Badger Games (19 page)

The Home Guard, that's what the 'boes called the squares. The old 'bo he'd met on the train, years ago, when he was last out in this part of the country, the one who told him about the Stuka and the bazooka—Boz couldn't think of his handle, if he'd ever known it—had told him about the Home Guard. The ones who stayed home, who pulled the daily job, pissed their whole lives away in some shithole, afraid to get out and see what the world was really like. And yet, they thought their shit didn't stink. They worked for wages, day after day, got a mortgage, married some fat whore, had a bunch of kids, maybe got drunk at the bar once a week. Jesus, what a fucking life! And they thought that was what it was all about! Fuckin' suckers.

He rolled down the window and stuck his head out into the cold rushing wind and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Fuckin' suckers!”

The right front wheel went off the road, the car pulled violently to the right. He managed to swerve back on, but then the car fishtailed and he nearly lost it.

Whoa, he thought, and slowed down. That was fuckin' close! He took another hearty hit of the vodka and felt better, more like his own self. Then he began to think, How far did I come? Did I miss the road to this French Forque? He slowed to a crawl, alternately peering at the crude map and out at the road. He hadn't passed or met a single car since he'd come over the pass from Butte, and thought, Where the fuck am I?

Then, like magic, there was the reflecting sign that indicated the exit to French Forque, one mile. He got off and cruised slowly through the village. Hardly a light was on. Frenchy's bar was closed. Too bad. He hoisted his bottle again and drove to a stop sign. This was the road he wanted.

The road turned to gravel. He drove on. It became dirt. He found the turnoff. Still not a single light, not a car. The Home Guard went to bed early out here. It occurred to him that the little dog was the real Home Guard. He laughed. That was a real dog, he decided. He ought to go back and get that dog. He'd never had much luck with dogs, but he could tame it, he was sure. That dog would become his dog. His best friend. Faithful, feisty. He'd name it Home Guard. He'd call it Homes, for short.

“Here, Homes!” he bellowed out the window. He laughed. The road turned rough, then rougher. All of sudden he came on a turn too fast and bounced right off the road and into some heavy brush. The car stalled. He sat there for a minute, dazed. He drank some vodka. The car started right up. At first he couldn't back out, and the brush was too heavy to go forward, but the ground was not boggy, and soon he was able to back far enough that he was clear of the brush and he was able to turn and go forward and get back on the road.

This road was a nightmare, he realized. There was a damn good chance that this rental sedan would never make it to Franko's place. The road angled up, switching back to get over a rocky knob, and at the high point he saw a light. He stopped and got out.

The light was distant, maybe a yard light. As dark as it was and not knowing the terrain, he couldn't be sure just how far that light might be. A mile? Five miles? Closer to five, he thought, but at least it was a light, and this road had to be going there. He'd just drive as far as he could and walk the rest.

He got almost two miles before, in his drunken state, he let the right front wheel drift off the narrow rutted road. The car slid sideways and down into the ditch, coming to a rest on its side. There was no moving it now. He was lucky, he knew, that he hadn't been going fast. The car was at such a steep angle that he had to push the door upward until it stayed open. He found the vodka bottle at
the bottom of the car, up against the righthand door, and he clambered out.

Okay, he thought. Now it's walk. It was chilly, but his coat was adequate. What a night! He stood in the middle of the road and stared up at the billions of stars. He took a long drink of vodka. He still had at least half a bottle left. That was comforting. But man, what a night, what a sky! This was a very big place, he realized.

He checked his pockets. He had the gun and a couple of spare clips. If only he had his dog, faithful Homes. He set off. There was enough starlight to see the road, although he stumbled a good deal. At the bottom of the hill he had to ford a stream, which was almost enough to make him despair. A good pair of shoes ruined, he thought. He'd spent two hundred dollars on these goddamn shoes! Well, Franko would pay for this. He trudged on.

He began to think about what lay ahead. He was still baffled about this Frank Oberavich crap. There was always the chance that he'd made a big mistake, but he didn't think so. The minute he'd heard the name from that dumb bartender he'd known this had to be the guy. That jerk had thrown him for a minute, with his description, but then he'd realized that it was just part of the crap the Home Guard always puts in your way. He should have shot the bastard, he thought. Maybe he still would, when he got back to town. That cheered him up.

No, he was sure he had the right guy. And when he found him he could take care of business. Item number one: get the rest of the goods that the sneaky fucker had stashed. Boz could sure use the money. Item two: make sure the fucker didn't testify to no goddamn war-crimes tribunal. Vjelko had made that clear.

He came to the gate. It was locked. No sweat. He had one leg over the top rail of the gate when the lights came on, high up on poles. He was surprised, but more glad than frightened. He clambered over and set off up the road. He hadn't gotten more than a
hundred feet when the dogs arrived, barking madly. Boz got the gun out in time. They attacked and he clubbed the first one and shot the second one. The other two ranged off.

Boz stood there, raging. His good coat was ruined. The one dog had taken a sleeve and nearly destroyed it, but the coat had saved him, Boz realized. The other two dogs stayed well away, racing about beyond the edge of the bright light, but occasionally showing themselves. It would be futile to shoot at them. He replaced the clip with a fresh one. Who knew what lay ahead?

T
he dogs had accompanied them about halfway across the meadow before Paulie ordered them back. Away to the north were some dark, wooded hills; an owl was hooting over that way. “
Strix,
” Paulie said. He was walking with a steady sureness along a path, but paused to listen.

“Who?” Joe said, and gave a low laugh.

“
Strix varia,
” Paulie said. He gestured with the large, dry-cell light toward the distant woods. “Barred owl. You don't know the birds at all, then?”

“I know robins and crows,” Joe said, “and pigeons.”

Paulie snorted, almost a laugh. He moved on. “What's your deal with Tucker, Joe?” He spoke over his shoulder, slowing and looking back.

Joe explained that it was a contract. He didn't work for the DEA. “It's a little complex.”

“Ah. Yeah, I had the feeling that it was not, uh … well, you don't seem like a federal agent. So, what kind of land are you looking for?”

“Something just like this,” Joe said. “Not all this much. A few acres. What I was thinking, maybe we could strike some kind
of deal. I'm a little concerned about Frank's operation. It's going to attract the law, if it hasn't already. I don't like that.”

“Down this way,” Paulie said. He led Joe down the gulch again, but before they reached the stream, he set off up along the bench. “Why are you concerned about Frank?”

“Who wants the threat of a raid?” Joe said. “Personally, I'm not bothered by him growing grass, but … it's a bother. Maybe, if Frank isn't too tied to this dope business, I could make it worth his while to drop it. I'd need his help, anyway, to set up my place.”

“Just between us,” Paulie said, “I don't think he makes much, if anything, off the grass. He isn't really a dealer, if that's what bothers you. Once in a while, he sells some to people he knows in Butte, or wherever, but he probably gives away more than he sells. The cops wouldn't see it that way, I'm sure, but that's the truth of it.”

“What does he live on, then?” Joe asked.

“He inherited some money from Gramp, like me, plus he's got another little trust fund, from his maternal grandmother, so he doesn't really need much, but he spent a lot on his infrastructure. Sometimes I think that's what he's really interested in, besides the plants, of course—fiddling with his ‘systems.' A little capital might interest him, but so would the prospect of setting up another system. He's got ideas about tapping into the hydrothermal potential around here for heating and power generation. He'd love the chance to dig some holes and lay pipe.”

Shortly, they came to his camp. It was a large, wall-sided canvas hunter's camp tent set up in a copse of aspens, well back from the stream on high ground but still within hearing of the tumbling water. Paulie led Joe in and lit a kerosene lantern. It didn't give a lot of light, but Joe could see a camp table and a cot, a large footlocker that served many purposes, and a couple of folding camp chairs.

“I've got a generator and lights,” Paulie said, gesturing with the flashlight, “but most of my domestic arrangements are outside.
Frank would love to make it all interlocking and self-sufficient, but I've resisted. A certain crudeness and discomfort attracts me, I guess. The deer come around, and raccoons, so I've got to keep all the food in those coolers, inside. There's bears, too, but I haven't seen them. They'll be going into hibernation soon, anyway. But so will I, up at Frank's. I thought about trying to stick it out through the winter, but winters are just too brutal up here, even for my discomfort index. I should have used my time better, built myself a little cabin.”

Joe looked about. “All the comforts of home,” he said wryly, “almost …
cozy.
” He made a shivering gesture with his shoulders. It had been warm enough hiking, and they were both adequately dressed, but the tent offered no real comfort other than a windbreak.

“Exactly,” Paulie agreed. “It was fine when the days were long. Reading with mittens on isn't so much fun. But I got well here, or at least I got better. Peace and quiet.” He began to pump up the fuel tank on a Coleman camp stove to heat water for coffee. “Frank tried to talk me into excavating into the hillside, with hot-water heating piped in from a thermal spring. But it seemed too … cavelike.”

“You got well? Were you sick when you came back from Europe?”

Paulie looked up. “I guess you want to know all about that.”

Joe was only casually interested in Paulie's adventures. As far as he was concerned, his job was done. He'd found the man. But, as always, there was more to the job than anticipated. Paulie was his ticket to reestablishing himself and Helen in this country. The more he thought about the possibilities, the more enthusiastic he got. Frank's way of thinking was very congenial to him. If Paulie wanted to talk about what had gone wrong in Kosovo, Joe was content to listen.

“Yeah, well, it seems a little odd,” Joe said. “You were doing okay, then everything goes silent. You come back here and spend months hiding out in the bush.”

Paulie filled the kettle and set it on the burner. Then he sat down on the footlocker to grind the coffee beans with a tubular hand-crank brass device.

“I haven't talked about it,” he said, “not even with Frank. He never asked. I just showed up and he could see I wasn't too … jolly. He helped me set up this camp. After a while things got better.” He cranked away as he talked.

“What did you do?” Joe asked.

“Went for long walks, fished, read. Had some long nights … woke up in sweats, that kind of thing. A lot of bird-watching. Thinking.”

“What about in Kosovo?” Joe asked. “What were you doing there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just looking around, fishing,” Paulie said. “I don't know, maybe I was looking for a place to light. I guess you could say I was observing.”

“Hell of a place for loafing,” Joe observed.

“It was all right, at first. I had a good situation there,” Paulie said. “It couldn't last, of course. The war was getting closer. We were up in the mountains, like this, kind of, only it's a smaller place. Those folks, they don't know remote like we know remote. But it was back in the hills. The war would get there eventually, but I tried to ignore it. Then I got involved with these smugglers, kids really. I should never have done that. I should have just left them to their …” He hesitated. “Games,” he went on. “I guess you could call them games. It was their life, really.”

Joe sat patiently in the camp chair, listening with half his mind. A breeze had come up, fluttering the canvas. He supposed one was more aware of it in a tent. He wondered what it would be like to live in a tent. It might get pretty old. But the Indians did it, full-time.
They must have figured out how to make it comfortable but still portable, since they moved pretty regularly. How did they keep warm? You couldn't have much of a fire inside a tepee, and most of it would go out the top … which would be why they were so tall, maybe …

“… Bazooka, he called himself. He was trouble,” Paulie was saying. “I could see that right away. Coffee? It's pretty strong, if you're not used to it.”

Joe tried it. Paulie served it in a tiny cup. It was strong all right. You could float an axe in this. It was also very sweet. He sipped and nodded. Handy way to make it though. You'd have to develop these kind of systems, he thought. Grind your coffee by hand, get used to fetching water. It was primitive, in a way, but Paulie wasn't a slave to it, he could see. He'd gone to the trouble of finding good equipment, like that lightweight but sturdy cot, a really good sleeping bag, maybe take your clothes to be washed at Frank's.

Joe had caught a glimpse of a bike of some sort, probably a top-of-the-line mountain bike. Laptop computer. Run on batteries, but not for long—generator. Have to have some kind of converter, don't you? For direct current. Maybe not. Frank would know about that.