by Chuck Logan
Ice storm. Like they were getting up in Canada. Nothing for it tonight. Back in bed, his last snatches of wakefulness recorded the ominous scrape of ice-burdened branches against the roof and eaves. The steady thud of icy rain. The crash of trees falling in the woods.
His muscles snapped to while his mind was still blind with sleep. A tinny musical reveille insinuated through the groan of the wind and ice-tormented trees-Cucaracha Dog.
Dada Dah da
Dada Dah da
Kit’s cry, simultaneous to the calliope weirdness of the toy. Then-the scramble of feet in his house. In Kit’s room.
Broker sprang off the bed in a gymnastic movement at combat speed. The twelve-gauge came off the floor and THE BIG LAW/373
swung comfortably into his hands before his eyes opened.
KARAA-CKKK went the steel slide, chambering a load of double ought buck.
Lizard brain pushed the mammal brain, then cerebral cortex, the civilizing membrane, but way out front and absolutely ready to kill-was the new daddy brain. And the daddy brain propelled Broker through the dark. Seeking the threat in a cold rage, thumbing off the safety on the shotgun, heading for his daughter’s cries, filtering out the sound of the toy.
Someone in the house. Stepped on the toy?
How? Figure it out later.
Without thought of caution or strategy, he went immediately to the crib and scooped up the bawling child. He backed from her room-Kit in one arm, the weapon ready in the other-to his room, and as he dropped her in a plastic hamper in his closet and closed the door and heaved the dresser in front of it, he realized-
No yard light.
No night-lights.
No light over the stove.
Just ice glowing in the luminous mist. He proceeded to search his house. Room by room, corner by corner, closet by closet. Finally he backtracked, pausing in Kit’s room.
Found the musical toy at the foot of her bed. She could have tossed it out, that could have set it off.
But he didn’t believe that. He heard somebody. He crept out on the back porch on planking slick with ice. Ice was everywhere. Trees dipped in it. Every branch and pine needle was sheathed. His driveway was a transparent sheet.
Then he saw the power line and the phone line, sagging to the ground under the heavy whiskers of ice. An ice-stricken pine had toppled with them, the snowy crown punched in a basement window.
Immediately, he went inside, down the basement stairs. Found tiny pools of dirty melt on the steps. Led to the broken window. That’s how they got in.
Back up, outside. An engine growled up on the highway.
But, before dawn it was routine, even in this weather-truck-ers ferrying supplies to the casino at Grand Portage.
He squinted at the fog. Went in, picked up his phone.
Dead.
No cell phone. Just as well, Jeff would have his hands full on a night like this.
One last check to make. Forgive me, Kit. He slithered through the woods again. And-the Audi was gone from the blacked-out cabin. Deserted.
Okay, David. We’re going to have a talk.
Whatever happened, it was over, and now he felt dumb waving around a loaded gun.
The barrel of the Remington arced down from alert, his thumb clicked the safety back on. He went back in, the shotgun in the crook of his arm, got a flashlight and liberated Kit from the closet.
Her discomfort was aggravated by a mighty pants full of poop. Broker changed her by flashlight. Then he lit candles, took her into the kitchen and bribed her with a tippy cup of milk and a plate of animal cookies.
Great formative memories, eh kid? The books said they didn’t remember things from this early. So he hoped she wouldn’t fix on the image of a plateful of cookies by candlelight, on the surface of the maple table, next to a loaded shotgun.
65
A fucking kid’s toy!
Unbelievable. Find a window broken, like fate had opened the way. Got all the way into the house. All keyed up. Had the gun out, and he stepped on some damn kid’s toy. But that other sound he’d heard, over the brat’s screaming-heard very clearly-like the jaws of hell clashing, steel on steel. No-shit shotgun being loaded, and all he had was the puny woman’s.38, and suddenly his Billy the Kid rampage was over. No way he was going to face off with an armed awake Broker in his own house.
Uh-uh.
Danny had turned and sprinted back down the basement stairs, crawled super fast out the window and over the downed pine tree, tripping on wires, terrified he’d be electro-cuted.
But he wasn’t and Thank You God for the goddamn fog.
And that he’d pulled the telephone line before he went in.
More the ice storm than him. The line was halfway down when he tugged on it.
Slipping and sliding. Amazing. The snow had hardened to glass. Took his weight. Like a huge water spider, he scooted over the crust. Through the trees, toward the highway. Looked back once, at the shadowy mass of the darkened house.
Nothing.
Like he never was there.
He’d pulled the car off the road, into the shadows of some trees. Now, inside, engine on, in gear-and damn, the tires whined, clawing for traction on the ice.
Goddamn fucking Minnesota, never come back to this no-good place. Finally, he began to move. Running like hell, doing about eight miles per hour.
Can you believe this shit?
Giddy. Nervous. Hilarious. He drove south. Then: sobered. Quit when you’re ahead. How far to the county line? He had to drive through Grand Marais. Broker could have a cell phone. Only the one road in and out.
When he saw the red flashers flare in the gloom up ahead, he almost screamed out loud. God. No. A roadblock. Then, no, it wasn’t. Slowly he came on a truck, off the road, on its side in the ditch. A county deputy appeared, swinging a flashlight.
Oh Christ. Now what. Danny reached for the pistol in his belt. He’d fight for the money. He would.
But the deputy just waved him on. His strong ruddy face jogged Danny’s memory. The mustache. He laughed hilariously. The same guy who had bandaged him up at the waterfall. Small world, motherfucker.
Expecting any second to be pulled over, he drove real slow on glare ice into Grand Marais. Red and blue rotating flashers slapped the shuttered buildings. Emergency vehicles.
Phone company trucks. The ice had collapsed the lines.
The whole county was without communication.
Mist to rain and then the temperature dropped. Like it only can up here. Cryogenic cold snap.
Ice City.
Hell. If he was this lucky, he should stop at the Black Bear Casino. But-no more detours. Keep moving. Toward California. Toward his hideaway on Valentino Lane.
Like a shadow, he crept through a landscape transformed into white coral reefs. Every surface hackled, feathered. White trees from Mars. And him the only thing moving.
When he’d passed out of Cook County, he stopped at a rest area that overlooked the lake. Had the whole place to himself. First, he threw Ida’s gun into Superior, then went back to the shelter of the car. Methodically, steeling himself against the temptation to break open the bundles and frolic in hundreds, he sat in the backseat, opened the suitcase and packed the tidy wads of currency into the canvas bags. Taking care of business. Nothing but focused. He buffered the money with newsprint, wrapped them with duct tape.
Tried to make two symmetrical bundles. Twenty-two pounds apiece. Then he stuffed the wrappings from the trash bags in the suitcase, carried it down to the beach, filled it with round cobbles, walked out on a boulder and flung it into the lake. One last thing. Burn the manuscript in a frozen camp grill.
Now. Wait for stores to open. Back on the road. In Two Harbors, he found an open restaurant, ate a huge breakfast and renewed himself with coffee.
And did what he did every morning. Read the paper.
In Duluth, at 9 A.M., after consulting the Yellow Pages, he walked into a Wrap and Ship office with his packages.
/> Watched the lady behind the counter pack them in sturdy boxes. No questions. No problem. Was given a tracking number. He filled out the return address as B. Franklin on fictitious Pampas Street, Duluth.
And sent them to Danny Storey at 173 Valentino Lane, Watsonville, California.
Yes.
At 10 A.M., he was making good time on the sanded freeway. Heading south.
Through the whole thing he had faithfully worn the latex gloves under his winter gloves. No fingerprints on the car. His hands were turning to liquid from the sweat. Not much longer.
The rest of the drive was uneventful. Clear roads. Not much traffic. He drove into Minneapolis, stopped at a gas station and used a vacuum hose to clean the upholstery and carpet. Stuffed the sled into a trash can. Then he continued on to the downtown loop and parked at the bus depot.
Generously, he handed the new boots, the hat and the gloves to a derelict standing outside the Greyhound station.
Then he walked Hennepin Avenue until he flagged a cab.
Under way, he threw first Ida’s credit cards, then the rubber gloves out the window. He arrived at the airport with hours to spare. He passed through the metal detectors, checked his flight information on the monitors, turned up the collar of his leather jacket and walked down the green concourse to celebrate in an airport lounge.
Not a bad day’s work.
66
The morning after the ice storm, Broker strapped on his sidearm and checked the cabin on the point. Still no one home. Kit, adjusting to being abandoned, gave herself an oatmeal facial, strapped in her high chair, and didn’t cry.
He drove into town and dropped her with Madge at the sheriff’s office. She wandered between the legs of harried dispatchers who were fielding cell phone calls from stranded motorists and alarmed tourists in remote Gunflint cabins.
Broker put on a Cook County deputy’s parka and helped out.
With a gum ball stuck on his Jeep roof, he four-wheeled back roads, collected stranded people and drove them to Trail Center, the lodge halfway up the Gunflint where emergency services had set up.
Midafternoon, Jeff overtook him in his Bronco, waved him to the side of the road. The sheriff walked slowly, up all night, red-rimmed eyes. Broker rolled down his window. Jeff leaned, resting on his forearms, said, “Bad news,” in a tired, flat, official voice.
“Some phones are up. Tommy Reardon, St. Paul Homicide, just called. They found that newspaper woman you’ve been talking to, Ida Rain, damn near dead, in her kitchen three hours ago.”
“Shit.” Broker took a sledgehammer to the chest. The cliche poised on his lips: I just talked to her the other…
“Bludgeoned, strangled, robbed, took her car. Her house keys were still in her side door. Neighbors spotted them and called nine-one-one. Looks like somebody jumped her carrying in the groceries, her wallet was missing from her purse.
Probably had a spare set of car keys in there.”
“How is she?”
“Fractured skull, broken nose, comatose; in ICU at Regions.”
“How’d you get the call?”
“Tommy spotted your card-or my card with your name written on it-tacked up on her refrigerator. He wants you to check in with him.”
Broker nodded. “They establish time of the attack?”
“The receipt in the shopping bag logged 5:47 P.M. So sometime after that. Guy whacked her with a can of mines-trone soup, Tommy said, then smothered her. Probably to stop her from screaming. Looks like a botched mugging.
Didn’t know what he was doing. Left her for dead.”
“Shit,” Broker said again. “Tommy say anything about her chances?”
“The docs say she’s strong. Have to wait and see.”
“Broken skull for twenty, thirty bucks, that’s a bummer,”
said Broker. But he couldn’t shake a bad feeling about the timing. Still hadn’t told Jeff about the break-in.
“Yeah, well, anytime I can wreck your night, just let me know.”
They watched a column of olive-camouflaged Humvees, National Guard out of Duluth, slowly snake into town. Jeff said, “Finally, these guys can handle the back roads better than we can. And their radios work. Why don’t you hang it up, take Kit home.”
Spirited Ida Rain, randomly chopped down. His sadness produced the image of the huge ambitious puzzle on her carpet-unfinished. Fluky? His night visitor. Ida. Broker didn’t rule out coincidence. But he was suspicious.
Back at the sheriff’s office, he shouldered his way to a phone, grabbed at Kit as she scurried past, missed, got through to St. Paul Homicide.
Tommy Reardon came on the line fast after Broker identified himself. “What you got going with this Ida Rain?”
“She was Tom James’s boss. I talked to her about how he got on to Caren.”
“Women have bad luck with you lately, huh, Broker? First Caren, now this one.” More ill will than suspicion snickered in Reardon’s voice.
Not funny. He ignored the dig and asked, “You have any leads?”
“Nah. Looks like smash and grab. The asshole wore gloves, no latents on the soup can he used. We have everybody looking for her car. Maybe something will show up on her credit cards. That and the car’s our best bet. Until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”
Broker shut his eyes. C’mon, Ida. “So, just in and out fast?”
“Yeah, probably followed her home from the grocery store.”
“Okay, thanks, Tommy. If anything comes up, appreciate it if you call Cook County.”
“Yeah, sure, good-bye.”
Broker watched Kit play with Lyle Torgerson’s flashlight.
Amazement glowed in her eyes as she moved the switch with both tiny thumbs and the light came on. Then off. Ida, turned off that abruptly? Lyle collected his flashlight. “You all right, Broker?”
“Yeah, tired.”
“Everybody is. Damn storm.”
He heaved to his feet, took Kit, left the fatigued synergy of the sheriff’s office and crept north in four-wheel low. The crystalline world, enchanted in the light, became melancholy with sundown. Trees bowed under the icy
yoke, their green dreams of spring turning to nightmares.
Ida fighting, screaming. Which compartment could he check her into? He was full up.
Broker eased down his driveway, edged around the turn, cleared the trees and-
The butternut Ford Ranger 250 had a new camper box up back and was parked right in front of his porch.
67
Broker threw into reverse, fishtailed back behind the garage, apologized to Kit for leaving her alone again, and rolled out; county police radio in one hand, 45 in the other.
He approached the Ford, still no license plates, keyed the radio, about to ask for some backup when he peeked through the cracked driver’s side window and saw the classic, felt, porkpie brown hat perched on the dashboard. He took his thumb off the transmit button and clicked the pistol back on safe.
Garrison.
The porch window presented a view of the man, sitting in the dark flickering living room. Definitely Garrison. In out of the cold. Building fires in Broker’s fireplace. A minute later, with Kit dozing on his left shoulder, Broker mounted the porch and heard the mournful voice warble through the ajar door.
“As I walked out on the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day
I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen All wrapped in white linen and cold as the grave…”
Lorn Garrison, calm as can be, in a red Pendleton wool shirt, jeans, and hunting boots, sat in front of a roar 384 / CHUCK LOGAN
ing fire. A lined Levi’s jacket hung from the back of the kitchen chair. A section of the Duluth News Tribune spread on the floor, by the hearth, under his boots. Wood shavings littered the newsprint.
Broker carried Kit into the living room and saw that Garrison delicately held an old Randall pocketknife in his right hand. Firelight flickered on the sweat-cured walnut handle, the pitted shank and the
razor-sharp wink of the blade. In his left hand, he turned a flitch of basswood that was becoming the comical head of a six-legged insect, complete with feelers. Garrison cleared his throat,
“Hope you don’t mind I let myself in. Got a little weather-some in the back of the truck when this storm hit.”
“Am I under FBI surveillance?” asked Broker, very alert, fatigue forgotten. His mini-Ice Age, north of Grand Marais, was suddenly crowded with possibilities: first the break-in, then the news about Ida, now Garrison.
Garrison grinned, folded the knife with a flick of his fingers and stuck it in his back pocket. “Sit down. Relax. I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but you haven’t made it yet.”
“Answer the question. I picked up that truck on my tail over a week ago in St. Paul. Saw it again, right out there in my woods. You might as well be driving a fire engine.”
“Beauty, huh? Cost a big chunk of my early retirement bonus.”
“Retirement?”
“Yeah.” Garrison raised his elbows and gyrated his hips.
“No badge, no cuffs, no gun. I don’t work for uncle anymore.
Some bean counters at headquarters are cooking the books for the budget, clearing off as many old-timers as they can.
So I signed up. Cashed in a couple days after pulling Keith off you in that cell.” Garrison shrugged. “Maybe I’ll write a book about President Clit’s love life and go on Larry King Live like everybody else. But first, I figured we should talk.”
“I’m listening.” Broker walked to the kitchen, took candles from the cupboard and set them on the counter. He filled a teakettle with bottled water and put it on the stove. He had propane. No lights. No water. Checked the phone. No phone.
Garrison stood up. Without a suit coat, he looked like an aging wrangler, barrel chest, heavy shoulders, narrow hips.
He squatted and handed Kit the carving. “Hello, little girl, this is for your daddy.” He rose slowly, favoring his knees, and joined Broker in the kitchen.