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  Four-thirty A.M. He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and heated water, ground coffee, put a filter in the Chemex coffeemaker.

  Waiting for the water to boil, he went into the living room and sat on a cushion in front of the fireplace. He folded his legs in a half lotus, shut his eyes, and tried the TM trick: let his runaway thoughts stream away like rising bubbles. Tried to calm down.

  Didn’t work. He startled when the teakettle shrieked, boiling over. So much for the tricks. He got up, poured the water into the ground coffee, and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Luckies. Since he couldn’t get his night horse back in the barn, he settled down to ride it out with coffee and cigarettes.

  Sitting at a stool at his kitchen snack bar, he held out his right hand, thick-veined, bone prominent, absolutely steady. Vividly he remembered the last person he’d killed. Ten years ago, when he got talked into that last-minute hunting trip in Maston County…

  Coming in on a dead run toward the shots and screams, seeing Chris Deucette, sixteen, working the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, then aiming the deer rifle at his stepdad, Bud Maston. Maston lying in the snow, already bleeding. Supposedly Harry’s buddy…

  Felt again the smooth reflex swing, his own 3006 coming up.

  Safety clicking off…

  Snap shot, peep sight, eighty yards.

  Easy.

  The Maston County prosecutor didn’t even convene a grand jury. Called it self-defense.

  The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese he’d slain were just numbers on a time card. A job. Didn’t bother him. None of them did, not even that whole family in Truc Ki, the night that stealth had required he use the knife. Broker had puked and walked away, struggling to believe there were still rules even down in the bottom sewer of guerrilla war.

  Nothing he could remember bothered him.

  Griffin curled his fingers into a fist.

  It was the one he couldn’t remember…

  That night, after the war; blacked-out drunk, walking the Cass

  Corridor in Detroit, maybe a lingering scent of sweat and perfume from a stripper at the Willis Show Bar. Or maybe the hooker in Anderson’s Gardens down the street. Had his .38 jammed in his waistband because he sure as hell found it there in the morning with four rounds fired…trouble easy to find…all the jive punks on the street, flipping gang signs, pulling up their fucking shirts, showing off their 9-millimeters…

  It was that single image of a zombie homicidal clown that haunted him; a mindless drunk composed of reflexes staggering around in the night. Reason he’d called Broker in Minnesota, got in his old cherry ’57 Chevy, and driven to the frozen North. Reason he’d sobered up with Broker’s help. Got to keep that jokester locked up…

  Griffin squashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and watched the sun rise thin over the lake. Okay. Be honest. Maybe the last one did get to him, the kid. There’d been a woman in St. Paul he thought he might marry, even start a family. Maybe Broker was right. He’d run away. After that scene in the woods, he’d quit his newspaper job and migrated up here. Do some honest work with his hands where there were fewer people.

  Fewer people to hurt.

  But there were exceptions. And possibly Gator Bodine was one them.

  Quarter past nine Saturday morning Gator was dipping his toast in an egg yolk at Lyme’s Café, looking at a picture on the front page of USA Today—soldiers in chocolate-chip camo riding a tank all covered with red dust.

  He looked up and saw Harry Griffin come through the door and walk straight to the booth where he was sitting. Stood there looking down with that shrink leather face, looking a little shaky with a wild aspect. Hadn’t shaved.

  “We never been properly introduced, you and me,” Griffin said.

  Gator tucked the toast in his mouth, chewed, then dusted the crumbs off his thick fingers. “That what this is, getting introduced?” he said, keeping his voice neutral, sizing Griffin up close. A real bad boy in his time, people said, but now he was starting to show his age. Still had this solitary yard-bull intensity to him, like a very few guys in the joint who stood their ground alone. With no group affiliation. The way you fought that kind of guy was, you caught him asleep with a club.

  Griffin sat down in the opposite seat, casually leaned his elbows on the table, and said, “This is about proxies—you with me so far?”

  “Like stand ins?” Gator nodded, working at keeping his face calm.

  “Yeah, like for instance, if Jimmy Klumpe got into something he couldn’t handle and someone was to stand in for him. Say sneak into a guy’s house, steal stuff, and knife his truck tire. Chickenshit stuff like that.”

  “You lost me,” Gator said, not real comfortable with the cold disquiet in Griffin’s ash-colored eyes. Sure had a lot of leftover balls for an AARP fart.

  “Okay, let’s get you found,” Griffin said. “The house where Broker’s staying, that somebody was snooping in—it’s my fucking house. Anybody comes around, like in through the woods on skis, they’re gonna find me standing in.” Griffin paused. “What goes around, comes around.”

  “Yeah, I recall reading that saying in a book about the sixties. And I think maybe you’re reaching a little, connecting the dots. What I heard,” Gator said carefully, “is they made up. No reason for anybody to do anything on it. Like dumping garbage.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just so we understand each other,” Griffin said.

  “Hey, you’re a badass old man, and I was brought up to respect my elders, what can I say,” Gator said with a straight face.

  “You’re on notice; we’ll leave it there for now,” Griffin said, standing up. “Oh, yeah, and nice meeting you.”

  “My pleasure,” Gator said in an icy fuck-you tone.

  As Griffin turned to leave, he paused, raised his finger and pointed. “And, Gator?”

  “Now what?”

  Griffin smiled. “You got egg on your chin.”

  Driving home from his weekly sit-down breakfast, Gator briefly entertained the notion of shutting Griffin off like an antique tractor. Then he calmed down and went over the story about Griffin beating up that bunch of drunks in Skeet’s with a pool cue. But that was three, four years ago. And he only heard it, he didn’t see it. So he decided the intelligent thing to do was let Griffin have his little senior moment, raffling wolf tickets, showing solidarity with his friend. Maybe drop a hint to Keith that Griffin was getting cranky with him. Off-his-meds kind of thing.

  Had more important business to think about.

  Griffin drove back to his cabin fast, drifting the Jeep around the turns with an almost adolescent glee. The whole aggravated knot of insult and age and punk-ass youth and past and present unraveled when you yanked one cord:

  Okay. Now it’s personal. And he started it.

  Don’t go off completely half-cocked. Wait for J. T.’s call.

  And Teedo had given him directions how to come in on Gator’s place through the woods.

  So go take a look for himself.

  The notion toyed with him with a palpable prod of danger. Felt like this sleeping figure was waking up in his chest, unfolding its limbs, putting him on like a suit of clothes. Susan Hatch would counsel he was too old…

  “No, I ain’t,” Harry Griffin said aloud. Hell, he’d always been at his best alone, on his own. Mindful that Broker was coming over in an hour, he decided to keep this one to himself. And if it turned out that Teedo’s story was true, he could tell Broker about it later.

  Run away, my ass.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  J. T. Merryweather woke up before the alarm on Saturday morning, and as his feet searched for his slippers on the chilly floor, his first thought was about Phil Broker.

  Griffin didn’t specify in so many words, but J. T. was thinking this had to do with Broker being up north.

  Moving quiet, so he didn’t wake his wife and daughter, he selected clothes from the closet and dresser in the dark. Then he
padded downstairs, plugged in the coffee, and showered in the first-floor half bath.

  After he dressed and breakfasted on a quick bowl of cereal, he retrieved Griffin’s license number request and made some phone calls, taking notes. Not entirely satisfied with what they told him on the phone, he decided to take it a step further.

  J. T. stepped out on his front porch and studied the hazy dawn that cloaked his fields, the paddocks, and the fences in mist. He’d made it up to homicide captain in St. Paul before he took the early retirement and put his savings into 160 acres in Lake Elmo and tried raising ostriches.

  The specialty meat was slow to catch on in a fast-food culture, so now he was trimmed down to breeding stock and covering his bets with beef. Never regretted farming. Not one bit. He started his town car, a Crown Vic he got at a police auction—interceptor package, good Eagle tires—and headed out his driveway into the fog.

  His weather-wary eyes scanned the muddy fields to either side of the road; first the early rain, then the frost, now clogged with wet snow. Like his own land. How soggy would the spring be, how soon could he get in with a tractor?

  He drove south and west on back roads until he hit State 95, which he took until it T-boned into 61. He turned south, and soon he was driving across the bridge over Mississippi at Hastings. He continued through town and turned left on Highway 361, following the red-and-blue toucan on the sign for the Treasure Island Casino that pointed the way with lifted wing.

  J. T. thinking. Broker had been one of the least likely cops he’d ever partnered with. Harry Cantrell was the other. Now he was on his way to find Cantrell. Saturday morning was Cantrell’s Treasure Island day.

  He made the last turn and headed down the road toward the casino. Off to the right he saw the twin gray domes of the Excel Prairie Island nuclear reactors hover in the steam clouds over the scratchy bare trees. The sight of those reactors reminded him that he and most of the people in the state owed Broker a debt of thanks.

  Last July there had been an explosion at the plant.

  A construction accident, they said.

  Nine people had died. Dozens were injured. The official story descended from Washington and walled off the incident like a solid steel trap; no way in or out. So far the press was unable to dent the official story that a fuel tanker had ruptured, flooding a ditch with gasoline, that a spark ignited a truck full of oxygen and acetylene. The explosion had rocked the plant and cracked the spent-fuel pool. But no significant radiation had been released, the governor had insisted. The state quietly provided doses of potassium iodide for thousands of citizens in a ten-mile radius as a precaution against possible low levels of radiation poisoning. Now a lot of people who’d taken the iodide were looking at their kids closely every morning at the breakfast table.

  Broker had been in the blast area when the explosion occurred, with a Delta colonel. They had diverted an explosive device away, from the cooling pool. It had been a near thing. Broker survived. The colonel did not. Nina had been thirty miles away fighting for her life against George Khari, who’d infiltrated the explosives into the plant.

  Khari had links to Al Qaeda. Nina killed him, tearing her right shoulder to shreds in the fight.

  J. T. took his pipe from the pocket of his Carhartt jacket and nibbled at the stem. You think you know a guy, how much he can take—all his life Broker had loved the shadows. Saw Gary Cooper in High Noon when he was a kid, took his cues, and never looked back. Married a woman who was his fierce mirror image.

  J. T. shook his head.

  After Prairie Island, Broker and Nina shrugged it off. Just another op. But people who knew them, people like J. T., observed that they were different.

  They should have seen God in the inferno of that day.

  Just too damn dumb and proud and stubborn—both of them—to admit the damage they’d taken below the waterline. It hit Nina first.

  J. T.’s eyes drifted to the northern sky, socked in with brooding gray clouds. They were up north now, hiding out in a backwoods retreat. Healing up, playing house, pretending they were all right…

  Griffin was looking out for them. J. T. shook his head again. Jesus, Griffin, the reformed angel of death, playing nanny, hovering over them. Except something had happened, and now Griffin needed a favor.

  So, to do this right he’d take another old partner along on this day’s work.

  J. T. shook his head one last time.

  Cantrell. Cleaned up now, after Broker hauled him kicking and screaming into treatment. He’d retired from Washington County after he sobered up. A pure, unreconstructed redneck son of a bitch. Cantrell didn’t answer his phone. Made himself hard to find. You had to track him down and get him face-to-face.

  So here was J. T. driving to a fucking casino, which he considered a monument to stupidity, on a dreary late March morning.

  He parked in the mostly vacant lot and went into the pink pleasure palace. As a favor to his wife he was trying to give up smoking his pipe, and now the cloud of cigarette smoke fluttered against his nose like the smudged wings of tiny tempting devils.

  Seniors mostly. Old guys with wars on their hats. One of them shuffled by, with a silhouette of a World War II destroyer on his baseball cap; dragging his oxygen tank, transparent tubes running to his nose.

  J. T. checked the blackjack tables. Cantrell was primarily a blackjack addict. No Cantrell. Then he walked into the high stakes slots alcove. Cantrell knew you couldn’t beat the slots. But he believed you could surprise the slots. Sneak up on them at random moments.

  Cantrell believed you could get lucky.

  J. T. spotted him slouched in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket on a high-backed chair like a flesh-and-blood extension grafted onto the machine. Tapping the spin button, recirculating the energy between himself and the slot.

  Cantrell didn’t age. In his late fifties, Minnesota by way of New Orleans PD, his face was still Elvis smooth and ruddy, his sleek dark hair still combed in a fifties duck-ass hairdo. To J. T., who considered himself a mature black man, the rebel twinkle in Cantrell’s eyes had always raised the worst abiding ghosts of Dixie.

  “You lost, J. T.?” Cantrell asked casually without moving his eyes off the rolling sevens on the machine screen. Always had great peripheral vision.

  “You don’t answer your phone,” J. T. said. “We got a mandatory formation.”

  Cantrell nudged the spin button again. Scattered sevens. Not lining up. “We do?”

  “Griffin called me last night. He needs a favor.”

  Cantrell turned in his chair and squinted through the smoke coming off the Pall Mall straight in his lips. “And?”

  “I got a feeling it involves our buddy, the unsung hero.”

  “Broker, really?” Cantrell removed the cigarette from his lips. “I thought he was bulletproof. So whattaya got?”

  “A name. Some chick. We got to check her out.”

  Cantrell shook off his casual slouch, straightened up his back. “Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later they were breathing the cold fresh air in front of J. T.’s truck. Cantrell looked in the direction of the two gray nuclear reactors poking above the trees. “Fuckin’ Broker,” he said. “You know, I ran into Debbie Hall last week.”

  J. T. grunted. Debbie was now a lieutenant in St. Paul homicide. Years back, when she’d been a profane fireball, she and Broker’d had this explosive street romance.

  “She confessed she’d made a pass at him, couple years ago when he and Nina were separated. She put it out there, and know what he said? He said, ‘If I wanna play games, I’ll go to a fuckin’ casino.’” Cantrell shook his head.

  J. T. handed Cantrell a sheet of fax paper. A one-paragraph criminal history on Sheryl Mott from the St. Paul gang task force. “Griffin had a license number. I ran a DL, talked to Tommy in the gang task force,” J. T. said.

  “Known affiliation with OMG. Suspected of transporting narcotics into Stillwater Prison…no charge…” Cantrell looked up. �
�Not much here. You talk to Dave at Corrections about the prison stuff?”

  J. T. gave him a slow smile and shook his head. “I thought maybe…Rodney.”

  Cantrell shrugged. “Hell, you don’t need me to talk to a piece-of-shit snitch like Rodney.”

  “Wrong. I always…sort of scared Rodney. He’s poop-hispants terrified of you.”

  “Yeah.” A rakish grin spread across Cantrell’s face. “Good ol’ Rodney,” he said with slow glee.

  Cantrell followed J. T. back through Hastings, then up 95 to Stillwater, where he left his Outback sedan in the Cub parking lot. He got in J. T.’s car, and they drove a few blocks and pulled into the parking lot at the River Valley Athletic Club.

  “Why here?” Cantrell asked.

  “His scumbag body is a temple, remember,” J. T. said. “He works out here every Saturday morning, according to Lymon at Washington County. Check this: Lymon says Rodney is trying to go straight, they got him working full-time in a health food store—”

  “You can sell a lot of dope in cute little bottles in health food stores,” Cantrell said.

  “Whatever. Okay. We wait. He’s still driving that red Trans-Am.”

  As they waited, Cantrell watched the midmorning female traffic alight from their SUVs and saunter into the club.

  “Where do they get these chicks, man? Lookit that blonde—she’s got Spandex skin; she’s got makeup looks airbrushed on—”

  J. T. nibbled the end of his pipe and said, “I hear they got this Stepford Wife production line pops them out at this new McMansion development a little ways west of town.”

  Cantrell marveled, “Sounds about right; whatever happened to old-fashioned nasty pussy? I mean, they’re so clean.”

  J. T. did not respond. Cantrell grumbled, took out a Pall Mall, studied it, then placed it behind his ear. “He was always lucky, Broker was.”