Badwater (The Forensic Geology Series)

by Toni Dwiggins

  Walter said, brittle, “C4.”

  “Whoa, that was Roy too. Overkill, if you ask me. Borax mine was set up for Milt—original plan was to send him in, let him find the cask. That irony thing, let him know where he stood. Of course, nothing went exactly as planned, what with y’all and Hector and Scotty getting into it.”

  Walter said, “And the water tank at the Inn?”

  “Pure Roy. Bragged about that one, on the way up here. Damn his eyes, I mighta gone for a swim last night.” Hap gave me a long look, then winked.

  I sat dense as rock.

  “Tried my best to rein him in. Chatted on the phone, now and then. But I was kinda pinned down, keeping watch on y’all. And it turns out being on the team was a real bonus. Got to volunteer tidbits, like the borongate story, to keep Hector’s focus on Roy. Tried to keep your focus on the radiation risks—tell me, did that work? Undermine your confidence, just a wee bit?”

  Yeah that worked, but damned if I would tell him so.

  “My concern was real, Buttercup. Hate to see good guys like you and Walter get crapped up.”

  Walter grunted.

  “Must admit, though, I mostly hated the idea of y’all finding this place before CTC agreed to pay.”

  I sat up straight. “So it is about money?”

  “Ain’t it always?” He nodded at the computer. “Streaming live to CTC.”

  “The extortion email? That was you?”

  “Was the both of us.” Hap sighed. “Thing is, Roy wanted to settle his grudge along with his payday and I guess that made him a mite unstable. Sure turned on me. Anyway, like I told you, I end up trussed like a turkey, he goes Rambo and collects himself the FBI shooter.” Hap unslung Dearing’s subgun. “Not the way I envisioned getting here but all’s well that ends well.”

  I said, “Why didn’t he kill you?”

  “Two hostages were better than one.”

  “Where’s Milt?”

  “Down some tunnel. Like I told you.”

  “Why should we believe anything you tell us?”

  He shrugged. “You can pick it apart afterward, for inconsistencies.”

  My heart turned over. Afterward?

  “Caught that future tense, did you?”

  “Then you’re not going to...”

  “Kill you? What if the cavalry comes?” He gave a slight smile. “Two hostages are better than none.” He raised the subgun. “Now get down and kiss the ground.”

  I held onto the thought we’re of value as we floundered down. With my cheek to the rock, I watched as Hap put aside his weapons. He took the keyring out of his pocket. He moved to the hazmat crate and I watched, sick, as he began to dress out.

  I said, “What about us?”

  He put on booties and gloves and taped himself into the suit. He hunched into the SCBA harness and cinched the waist belt. He hooked a large pouch to the belt. He clipped a multi-tool knife to his keyring, and clipped the keyring to the belt with a big carabiner. He considered the two subguns. He selected Oliver’s, snapping on Dearing’s magazine to double his ammo supply. He used a carabiner to attach the subgun sling to his right shoulder strap. He gave himself a little shake; subgun and belt pouch and keyring held fast. He muttered “effing Christmas tree.” He picked up the last item of equipment—the facepiece. He put it on, adjusted the head straps, then pushed it up to rest on top of his head, electrifying his hair.

  He looked nothing like a Christmas tree.

  He swung his attention to me. “About you? Take care. Don’t end up getting zapped like Grandma.”

  43

  We stood at the lip of the winze.

  Hap untied Walter. “Down you go, wait at the bottom. Keep in mind, one hostage’ll do.”

  Walter said, “You’ll have two.”

  When Walter was down, Hap untied me and we descended together. Hap first, then me, acutely aware of the marksman on the ladder below me. I recalled my first winze descent and the fear of rotting wood, a fear that now seemed quaint. I heard the thud of boots on the ground and then I, too, hit bottom.

  We ran the re-tying drill, with true square knots. The tingling started up again in my hands. And then Hap set his facepiece and brought up his hood and connected the regulator hose, and I was no longer tingling, I was numb.

  I moved numbly in the direction Hap pointed, following Walter, following a narrow tunnel which took a right turn and fed into the widest tunnel yet. The final tunnel, I figured, because this was clearly the main haulage level. Drop chutes stuck out from the walls at regular intervals, the rail tracks here were unbroken, and three rusting ore carts were parked downtunnel. Daylight beckoned at the end but my heart no longer lifted at that sight. When we exited, it was going to be Hap’s way.

  The subgun nuzzled my ribs and I picked up my pace.

  I oriented myself. I’d become a cave creature with underground senses and I judged this tunnel to be beneath the level-two tunnel with the gods-eye view. So I judged which drop chute ahead was cause for worry—the chute midway. Hap confirmed my judgement when he stopped us there, stood us against the far wall, and tapped a wired keypad that was mounted on the chute gate. The keypad lit up, glowing red.

  I pressed into the rock, putting another inch between me and the exposed shaft.

  A crude metal hopper was fitted inside the shaft, bolted to the walls, braced with two-by-fours, standing off the ground on metal legs. A black ribbed hose was attached at the bottom. Hap grabbed the hose and began to play it out. “You want to move now.”

  That we did.

  I glanced back once, to see fat coils springing free.

  By the time we reached the ore carts I was thinking, just finish it. Set up your demonstration, if that’s what this is. Stream it live with your laptop cameras. Strike your bargain with Soliano or CTC or whoever in hell will pay your price and if Walter and I survive this to bear witness, then I’ll feel surprise.

  Hap stopped us, disconnecting his regulator hose and pushing up his facepiece. That surprised me. That engendered a spasm of hope, that the health physicist was now willing to share our air.

  “Walter,” Hap said, “I need your counsel.”

  That floored me.

  Walter’s eyebrows lifted.

  Hap pointed to the last ore cart.

  Walter moved to have a look.

  I took note of the hose clamp bolted to the cart’s rim. I took note of the black ribbed hose that Hap had snaked from the hopper in the shaft to where we now stood. I took note of the red cord wrapped around the cart’s brake handle. I figured I understood. This was the demonstration that required Walter’s counsel. Fill the cart and threaten to send it into the world. The cart was rusted bloody red. I tried to recall the shielding properties of iron. The cart was chest high, maybe three feet wide and a good four long. I tried to work out the volume, how many cubic feet of resin beads it would hold. Walter swore. I stopped doing the math. Walter turned to Hap, face set. “You know my counsel.”

  I came up beside Walter and looked in the cart. My heart fell. Surprises within surprises, sucking me down. I thought I might fall in.

  Hap joined us. “You’ve been asking. Here’s the man himself.”

  Milt Ballinger was stretched on the floor of the cart, bound and gagged with duct tape. Ankles crossed, wrists in prayer, mouth sealed, eyes squeezed shut against my headlamp. I’d seen this handiwork before. “Roy did this?”

  “I did this, while Roy held a gun on me. But that’s all in the past. Roy’s not here. Milt’s here.” Hap leaned in the cart and ripped the tape off Milt’s mouth. “Damn, I know that hurts, Milt. Buttercup did the same to me.”

  Milt whimpered.

  I said, “Stop it, Hap.”

  “Soon as we run a little test.” Hap held his hand so that our lights shined his signet ring with its desert scene, so that Milt could fully see it. “Milt, you figures out what the ring means, you gets to wake up tomorrow.”

  Milt croaked, “Roy’s ring, right?”


  “Somebody give him a hint.”

  Walter said, “This is sadism, Hap. We don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  Milt’s eyes found mine but I had no hints, I’d fail Hap’s test, we were all going to forfeit to this freak out of hell. Milt blinked back tears. I dredged up all I had, for Walter’s enlightenment as well as Milt’s. Neither had been there at the lawn table this morning when Pria identified the drawing on the ring. “It’s a race. Badwater to Whitney. Maybe a play on words.” They nearly choked me. “Bad. Water.”

  Milt sucked in air. “It’s the leak? At the dump?” He turned from me to Hap, who waited soberly. “And Roy got mad...” He cleared his throat. “Okay then, so Roy ran the race and...”

  “Not Roy,” Hap cut in. “Sheila Cook ran the race. Her ring.”

  I gaped. Not Roy’s ring, not Hap’s ring. Roy’s sister’s ring.

  “She got it for participating but she DNF’d.” Hap glanced at me. “Sorry Cassie, I know how you hate those cryptic initials. Did...not...finish. Collapsed in a heap, to be precise. First clue she’d won the cancer lottery. About a year later she DNF’d for real. Didn’t get a ring for that.”

  Walter said, “Dear God.”

  “God doesn’t give a fig, Walter. So give Milt the clue. The one about helping. Somebody? Test isn’t optional.”

  I said, faint, “You can’t get good help.”

  Hap beamed at Milt. “That’s you. Youse is the star of the show.”

  Milt was crying now.

  “Y’all know why?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Sheesh.” Hap sighed. “Weren’t you listening down at the borax mine? Nobody listens. Milt’s the star because of Sheila.”

  Milt shook his head.

  “No? Let me jog your memory. We were discussing revenge?”

  Walter snapped, “Why now?”

  Hap pointed at me. “You remember, Buttercup. How revenge is like a runaway chain reaction?”

  I remembered. “But Roy’s dead.”

  “Well I know that. I saw him get shot.”

  “Then why avenge his sister?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You said it’s because of Sheila.”

  “It is.”

  In all its horror, the truth dawned on me.

  “Not Roy’s sister.” Hap reached down and hooked Milt under the armpit and hoisted him to his feet, a brutal one-handed yank. “Mine.”

  44

  It seemed to have grown darker. Our headlamps were dying. Faces were dimming. My senses were going. Arms numb, hands dead. Ears plugged. I heard Milt’s mewling like he was far away, buried. I heard Walter’s voice like he was talking through dirt. Words filtered up. Right. Wrong. Justice. Prison.

  Hap watched Walter, intent. No cartoon eyes. No wise-up smile.

  I cast about in my woolly mind for pleas, rebuttals, anything—because for those heartbreaking minutes it really did seem that Hap wanted to listen.

  But in the end he did not take Walter’s counsel.

  ~

  It was not going to be ALARA.

  Hap opened his belt pouch and brought out a handheld remote. He punched the buttons and the dusty light bulbs overhead flickered on. He threaded the ribbed hose through the clamp so that its mouth fed down into the cart. Milt’s eyes followed the hose from the cart back uptunnel to the shaft. He appeared to understand. His eyes—animal-in-quicksand eyes—flicked in desperation to Hap. “New-hire form said she’s Roy’s sister.”

  “Forms can be altered.”

  “Then no way I’d know she’s yours.”

  “That your philosophy, Milt? Ignorance? Sure ticked off Roy.”

  “But if she’s your sister ...” Milt cast about. “Why’d Roy care?”

  “Roy was already unhappy with you, Milt, about that cesium-source prank. Thought you were covering up so nobody’d be arrested—because that would shine the spotlight on your management history.”

  Milt’s scalp leaked sweat.

  “Since we’re clearing things up, Milt, here’s another FYI—I’m the one who planted that source under Roy’s pillow. Needed a recruit. Somebody who’d share my outrage against you. By gum, Roy did. Real helpful, until he went wacko.” Hap sighed. “Murphy’s Law.”

  I blurted, “That’s why Roy turned against you? The prank?”

  “Nope—he never found out. Like I told you earlier, he turned against me when I joined up with y’all, thinking I might sell him out. And then he got touchy about you, Cassie. Thought I was ‘courting’ you. Said I wasn’t worthy.”

  I went sick. Roy’s moist eyes. Roy’s yearning smile.

  “Hap,” Milt said, “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Been carrying my sister’s ring for two years, Milt. Always in my pocket, hidden away. It was my own private connection to Sheila. My own private declaration of war against you.” Hap fingered the ring. “Time to go public.”

  “But Sheila wasn’t my fault.”

  Hap unwound the red cord from the brake handle.

  “Wait,” Walter said.

  Hap cocked his head.

  “You told us it’s about money,” Walter said. “You dump the beads now, you lose your bargaining chips.”

  “Bargaining’s over. Deadline’s come and gone.”

  I said, “Try them again.”

  Hap smiled. “They’re still gonna pay. Spotlight’s going to shine real bright on CTC’s indulgence of Mister Radwaste. Money would’ve been icing on the cake, but I’m here for the cake.” He gave Milt a long look.

  Milt whispered, “Please.”

  “We’re gonna mosey on out now, Milt. My guests ain’t wearing protective clothing.” Hap turned his back, urging Walter and me forward with the subgun. We set off downtunnel. Behind us, the screaming started. At the tunnel mouth we hugged the wall while Hap unlocked the gate. He swung it wide and we emerged into the day as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  It was raining again.

  Hap turned us to face back into the tunnel. We got a raw tunnel vision of the frantic figure in the rusting red cart. Hap worked the remote. I imagined I saw the keypad on the shaft turn from red to green. I imagined the chute gate opening, allowing the load in the shaft to flow down into the hopper, and thence into the black ribbed hose.

  And then I did not have to imagine. I saw the hose ribs expand to accommodate the bulge, like dinner passing through a snake. I saw the spew of resins begin, into the cart. Milt tried to jackknife over the edge but he had no leverage. His attention shifted downward, toward his feet. I imaged they were already covered. He cried out. Animal in quicksand. Hap yanked the red cord and I saw the brake handle move, and the cart wheels began to roll, and my fears switched from Milt’s fate back to our own.

  Hap said, “Let’s get out of the way.”

  He herded us along the narrow ledge that hugged the hillside to a wide spot, like a roadside turnout. We watched from there.

  The fickle rain had stopped. Sun shafted through black clouds.

  The ore cart nosed out of the tunnel, trailing the uncoiling hose. Milt rode like a flagpole in front. Pinned by the rising tide of beads, immobile. Hap began to whistle—heigh-ho heigh-ho—but he only whistled one bar before he let it die. The cart rolled onto the elevated track that bridged the steep drop-off. It came to a stop against wood blocks bolted to the rails. The front wheels hit a lever that pulled the pin on the dumping mechanism, and the side gate opened to release its load. The load spilled into the ore chute, which angled down to the ore-processing mill below. But this load was resin beads, not ore. Milt slowly lost his footing and joined the flow of beads and, like a log at a waterfall, he went over the side and down the chute, disappearing into the mill. And still the beads flowed. We watched for agonizing minutes while the hose spewed beads into the cart and the cart dumped beads into the chute, down into the mill. And when the flow turned to a trickle and then to a stop, I guessed the stockpile in the shaft had been emptied. And the mill down below u
s was full.

  Hap said, “Down we go.”

  We started down the switchbacked path we had climbed hours ago with Oliver and Dearing. We crept, boots sticking in the fast-drying mud. But it was not the poor footing that unnerved me—it was the mill, slumping halfway down the hillside like its old frame could not contain its new load. We descended to the final switchback before our trail ended below, in the valley. I turned to look across the fall line to the butt end of the mill. It seemed about to burst.

  If it burst, the beads would run free down the mountainside.

  Hap opened his belt bag and withdrew a putty disk with a wired metal stub at its center. He brought out a spool of red-sheathed wire. He used the multi-tool knife on his belt to strip the insulation off the end and then he spliced it to the stub wires. He said “wait here” and then in afterthought, “you move, I shoot.” He caught me staring at the facepiece on top of his head. “Mind’s somewhere else.” His eyes were turned inward, deep-diving cavepool eyes. He pulled down the mask, connected the regulator, raised the hood. He started off, traversing the fall line toward the mill.

  He turned to look at us once, unclipping the subgun from his shoulder harness, holding it at the ready.

  I looked beyond him—where Walter was looking—to the mine camp with its tumbledown shacks, and across the valley to the canyon wall that rose to the far ridge where we had come in. I asked, “What’s the range of an MP-five?”

  “Maybe a football field.” Walter shrugged, at the impossibility of reaching the end zone.

  I focused on the near view. Hap had reached the mill. He hurried, shouldering the gun sling, slapping the putty against the mill’s butt-end, and then he retraced his steps, unrolling wire from his belt bag. By the time he reached us he had the wired detonator in hand. It looked like a garage door opener. He depressed the button. There was a concussive jolt from the mill, and then it yawned open.