Badger Games (27 page)

Joe stood in the parking lot for a brief moment, as if getting his bearings. He marked the location of 115, then walked around the corner and along the street to the back of the building. There was no alley. Amazingly, the brick building was right up against the berm of the pit. It provided an excellent vantage point for breakers and enterers, like himself. He counted off the windows until he had arrived at the bathroom window of 115. He clambered up the berm, which was crumbly, clayey dirt, and was able to lean forward and look into the bathroom. It was just a motel bath. The door to the bedroom was open, and he could see the edge of a bed, all made up.

He squatted on the steep edge of the berm and considered. It was broad daylight, although—he glanced around—there really wasn't anyone who could see him. At his back was the berm, off to his right an abandoned mining structure. The berm angled around to cut off any view of the street at the other end, and at the nearest end. There were some office buildings over the way. Possibly, someone in an office on the third floor or higher could look out and see him crouched here.

But what could he hope to find? Would Boz really leave anything of interest in a motel room, where maids came and went, making the bed? The window, he noticed, was a simple sliding affair in an aluminum frame. It appeared to have double-glazing, which he'd noticed was usual in this cold country, to keep the heating bills down. Fairly stout, then. He absently tapped his pockets. He didn't have anything more than a penknife to use for a jimmy. It might work, but more likely he'd break the blade.

And then he noticed that the little plastic curtain moved slightly. He stared. He'd been looking right at this window and hadn't realized that it was slightly open, just a sliver. He leaned forward and braced himself against the edge of the building with his left hand, then tugged with his fingertips at the glass. It slid. A moment later, he was inside.

Another advantage of small size, he told himself. Boz could never imagine someone crawling through that little window. But here he was. The bed was made. The wastebasket empty. But the luggage rack had an expensive hard-shelled suitcase on it. This a penknife could manage.

There was, as Helen had predicted but Joe had not, another brushed-metal-finish Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol and a box of cartridges, in the case. How dumb can he be? Joe thought. There was an airline ticket in the name of Harry Hart, with a return to Atlanta. There was a Swedish passport, not in Harry's name but with
his picture on it. There were clothes, including military-style under-shorts and undershirts in olive drab. Socks, of course. Some dress shirts in their plastic bags as they had been purchased.

Joe glanced about. Boz was not a great reader. No magazines, no letters. Nothing. Joe pocketed the Glock and the ammo. No point in leaving that for Boz, in the event of him eluding them. He dumped the suitcase out on the bed. As he had expected, there were three credit cards, in different names. Also a thin bundle of American cash … five hundred dollars. Not much to get on with. What Joe had hoped for and didn't find was a notebook, or an address book. Something with names of contacts, phone numbers. But he must have those with him.

Joe glanced at his watch. He was late. Nothing more to find here, anyway. He opened the door and walked confidently away from the motel. He reached the cafe in a minute or two. He was about to enter when he saw Helen in conversation with a young woman, about her age, at the little bar where one waited for one's table. The woman was tall, her reddish hair in some kind of frizzled, bushy style. She looked fashionable, in a lustrous green suit, skirt above her knees. Nice frame on her.

Joe knew she was not from Butte. He walked away. There was a tavern on the corner with a phone booth. Joe called the colonel.

“Where are you calling from?” the colonel wanted to know.

“A bar,” Joe said. “What did you find out?”

“Boz is in Butte. He flew in as a Harry Hart. There has also been a murder in Butte.”

“I know that,” Joe said.

“Some guy named Oberavich. Looks like Harry had the same idea you did,” the colonel said. “Do you suppose it's Franko?”

“The victim? Not unless Franko was fifty-four years old, married to a woman named Selma, and worked for the railroad for the
last thirty years,” Joe said. “The picture in this morning's paper doesn't resemble your description.”

“No, I didn't think it was Franko,” the colonel said. “But there must be a connection. Is there a Frank Oberavich?”

“There is,” Joe said, “but he's too young, also doesn't fit the description, and has been in town for the last couple of years. But I'll keep poking around. It may be that Harry made a hasty connection and it went wrong. Anything else?”

“No. That's it,” the colonel said.

“You haven't heard about any other agents we should keep our eyes peeled for?”

“Not yet. Why? Have you seen somebody around?”

“No, I just wondered,” Joe said. “It was your suggestion.”

“Are you at the cafe? Is Helen with you?”

“No, I'm on my way, though. Did you want to talk to her?”

“No,” the colonel said. “Just say hi. Well, keep a low profile, Joe. Check back as soon as you find a new place to stay, okay? I'll need to keep you posted. It's imperative that we not run afoul of any other investigations.”

“Roger,” Joe said. “Out.” And he hung up. From the bar he could look out onto the street. He ordered a beer and sipped as he watched. Eventually, Helen came out of the Uptown and stood there, looking up and down the street. He started to leave and join her when he saw the other woman come out and engage her in conversation again. They talked, glancing up and down the street; then the woman gestured and they reentered the restaurant.

Well, Joe thought. Guess I'll wait. He switched to coffee and glanced at the
Montana Standard,
the local newspaper. The murder was the headline. The cops had found the bodies late last night, it said. No suspects. That didn't mean much, Joe knew. He kept his eye on the cafe. He ordered another coffee and tried to interest
himself in sports. He'd never understood the fascination with sports. It was just another of those pastimes of the straight world that was alien to him.

Eventually, he saw Helen come out of the restaurant. She set off up the street, presumably to wherever she had parked the Durango. Joe stepped out of the tavern, but stood in the entry. He wasn't surprised to see the red-haired woman come out of the cafe. She paused a moment, then set off after Helen. Joe followed.

At a nearby parking lot he saw Helen's red Durango pull out and cruise slowly to the corner. She was looking around. She waited at the light, then decided to turn left and went down the hill. Redhead's gray Pontiac trailed after her.

Helen would go to Smokey's, Joe figured. That was where she had dropped him. She'd park and go in, ask. He wondered if he could get there in time. He walked briskly. He was almost on the same block as Helen before he spotted the gray Pontiac. It was parked well back from the intersection, and the woman was in it. The Durango was right in front of the bar. Joe turned down the alley.

He entered the bar from the back. There was a parking area out there; many of the customers came in that way. Bernie wasn't visible, and neither was Helen. The bartender was way up front, over among the tables, serving some beer to a table. Joe stepped into the ladies' bathroom. It was empty. But then Joe saw her shoes under the door to the commode. He opened the door.

“You scared me,” Helen said.

“You don't look too scared,” Joe said. He leaned down and kissed her. “Who's the redhead?”

“The … oh, the woman in the cafe? Says her name is Jemmie, but I think she meant Jenny. Did she follow me?”

“She's waiting out front. Gray Pontiac,” Joe said. “I tell you what … go back to the bar. I'll be out in a sec. You'll have to
move your car. There's a parking lot out back. Park next to the dumpster.”

Helen got up, straightened her clothes and washed her hands, touched her hair critically, and returned to the bar. Joe followed a moment later and stood next to Helen.

“Where's Bernie?” he asked the bartender.

“Lunch. What'll you have?” the man said, wiping the bar.

Joe shook his head. He laid a twenty on the bar. “I need a favor. See that red Durango out front? Go out there with the lady.” Joe nodded at Helen. “Point to the curb, the corner, whatever, and tell her to pull around back. Okay?” He lifted his hand from the twenty. He put his hand on Helen's purse, to keep her from taking it.

The bartender picked up the twenty. He asked no questions, just walked out the front door with Helen behind him. He gestured, said what he was told to say, gestured again, a sweeping arm motion, and went back inside.

Helen got in the car, drove around back, and parked. Joe slipped into the car. He squatted on the floor in the front, the back being taken up with chain-saw sculptures and several bags of groceries.

“Go get your purse,” Joe said, “then come back and we'll drive back to Frank's.”

When Helen came back with her purse, Joe said, “Did you see the gray Pontiac?”

“It's moving down the street, very slowly,” Helen said.

“Fine,” Joe said. “No hurry, just take the regular route back to the freeway.”

As they drove along, Joe told her what he'd learned from Bernie, his conversation with the colonel. “This is some kind of setup,” Joe said. “I let slip ‘Uptown' to the colonel, but not ‘Cafe.' For some reason he's sicced this woman on us. Don't talk to me, she might be able to notice. How far back is she?”

They were on Montana Street, approaching the freeway. Helen glanced in the mirror. “About a block—there are a couple of cars and a pickup between us.”

“Just turn on the freeway and drive normally,” Joe said. He was calm. “What's her story? No, let me guess: she's a stranger in town. She's just passing through. Stopped to visit with a friend, but the friend's not home. Is this a good place to eat?”

“That's about it,” Helen said, impressed.

“Well, what else could she say?” Joe said. “Did you talk to Roman?”

“He'll look for Fedima.”

“Good. I wonder why your friend Jenny felt it was okay to make contact, but the colonel didn't say anything? Maybe she's not with the colonel. Hmmm. I don't know. Could be some kind of test. He asked me if you were with me. By now she'll have talked to him on the phone. He'll tell her to stick with you.”

They were on the freeway and flying up toward the pass. Helen said the car was about a quarter mile back. There were only a couple of other cars and a laboring semi on their side of the freeway.

“She could be the colonel's insurance,” Joe said. “Hit person,” he added, at Helen's puzzled glance. “Hit lady. The colonel's playing some kind of deep game, but I have no idea what it is. If she were here to help us, she'd come forward. He'd have mentioned her.”

“What'll we do?”

“If she doesn't make a move, she'll probably follow us up the Forkee road,” Joe said. “We could ambush her there.”

“Ambush?”

“Kill her,” Joe said. “She's no help to us. I'm not curious about the colonel's plans. She could disappear, and what could be said?”

Helen glanced at Joe to see if he was serious. He looked serious.

“What's the traffic like now?” Joe asked.

“The truck has fallen way back,” Helen said. “The other cars are about where they were, between her and us. She's moved up a bit, maybe. Five hundred yards?”

“Speed up a bit,” Joe said. “Get away from those other cars. See if she comes on.”

After a couple of minutes, Helen said, “She's coming.”

“Now drop back to the speed of the other cars—what is it, about seventy?”

“About.”

“See if she continues to come on or if she stays back.”

“She's coming. Now she's slowing. She's about a hundred yards back.”

“Okay,” Joe said. He took Boz's extra Glock out of his coat pocket and checked the clip, racking the slide to make sure there was a round in the chamber. “Found this in Boz's room,” he said.

“You found his place?” She shook her head. She looked tense, however.

“Not much else there, except this.” Joe flashed the wad of bills. “I robbed him. I'm a robber. Well, he's too stupid to survive. Leaving guns and money in a motel room! Okay, remember that pullout area down here a ways? It should be coming up, unless I'm completely confus—”

“I see it,” Helen said, grimly. “What are you going to do?”

“Just pull in there,” Joe said, “and stop. If she pulls in, which I think she will, that'll be one indication of her intentions. If she stops back of you, but not right behind you, that'll be another indication. If she then pulls up slowly, alongside, you drop down behind the door. Get that window down, now!”

Helen lowered the window and slowed to pull off the highway. In the mirror she could see that the Pontiac was slowing, too. “Shouldn't we talk to her first?” she said, her voice tight.

Joe crouched on the seat, his head still below the top of the backrest. “Let her decide,” Joe said quietly. “Are you armed? Good. You don't have to get it out yet, but be ready if you need it.” He glanced down to see Helen tugging at her purse and opening it beside her. He thought, Who's smart? I left her purse on the bar with a gun in it. Anyone in that bar could have snatched it. Dumber'n Boz.

“She's stopping,” Helen said, as the Durango slid to a halt. “Should I turn off—”

“Leave the ignition on,” Joe said. “Put it in park. Now, what's she—”

“She's moving forward!”

“Be ready,” Joe said.

The Pontiac pulled alongside and stopped just as Joe was about to jerk Helen down. The woman was leaning across her seat, her passenger window open, and calling.