by Chuck Logan
“You went in my fucking house,” Harry said with a sag in his voice and his shoulders.
Broker interpreted Harry’s fixed stare into the middle distance as resignation, passivity. “Yeah, like I said, it was open. You bought the pizza at six oh four. The clock on your car was stopped at six forty-two. That gives you time to stop off at St. Martin’s on your way home. At least one of your colleagues thinks we should test your hands for nitrates.”
Harry forced a shaky grin. “Lemme guess. My good buddy Lymon. Except after I bought the pizza I pulled into that car wash place in River Heights Shopping Center, gassed up, and put the car through the car wash. Paid for that on my VISA too, so there’ll be a record. Doesn’t give me much time to go around killing people, does it?”
Broker put the truck in gear and drove on to the house. They got out and went inside. Harry picked up the pizza box from the living room, stuffed it in the garbage, and tied the drawstring bag. “Gotta get this out, or I’ll have critters in this heat.”
After he took the garbage outside the door, he walked through the house as if he were looking for something. He went out on the deck and pointed to the deck chairs. “Gotta bring in the cushions; just throw them in the living room through the patio door.”
Broker was leaning over to pick up a chair cushion when he heard Harry pushing around in the stack of magazines and newspapers on the side table next to a chair . . .
And the short hairs on Broker’s neck rose up . . .
In that frenzied slow motion that wraps sudden danger, he watched Harry’s hand come up gripping a stubby, nickel-plated .357 revolver.
Broker tried not to freeze as he processed the information. Gun coming up, pointed at me. His reflexes were engaging so slowly, his hand swinging back, but like underwater, reaching for the Colt under his shirt. How dumb . . .
Harry extended his arm and pulled the trigger. Broker winced at the sound, felt the whiskers of gunpowder brush by his face. A loud metallic clank echoed in back of him. Turning, he heard the lead pig target crash to the top of the picnic table fifty yards away, down in the yard.
“And this little piggy had none,” Harry said as he swung open the cylinder and dumped the empty casings in his hand. Harry grinned. “I knew this thing was out here somewhere. Had you going there, didn’t I?”
Yes, you did.
Harry sorted through the magazines and pulled out a nylon-zippered pistol case, put the revolver and the brass inside, and zipped it up. Then he gathered up the cushions, magazines, the pistol case, and turned toward the patio door. “Course, now it won’t do any good to test me for nitrates, will it?”
Broker, aggravated, shook his head; Harry and his freaky tricks. He was so aggravated that, as he reached to get the last deck chair cushions, he broke one of his basic rules—which was never turn your back on someone who is potentially dangerous . . .
WHAM!
Harry sucker punched him from behind, and Broker’s vision popped to static to black and his knees turned to water.
“She would have been forty-four this March, you fuck,” Harry said.
Broker collapsed forward on the deck.
Chapter Eleven
He’d been struck behind the right ear, and the pain didn’t register until after his chest hit the decking. His breath went out in a whoosh, and he struggled to take in another breath as Harry’s knee slammed between his shoulder blades, driving him down hard.
Now he felt the pain, and he was amazed at the flimsy clichés that formed in his numb mind in the first seconds.
This is it.
This is so dumb.
Finally his mind got traction: Fight . . .
But Harry wasn’t wobbling or slurring his words now. His trained hands efficiently removed Mouse’s cuffs and the pistol from Broker’s belt. Before Broker could react, metal circled his left wrist, and he saw Harry’s hand clamp the other bracelet to a sturdy upright strut in the deck railing. Broker tried to shake off the shock and brace to push himself up with his other hand, but Harry’s knee kept him pinned down. That’s when Harry took the badge off Broker’s belt and snaked the truck keys and the cell phone from his pocket.
The weight moved off his back, and Broker heard Harry’s shoes scrape across the deck into the house. Alone, he attempted to focus and take a breath. After he drew a few deep breaths, he raised his free right hand and felt the lump behind his right ear. His fingers came away clean. No blood. Harry had hit him with an expert stunning blow, probably with the pistol case.
It was like lying underwater in the heat; slowly, awkwardly he flailed to his knees and yanked the handcuffs against the rail. The steel rattled, but the wood did not budge.
Harry returned carrying a fifth of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch in one hand and an ice-cold slice of last night’s pepperoni pizza in the other. He put the bottle down on the deck table and pulled a hammer from the waistband of his jeans. It wasn’t a regular carpenter’s hammer but an ugly, two-headed, short sledge. Broker recognized the type (he’d used one like it landscaping); it was heavy enough to drive pole barn spikes into railroad ties. Harry dropped the hammer on the table. Then he kicked the one remaining deck chair that had a cushion back beyond the radius of Broker’s chained reach and sat down.
He chewed some of the pizza, swallowed, and took a generous slug from the whiskey. Despite his throbbing head, Broker noticed the round white plastic thermometer hung on the wall next to the patio door. The needle was stuck at 102 degrees. How could the guy drink the warm alcohol in this heat? He got his answer almost immediately as he watched control suffuse back into Harry’s face and warmth trickle into his hollow eyes.
Broker didn’t know a whole lot about the pathology of alcoholism, but he suspected that Harry had progressed to a point where unintended consequences could ambush him every time he drank. Broker watched the rage and sorrow slosh back and forth in the wreckage of Harry’s eyes.
I kill you—I kill you not.
Harry studied Broker’s predicament and said, “You’re really miscast in this role, you know.”
Broker rubbed his head and said, “What did you hit me with?”
“The gun case. Didn’t hit you that hard,” Harry said.
“How miscast?” Broker said, sounding casual, but his eyes stayed fixed on that hammer.
“This dead priest isn’t your kind of thing. You’re not an investigator. You’re more the shock troop type. You go on missions after targets. That’s what John did; he sent you on a mission . . .” Harry smiled. “After me.” Harry tapped his forehead. “Old John is a pretty smart motherfucker, I’ll give him that.”
“He sent me to take you to the hospital.”
“Yeah, right.” Harry opened a palm and floated it out to broadly indicate the scene on the deck. “So why ain’t we at the hospital?”
Broker blinked several times, but nothing worked right. Harry blurred in and out; there was a white-water rush in his eardrums.
“I’ll tell you why,” Harry said, “because you and me—we got a dialogue, that’s why.”
Broker’s frustration broke through and showed when he impulsively yanked at the handcuff and only succeeded in hurting his manacled left wrist.
“You remember I asked you earlier, why didn’t you go on to become a lawyer? I mean, you’re way too smart to be a fucking cop. You never answered me,” Harry said.
Broker felt the sun beat down like a spotlight. “You know why,” he said. But his voice was hoarse, and his teeth were clamped tight.
Harry put his hand to his ear, cocked his head. “What-sa matter? Lose your voice? Louder.”
With considerable effort Broker forced himself not to say the words that were on his lips. He had been about to ask Harry what he was going to do with him. No way he’d give the drunken bastard the satisfaction.
“Well?” Harry said.
Broker’s concentration failed, and he actually laughed because he was remembering the first line in his favorite book when he was a child: “Odysseus wa
s never at a loss.” He’d tried to live his personal Odyssey that way. Now here he was chained and helpless, and the subject was all about loss.
He rallied and met Harry’s hot blue eyes and gave the honest answer. “I couldn’t go to law school after what happened to Diane, you know that. I had to try to . . . stop people like that.”
Harry’s face turned killing ugly as he lurched up from the chair. “Stop people?” he said incredulously. “We don’t STOP people. We catch the twisted fucks after they . . .” He lashed the air with clawed fingers. “I tried to stop somebody, and you stopped me.”
Harry reached over and wrapped his hand around the handle of the big hammer. He raised it slowly, and Broker could see the tendons in Harry’s arm strain with the weight. Slowly, Harry pumped the hammer in the air.
Broker had lost the fight inside where his heart broke loose in a panic gallop. He resolved to construct a box around the fear, keep it contained, keep it off his face. His mind assembled the image of his daughter’s face, and the idea was so painful that he thrust it away.
Give him nothing.
Nothing.
So Broker looked beyond Harry and pinned his eyes on the heavy foliage of two giant cottonwoods that grew along the lakeshore. He tried to locate himself in the variety of leaf and shadow, the shapes; mysteries, eternities of green . . .
“Why do you think you’re chained up there like a damn dog, huh?” Harry yelled as the hammer moved in small piston circles, gathering momentum.
Broker couldn’t keep the tree thing going. He turned back to face the hammer. “Fuck you. If you’re going to do something, do it,” he said.
Harry leaned closer. “Feel helpless, maybe? Like she did. One minute she’s safe in her kitchen, the next that sick fuck husband of hers comes through the door; the same sick fuck you and me booked into jail the night before, right? Except now he’s out, and he’s got a hammer. A hammer. You ever really think what that was like?”
Broker felt a tic of nerves pry at his face, and he wanted to tell Harry it was sadness, grief, whatever—but not fear, goddammit.
Not.
But he couldn’t control the deep soak of fear sweat that gushed from his pores. Or the rush of rapid breathing. Out of sheer animal reflex he lashed against the manacle. The indifferent steel chain rattled but held fast. Then, finally, the survivor reptile part of his brain reminded him that Harry was standing too far away to actually hit him with the hammer. Harry was carefully staying beyond Broker’s stronger reach.
“I just want you to answer me one thing,” Harry said.
Then Broker watched Harry’s clenched-teeth rage go slack. He staggered slightly and blinked several times. His nose started to bleed again. He wiped at his nose and said, “If it happened all over, would you stop me again?”
Harry straightened up and dropped the hammer to the deck. “You don’t have to answer me right now. Think about it. I thought about it a lot.” He dropped his chin to his chest, and then he rallied and his head came up and his eyes burned. He raised an accusing finger and jabbed it at Broker. “I could kill you easy.”
Breathing heavily, Harry grimaced and snapped his fingers. “Just like that. And I very well might.”
But Harry made no further move toward the hammer on the deck. They glared at each other for several beats. Then Harry exhaled, took another pull on the bottle, and said, “Okay, listen up. John took my badge and my gun, so, just for kicks, I took your badge and your gun. Plus your keys, so I’m going to leave in your truck. You get your cell phone so we can talk. I got the number off the display.” Harry placed the cell down on the patio table well out of reach.
“Talk?” Broker almost choked on the word.
“Yeah—you and John Eisenhower’ll never catch the Saint in a million fuckin’ years.”
“Harry—I don’t know a lot about this stuff, but you could go into alcohol shock and die. You should get some help.”
“No thanks, I still ain’t got over the last time you helped me.”
Broker, who had struggled so mightily not to show fear, completely submitted to anger. Red-faced, smashing the handcuff against the unyielding redwood strut, he shouted, “Harry, you wacko, think what you’re doing!”
Harry gave a fitful misfiring laugh and said, “Save your strength and, ah, don’t go away.” He left the porch, and Broker strained to hear him moving inside the house. He heard him go down the basement stairs, then after a few minutes trudge back up and go out the front door. The door on Broker’s truck opened, then slammed shut. The front door to the house opened and closed. More sounds inside, up and down the hall.
Then Harry came back out on the deck and said, “Okay, what it is—I’m leaving the hammer so you can knock the rail apart and get out. And I saw the clipboard in the truck, with Mouse’s handwriting on it. Don’t tell Mouse what’s going on between us here, ’cause then I won’t help you.”
Broker decided to give another push. “You’re just loaded, running your mouth. You don’t know shit.”
Harry raised his hand and tapped his forehead. “Ah, psychology. Sorry.” He held up the handcuff key. “Look—I’ll leave this in the mailbox. I’ll call you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you find out if the dead priest deserved it.”
“Deserved it?”
“Yeah, like Dolman. He deserved it.” Harry walked to the patio door, turned, and hefted the hammer. “See, if the Saint’s doing God’s work, as it were, I don’t see any reason to interfere.”
Harry extended the hammer. “This is between you and me, right?”
“You and me,” Broker said.
Harry tossed the hammer. Broker snatched it cleanly with his right hand.
Then Harry said, “Course if the priest is clean and the Saint ain’t doing God’s work, then we’ll . . . see. I ain’t really decided yet.” He reached in his front pocket, eased something out and held it in his fist, and said, “On the other hand . . .” Harry raised his closed hand palm down and opened his fingers.
The bullet clinked on the deck between Broker’s shoes. It was about the length and diameter of his ring finger. Harry turned and disappeared through the patio door.
Broker listened to Harry leave the house, get in the truck, start it, and drive away. His knuckles tightened around the slick hammer haft, dripping sweat. He drew a bead on the piece of wood that held him prisoner and swung.
It took a minute to smash the stout redwood strut from the deck rail. Broker slipped the cuff off the shattered wood, snatched up the bullet, got to his feet, went in the house and down the basement stairs.
Harry had left the second gun safe open. Broker looked in the safe to confirm what he already knew: Harry’s favorite long black rifle was missing.
Chapter Twelve
Broker got out of the cab and paid the driver. Then he took a moment to compose himself, run his hand down his sweat-soaked shirt, tuck in the anger and humiliation. He rubbed the red raw marks on his left wrist, tested the lump behind his ear for blood and found none.
He glanced around. The world looked deceptively unchanged. Except now Harry was seriously out there in it. Broker knew the stories about drunks who blacked out and continued to function like sleepwalkers for days, operating on pure reflexes.
Broker squeezed the thick .338 round in his pocket. Harry had some pretty advanced reflexes. As he walked toward the law enforcement compound, LEC, for short, he considered the unique potential for havoc in Harry, the blacked-out sniper. Well, John would be happy now that Harry was on board, as it were.
He buzzed himself through the security door with his ID card. Then he buzzed into Investigations and looked around for Mouse.
“He had to go to court,” Lymon Greene said. “What do you need?”
“A car. I had some trouble with my truck,” Broker said.
“Sure, let’s go down to the motor pool,” Lymon said. On the way out the door he stopped and took a set of keys from a cabinet and tossed them to Broker.
They walked down
several staircases and some corridors and came out in an underground garage. Lymon led him to a tan unmarked Crown Victoria and said, deadpan, “Harry’s car.”
“Great,” Broker said. He immediately opened the trunk, saw the first-aid kit, some equipment related to processing traffic accidents, a Kevlar vest, and what he was looking for: the .12-gauge Ithaca pump shotgun and two boxes of .00 buckshot.
“So how’d it go with Harry?” Lymon asked.
“Harry’s just fine. Look. You got the church keys?” Lymon nodded that he did. “Okay, I want to see the church and then talk to this witness. So call him and tell him I’m coming,” Broker said.
“Sure. I was just curious. What did John mean, we don’t want to play guns with Harry . . . ?”
Broker stepped closer and placed his hand on Lymon’s shoulder. “Lymon, pal, let’s take a little history test. Who was Carlos Hathcock?”
“Don’t play games, I asked you a straight question.”
“All right. I’ll tell you. Hathcock, like Harry, was a marine sniper. Ninety-two confirmed kills in Vietnam.”
“I don’t really get around to the History Channel that much. Too many Geritol commercials.”
“Harry had forty-five kills. But then Harry was only there half as long as Hathcock,” Broker said.
The jaw muscles maneuvered around under Lymon’s smooth skin, but he decided not to say anything.
Broker said, “Okay, look—you gotta help me here. I’m real limited when it comes to small talk, paperwork, and offices. You follow me?”
A complex coolness descended on Lymon’s handsome face; part inexperience, part age, some implicit racial baggage. Broker, smarting from his encounter with Harry, didn’t give a shit.
“Okay, I get it; I’m in a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Clint Eastwood. I’ve heard about you, you know,” Lymon said.
Broker studied the younger man. “Yeah?”
“Sure. You know how, after nine-eleven, there was all that talk on TV about the CIA not having unsavory types on their payroll who could penetrate terrorist networks. That’s kind of like you, isn’t it?”