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.
"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.