The time was 1:52 a.m. When Balenger returned to Lander, the dashboard clock showed 2:48. Exhausted, he checked into a motel, lay on the covers of the bed, and might even have slept a little. The motel’s desk clerk phoned to wake him at eight as requested. He showered and used a razor and toothbrush that he’d bought from the truck stop the night before. He almost didn’t take the time to clean up, but he remembered an old movie, The Hustler, in which Paul Newman plays an epic pool game with Jackie Gleason. Newman’s character doesn’t shave and looks increasingly disheveled while Gleason washes his hands and face, gets his jacket brushed, and puts a fresh flower in his jacket’s lapel. Gleason wins.
Balenger drove to a McDonalds and got take-out orange juice, coffee, hash browns, and two Egg McMuffins. He ate them in his car while waiting for the sporting-goods store to open, as its sign promised, at nine.
The store sold firearms. He walked along a counter on the left and paused at the semiautomatic rifles.
“Anything special you’re looking for?” The clerk was hefty, wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a belt buckle shaped like a saddle.
“Got any Bushmasters.” Balenger referred to a civilian version of the M-16 he’d carried in Iraq.
“Fresh out.”
“Let me look at that Ruger Mini-14.”
“The ranch gun? Sure.”
The clerk took it from a group of rifles in a vertical rack. He pulled out its magazine and tugged back its bolt, showing Balenger that it was empty.
Balenger inspected the weapon. As its name implied, it was a cut-down version of the military’s M-14, the precursor to the M-16. But unlike the harsh, distinctly military look of most assault rifles, the Mini-14’s blue steel and wooden stock made it resemble a standard hunting rifle. Indeed, its comparatively benign appearance caused it to be exempted from a 1994–2004 law that made it illegal to sell semiautomatic assault weapons in the United States, even though the Mini-14 fired the same .223 caliber and could deliver as much firepower as the civilian version of the M-16. When Balenger was in law enforcement, he’d known police officers who carried Mini-14s in their cars, choosing that model because it was compact.
“Good for varmint hunting,” the clerk said.
“Got any Winchester 55-grain Ballistic Silvertips?”
“Long-range accurate. Nice fragmentation. You know your ammo. How many boxes?”
Balenger knew there were twenty rounds per box. “Ten.”
“You must have a lot of varmints.”
“New rifle. Need to sight it in. Better make it fifteen.”
“All it comes with is that five-round magazine,” the clerk said apologetically.
“Got any for twenty rounds?”
“A couple.”
“I’ll take them. How about a red-dot sight?”
“This Bushnell HOLOsight.”
Balenger knew that the battery-powered sight used holographic technology to impose a red dot over its target. But the dot wasn’t projected in the manner of a laser beam, thus giving away the shooter’s position. Rather, the dot was projected only within the sight. Lining it up with the target was remarkably easy, virtually assuring an accurate shot. “You’ll attach it for me? Good. I’ll take that Emerson CQC-7 knife. A sling for the rifle. A knapsack. Tan camping boots and clothes. A first-aid kit. A canteen. Rain gear. Gloves. Wool socks. A flashlight. That wide-brimmed tan hat. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. A box of energy bars. And binoculars that convert to night vision.”
“It’s nice to have a customer who knows what he wants.”
Balenger gave him a credit card.
“Sign here for the ammo,” the clerk said.
Recalling his Ranger training, Balenger added, “I also need a compass and a topographic map of the eastern Wind River Range.”
“Which section?”
Balenger went to a map on the wall and pointed.
He put his purchases in the back of the Jeep, then drove to a truck stop on Highway 287, where he filled the canteen and bought a case of water along with a packet of Kleenex. The latter was a substitute for something he’d forgotten in the sporting-goods store and was as crucial as the water. He also bought a roll of duct tape from a shelf next to radiator hoses.
Back in the Jeep, he studied the topographic map. The valley wasn’t difficult to locate. As Professor Graham had told him, it was the only valley in the area that had a lake. Most of the roads he’d checked the previous night were also indicated on the map, but not the one where he’d seen the unexplained tire tracks, even though he believed that road did lead to the valley, just as he believed that Karen Bailey was in the vehicle that made the tracks. She presumably went to meet her brother. But if Balenger followed that road, the Game Master… Why don’t I want to call him Jonathan Creed? Balenger wondered… the Game Master was virtually certain to notice him. Virtually certain. The words struck Balenger as morbidly apt. The Game Master’s world was virtual. Studying the map, he noticed that a little farther north, a road ran in the general direction of the valley but then stopped where the foothills blocked the way.
He drove.
For the first time since flying from Teterboro, he activated the BlackBerry. Almost immediately, it rang. He picked it up.
“You exposed a flaw in the game,” the deep voice said. “Because I’m testing the prototype, I suppose I ought to be grateful.”
Again, Balenger wanted to shout in rage, but he managed to resist the temptation. To hide his emotions, he said nothing.
“You can’t be my avatar if I can’t follow your progress at all times,” the Game Master said.
“If you identified with me, you’d give Amanda back.”
“Tell me where you are. Maybe you’re going in the wrong direction.”
“I doubt it. Think positively. The game just reached a new level.”
“How?”
“You’re a player now instead of an observer. Try to anticipate my moves.”
“Do you ever watch Survivor?”
“All I watch is the History Channel.”
“Attractive people from different backgrounds are brought together in a hostile environment — a jungle, for example.”
Balenger stared ahead, impatient for the side road to come into view.
“The program attempts to create the illusion that the group is marooned, forced to survive by whatever means possible,” the Game Master continued. “But any thoughtful viewer sees through the illusion by realizing that the cameras, most of them handheld, need to be controlled by operators and that the hidden microphones are linked to audio technicians, and that behind the scenes there are crew members and producers, who aren’t in danger even though the contestants are supposedly struggling to survive.”
A police car went past. For a moment, Balenger was tempted to stop the cruiser and ask for help, but he kept remembering the BlackBerry image of the woman exploding in a red mist. Even if the police could somehow invade the valley without revealing their presence, it didn’t seem possible that they could get organized by midnight, and Balenger had no doubt that if he didn’t save Amanda by midnight, she would die.
“What if a show like Survivor had a fatal accident?” the Game Master asked. “What if, despite every precaution, someone fell off a waterfall, for example, and died? Would the producers cut the accident from the broadcast? Would they say, ”This is a tragedy, and we can’t let you see it?“ Or would they say, ”We need to include the accident to pay tribute to the brave contestant who risked his life for the program?“ Including it would prove that the show is indeed dangerous. Thereafter, viewers would tune in with the understanding that lethal accidents might occur at any time. People wouldn’t miss an episode.”