Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (13 page)

“I could go for a drink,” Rudy
says.

“We’ll pick up some beer later too,
Rudy,” I say.

He smirks like he only half
believes me. Pays to be cynical in a place where you can’t just make a pit stop
at the corner 7Eleven.

Then I say, “Tony, how long will it
take to get to Dumkibas?”

“Depending on traffic getting out
of Kathmandu, about three hours. Maybe a little more, or a little less.”

“We’ll pick up something to eat
there as well. Let’s get moving.”

“Remind me not to hire you as my
travel guide, Chase,” Tony says.

“This ain’t a luxury cruise.”

“It ain’t no picnic neither,” he
says, hopping into the Escape, firing up the engine.

Wishing for the onset of darkness.

Because the road to Dumkibas is
anything but serene. It’s a mountainous journey, the gravel road is narrow and
slick from recent rains. As we drive further into the wilderness, we’re forced
to pass black smoke-spitting buses painted in colorful, almost psychedelic
patterns. Passing them wouldn’t be so bad if the roads weren’t so narrow, the
visibility more than a few feet at most. Pulling out into the lane that supports
oncoming traffic, all you can do is hold your breath and pray another bus or
truck isn’t presently coming at you from the opposite direction.

We drive through small towns made
up of little more than shanties of scrap wood and tin. The structures are built
onto the mountainside (as opposed to into it) with timbers and logs as stilt-like
supports. They are connected to the nearest settlement on the opposite side of
the deep, dark valley, by means of long rope or cable bridges. The further we
drive away from the city and into the heart of Nepal’s wilderness, the more
strongly we get a sense of how easy it would be to disappear out here. There
are no telephone poles, no electrical wires running alongside the roads, only
the occasional satellite dish mounted to a tin-roofed shack or a cell tower
hastily constructed beside a pile of used tires.

…No wonder Elizabeth disappeared
so easily…

It’s fully dark when we make it to
the perimeter of the Chitwan Forest. Tony drives the mostly flat, dirt road for
another twenty or so minutes until we come to the town of Dumkibas, its
scattering of dull generator-powered lights illuminating the thick night.
Driving slowly into town, we spot a general store constructed of the same tin
and scrap wood we’ve become so accustomed to on the way in. He pulls up out
front.

“What’s your orders, kid…I mean,
Mr. Baker?”

“Been a long time since you asked
me that question, Tone.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
Making a smirk. “Sentimentality is for pussies.”

To our left sits another ramshackle
building with a wood sign mounted above the door. It says simply
BAR
in
big black letters lit up by a single bare light bulb dangling by an exposed
wire from the porch ceiling. There are a couple of dudes hanging out on the
porch. They’re drinking beer out of bottles. One of them is mid-range height
and wiry with a scraggly beard, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and a cowboy
hat covering his cranium. He’s also wearing a well-worn hunting vest over a
black T-shirt that bears the Led Zeppelin logo from the 1970s.

The second guy is shorter, a bit
stockier. He’s wearing a bush jacket, just like mine. Only difference is, it’s
somewhat ratty and even from across the road I can make out the dried blood
stains that splotch it. The jacket is unbuttoned, exposing the six-gun he’s wearing
at his hip. His baseball cap is pulled down close to his eyes. It sports the
logo of the New York Yankees. I love the Yankees. But I’m not so sure he’s the
lovable type.

I turn around in the shotgun seat
to see that Rudy is dying for a drink. Apparently, happy hour has come and
gone. I can take a hint. Chase the perceptive.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,”
I say. “Rudy, you look like you’re about to pass out. Go grab a beer and a shot,
but make it snappy. It’s already dark and I gotta pay somebody extra to take us
into those woods under the cover of darkness.” Shifting my focus to my
employer. “Anjali, you come with us. Take care of the food and water we’ll need
for upwards of twenty-four hours including something for Elizabeth and your son
if and when we finally steal them away.” Now Tony. “Tone, you and I will try to
gather up some tents, sleeping bags, flashlights, and anything else we need for
the jungle.”

Tony opens the door, steps out.

Rudy opens the back door. Without a
word, he’s on his way across the dirt road to the bar, the two dudes on the
porch watching him the entire way.

Turns out the general store is the
last stop for those traveling the road from civilization into the wild. While Anjali
gathers enough freeze-dried food for all of us, Tony and I manage to secure
three, two-person tents, sleeping bags, LED flashlights, insect repellent, malaria
suppositories, and even a couple of pints of whiskey for Rudy.

The clerk behind the counter, a
young Nepalese man with black hair that runs the length of a black and green
T-shirt and bears the long-haired likeness of the late Kurt Cobain, also hooks
us up with a team of elephants and two out-of-work Sherpas who will take us
into the forest within the hour. Anjali finances the entire operation with her
American Express.

…Don’t leave home without it…

“Elephants,” Anjali says, sighing.
“My heart breaks for the poor mistreated animals. Why don’t we drive? We have a
four-wheel-drive vehicle, don’t we?”

“First of all,” Tony says, “there’s
no roads where we’re going. Second, the jungle is thick and the only practical
way to get around, and do so quickly, is by elephant.” He issues a satisfied
smile. “Just like Hannibal crossing the Pyrenees,” he adds.

But Anjali isn’t in a laughing
mood. She’s getting physically closer to her son. The closer we come, the more
nervous she seems. It’s as if the protective barrier she’s managed to construct
between her and her emotions over the past many weeks is disintegrating with
every step closer to our goal.

Within minutes, we’re back outside,
the team of elephants being loaded with our gear. We have everything we need to
enter the jungle and locate Elizabeth and Rajesh.

Everything but Rudy that is.

That’s when the still of the night
is shattered by gunshots.

…Heart be still…

“Tony,” I say, “stay with Anjali
and the equipment.”

I run across the street to the bar.
Opening the door, I see that Rudy is down on the wood floor, the stocky man
with the bush jacket and New York Yankees baseball cap standing over him, his
right booted foot pressed down flat on the Brit’s back, his six-shooter in
hand.

“What the hell’s going on?” I say,
as I focus on a bartender who’s standing behind the bar, a baseball bat gripped
in both his hands.

“That your friend?” says the big,
white-aproned barkeep. “Best get him out of here now before he leaves in a pine
box.”

There’s a scattering of disinterested
drinkers seated at the bar and three or four empty tables. Apparently, violent
contact is as common in this watering hole as stale beer and sweat. The table
closest to Rudy has playing cards set out on them. Some of the cards have been
strewn onto the floor.

Stocky Baseball Cap turns to face
me. As does his partner, the thinner one with the cowboy hat.

“Seems your Union Jack ass-wiping
partner doesn’t know the rules when it comes to playing a decent game of cards,
mate,” he says through a thick Australian outback drawl.

…Two big brawls over a simple
game of cards in twenty-four hours…my luck—she’s not running so good…

I feel the weight of the .45
against my left ribcage. Getting to it quickly might be a challenge what with
Stocky Bush Jacket already gripping his piece. Eyeing Tall Cowboy Hat, I see
him reaching around his back.

“Easy, Crocodile Dundee,” I say.
“I’m sure we can figure a way out of this mess without having to shoot our way
out.”

“I didn’t cheat, Chase,” Rudy says
from down on the floor. “It was a simple game of twenty-one.”

“Your pal was dealing,” Stocky Bush
Jacket says. “Which gave him the right to switch the decks.”

“I didn’t just switch them, Chase,”
Rudy insists, his voice muffled and painful. “I just thought a nice fresh deck
would be better.”

My eyes on Tall Cowboy Hat. “My
apologies on behalf of my friend. I’m sure he’ll be happy to refund any cash he
took off of you.”

“Chase, I won that money fair and
square,” Rudy protests. “Well, mostly anyway.”

Tall Cowboy Hat is about to make
this a two gun against one gun, gunfight. I need to think quick.

“Jeepers crow, fellas,” I add,
“What, no one wants a refund?”

“Too late for that, Mate,” insists
Stocky Bush Jacket. “We’ll teach the Brit a lesson in manners, and then teach
you some more manners, and then we’ll be happy to take our pretty green back with
plenty of fucking interest.”

Beside me, on my right-hand side,
an empty wooden chair. Reaching out, I grab hold of it, toss it at Tall Cowboy
Hat. In the split second he’s forced to raise up his hands to deflect the chair,
I reach into my bush jacket, grab the .45.

“Drop the gun,” I say directly to
Stocky Bush Jacket while planting a bead on Tall Cowboy Hat. “Do it, or your
boyfriend gets a one-way ticket to nirvana. You do believe in nirvana, don’t
you fellas? Heaven for good people? Hell for bad?”

“You got a way with words, Chase,”
Rudy says. “Must be the writer in you.”

“Rudy. Don’t talk. Talk later.
Okay?”

“Righto, Chase,” he says.

Stocky Baseball Cap isn’t budging.
He’s slowly raising his revolver, his finger on the trigger, his thumb cocking
back the hammer.

I thumb back the hammer on the .45.

“You’d better think about what
you’re doing, pal,” I say. “I won’t hesitate to air your buddy out.”

Even from a distance of fifteen
feet, I can see the beads of sweat forming on Tall Cowboy Hat’s forehead. When
I fire off a round that grazes his shoulder, he drops to his knees, screams.

“Drop your fuckin’ gun, Tavis!” the
now injured scraggly haired man insists. “The American means business.”

“What’ll it be, Tavis?” I say. “You
gonna listen to your boyfriend, or what?”

Tavis eyes his partner down on his
knees.

“Get up, Brucey,” he says. “You’re
embarrassing us.”

Brucey brings his fingers to his
shoulder, touches his wound.

“I’ve been shot. I’m fuckin’
bleedin’. I’m gonna die.”

“Not soon enough you idiot,” Tavis
says.

“Now,” I say. “Brucey can avoid
further embarrassment, and certainly further bullets if you take your foot off
of my friend and let him up.”

“Do it Tavis,” Brucey screams. “I
mean it, man. It’s not worth both of us buying it in this hell hole of a town.”

Tavis lowers his gun, slips his
foot off of Rudy.

Rudy bounds up onto his feet,
faster than I thought the short, overweight, middle-aged bartender capable of
doing. He sprints to me, presses himself against me like I’m his long lost dad.

“Walk backward,” I say under my
breath. “When we come to the door, slip on out.”

It’s exactly what we do, back-step
our way to the door.

“Tavis, Brucey,” I say, opening the
door, allowing Rudy to slip on out, “It’s been a pleasure. Maybe next time we
can cook some shrimp on the
barbie
.”

“Fuck you very much,” Tavis says.
“I ain’t done with you, Mate.”

I slip out the door, slamming it
shut behind me.

***

Five minutes later we’ve replayed the evening’s barroom
adventure for the entire crew.

“Whad’d I tell you about getting
into fights over silly card games, Rudy?” Tony says, shoving a chunk of fresh
chewing tobacco into his cheek. He’s clearly upset at his pudgy little friend.
“Those two Aussies aren’t just a couple of vacationers. They’re poachers who’ll
shoot you dead, cut up your little puff ball body, and feed ya to the tigers in
the forest.”

Rudy cocks his head over his shoulder
like a little boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar full of booze.

“Well, it’s all about how you play
the game,” he says, smiling slyly. “And you know what I always say: Rudy can’t
fail.” He sings “Rudy can’t fail” like Joe Strummer from The Clash.

We gather around the back of the
general store where the elephants are waiting. Four elephants to act as rides
and two more for storage. The two small, leather-skinned Sherpas will walk
ahead of us.

“Tony,” I say, “what about the
Ford? The getaway vehicle? I think I put those Aussies in their place for now,
but I don’t trust them not to do some damage to our only means of transport out
of this place.”