Badger Games (21 page)

In Basin, the tavern was closed. The sign had been turned off. But Joe could see the bartender inside. He pounded on the door until the fellow came. “No way,” the man said. He was a big guy, a regular Paul Bunyan of a man with a bushy black beard, wearing a red watch cap. Joe explained that he didn't want a drink. He was worried about a couple of pals of his who had gone off against his advice. One of them was all but falling-down drunk. The other was Frank Oberavich.

“Oh yeah,” the lumberjack said. “Frank was in here, not fifteen minutes ago. I didn't see the other guy. Maybe he dropped him off. I sold Frank a bottle of vodka. Don't know that I ever seen Frank drinking vodka, now you mention it. Maybe they had a party to go to.” To Joe's query he said that, no, he hadn't noticed which way Frank drove when he left, but anyway, he probably would have gone on down to the interchange, to get back on the freeway. From there, he could have gone to Helena or Butte.

Joe raced back to French Forque, annoyed that he hadn't brought the cell phone. In fact, he'd thought of it but decided that it might be more comforting for Paulie to have, alone in the dark. When he got to the exit and then to the road, however, Paulie was nowhere to be found. He cruised about, but there was nowhere to
look. Evidently, one of the vehicles he'd seen coming from Basin had been Frank. He must have picked up Paulie and taken him home. It was, after all, quite cold out, probably dropping down to near freezing at this altitude, which Joe estimated must be close to six thousand feet. He wouldn't have relished standing about here, in the night. But they could have left a sign, at least. What, though? A yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree?

He drove back to the gate, which took a good half hour. The gate was locked and the dogs were gone, but the lights were on again. Joe had to get out, of course, and stand in the cold for thirty seconds before Frank's voice called from the box in the rocks, telling him to come in. “Thanks for waiting, bastards!” Joe called out and drove on through.

The house was all lit up and the dogs barking in the pen. Joe bounced out of the truck and ran up the steps. He could see Helen in the kitchen, looking at him. He had opened the door before he realized that something was wrong. Now it was too late.

A Glock automatic appeared from the shadows behind her, aimed at her head. “Come on in, Joe,” a man's voice called.

Joe let the door close behind him. “Just put the gun on the counter, with the others,” the man said. He shoved Helen violently aside, and she sprawled on the floor.

“You the one they call Bazooka?” Joe said. He stood with his hands held up, just above waist level.

“Call me Boz,” the man said and grinned. “Come on in and have a drink with me and my new pals.” He gestured with the Glock in his right hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. On the floor beyond him Joe could see Frank and Paulie, their hands secured behind them and their feet bound with duct tape. “Those jerks don't drink much—they're no fun,” Boz said, clearly delighted with his coup. “But this sweet little ginch, she might like a sip before you wrap her up.”

Boz prodded her in the ribs with his shoe. “Smile, honey,” he said. “Your old man's home.” He set the bottle on the counter and picked up a roll of duct tape that lay next to an ominous butcher knife. He tossed the tape to Joe, who caught it deftly. “Go ahead, wrap her hands good and tight. But not the legs.” He leered and picked up the bottle of vodka, jostling the butcher knife away on the counter, and took a drink.

“You okay?” Joe asked Helen. He knelt beside her.

“I'm okay,” Helen said. He could sense her fear and anger as he took her hand in his. She squeezed his hand.

Boz stood off a few feet, wary but swaying, undoubtedly drunk. Joe watched him while he picked at the sticky edge of the tape, to free it from the roll. The man was large, and none too agile at the moment, but he was alert.

“On second thought,” Boz said, setting the bottle down on the counter again, “I think it'd be better if she tied you up, Joe.” He laughed, a thick gurgle. “I wasn't thinkin' straight. Musta had one too many.” He laughed. “She did a good job on those wimps. She can do the same for you. Here, in here.” He gestured with the automatic toward the living room. “Tie him to the post, darlin', hands behind him.” He indicated one of the posts that supported the lofty beams.

The post was round, roughly peeled fir, some six inches in diameter. It was securely fastened with steel plates, top and bottom, Joe knew. There would be no dislodging it, not that it would help. This was looking bad, he thought. Grisly, in fact. He had a flashing image of that butcher knife. A bloody slaughter. Slashed throats, perhaps disemboweling. He couldn't help thinking of Paulie's account of the carnage in the cave. This crazed, drunken beast was capable of anything.

“Put your fuckin' arms around the post, behind you, asshole,” Boz commanded, aiming the Glock at his head at arm's length but keeping well back. “Wrap him tight, bitch.”

Paulie and Frank looked on, their eyes wide with fear. Frank was bruised about the face, his lips puffed up. There was a severe laceration across his brow. It had bled a good deal but had stopped. His nose appeared to be broken. Paulie didn't look so bad. Evidently, Boz had not felt compelled to beat him. But from the look in Paulie's eyes, Joe knew that what was coming would not be something that anyone wanted to witness.

“Wrap the tape around the left wrist first,” Boz told Helen, “then run the tape to the right one. And do it tight!”

Helen did as instructed, but in moving around the post, away from Boz, she fumbled, and Joe's right hand slipped away from hers. He sagged clumsily, almost falling, but seemed to catch himself. Then she saw the .380 in the waistband, as Joe had intended.

“Whoa! Watch it there,” Boz said, brandishing the pistol. “That's better.”

Joe extended his arms backward, to facilitate her wrapping of the wrists, but also to keep himself clear of the post. Helen tried to keep the bonds loose, but the tape had an appalling tendency to grab onto itself. Still, she did the best she could, keeping the post and Joe between her and Boz.

With her right hand she snatched the .380. But what now? It was too risky to shoot. If she missed, their chance of survival was gone. She instantly placed the pistol in Joe's hand, for him to hold, while she went on with her task. From a certain sagging of his shoulders she knew that it was not what he had hoped. But it was the best she could do, for now. With any luck there would be an opportunity for her to get it, later.

Joe made a subtle gesture of tensing his forearms, as if surreptitiously trying his bonds. It was not lost on Boz, who laughed, seeing that Joe was securely bound.

“That's enough, sweet thing,” Boz said. He picked up the bottle and swigged, then said, “Come over here.” He set the bottle
down next to the knife and grabbed her when she came near and wrapped his great arm around her neck, lifting her off the ground, her back pressed against his chest. “Ha, ha,” he cried, “look at her squirm! Relax, bitch.” He lowered her, but did not release her. “Quit that fuckin' kickin' or I'll let some air into your head.”

His eyes gleamed as he lurched forward, holding her in front of him, the gun pressed against the side of her head. “You know why I had her tie you like that, you fuckin' piece of shit?” he snarled at Joe. A piece of his saliva hit Joe on the cheek. “I wanted you to have a ringside seat while me and this little bitch have some fun! Ol' Boz ain't had no pussy in a week. How 'bout it, sweetie?” He looked down at her. “You ready to scuffle? Hey, I tell you what, let's start with some head. Come on, get on yer knees.”

He thrust Helen down until she was kneeling before him, his fingers clutching her by her heavy mane of black hair. He looked around wild-eyed, checking that all three of the men were watching him. There was no doubt that the presence of a rapt but helpless audience was a tremendous turn-on for the man. He held the huge gun at Helen's head as she looked up at him. She seemed very tiny at his feet, her face blanched with terror. Each of them, including Helen, knew with certainty that whatever acts he might compel her to perform, whatever outrages he might enact on her, it would end with killing. They would all die here, but not before he had his insane pleasure.

Boz released her hair, momentarily, to fumble at his fly. But he suddenly narrowed his eyes when he saw the look in Helen's eyes. “I know what you're thinking, you bitch!” he shouted, seizing her hair again and twisting it violently. He raised the gun threateningly, but didn't strike. Instead he pointed it at her face. “If you so much as nip me I'll blow your head apart like a fuckin' melon!” he raged. Helen didn't blink. She stared defiantly back at him. He recoiled from her, holding her at arm's length, warily.

Joe watched. He felt cold and strangely calm. He saw that the madman was having second thoughts. That gun's barrel would be very close to Boz's penis. If she bit and he shot, even a little wildly…. Joe laughed.

Boz was shocked. He released the crouching woman, thrusting her from him. She fell forward onto her hands, but didn't move as he backed away. He hoisted the vodka bottle and swigged deeply. He gasped and absently tried to set the bottle down next to the butcher knife. It tumbled over, and he scrabbled momentarily to set it upright.

“What the fuck are you laughing at, you bastard!” Boz literally shook the Glock at Joe, who was laughing freely now. Boz's eyes were wild.

“You know what they called her in high school?” Joe managed to gasp out between laughs. “Sonya!” He laughed more wildly. “Sonya—” He doubled his body down as far as the bonds would permit, presumably incapable of restraining his hysteria. “—Sonya Bitchacockoff! She bit a guy!”

Boz looked down at Helen, aghast. “You what?”

“She bit his goddamn cock off!” Joe shouted, laughing. He was so infused with mad hilarity that he couldn't speak, or even stand. He was leaning forward, bobbing in spasms of glee. The other two men looked on in horror. “And you … you damn near stuck your dick into a meat grinder! You fuckin' idiot!”

“Joe!” Helen snarled, turning on him, as if enraged at his betrayal.

Boz stared at her, his mouth open. He was drooling, but he didn't know it. He had almost … sure, her head would have been blown away, but his dick…. He could not conceive the wickedness of some people!

Joe suddenly writhed far to his right, pivoting like a bullfighter so that his left knee touched the floor, and he shot Boz from behind his back. The bullet appeared to strike him in the right side.

Boz uttered a shocked grunt, and the Glock clattered to the floor as he clutched his side. His mouth was open and his eyes wide in surprise. Helen pounced on the automatic and rolled away. Joe fired again but didn't hit anything. The noise was great. The first blast had been so stunning that none of them had really registered it. This one they heard.

Boz lurched away, crashed through the kitchen door, and tumbled down the steps. They could hear him get up and stumble off, roaring with pain and rage.

Helen started after him, but Joe shouted at her. “Helen! Get me free! The knife!”

She snatched up the knife from the counter and raced to him. She started to slash at the tape, but Joe said, “Calm down. Calm down. I don't want my wrists slashed, for God's sake!”

Boz had gotten the Dodge Ram started. By the time Joe ran outside the truck was careening down the drive and then onto the road, racing away. Joe had the fleeting, remorseful thought that he'd left the keys in the ignition. He scrambled around to the Durango, but the keys weren't in it. Helen had them, of course. He ran in to get them. She had freed the other two.

“The keys!” Joe yelled at her. She fumbled in the pocket of her jeans and tossed them to him. By the time they got to the gate they realized that it was probably hopeless. The big Dodge had left the gate in a tangled mess. Their only chance was if the drunk had an accident. They drove on.

“Damn you, Joe,” Helen was saying. “Why'd you have to hit on that old story?” But then she laughed, almost hysterical now with relief. Joe laughed too.

But when they reached the town and still hadn't caught up with Boz, they were more sober. They could go on, of course, except that it wasn't clear which way he might have gone. Helena? Or Butte? Or had they, somehow, missed him? It seemed impossible,
but they didn't feel they could take the chance with Frank and Paulie still back at the house. If Boz had tricked them, somehow…. They turned and drove back.

Helen was talking excitedly, relieved. “What a shot!” she said. “An impossible shot!” She hugged him and kissed his cheek.

“What? You think I haven't practiced that shot?” Joe said. “I used to practice with handcuffs on. Not with a pole at my back, though.”

“Oh, come on,” she protested.

“A man's got to be ready,” Joe insisted. “It's too late to practice when the deal is going down. You remember I used to go out shooting left-handed? It's all part of being ready.”

“What is it about men?” she said, folding her arms. “They're all heroes. In their minds.”

Joe rolled down the window. He was bathed in sweat, he realized. The cold air felt great. He drove more carefully now. Not far away he could hear an owl hooting repeatedly.

A
gent Dinah Schwind was looking at a file, actually a printout of a computerized file, from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. The file had been obtained in the usual way, except that the INS had no record of it having been requested by Special Agent Tucker, Vernon. He was sitting across the table from Schwind while she looked through it, in a newly opened restaurant on Telegraph Road, in a northern suburb of Detroit.

Ms. Schwind was an athletic woman in a business costume of blue suit jacket and blue skirt. The colonel was intrigued that Dinah looked more attractive than formerly. She had a square face with a square jaw, not very full lips, but seemingly fuller these days. She had done something about the faint shadow of pale facial hair that she didn't used to be concerned about. Her hair was still short, but now it was more blond than brown. The short cut revealed tiny diamond studs in her neat little earlobes. The colonel wondered if she had a boyfriend. She was one of the charter members of the Lucani.