Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  “And Freddy makes four,” Hal said cheerily. “Our security man should be along soon. With whatever weapon he’s bringing, plus old Hawk-Eye here, plus the handgun you have, we should at least be better prepared than you were when you and Lewis Slocumb waltzed in unarmed.”

  “Believe me, I am much more competent at running than shooting anyway. Hopefully, though, nothing’s going to happen. It was just a fluke that the guards happened to be making their rounds when they did. They waltzed into the cave with no idea we were there. We’ll just stay alert tonight. There isn’t going to be any trouble.”

  “I expect not,” Hal said. “You feel pretty sure you can get us in there?”

  “I was paying really close attention on the way in. You’ll have to trust me on that. After what happened to Lewis, I just don’t feel right involving the Slocumbs again, even though I think one of the other brothers would come if I asked. They’ve done enough. It’s really a miracle Lewis is still alive.” If he is still alive.

  Carabetta knocked on the front door and was let in. He looked slightly ridiculous in a black pullover and watch cap, but he did have a rather sophisticated Pentax slung over his shoulder, as well as a narrow leather case that Matt suspected contained sampling gear. From the moment the OSHA official stepped through the door, he looked uncomfortable.

  “Greetings, Freddy,” Hal said. “Are you ready to become Numero Uno at that agency of yours?”

  “I’m not certain this is such a good idea,” Carabetta said. “What’s the gun for?”

  “We want to be prepared for any situation,” Hal explained. “I don’t expect any problems. But if there are, at least we’ll be able to negotiate from strength.”

  “That shotgun is strength?”

  “Actually, we have another man coming with us—a professional protector, if you will. Believe me, Fred, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Go in, observe, maybe bottle some samples of the material, and get out. That’s all we want from you,” Matt said.

  “I . . . I need to talk to you, Hal—in private,” Carabetta said.

  “Talk to me,” Matt said firmly, sensing he knew now what the man was about. “This is my project. Come on, let’s go someplace quiet.”

  “The master suite is fine,” Hal said.

  Heidi, Hal’s significant other, was off visiting her mother for a week. Matt led Carabetta to the expansive suite, which featured a lush sitting area, a beamed cathedral ceiling, and a panoramic window overlooking the lake. He could see Carabetta staring into the master bath, which included a rock wall waterfall that cascaded into a large hot tub. The kids’ college tuitions I never had to spend was the way Hal explained the spectacular bedroom. Matt could read Carabetta’s thoughts.

  More.

  “Okay,” he said, “what’s the deal?”

  Carabetta pulled himself up straight and met Matt’s gaze defiantly.

  “The deal is, this whole affair is way more complicated than I was originally led to believe. And now there are guns and . . . and bodyguards, and security people who may or may not show up while we’re there.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t think what I’m being paid is worth the risk.”

  Matt suppressed an explosion. Without Carabetta, they really had nothing.

  “How much?” he asked.

  Carabetta again peered through the bathroom door.

  “Another five thousand,” he said quickly.

  Matt had not been told specifically what the original deal with Hal was, but something his uncle said had him thinking it was around fifteen. Now Carabetta wanted five more. Twenty thousand—not a bad night’s work. Matt flashed on his own anemic bank account, which could handle a five-thousand-dollar ding, but only just. Then he flashed on Armand Stevenson, and Blaine LeBlanc, and Don’t-Call-Me-Bob Crook, and the security men who had rousted him from the mine offices and then attempted to eliminate the Slocumbs, and finally, on Bill Grimes.

  “Five thousand and not another penny after that,” he said.

  “I expect to be paid first thing tomorrow. No money, no action from me regardless of what we find tonight,” Carabetta countered.

  You are really a credit to your profession, Matt wanted to say. “You’ll get your money,” he said instead.

  They returned to the living room where, with a minute nod, Matt indicated to Hal that the deal was done. He then motioned Nikki into the privacy of the hallway, where he held her for a time, then kissed her lightly on the mouth.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I was just thinking that it’s been too long. So, how much did Carabetta try and gouge you for?”

  “He didn’t just try,” Matt replied. “The man is really a sleazebag.”

  “But a well-placed sleazebag, at least for our purposes.”

  “Keep reminding me. How’re you feeling about all this?”

  “Nervous, maybe a little scared. What about you?”

  “More angry than anything else, I think—for my dad, for all those other miners, for all the humiliation I’ve had to endure for just trying to do the right thing. Listen,” he went on, clearly searching for the right words, “there’s really no reason you can’t wait here until we get back.”

  “You mean just hang out on the couch and watch Home Shopping Network while you men tromp off to even the score with the people at the mine and maybe the man who kidnapped me and killed Joe? Now, doesn’t that just sound like an opportunity I’d jump at?”

  “I just—”

  “You just kissed me,” Nikki cut in. “That means I’m going. Plus I want to make certain you come through this in one piece. You and I have some unfinished business when all this is over.”

  Despite the beauty and sensual comforts of Hal’s home, Joe Keller’s terrible death was still too raw. They had spent the night in each other’s arms, talking and touching and knowing that soon, very soon, they would be lovers. Matt’s kiss this time was much less inhibited. Nikki dug her nails into the nape of his neck as she responded.

  “We’ll do fine,” she whispered as they drew away from each other. “We’ll do just fine.”

  Minutes later, a pair of headlight beams lanced through the darkness of Hal’s driveway.

  “This must be our protector,” Matt said, gesturing out the window. “How did you find him, anyway, Unk?”

  “I know you think of me as lily-pure and without fault,” Hal replied, “but the truth is that after spending much of my life around here, I know a few people. Just as you have your strange little connections around the valley, I have mine. I spoke to a friend with knowledge of such matters. He agreed to arrange for what we needed, and a few hours later, this is the man who called me.”

  “What better recommendation could anyone get than that?” Matt said. “Do you even know his name?”

  “I will soon enough. Remember, nephew, we are not hiring this gentleman to prune our rhododendrons.”

  “I gotcha.”

  The twin raps on the front door were like pistol shots—magnitudes louder than Carabetta’s had been. Hal swung the door back, revealing a man whose shoulders nearly filled the span and whose massive head barely cleared the overhead frame. The man nodded a greeting and stepped into the room. His impressive head and flat, pinched face reminded Matt of a villain in a Dick Tracy cartoon. There was a rather large bruise and healing abrasion over his right eye, and a square Band-Aid patch covering some sort of wound on his left cheek.

  The man we want is the one who did that to him, Matt was thinking.

  “Sutcher,” the man said gruffly, “Vin Sutcher.”

  His name rhymed with “butcher.”

  HAL AND MATT had decided they would park in a small public lot at the base of a series of hiking trails. From there, the walk to the cleft would be half a mile or so over terrain that Hal felt Fred Carabetta, clearly the physical weak link of the expedition, would be able to negotiate without too much difficulty. The tunnel to the cave might be another story, but Matt felt confide
nt there was enough room for the man, even in the tightest passageways. They took two cars to the spot—Hal, Nikki, and Carabetta in Hal’s Mercedes, and Matt in Vin Sutcher’s Grand Cherokee.

  Matt was surprised to find the man erudite, well-read, and quite willing to discuss his life and profession. Sutcher had gone to Penn State on a football scholarship, but tore up a knee and ended up leaving school after his second year. He sold automobiles for a time, then insurance. Finally, because of his size and willingness to “mix it up,” he found employment with an agency that provided bodyguards for rock stars and occasionally movie stars as well. He traveled a good deal, but had chosen a house in the hills just west of Belinda as his home base because the hunting and fishing were excellent in the area, and he had always liked the privacy. It was sheer luck that he happened to be around when Hal’s friend called.

  Sutcher’s choice of weapons included a handgun stuffed in a shoulder holster over his black, long-sleeved T and some sort of semiautomatic submachine gun, which he cradled with a loose familiarity in his right hand. Matt wondered if he had ever killed or even shot anyone, but there was no way he was going to ask. Regardless, he felt much more confident and secure knowing the man was coming along.

  It took half an hour to make the walk to the cleft along an ill-defined path. Hal knew the way, though, and led the silent, single-file procession. Carabetta followed Hal, then Nikki, Matt, and finally Sutcher.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” Matt said to Nikki as they trudged along.

  “You’re very cute when you’re intense,” she whispered back.

  Although they all had flashlights, only Hal had his turned on and then only as necessary. The cloudless night was lit by a silver gibbous moon that was bright enough to illuminate the trail. The group crossed the broad steam now familiar to Matt, and reached the cleft without difficulty.

  “Okay, Doctor,” Hal said, “you’re up. Get us in, get us out.”

  “Roger that,” Matt said, taking over at the head of the line. “Fred, why don’t you stay right behind me. There’s going to be some pretty narrow squeezes, and one place where we’re probably going to have to crawl on our bellies for a few feet, but I believe you’ll make it okay.”

  “Jesus,” Carabetta whined, “no one said anything about wriggling along on our bellies.”

  “Just keep on thinking about all that money and the citations you’re gonna be awarded, suitable for lamination. It’ll make you thinner. Also, we’ll be edging our way along some drop-offs. Just don’t pay any attention to them.”

  “Aw, Christ,” Carabetta said.

  The second time along the damp, narrow tunnel was considerably easier for Matt than the first. He moved silently ahead with some confidence despite, at times, actually having to hold the hand of a softly cursing Carabetta to get him around a drop or across a ledge. Whether it was his familiarity with the passageway, or the distraction caused by being the leader, Matt’s claustrophobia was less of a strain than he had expected it would be.

  With surprising ease, Carabetta made it through the tight passage that required them to drop onto all fours and crawl. But at the still narrower one, where Matt motioned them onto their bellies, he balked.

  “No fucking way,” he said loud enough for all of them to hear. “This is as far as I’m going. You can keep your damn money.”

  “Fred, come on,” Matt urged. “You can make this. And after about ten feet, you can stand. On the way back, there are other trails we can take that won’t be so narrow.” Provided I can find them.

  “No way. I’m staying here.”

  “Mr. Carabetta, come speak with me,” Vin Sutcher rasped.

  Without questioning the order, Carabetta worked his way past Hal and Nikki to confront the giant. Sutcher bent over and whispered something brief into his ear. Even in the nearly black tunnel, Matt thought he could see Carabetta blanch.

  “All right,” he said, pausing midsentence to clear a bullfrog from his throat, “but if it looks the least bit like I’m going to get stuck, I’m going back.”

  “What did you say to him?” Matt whispered to Sutcher after all five of them had negotiated the low schism without major difficulty.

  “I told him that if he didn’t get moving, I was going to rip his arm off,” the bodyguard replied, without a fleck of humor.

  “Very effective.”

  Now, for the first time, Matt caught the pungent aroma of the chemical dump. Four days had passed since he and Lewis had penetrated the cavern—probably not enough time to empty it even if Armand Stevenson had decided to do so. Hiring killers and bribing officials was so much cheaper and more efficient—especially with the chief of police already on his payroll. Matt found himself momentarily wondering about the person—man, he suspected—who had slipped the note about the toxic dump under his door. Whatever ax the writer had to grind with BC&C was about to be made razor sharp.

  “Smell it?” he whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” Nikki said.

  “Toluene,” Carabetta opined. “Toluene and maybe creosote.”

  “Cameras ready,” Hal ordered. “Mr. Sutcher, would you please take the point.”

  “Be happy to,” Sutcher said, tightening his grip on the submachine gun.

  “Straight ahead,” Matt said. “Keep your flashlights turned off as much as possible and your voices low. If there is any interference, it’ll come from the entrance on the far side.”

  Cautiously, with Sutcher now in the lead and Hal bringing up the rear, the column moved through the narrow, stygian tunnel, following the increasingly potent chemical smell.

  “There,” Matt said.

  Not far ahead, a faint, gray light pierced the darkness.

  “Go ahead,” Sutcher urged. “I’ll be watching for trouble.”

  Matt led the way into the cavern. The rushing underground river, the huge, three-dimensional pyramid of barrels, stretching upward twenty feet or more, the unpleasant, sickly sweet odor, the protective gear hanging along one rock wall—all seemed unchanged from the way he and Lewis had seen it a few days ago. Using his flashlight, he motioned Carabetta to move closer and led him, then Nikki, around the perimeter.

  “Okay,” Matt said, “let’s take some pictures and get some samples.”

  “Rutledge,” Carabetta exclaimed, pointing past the barrels, “what’s that lying over there?”

  Matt never got the chance to answer. With a deafening roar, brilliant light, and a force unlike anything he had ever experienced, the two entrances to the cavern simultaneously exploded. Instantly, the entire space filled with acrid smoke and choking dust. Boulders the size of automobiles and all manner of rock hurled through the air. Flung sideways, Matt was slammed viciously against the wall. He collapsed onto the floor as dust filled his lungs. Rocks rained down upon him. A basketball-sized boulder thudded against his back. Other chunks buried his legs and pelted his arms with enough force to shatter bone.

  In just moments, the explosions were over. The pitch-black cave was filled with suffocating silt and the smell of chemicals freshly released from their drums. Matt lay there, his face half-buried in rubble. The only way he could get enough breathable air in was to force his mouth and nose against the shoulder of his shirt. His ears were ringing mercilessly, and he sensed that his nose was bleeding. Then, through the darkness, he thought he heard whimpering.

  “Nikki?” he tried calling out, but his dirt-covered vocal cords barely made a croak.

  He coughed, then spat, then coughed again until it seemed like some of the grit cleared from his throat. He also noted that the pain in his back was bad, but not incapacitating. Probably nothing but bruises there. He rubbed his hand across his nose. It wasn’t broken, but it was definitely bleeding—how much was hard to tell. Quickly, he tested his arms, which seemed intact, and his legs, which were totally buried beneath many pounds of stone.

  “Nikki?” he called out again.

  “Matt?”

  He thought he heard her voice, faint
and strained, from somewhere to his left, but he wasn’t certain. His damaged eardrums muffled the sound, but the lack of intense pain made him believe that, while the membranes and ear bones were swollen and bruised, neither drum had been torn. It had to have been Nikki’s voice.

  He pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, making breathing much easier. With great effort, he managed to roll over enough to begin moving debris off his legs.

  “Nikki?” he tried once more.

  This time there was no answer.

  The backs of his hands were raw, and he felt battered all over, but stone by stone he was able to free up his legs. It seemed logical that the people who had blown up the cave had counted on the roof collapsing and sealing the whole deal instantaneously. Clearly, since he wasn’t permanently pancaked under a few dozen tons of rock, that hadn’t happened. He pulled his legs free and flexed them. Aches, but none of the pain that would have indicated a broken bone. Given what he had just been through, he was as intact as he had any right to be.

  “Nikki? . . . Hal? . . . Anybody?”

  The sound barely echoed. There was no way to tell how much of the cave—how much air—was left. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over the sharp stones toward where he sensed Nikki’s voice had come from. He hadn’t moved more than a few feet when he hit against a body. It was a woman, lying facedown, covered with dust and debris. Her hair was much longer than Nikki’s, and her body, clothed in jeans and a T-shirt, was very slight—not much more than a hundred pounds. A girl, he thought, not a woman. He checked for a pulse at the carotid artery in her neck and found one easily. At that moment, the girl took a breath.

  “What in the hell?” he muttered. “Can you hear me?” he said into her ear. No response.

  Gently, careful to stabilize her neck as best he could, he turned her over. Reaching through the absolute darkness he brushed her hair and some of the dust off her face.

  “Oh, God,” he moaned the moment he touched the hard, neurofibroma nodules scattered over her face and scalp. “Oh, God, no.”