And the thing is, if we try to make it tonight, at any kind of speed, there's a real good chance we'll end up running aground, even if we stay clear of the shorelines."

"Which still leaves us the Coast Guard," Paxton reminded.

"Yeah, but if we contact them, everybody with a radio and a scanner around here is going to know about it, which means we're going to lose Bloom
and
our link to all those other assholes who had McNulty and Scoby and Ruebottom killed," Lightstone argued.

"Who are also probably the same people who've been trying to knock the rest of us off ever since," Mike Takahara added. "Thing is, you gotta figure if they can rig a bomb like that, then they've probably got at least a couple of people monitoring the radio frequencies around here."

"Just means we'd have to start over again," Paxton said unconvincingly.

"Which one of you guys is going to tell that to Bobby?" Takahara asked. "The last time I mentioned the Coast Guard, he told me to either forget it or get the hell off his boat. You try to strap him into some Coast Guard chopper, knowing that we blew the investigation on his account, he's
really
going to be pissed."

"Not to mention the fact that the Coast Guard will probably want to see some proof that one of us actually knows how to operate an eighty-two-foot fishing yacht," Lightstone added. "By the time we work our way through all that crap, Bloom's going to be long gone. And if he learns we're on to him, then he's just going to disappear for good."

"Although that's not always so easy to do these days," Takahara said. "We found him this time."

"Yeah, but what are you going to do if he switches to cash?" Lightstone asked. "Major industrialist. Shit-pot full of money. If he gets a head start, he could probably go a long time before he had to cash a check."

The tech agent shrugged his wide shoulders.

"Okay, I'm convinced," Paxton sighed, starting to get up. "Let me see if I can talk this guy into—"

"Wait a minute," Henry Lightstone said. "Let me try something first."

Lightstone walked over to the far side of the terminal where Special Agent/Pilot Thomas Woeshack and a tall, slender Bahamian native who looked to be in his late forties were involved in an animated discussion.

"Sir, can I talk with you a minute?" Lightstone said to the tall man.

"Yes, mon, of course. I am Sidney Bordeaux, manager of the airport. How can I help you?"

"Excuse me just a second, Mr. Bordeaux. Ah, Woeshack, why don't you go over and kick the tires a couple of times, make sure everything checks out okay so Larry doesn't have a seizure up there, while I work out the details with Mr. Bordeaux here."

Lightstone waited until the cheerfully agreeable agent had disappeared into the cockpit of the ancient plane before turning back to the airport manager, who immediately began the conversation by saying in a hopeful manner, "You are happy with my daughter, how she takes care of your friends?"

"Uh, yes, she's a beautiful child, and a very good nurse too, I'm sure, but—"

"She
is
a good nurse, and as you say, very beautiful too. Very fair, just like her mother, God rest her soul." The man nodded sadly. "And that, of course, is my problem, because all the young men ... well, you know how it is.

"I, uh—"

"So what I must do is find her a husband quickly, before it is too late. A good 'Conchy Joe' who will give me many fair and beautiful grandchildren, just like her. Perhaps you are looking for a good wife?"

"Uh, actually—"

"It is obvious, of course, that my daughter is attracted to your friend, and my sense is that he is a very good man, even if he is a little dark— which would not be so good for the children here in the Islands as the other way around, you understand. But then I am dark like that, too, and as you saw, my daughter was born fair, so who can know how things will work out, yes?"

"Uh, Mr. Bordeaux, the last time I checked, Larry was still married and had two children about your daughter's age."

"Ah, then that settles that." The airport manager smiled with some evident relief. "But perhaps the young man in your party is interested?"

"I'm sure he is
very
much interested." Lightstone smiled. "But the reason I came over here is that I wanted to explain to you that we are with the United States Federal Government." He held his government ID card out for inspection, but kept his thumb over the law enforcement insignia.

"Oh, so then it is
you
who are here to help
me,
instead of the other way around!" The Bahamian native grinned widely. "A good joke, yes?"

"A very good joke," Lightstone nodded, "but what I was going to say . . ."

But the manager wasn't paying any attention, because he was peering more closely at the card in Lightstone's hand.

"It says on your card that you are also from the Fish and Wildlife Service? Is that true?"

"Uh, yes. Actually, the Fish and Wildlife Service is a part of the federal government, I guess."

"Wonderful." The man smiled widely again. "Because that means you
can
help me."

Before Lighthouse could say anything else, the Bahamian native disappeared, then quickly reappeared with a rusty wire basket attached to a long rope. He handed the dripping basket and rope to Lightstone.

"I would like another one," he said.

"You want a new basket?"

"Oh, no, mon." The manager waved his hand impatiently. "Not the basket. The peter."

"The
what?"

"Another one of these, mon."

The manager reached into the basket and lifted up a large moss-covered turtle that—from Lightstone's nonexpert point of view—had clearly seen better days.

"You want me to get you another turtle?"

"Yes, mon, I do. Very badly. Can you do that for me?"

"I suppose I could, but—"

"I will make you a deal. You sign a contract and promise to bring me a new peter, a big one, your word of honor as a representative of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, then the plane is yours. You pay for the fuel, and one hundred dollars an hour, flight time only. No demonstration of skill is necessary. If your pilot crashes the airplane, your federal government will replace it and you will still owe me the peter."

"On behalf of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service," Lightstone said, taking the manager's hand in a firm handshake, "you've got yourself a deal."

Two minutes later, as the manager took the hastily scribbled contract out of Lightstone's hand and hurried over to help Woeshack top off the fuel tanks, Mike Takahara appeared at Lightstone's shoulder.

"I understand we are now the proud renters of what might actually be a flyable airplane," the tech agent said. "How'd you do it?"

"Simple." Lightstone shrugged. "I promised to get him another one of these." He held up the still dripping basket for inspection. "It was either that or marry his daughter."