Badger Games

by Jon A. Jackson

  “Did you watch the monitors?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. I saw Frank go down there, to the gate. He got out and talked to the guy. On the speakerphone I could hear them arguing, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They were too far from the mike. But it looked like they calmed down. I could see Frank was angry. He put the dead dogs in the back of the truck. Then the guy got in the truck and the two of them went out through the gate.”

  “What about the other two dogs?” Joe asked. Helen said they were still out, down by the gate.

  Joe decided they should go in the house. He called to Paulie, and when they met on the porch he explained what had happened. They went into the house and checked the monitors. The two other dogs were standing at the now closed gate, looking down the road beyond.

  “What do you think?” Joe asked Paulie.

  “It sounds like what Frank said,” Paulie replied. “Some drunk got on the wrong road, probably ditched his car, and stumbled on the gate. But …” He looked worried.

  “You’re thinking it’s your pal Bazooka,” Joe said. Paulie nodded. “What did this guy look like?” Joe asked Helen.

  “They weren’t that close to the cameras,” she said, “and the light wasn’t that great. He seemed big, much bigger than Frank, wearing a dark coat. He looked excited, pacing around, but not threatening or anything. I didn’t see the gun. Frank didn’t seem very leery of him, once he’d calmed down. I’d say the guy was drunk. He tried to pick up one of the dogs when Frank was picking up the other, but he looked clumsy, dropped it. Frank just came back and put his hand on his arm, then picked up the dog himself. Then they stood and talked for a few minutes, gesturing back toward town.”

  “What do you think?” Joe asked Paulie, who shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s been a half hour, at least. We better go see,” Joe said. “Do you know how to switch off those lights? Good. It’d be safer for us without them.”

  Helen stayed at the house, where she could watch the monitors. She could maintain contact with Joe and Paulie by cell phone, or with Frank, if he should call—although the phones didn’t always work that well.

  Joe and Paulie drove down to the gate in one of the other four-wheel-drive pickups, a big old Dodge Ram—Joe thought it better to leave the Durango for Helen, just in case, and the pickup had the key in it, which was customary out here. There was a broken vodka bottle lying by the side of the road. They got out to check, and the dogs came eagerly. Paulie ordered them back to the house and they withdrew, but he didn’t think they went far. Paulie had brought an electronic opener for the gate. The dogs didn’t attempt to follow them, and the gate closed behind them, automatically. They drove on toward town.

  In a few minutes they came upon the rental car, down in the ditch. But there was no sign of the pickup, nor the two men. It appeared that they had stopped—there were two sets of footprints in the road.

  Paulie and Joe discussed it as they drove on, slowly but steadily. The best scenario was that the intruder was, in fact, a lost drunk—the broken bottle on the road bolstered that notion—and Frank had decided that it wasn’t a good idea to try to help him extricate his car from the ditch. At any rate, it was down so far that it really required a wrecker. In this scenario, Frank might have elected to drive the drunk to town, or even home.

  “An armed drunk, out here?” Joe said.

  “You have no idea how many guys go armed in these parts,” Paulie said. He seemed hopeful. “It’s so common no one even discusses it. He may not have been carrying it on him, just had it in the car, but when he had to get out and walk, at night … most of the guys I know would have taken the gun out of the glove compartment. Bears, you know, and mountain lions.”

  Joe thought Paulie might be trying to convince himself of the innocence of the incident. It had a plausible feel, but Joe was skeptical. He didn’t say as much to Paulie, just cautioned him that they shouldn’t proceed as if it were simply a road accident. Paulie accepted that.

  They cruised around the village, searching for anything that might look out of the ordinary. There was a gas station, but it was closed, as was Frenchy’s bar. Paulie said the nearest town where there would be a wrecker was Basin, ten miles down the interstate. There were no lights burning in the town, except for a few yard lights of the type that go on at dusk. But Paulie didn’t think there was much point in calling the road service in Basin: Frank could have called them, if that was what he had in mind. No, he was leaning on the theory that Frank had driven the drunk home—which could mean as far as Butte. Possibly, Frank had recognized the guy.

  “Is there a bar in Basin?” Joe said. He glanced at his watch; it was getting toward two A.M., official closing time.

  There was a bar. Paulie called Helen and told her what they were planning. She said no one had called.

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “If Frank had to drive the guy home, wouldn’t he have called? Just to reassure Helen?”

  “Maybe he thought it wouldn’t take long,” Paulie said. “And if it was an acquaintance, his fears would have subsided.”

  Joe nodded. “Maybe you should stay here, in case Frank comes back. If we both drive down to Basin we could miss him.” He left Paulie pacing on the dirt road to the upper Frenchy’s Fork and headed for Basin.

  The road was a four-lane freeway. At times the opposing lanes diverged fairly widely, due to the difficult mountain terrain—one couldn’t always see the other lanes. Joe caught a distant glimpse of a couple of vehicles headed the other way, but he couldn’t make out what they were, just headlights in the distance. Joe was fuming. Here he had all but sealed a deal for what looked like his dream retreat. Only if anything happened to Frank or Paulie, the deal was blown. Anything, that is, that couldn’t be easily concealed or conveniently explained away. It was too cruel to contemplate.

  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 wron
g. 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.