Badger Games (38 page)

More to the point: if Sanders was investigating the Lucani, what would be the value to her of Franko?

Dinah was thinking along the same lines. She had reported her conversation with Jammie to the colonel, with some omissions, to spare his feelings. Joe would interest Jammie, she thought now, as a potential weak link in the Lucani organization. Then another thought intruded: what if Jammie's interest was, in fact, Bazok?

Apparently, the colonel had reached that same point in his thinking. “Bazok?” he suggested, almost idly.

The answer to that hardly needed to be spoken: Bazok would interest Jammie only if she was working for some other group, or agency—say, the international tribunal. Or … Zivkovic. Such a possibility was breathtaking for Schwind.

The colonel seemed to read her mind, three thousand miles away. “It's not unheard of,” he said. “Theo and I were discussing something along those lines, in a slightly different context.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Presumably she would be known to Bazok.”

The line was silent while they both pursued that thought.

“Here's a notion,” Tucker said, finally: “Say Bazok was … what's the term? … a badger bait? Badger hound? You know, the expendable dog one thrusts down the hole—”

“
T
he responsibilities of command” was a phrase that Joe Service could not recall ever having employed, and yet it seemed unavoidable. Perhaps he'd heard it from Colonel Tucker, but he couldn't recall the context. It sounded like something that Tucker might say. But at the moment it was an issue for Joe. He had a drunken, armed mass murderer wandering around inside a mountain, presumably lost and in a state of desperate panic.

To apprehend this maniac, he had a crew of three men and two women. Two of the men were willing but less than competent for the task; one was willing and competent, definitely useful, but aged and exhausted. The women were competent, but at least one of them was overmatched physically, while the other had ambiguous motives.

He had a communication problem between the elements of his crew. There were also ominous, omnipresent dangers of public exposure, complications of law, and … what else? Oh yeah, they were all dangerously tired, from both their morning's exertion and their lack of sleep. Joe was no exception. Maybe that was why he had shunted aside the problem of multiple exits.

To be sure, Joe was aware of the exit problem, but he had largely discounted the possibility that Bazok might backtrack to the Seven Dials entrance. Kibosh had convinced him that Bazok was so confused, so demoralized that he would never attempt to go all the way back, and even if he did, he'd never find his way. Joe wasn't so sure, on reconsideration. The man was desperate, and desperate men do things you can't predict.

The communication problem was keyed to the exit problem. There was no response on the cell phone from Jammie. Joe felt that he'd made a mistake in leaving her on the other side. He could use her more effectively here. But then if she were here, one of the incompetent men would have to take her place over there. Damn the pressures of command. Joe longed for the days when it was just him against a quarry, or at most him and Helen.

There was nothing for it: he'd have to send Paulie or Frank to find out what was amiss with Jammie. One of them, or even both, could take Jammie's place and send her back to this side, where the action was most likely to be played out.

Frank had a suggestion: why not use the dogs at the Seven Dials entry?

“You mean, to track Bazok?” Joe asked. “Would they go in?”

Frank said they would. They weren't trained tracker dogs, but they would go after Bazok. “They've got a taste for his blood,” he said. “He killed their brothers. Dogs don't forget that.”

Joe didn't quite believe this. He thought it was attributing human feelings to dogs. However, he didn't know anything about dogs. Maybe it was so. “But,” he said, “what if they get lost? Then what? What if you get lost, assuming you'd be with them? Then we'd have to look for both you and them. I don't know …”

Still, there were attractive advantages to the scheme. It would expand Joe's available manpower. The dogs might drive Bazok out, or at least keep him from backtracking. “How about
this?” he suggested. “You take the dogs into the tunnel, on a leash, but no farther than the first side tunnel. That ought to prevent Bazok from using that exit, and there would be no risk of anyone getting lost.”

Frank was convinced that the dogs would follow Bazok's scent. They wouldn't get lost. But he had no appetite for accompanying them deep into the mountain, so he agreed to Joe's suggestion. Only now Paulie volunteered for the job. He claimed to have better command of the dogs—Frank conceded that—and anyway, it might be better if Frank manned the house, to answer phones, either from the searchers or from outside.

Joe sighed and agreed to that. Once Jammie returned, she and Helen could cover the exit from which Kibosh and Bazok had emerged, now more than an hour ago. Joe and Kibosh could explore some of the other possible exits on this side. In the meantime, they could all get a little rest, keeping a watch on the exit, until Jammie returned.

Frank and Paulie went off to get the dogs and rustle up some food and drinks for the searchers. Kibosh slept, curled up in the shade of some pines along the river. Helen crouched just inside the mine exit, waiting and watching. Joe lay down for a while near Kibosh, but he only dozed. They were within visual range of the other possible exits—Joe kept an eye on them.

Soon enough, Frank returned with sandwiches, coffee, beer, and some cookies he'd found in the pantry. “They're only store-bought,” he apologized, meaning the cookies. Joe ate his share anyway, without complaint. He glanced at his watch. Paulie had been gone for forty minutes. It was a little early to expect Jammie, but Joe asked if she had called in. Frank said she hadn't. He hiked off to take lunch up to Helen.

On his way back down, Joe told him to let him know as soon as he heard from Jammie. He was getting restless, now, eager to
wake up Kibosh, snoring in the shade, and get started on their part of the search.

It was a beautiful early-fall day in Montana, just a few fluffy clouds drifting over the mountains, an idle breeze stirring the brittle leaves of the alders. Joe lay back and watched a large hawk, or possibly it was an eagle, drifting lazily a couple of thousand feet above the river.

Man, oh man, he thought, I love this country.

B
oz had found a hole. He had begun to fear that his light was dying. He was sure that it was much dimmer. Fortunately, there were some extra batteries in the pack that he'd made Kibosh leave behind. And, of course, he had Kibosh's flashlight. That comforted him. He was lost, however. He hadn't seen anything that looked like a chalk mark on a stone facing, or any of the scratches or other signs that Kibosh had pointed out, in quite a while. He had no idea when he'd quit noticing them. He still felt that all he had to do was backtrack a little ways and he'd come across a mark. But first he had to rest.

He sat down with his back resting against a wall. He drank some whiskey, then some water. He was amazed to find the gherkins that Kibosh had packed. They were delicious. He ate several. Then he rolled on his side, curled up, and fell asleep. He slept for only a few minutes, although it seemed longer. He awoke because he remembered he'd left his light on. That was foolish. The sleep was a good idea, he realized, but it wouldn't do to simply crash right here in the middle of the passage, in case pursuers came along, as he was certain they would.

A canny idea popped into his head: he could find a niche, or a little gallery, and take a nap. He needed the rest, and with his light off he wouldn't be seen. Joe Asshole and his pals would come along and he was bound to wake up in time to ambush them,
and then they'd guide him out! It was perfect. He got to his feet and began to look for the ideal spot. Within ten minutes he found it, a little chamber not much bigger than old Kibosh's crib, just off the passage.

He crawled in there and made himself comfortable, turned off his light, and fell deeply asleep. His last conscious thought was that this was bliss, real peace. After a short time, he began to snore loudly. This was not something he had considered, but of course, he wasn't aware of it. At first he slept as profoundly as he had ever slept in his life, but soon he began to dream.

His first dream was very good, an erotic dream. It involved the Muslim girl. She was being very accommodating, eager, and as aroused as he was, which was totally. But when he was close to ejaculation, the dream inexplicably but relentlessly turned ugly—he was slipping in a morass of slimy bodies, corpses and snakes and worms. He almost awoke but instead managed to segue to another dream, concerning railcars and then a campfire under a bridge, with other hoboes about. Very chummy and cheerful, at first. But one of them was bothering him, an old man making lewd suggestions, then groping him, and he was rolling closer to the fire. He escaped that development by running the dream back, but inevitably it deteriorated: the fires getting closer, threatening dark figures, the gropers and callers, some of them dead people with ugly, slashed throats and tongues coming out of their wounds…. There were animals here, too, snakes and rats, spiders, and a clawing, snarling beast with shaggy hair and ferocious teeth, tunneling after him. He couldn't escape this implacable, persistent creature. He woke up in a sweat.

It was utterly dark. He panicked, but gradually he got a grip on himself and found his flashlight. He was in the mountain. He was drenched with despair. He opened the pack and drank some whiskey, then water. He was extremely thirsty, but he knew better
than to drink all of the remaining quart of precious liquid. The whiskey calmed him.

When he could think, he realized that he had to go back to the exit. It no longer mattered what awaited him outside. He couldn't stay in here any longer. This decision steadied him further. He would go on out and, if it worked out that way, he would surrender. At least he would be safe. But there was always the chance, he thought, that he could still win. He'd make it out and his pursuers would have gone, or he could elude them. Regardless, he was coming out.

He set off back the way he had come. Focusing now, he could see signs of his passage, footprints, an overturned rock. He thought he recognized the route. He felt more confident. It occurred to him that he might have slept for twelve hours, perhaps longer. By now it would be dark again. Joe Asshole could well have given up. Why wouldn't he?

When he thought about it, he had no idea why Joe Service was pursuing him. Just because of that stupid business in the house? He wished that he had killed them all. He should never have screwed around, distracted by that stupid girl. It was her fault, the prick teaser! Still, it would have been great: bend the bitch over a chair and fuck her brains out, the bound men looking on, tongues hanging out in lust and envy. Then, just as he came, he'd cut her damn throat and, after, all the others. Goddamn, what a scene that would have been!

Franko, he could understand. Franko was just protecting his goods; but what was in this for Joe Asshole and that girl? It didn't make any sense. By now, he thought, they would have given up and gone away. Franko would still be hanging around. Where was he going to go? They could make some sort of deal. If not, he'd just top Franko and his fruity little hippie pal, and then he'd find the goods and could go back to Zivko and tell them it was all done, and they'd get on with having a good time.

He entertained himself with these thoughts as he stumbled along, imagining raping the woman in various ways, shooting or stabbing the men … and then he realized he had left the rifle behind, in the niche where he'd fallen asleep. To hell with it, he thought. He still had the Star. He wasn't going back for that damn rifle, it was too clumsy anyway, and besides, he wasn't confident that he could find that niche. And with that, he realized that he was still lost.

He shuddered with dismay. It was night outside by now, he thought, and even darker in here. He was as close to hell as a living man could get, he figured. He could pass within ten feet of an exit and never see a patch of natural light, because it would be dark outside. What an awful, awful thought! He wanted to roar, to scream, but he knew it would never be heard. Perhaps he had screamed. He wasn't sure.

“Help!” he shouted, a little tentatively, then louder and longer. There wasn't even an echo, just a dull sound muffled up by the mountain. It was swallowing him alive.

For some reason, it seemed to him that it would be better to crawl, that he'd naturally find his way out that way. But when he got on his hands and knees the occasional stone hurt him, and he only did it for a short distance before he came to his senses and realized it was pointless. He stood up and remained in one position for a period of time, his mind numb. He moved on in a hopeless trudge. If he just kept walking, he told himself, eventually he had to walk to an opening. It stood to reason. Just keep walking. He fished out the whiskey bottle and took a sip, not wanting to finish it, not wanting to be caught, finally, without even a drink. He shuffled on.

P
aulie shook his head at the sight of Frank's truck, protruding from the ruined entrance to the Seven Dials. There was no sign of Jammie. He left
the dogs in the cab of his own pickup while he organized his gear, a backpack with necessary supplies, including a flashlight, plus one of Joe's pump shotguns. It would be a hassle handling this gear and the leashes, but he felt he could manage. The dogs were certainly eager. As soon as he opened the door, they leaped out and ran immediately into the entrance. To his dismay, they did not stop when he called. He ran after them, but he was brought up short at the entrance. He stared into the ruined interior, reluctant to enter the tunnel. He hadn't visualized this. Going into a tunnel … it was exactly like entering a cave. He couldn't move.