Michael Palmer - Fatal

"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 confident 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 amp;C was about to be made razor sharp.