by Chuck Logan
“Okay,” Anne said. Her eyes rolled back, placing a memory.
“It’s been a while, though,” Broker said, practicing small talk while he checked Drew out. The artist appeared totally relaxed and untroubled by any marital discord Janey had alleged. However, Broker did notice that, in his presence, Drew and Annie adjusted their gaze to avoid looking directly into each other’s eyes.
“Janey tells me you married a soldier,” Drew said with a sly smile.
“An Amazon hoplite, actually,” Broker said.
“Hoplite. Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day,” Annie said.
Drew smiled, warming to the repartee. “They burned off their breasts, didn’t they?”
“The right breast. So it wouldn’t get in the way drawing a bow,” Annie said.
“Now I think they just burn off men’s balls,” Broker said, smiling pleasantly.
“Always the mellow fellow,” Drew said. “So are you still on the job?”
“I’m filling in as a deputy for John Eisenhower, just for a few days,” Broker said.
Drew nodded. “Sure. I know John. Are you, ah, working now?” He nodded toward Annie.
“No, we have an acquaintance in common. That’s all,” Annie said.
“Well, I gotta go in and set up this program,” Drew said.
“He has this afternoon reading group for third graders,” Anne said.
“Watch yourself, Annie. Broker worked deep undercover; he’s a sneaky sort of guy,” Drew said amiably.
“I’ll be careful,” Annie said.
“See ya,” Broker said.
Drew waved good-bye and went in the library. When he was gone, Annie said, “Do you know his books?”
Broker nodded. “He draws these friendly monsters like Sendak, but in brighter colors. I read a couple to my daughter.”
“He’s very good,” Annie said.
“Right. Look, Annie: keep in touch about Harry. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
Broker thanked Annie, accompanied her out to the street, and then they went separate ways. Briefly, he watched her walk down a line of parked cars and wondered who was worse for her, Harry or Drew. Then Broker turned away and went in search of his truck.
Not sure about the whereabouts of Merril Lane, he opened the glove compartment on a hunch and found a Washington County road map. He also found a black billed cap with a motto stitched in yellow across the crown: I Am Not Like the Others. And below, in smaller letters: 3rd Mar Div Force Recon. Broker consulted the map, and seeing that he was headed into the country—maybe for a walk in the sun—he put Harry’s hat on his head.
Broker drove northwest of town toward White Bear Lake into rolling countryside. He passed acres of long, white slat fences and horse barns. Overgrown gravel driveways wandered into the brush with signs that said things like Excellent Development Site. He found the intersection of Manning and Merril and saw only rolling empty fields. Probably the farmers had them in the land bank. In the vicinity of, the message said. He continued down Merril, topped a slight hill, and feathered the brakes. In the distance an American flag tossed in a hot gust of breeze.
Nothing unusual there; more and more flags had popped up in the countryside since 9/11, flying from mailboxes or fence posts. This flag, however, was attached to a black Ford Ranger.
The truck was parked way out in a weedy pasture that was gated and fenced with barbed wire.
A tractor path meandered into the field, but the gate was padlocked. So Broker got out and climbed over the gate. After a few minutes walking through the knee-deep grass and thistles, and avoiding numerous cow pies, he was thankful for the hat because he had to walk toward the west into the lowering sun. As he crossed the field he saw that the truck had been parked with the hood facing east, the direction he was walking in from.
Clearly, this was Harry’s idea of a joke. He took out his cell phone and held it at the ready.
About one hundred yards from the truck, he caught a powerful draft of manure fermenting in the sun. He saw a pile of it dumped next to the truck.
Uh-oh.
A dozen steps later, he realized that some of the smell was coming from inside the truck.
Harry, you . . . son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch . . .
Broker walked closer in and saw that the interior of the cab had been shoveled full of cowshit. A note was stuck on top of the crud with a downward-pointing arrow. The note said: Badge and gun this way.
There was no sound except the buzz of insects and the faint rustle from the flag when it caught and released a nudge of steaming air. Instinctively, Broker backed off and started to circle the truck looking for some sign, tracks maybe . . .
A flash of opaque gray stood out against the green of the grass and weeds. Approaching, Broker saw it was a plastic gallon milk container. It had been planted upended on a stout, sharpened sapling. Then it had apparently been pushed over. Dirt still clung to the stick’s sharpened end.
With a definite pucker contracting between his lips, Broker saw that it had been discarded after it served its purpose. Its purpose was obvious from the three bullet holes grouped in a two-inch radius in the middle of the container.
Harry had taken a few practice shots. Then he’d left the target in plain view.
Broker thought about it . . . Harry’s finger out there attached to a nervous system drowned in Jack Daniel’s, caressing the trigger on the black rifle. A trigger with a pull so fine a sneeze could set it off.
So now what? Jump under the truck? Into the weeds?
He squinted to the west, because that’s where Harry would have set up his firing position with the sun at his back, in that tree line about six hundred yards away. Broker raised his right hand in that direction, middle finger extended.
Then he turned and noticed that the side-view mirror on the truck was cranked out and had some tiny writing on it in Magic Marker.
He took several steps forward and read: Smile! You’re on candid camera.
Broker watched his own eyes freeze in his face in the mirror. Instinctively, he understood that Harry had planted the flag on his truck to keep track of the wind direction. He could even appreciate the twist of elegance in the way Harry had set him up, looking at his face in a mirror at the precise moment the .338 slug . . .
The hot sizzle passed through the air where his shoulder and his neck formed two sides of an angle. Broker watched the image of his face explode in the mirror before he could react.
A tiny fragment of flying glass cut his cheek as he dropped to his knees in an involuntary reflex. Otherwise he was untouched. Most of the glass had been knocked from the mirror frame, and there was a small hole a little off the dead center.
Broker took a deep breath, turned, and fixed on the tree line about six football fields away. Far enough that he wasn’t aware of having even heard the sound of the shot.
He just had to go see, so he got up, started walking toward the trees, and began to count his steps. 1, 2, 3, 4, . . . damn it was hot . . . 54, 55 . . . used to be able to shed the heat . . . 74, 75 . . . Jesus, it can’t get any fuckin’ hotter . . . 124, 125 . . . when is this fucker gonna break? . . . 290, 291, 292 . . . shoulda brought some water, dummy . . . 340 . . . dehydrated for sure, gotta watch it . . . 430, 431 . . . not a kid anymore, at least you’re still putting out sweat . . . 510, 511 . . . be careful, you could crap out in this field, just sink in these weeds . . . 587, 588, 589. Dizzy, squeegeed dry by the sun, he staggered into the shadow of the trees and looked back. His truck was about the size of his hand. He checked the tree line carefully and couldn’t find any sign of a person having been there.
He mopped sweat from his face, squatted down, and thought about it. Harry had perfectly positioned him for the shot, down to the direction of the truck, even the angle of the mirror. And Broker had made the obvious assumption: the firing position had been in these trees, the best cover in sight.
Exactly the misdirected conclusion Harry had wanted him to r
each. Like an opponent putting out counterfire would assume. Harry, meanwhile, would be somewhere else.
He got up, walked through the narrow line of trees, and climbed the gentle hill behind them. His truck was now obscured from view by the foliage.
Then he found the props Harry had left behind on a low hillside.
A small sandbag lay on a hummock of dirt. The kind used for prone support on rifle ranges. Broker walked over and found a dug-out area where Harry had made himself comfortable. Five Lucky Strike butts were ground into the dirt in a little circle. Squatting in the depression behind the hummock, Broker could clearly see his truck through a deceptive opening in the tree canopy.
Again plastic gleamed in the sun, bright transparent this time. Harry had left a liter bottle of spring water in the grass. Almost full. Like a diagram of insanity, the water bottle lay next to an empty pint of Johnny Walker.
Greedily, Broker twisted off the cap and drank the hot water in three long gulps. Only when he’d finished did he see the patch of bare dirt that had been scraped flat. Harry had used something pointed, a twig or pen, and had printed very legible uppercase block letters in the earth: YOU FLINCHED!
After he stopped swearing, Broker called J. T. Merryweather. Then he called Stillwater Towing. Then, as he walked back across the field to the gate, to meet the tow truck, he called J. T. again.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Angel glided at the edge of the group of parents who were putting down blankets and unfolding camp chairs on the grass next to a fenced-in baseball diamond. She wore a sleeveless blouse, clam diggers, and sandals as she sauntered across the steamy playing field.
Just another mom.
That’s what the prospect probably thought.
Look at him, just the nicest guy. Gathering the kids around him on the sidelines. Hands and eyes. Six-year-olds. Boys and girls in yellow T-shirts and baseball caps. Tigers, the script on the shirts said. Watch his hands and his eyes. The way they move among the young bodies.
George Talbot was a T-ball coach. Thirty-seven years old. Mid-management at 3M. He was husky, jowly, with a heavy four-o’clock shadow and ruddy cheeks.
Watch his hands and eyes.
He had fast little eyes behind a constant smile. And quick small hands. Dainty hands. At odds with his thick muscular legs.
Angel scanned the parents. Maybe one of them had made the call. Saw something. The complaint had been vague and anonymous. Don’t trust him around the kids. Something about the way he is with the children.
The boys and girls were paired off and struggled to catch the soft baseballs in their oversized mits. And Angel was thinking that some parents could be playing dirty politics. My kid isn’t in the first lineup. My kid is always in the outfield. My kid isn’t getting enough playing time. So get the coach. So make an anonymous phone call. Smear him.
Look at him, hopelessly normal. Handing out batting helmets to the first kids in the batting order. Remember, not all men are bad. Patience, Angel; you must be sure. Very serious stuff. Got to be sure. And keep moving.
Her eyes scanned the playing field, the cars parked along the street. She was looking for I-am-a-cop antennae sticking up on an unmarked car. She had to be careful.
Nothing specific in the news about the dead priest. Not a peep about A. J. Scott.
No mention of the medallions.
They were getting tricky on her.
Have to be careful.
After the game George drove down Greeley and joined the kids and their parents at Nelson’s Ice Cream Parlor. Hot, crowded around the flimsy plastic tables in the parking lot; the ice cream dripped. George wiped the spill from a boy’s thigh. Close quarters, all sweaty and jostling. Did the hand linger? Did the knuckles drift across the boy’s crotch?
Angel, watching from across the parking lot, could not be sure.
Reasonable doubt.
Though accelerated, her system of fact-finding and punishment wasn’t arbitrary. The more she watched George Talbot roughhouse and joke with his boys, the less certain she was.
Good touch or bad touch?
She was leaning toward not charging George.
Good touch.
She was thinking maybe George would get to live his ordinary comfortable life. She was thinking that if she knew George, she’d tell him to eat smaller portions and get more exercise.
The matter was clinched half an hour later as she trailed George home. He lived north of town, in an area so recently opened to development that the houses were on huge one-acre lots. The rules of rural vigilance applied here. Any car that came down this road would be noticed. Living out here, George could keep a loaded shotgun.
And the house itself was not friendly to approach; it sat three hundred yards off the road next to a small pond. Angel observed a golden retriever, tongue hanging out, race down the long driveway to meet George as he drove in. Going past, Angel saw a basketball hoop on the garage. Two girls, short, dark haired, playing badminton.
From the corner of her eye she saw the mom come out; George’s soul mate with dark hair, also in need of exercise. Her last impression of George Talbot was that he’d changed his name. With his dark complexion and the animated way he and his wife talked with their hands and touched each other as he got out of his car, he could be Italian or Greek.
Angel continued down the road. Too open around the house, and to get inside she’d have to get past the dog. Angel didn’t know how to neutralize a frisky seventy-pound golden retriever.
No way I would harm an animal.
Uh-uh.
And then it’s summer; the wife and kids are around . . .
No, he presented too many problems for her minimal surveillance skills. And these problems make it easier to err on the side of reasonable doubt.
George Talbot, you are free to go.
* * *
Letting George off the hook left a void in her evening. So she went home, changed into her running duds, and hit the steamy streets. The heat buoyed her, carried her, had become the chrysalis for her mission. Like infection, it concentrated the poison and drew it to the surface. Now she felt it pooling all around her, in the humid dark, in her sweat, as her shoes thudded on the concrete.
And it was literally all around.
As she ran a circuit of streets at dusk, she watched the light drain out of the sky, to be replaced by an artificial light flickering from living rooms.
Murder kenneled in the television sets. Along with assault, rape, things blowing up; tits and ass on prime time.
Kids in there with their upturned faces getting fat eating munchies were learning that killing was just another point-and-click solution. When she was little, the boys played with toy guns and fought with their fists. Now the kids weren’t allowed to have toy guns, and they shot each other with 9 mms.
Face it, Angel thought, I am nothing more than all of you carried one step farther.
I am as normal as breathing the electronically tinted air coming off all those video tubes.
Whatever.
Focus.
She was getting close to the end of her spree. She had to start tying up the loose ends. She made a mental note to do a little research on a certain someone. To find out if they were right- or left-handed.
Angel flung out her arms and thrust her chest forward, sprinted through an imaginary finish line.
Yes.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Broker talked to J. T. on his cell as he drove, explaining his predicament. J. T. mostly listened. Then Broker hung up and traveled the back roads south into Lake Elmo. Ordinarily he’d enjoy this drive; escaping the malls, the subdivisions, the freeways. The last few miles to J. T.’s farm, Broker traveled on a timeless two-lane county road. Just rolling fields broken up by tree lines and the silhouettes of silos and barns floating on the horizon in the haze of heat.
Pretty country, except Broker’s eyes kept wandering to his rearview mirror, where he could see the face of the grinning driver of the red St
illwater Towing truck that had loaded his shit-afflicted Ranger on its flat tilt bed.
The sign by the mailbox said: Royal Kraal Ostriches. J. T. Merryweather ran about two hundred birds on one hundred acres. Besides the pens for the stock, J. T. had fields in alfalfa, oats, and corn. He had a big red barn and a comfortable farmhouse in the shade of a huge willow tree. Today the long willow branches hung like a limp hula skirt.
Broker directed the tow truck driver to unload the Ranger next to a manure spreader J. T. had parked by the barn. He paid the driver and watched the truck turn back on the county road and disappear.
Then he walked toward the toolshed in the lower level of the barn. He passed a bird pen, and several of the eight-foot-tall hens bobbed along in the heat; a gaggle of long legs, long necks, big popped-out curious eyes, and droopy gray feathers.
Broker selected two short-handled shovels and a hoe and stepped back outside. He was fighting the sinking thought that the whole truck cab was a write-off.
Goddamn Harry.
He went around the barn and spotted a green tractor hitched to a box kicker and the red rails of a hay wagon marooned out on an alfalfa field.
Then he spotted a golf cart scooting along the side of the field, heading in toward the barn. Broker waited in the barn shadow, priming the handle of the hand pump, then bending to the stream of cold artesian water and slaking his thirst. He straightened up and inhaled the heat-fermented malt from the bins of oats, the stacked alfalfa bales. He watched the barn cats scuttle through the stanchions of an old windmill tower.
J. T. Merryweather wheeled his golf cart up to the barn, got out, walked toward Broker, and flung an arm at the sky.
“Farmer’s nightmare: burned on top and wet on the bottom. Not a good day to have a hay crop cut and lying in the field. Goddamn humidity is 83 percent. Just won’t dry out.” Broker followed J. T.’s gaze, squinting up at the orange smear in the haze.
J. T. wore a black Stetson, was six feet tall, and was cooked black on black by the sun. He was field-hand lean, leaner than he’d been in years. Farmwork and fresh air agreed with him more than the desk he’d used as a captain running St. Paul Homicide. His face was large and generous, but his tight brown eyes had always preferred the mysteries of the sky to the predictable people beneath it. So he took early retirement and started up this farm.