Wild Country (30 page)

San Antonio Rose was firing on all cylinders that night, with a brilliant solution to Sorel's needs. Wild Country Safari was larger than the Garner spread and hosted the world's widest variety of guests. At least twice a week, it received passenger flights by the huge thrumming delta dirigibles that made direct connections to Dal Worth and Santa Fe. It was less than two hours away by cycle. With so many people coming and going by varied kinds of private transportation, three men should have no trouble mixing with the vacationers, gamblers, dudes, and hookers in the synthetic Old West town of Faro. The place was hard to miss, served by excellent roads with two modem hotels and adjacent state-of-the-art thrill rides just over a rise from the little sin city. Sorel should find it easily and would find reservations waiting.

San Antonio Rose spoke in rapid-fire Spanish, smiling as he heard Sorel's response to his solution. A scrambler module might insinuate a buzzing quality to the voice on the other end, but it couldn't filter out the relief in Sorel's voice. Oh, yes, Felix Sorel had somehow got a tin can tied to his tail all righty. A man might demand a fat bonus for help right now, and get it. And never have Sorel's trust again. Or one might see him later, man to man. and pass over it in cavalier lightness while making it clear that he knew Sorel owed him. But lightly, lightly; for Sorel possessed the subtlety and deadliness of a poison mushroom. Too bad a man had to deal with such as this handsome, lethal
maricon
, but times were bad and money still tight. Sorel paid well, and a man didn't have to ask for all the details of his business. It was easier to sleep when one did not know those details.

He would not have slept at all had he noticed the tiny spot of red light that impinged at one corner of the window nearest his telephone. His voice was the generator of faint vibrations that shook the windowpane, to be translated from fifty meters away by a laser sensor in a newly rented room with a view of his windows. His voice fidelity was poor, but no matter. The listener understood the language quite as well as he.

During the latter part of the conversation, San Antonio Rose gave advice. "The Last Chance is small, without many rooms. The Early Bird is nearest to the staging area where the deltas fly the high rollers in, and there's a lot of serious gambling there. That means quite a bit of security muscle roving around, Sorel. Some of 'em have been cops, or bounty hunters. Somehow I don't think that's what you're after.

"The Long Branch Saloon, now; if I have a choice, that's where I'll make your reservations. It covers an acre; gift shops, slots, and roulette, lots of people cruising around looking for new ways to lose their money… Right; Vegas in a nutshell. Plenty of rooms upstairs. It's old style, bathrooms at the end of the hall, pitchers and basins in the rooms…

"No, just for local color. You won't care, and you can't be that picky if you want to get lost among tourists. Right. Sure, why not? See you then," he said, and killed the connection with a tingle of pleasure. Then he disconnected the scrambler and called the main exchange of Wild Country Safari.

In a room not far away, Marianne Placidas furiously scribbled notes to herself. She too was tingling, with something that was as close as she could get, these days, to pleasure: it was anticipation.

Sandy's journal, Mon. 30 Oct. '06

Rumors confusing. I cannot believe that Mr. Garner and Jerome would take each other's lives. And how did Loli Carrera get involved? I recall the poor old creature shopping for her patron in Rocksprings, savaged by overwork and perhaps also by genes. They say she was lovely once, before the war, an early bloom who shed her petals too soon. She was all of forty. I suppose we will never know exactly what happened on Garner Ranch. Mystery!

Wonder who is to inherit, or to buy that great spread. God grant me good neighbors next time.

Guess who came home, bouncing like a piglet and in a mood to cavort. The strangest thing was that torn red scarf tied to his neck ruff. Childe jealously believes he has a new friend. Certainly Ba'al could not have tied that thing himself!

"I don't know any more about it than you do, Ted," said Jess Marrow as they walked, trying not to seem hurried, toward the central hunt lodge. "Seems the Brit came in late last night without the van or the mare. And five minutes ago, my office terminal asks me if Wardrop has any outstanding stable fees. And you know what that means."

Quantrill nodded, mounting the steps to the lodge verandah, giving Marrow time to navigate them with his gimpy leg. They found Alec Wardrop settling his bill, scheduling a ride to the city by the earliest available means. At first, he was not disposed to talk.

Marrow found a cultural crowbar to pry an explanation from the man. "Got some stuff at my office for a toast, on the off chance that you made it back," he said, as if begrudging it. "Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry. Awful stuff. Thought you'd like it."

Wardrop failed to keep his face straight, hung his head as he smiled. "Wonders never cease. Very well, and with pleasure. I have a few minutes to spare." Leaving his luggage untended, Wardrop accompanied his hosts back to Marrow's office.

Quantrill's only burning question was the fate of Ba'al, but all the signs pointed to a satisfactory answer; perhaps Wardrop had just taken enough of that hard-rock country, and abruptly said the hell with it. Lots of people behaved that way. Besides, Marrow's intuition made entirely too many accurate connections every time Quantrill mentioned the boar. Quantrill listened in silence as Marrow, ushering the tall Brit into the office, said, "I'm afraid to ask about Rose."

Wardrop lowered himself into an oak armchair with the care of a man who was nursing a lot of bruises. "The commonest kind of tragedy, I'm afraid. She broke a leg and—had to be destroyed. I wasn't mounted at the time," he added in self-defense.

Quantrill pulled three polypaper cups from the dispenser; flicked them to Marrow, who caught them in what was obviously a ritual game. "I hear the van's still out there. Wrecked?"

Wardrop watched Marrow pour elegant sherry into lumpen proletarian cups and shook his head. "I suppose one's palate need not know the difference," he commented to Marrow, accepting a cupful, sniffing it with eyes closed. "No, the van is intact. I've marked it on a map for you. In any case, I'm all paid up; not to worry."

"I wasn't thinking about that. How'd you get back to WCS land?" Quantrill said.

"That," said Wardrop, pausing to sip the sherry, "is none of your God—damned—affair."

Quantrill made a face that was half dismay, half amusement.

Marrow: "You sure as hell didn't hoof it."

"Not by half. I got a… lift. I'd rather not talk about it. Marrow. Let us say, for the record, that Wild Country has too many surprises for a decent pigsticker to ply his trade. As far as I'm concerned, that boar can have the whole bloody region and welcome."

Marrow and Quantrill had swigged the sherry as though it were strawberry sodapop from the stable dispensers. Now Marrow refilled the cups, recorked the bottle. "To Wardrop and all his pigs, then," Marrow said, and hoisted the cup before drinking.

Wardrop made the proper gesture, saw the others toss off their sherry, shrugged with good humor, and followed suit. "Fitting eulogy for a dead occupation," he said, and stood up. He knew that no one would touch his things but, "I really should see to my baggage," he said. He thrust out his hand, and Marrow took it but did not stand. Unerring as usual, Jess Marrow's intuition told him the younger men had things to say in private.

With all his aches and pains, the lank Wardrop walked slowly enough for Quantrill to keep pace with ease. They had walked half the distance to the lodge before the Brit broke his silence with, "Here, take my card, Quantrill. You did your best to protect a foreigner you thought was half-mad. If you ever need help, consider yourself a fellow officer in my regiment. I'm not certain that I could explain exactly what that implies."

"It's an honor, and that's enough." Quantrill shoved the card into his denims without breaking stride. "What's your next move?"

"Oh—to Cornwall, I imagine. A week or so tramping on Bodmin Moor in my knockabouts. Then back to the regiment a wiser man." Wardrop seemed to be laughing at himself, and then turned a frank gaze on Quantrill. "I've bagged my last boar, you know."

Quantrill tried to hide his alarm. "Are you telling me you killed Ba'al?"

"God knows I tried." The Brit seemed lost in his reflections for a moment. Then, striking from an unfamiliar quarter: "Quantrill, did you ever read something called The Most Dangerous Game'? A classic adventure story by Richard Connell. Butchered badly in holoplays, of course."

Quantrill's glance, flicked at his companion, was two parts suspicion. The tale had been required reading during his advanced army training in T Section, when "T" stood for "terminate." Without giving that context he said, "I think so. About a Brit shipwrecked on an island. Some Russian count hunts him like an animal and the score winds up England one, islanders zero."

"That's the one. I've always had a horror of that story. What if the game I hunted turned out to be human?"

"You have interesting nightmares," Quantrill conceded.

"Nightmares come true. Even if your quarry turns out to be
almost
human, it's nightmarish enough. I'm not sure this is any great surprise to you, but from the evidence I'd say that monster boar understands fair play better than most men I've known." Wardrop stopped at the lodge steps, hugged his elbows, stared thoughtfully toward the southwest, and straightened. "I am no Russian nobleman on an island keen on human prey. More important still, I know when I'm beaten. It's… not humiliating, but humbling; an experience you probably haven't yet had." A wry smile: "And good luck to you and your boar." He turned, still smiling, and reached for the door.

Quantrill cocked his head. "
My
boar?"

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised," said the Brit, pausing, and winked. "But we all have our secrets." He turned and went inside.

Quantrill walked alone back to Marrow's office, knowing that he would miss Lieutenant Alec Wardrop. He found Jess Marrow pecking away at his computer terminal and saw curiosity in the older man's gaze. He tried to satisfy it with, "I gather Wardrop has finally found his good strong sign, Jess. Claims he's through with boar hunts."

Marrow flicked off the terminal; leaned back in his chair and sighed. "He had the look, Teddy. There's another name for that sign, you know. It's called 'failure.'"

Quantrill tried the idea on for size. "I don't know, Jess. He didn't act like a broken man."

"Broken, no; but that's because he's still young and full of piss and vinegar. Lemme tell you something, Teddy: a man is lucky if he learns to accept failure when he's young. Failure for a man is like childbirth for a woman: when you have your first one late in life, it can just about destroy you."

Quantrill thought it over. "I'm not sure I follow that," he said at last.

"Course not, fool, you haven't seen your sign. Yet."

"I've failed at a lot of things," Quantrill objected. He saw Marrow eyeing him over the old-fashioned spectacles, smiling and shaking his head. "You mean something big, then."

"Yep. Something so big it limits your self-confidence, tells you that you're just a mortal man, after all. Tells you that on a given day there's somebody, maybe nose to nose with you, who can beat you at ever'thing you do best."

"Aw, hell, Jess. Nine-tenths of the people I meet seem to know that. They don't even need a very strong sign."

"Right." Marrow grinned and shoved the specs into place with a blunt forefinger. "And they don't count, 'cause they never really had that basic self-confidence to start with. And what's more, most of 'em hate you soon as they see you
do
have it. When I said a good strong man needs a good strong sign, I didn't mean physical strength necessarily. I guess I meant confidence, Teddy. We have it. Wardrop has it." He closed one eye and aimed a finger at Quantrill. "I will bet you anything that damn near all of our close friends have it.

Because those who don't have it, don't want to be our friends. They want to see us fail."

Quantrill threw-up his hands and smiled. "Okay, you're probably right. Give me a break, Jess; great truths should be swallowed in small doses."

"In other words, shut the fuck up, boss," Marrow growled. "By the way, there's a call came for you while you were out with Wardrop. I got the number here; the area code is Corpus Christi or thereabouts."

Quantrill took the scrap of polypaper and studied Marrow's scrawl, then smiled. "Could be good news," he said, and hurried to his room for the Justice Department scrambler module.

Sandy's journal, Tues. 31 Oct. '06

According to Ted, I am absurdly wealthy! Must get used to saying "rich," as the rich do. Ironic that so much money could accrue from something that was, insofar as I can see, a toy for the amusement of grown children. It makes sense, I suppose, in terms of the information it contains. Dear God, now I could live in the city without ever turning a lick of work as long as I lived!

Ted laughed uproariously when I told him of ' 'The Case of the Scarlet Pennant," gasping out that I must keep it in memory of Don Quixote?! Well, either he will explain that, or I will tickle him mercilessly in every secret place.

I suggested that he help me decide what to do about all this new wealth, as yet unreal to me. He tells me he will come in a few days, after one last piece of business in Faro. Nothing to worry about, says he. And when he says that, I always know he is risking his stupid neck. All those riches will leave me destitute if anything happens to that man.