Badger Games (42 page)

“Of course.” Joe walked him up on the ridge and away from the stream to a broad meadow backing against a large rock outcropping about the size of a church. This was a site, Joe said, that would be ideal. He pointed out where a road could be routed, where a well could be dug, and so on. The site had a good southern exposure, and from there Frank's house was not visible, although one could see the windmills spinning. Perfect privacy.

Roman grunted—whether appreciatively or not, Joe couldn't tell. “Well, we've got work to do,” Joe said. They trekked down to the site of Paulie's camp. Joe explained what they were looking for. Roman would look about outside for possible hiding places while Joe checked out the tent.

As soon as Roman was engaged, Joe set to work. There were an awful lot of books for a camp, three wooden crates of them. And a laptop computer. Joe didn't bother with that—Helen had the computer expertise. What Joe sought was a handy journal, or a notebook. But in the course of looking for one, he could check for other goods. There was nothing of that sort, he soon realized. He hadn't expected to find any. Jammie had been either lying or simply wrong. But he did find the notebooks.

They were resting in plain sight, on the footlocker by Paulie's camp bed. There were four journals, beautifully bound in hardboard
covers that were printed with Egyptian emblems. The journals were labeled:
India, Kashmir, Balkans, Montana
. They were fishing journals. Inside were many sketches of fish, evidently drawn by Paulie, using colored inks. And the notations below the pictures, or alongside them, indicated the date, place, time, weather conditions, water conditions, numbers of fish of various types caught, along with occasional remarks about the day—“high, thin o'cast, fine for b-w-o, later good breeze sw—hoppers and mayflies …”

There were also ink sketches of plants, flowers, certain views of hills or a creek, occasionally a bird, or persons—a talented artist's snapshots, things he'd seen on his way to and from the fishing.

Joe leafed through the Balkan book, admiring pictures of a man with a big mustache, wearing a turban and smoking a long pipe; two girls in Balkan peasant dress (Joe presumed), carrying bundles of sticks, laughing, pretty; one very attractive sketch of a farm girl, washing her naked upper torso, who much resembled Fedima. A horse wearing a hat, a dog sleeping, a minaret poking up through the trees. Some of these had been colored with water paints later, it seemed.

Paulie was a skilled artist, but it was clear that his aim was not art but accuracy. There was, for instance, a whole page of sketches of the innards of what Joe presumed was a fish: intestines, gills, organs—an eye, a tongue, something that might be a kidney. There were many very striking colored-ink representations of fishing flies, and drawings of how the flies were arranged on the fly line itself when more than one fly was used.

Joe looked for any notation that might suggest some activity other than fishing, but there were none that he could see. It was a brilliant piece of work, beautiful even, probably the sort of thing that anglers would treasure.

He idly flipped a page and there was Jamala Sanders. She was standing in a village street, hands on hips, wearing a khaki outfit, her hair pulled back in a puffy ponytail. She looked very handsome
but intent on something up the street. She was shod in a stylish version of cowboy boots, not quite the real thing. A little notation said, “Am. woman, Tsamet.”

Joe hurriedly paged through the book and found three more small sketches of Jammie: one just a tiny head, full face; the others larger, barely sketched cartoons of her striding by a building and by a tree. And near the back was a full-page, ink and water color-enhanced drawing of Jammie nude. It was a great picture, Joe thought. She was lounging by the side of a stream, among the grass, tiny blue forget-me-nots at the stream edge, her arms back to support her on her elbows, with her full breasts exposed, her legs apart to clearly display profuse pubic hair that did not succeed in obscuring the artist's characteristically meticulous delineation of her vulva. There was a remarkable grace to the disposition of those thighs. And the look on her face … a knowing smile. It was Jammie, to the bones. The notation read: “Emerging nymph.”

Joe examined the rest of the book carefully but could make no sense of the notations beyond their ostensible reports on fishing. Possibly these notations contained some evidence, but it wasn't available to Joe. The other books were the same: fish, birds, bugs, girls, views.

Roman returned, having found nothing. Joe sighed. “I'll have to pack all this up later,” he said.

“You need help?” Roman asked.

“You mean, you'd stay?” Joe said.

Roman shrugged. He had nothing else to do.

They hiked back to the house. Joe carried the books, stashing them in a safe place. The colonel had called. He was in Butte, with Schwind. Joe called his motel, to give him instructions on how to find Frank's place.

There was still plenty of light when Tucker and Schwind arrived. They were tired from traveling, but they were eager to inspect
the scene. Joe provided wading boots for the stream, and now that he knew the crossings better, he guided them across. As they hiked, he gave them a graphic description of the events.

The bodies were undisturbed, lying exactly as they'd fallen. He watched while Dinah Schwind calmly went about inspecting the wounds, trying not to move the bodies more than was necessary. She seemed unperturbed by the situation. Schwind was methodical, but it was not, after all, a clinical examination. She was soon done, and they walked back to the mouth of the tunnel.

The colonel gazed out on the broad scene before them. “Who owns all this?” he asked.

“Frank owns up to the center of the stream—I guess that's the usual way, out here. Some of the rest is Bureau of Land Management, some is old mining claims, some is state forest. Frank says an old lady in Great Falls owns a huge chunk. I'll take you over to the Seven Dials, where Paulie is,” he said. “That's owned by Kibosh—Lester Collins. He filed a mining claim, several years back…. I'm not sure of the legal status.”

“I'll find out,” the colonel said. He nodded at Schwind, who made a note. “Where's Collins now?”

“He's there, fixing it up,” Joe said. “Couldn't talk him out of it. I offered to put him up in town, but no. He's agreed to leave the murder scene alone.”

“We'll have to remove Martinelli's body,” the colonel said, as if thinking aloud, “but maybe we can leave these two. I'll have to see if we can't get the ownership rights to the site.” He peered back into the tunnel. “A little well-placed explosive could seal it off. Appropriate tomb for those two, you might say.”

Joe expressed no surprise, no objections.

“What's your take on Collins?” the colonel asked. “Is he going to tell stories?”

“No,” Joe said. The colonel asked for no further explanation. “And neither will Frank.”

“Yes, Frank Oberavich,” the colonel said. “You left him out of your report, Joe. But,” he hastened on, “no harm done, I guess. Well, my dear”—he turned to Schwind—“we've got our work cut out. Better get moving.”

“Don't you want to go over to the Seven Dials?” Joe asked.

“Tomorrow,” the colonel said, “unless you think Mr. Collins is nervous about the body. Schwind can get it removed. We have some people due in …” He looked at his watch. “Probably waiting for us, in Butte.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Joe said.

“Ah. Of course.” The colonel took an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Joe. “Your fee. We didn't discuss it, but I think you'll find that adequate.”

For once, Joe was surprised. He took the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. “I wasn't thinking of that,” he said. “There's a lot of details …”

“All in good time, Joe,” the colonel said. He began to ease gingerly down the path, but within a few steps he felt more at ease and walked casually. He was from this country, after all.

When they had waded the river and were walking back to the house, Schwind jogged ahead, already tapping at her cell phone, shaking it, looking at the sky wonderingly. She was on the job.

The colonel lagged behind with Joe. “You want to know about Sanders,” he said. “We don't know the whole story yet, but it's unfolding. We've found Ostropaki. I guess you didn't hear about that? No, Sanders wouldn't have had any reason to inform you. Anyway, he's helping us put together the pieces.”

“Paulie had met her in Kosovo,” Joe volunteered.

“Martinelli? Did he? Well, that's interesting. What else did you find out? How did he get involved?”

“He was just fishing,” Joe said. He talked about the notebooks.

“I'd love to see them sometime,” Tucker said. “Fly-fishing, eh? You know …” He stopped and looked back at the river. “It's a religion out here.”

As they approached the house, the colonel nodded toward the barking dogs. “What will happen to them?” he asked.

Joe said that Frank had not decided, but he was concerned.

“Dogs that have killed … ,” the colonel said. “It might be a problem. They're no trouble to you, or others? I'd hate to see them destroyed. I'll have a word with Oberavich. They might profit from a training session.”

A
few days later, having exhausted themselves cleaning up Paulie's camp, Joe and Helen strolled up to their building site, just to take in the view. After they had admired the scenery, Helen said, “We should move quickly on this.”

“What do you mean?” Joe said.

“Get the papers signed.”

“That's no problem,” Joe said. “Frank is cool.”

“He's cool,” Helen agreed. “It's Fedima. She's a farmer, you know. She has plans.”

Joe was taken aback. “Already!”

“Oh, yes. She's looking out for her family, you know.”

“Her family! She doesn't have a—You mean Frank?”

“And the kids. There'll be kids, starting in about nine months, I'd guess.”

Joe looked around in dismay. “Kids.”

“Don't worry, Joe, we'll have plenty of room. You should take up fly-fishing, you know.”

“I'd rather wrestle,” he said.