by Chuck Logan
ACCOUNTANT FOUND DEAD, CRUCIFIED IN WOODS
“Crucified?” he said out loud. They gotta be kidding.
But they weren’t.
A bow hunter found a frozen body in the woods northwest of Marine on St. Croix yesterday afternoon. The deceased, identified as Timberry financial planner Cliff Stovall, had his left hand nailed through the wrist into the stump of an oak tree with a six-inch pole barn-spike. Sources close to the sheriff’s office said that a hammer and evidence of heavy drinking had been located at the scene. Stillwater resident Jon Ludwig discovered the body while deer hunting.
Stovall’s partner, Dave Henson, told the Washington County sheriff’s department that Stovall had gone to look at some property. Henson also explained that Stovall was distraught over a recent separation from his wife.
An anonymous source in the sheriff’s department said Stovall had been treated in the past for alcoholism and self-mutilation.
Broker slowly sat upright. The flu lost its grip as he calmly worked back through the delirious landing on Snowbank Lake. Distinctly, he remembered Sommer raving:
Tell Cliff to move the money.
Chapter Sixteen
Directory assistance listed the number of Stovall and Hensen Associates in Timberry, a suburb east of the Twin Cities. Broker didn’t have to get past the receptionist.
“I know this is bad timing, but an acquaintance, Hank Sommer, recommended Cliff Stovall for investment counseling. And now, well, I thought maybe his partner . . .”
“Of course, Mr. Sommer is—was—is one of our clients, I guess . . .” her voice caught. “I’m sorry, it’s a little crazy around here.”
“I, ah, understand, maybe I should call later.”
“No. I’m sure Mr. Henson will talk to you. It’s just that these tragedies have hit our office kind of hard. Cliff and his wife were friends of Mr. Sommer and Dorothy . . .”
“Were?”
“Well, before Mr. Sommer remarried. And, ah, before Cliff and his wife broke up.”
Dorothy? “Dorothy Sommer, right,” he said.
“No, she was—well, she’d never changed her name. So it was always Dorothy Gayler.”
“Right, is she still . . . ?”
“At the St. Paul Pioneer Press.”
“Of course. You know, I think I will wait awhile and call later. Thank you.”
Broker hung up and drummed his fingers on a yellow legal pad. Freshly showered and shaved after ten hours of healing sleep, he doodled circles bisected by crosshairs on his notepad. Then he printed “Sommer.” Under Sommer’s name he printed “Stovall.” He drew a circle around Sommer and Stovall. Then he printed “Trophy Wife—Bonnie (Parker?)and Clyde.” He drew a crude open arrow around Bonnie and Clyde and aimed it at Sommer. In a third column he wrote: Dorothy?
He went back to directory assistance, got the newspaper’s number, and punched it in. The switchboard passed him to the features department where he listened to Dorothy Gayler’s voice mail. The businesslike voice on the recorded message revealed nothing: “I’m not here; leave a message.” He hung up, poured another cup of coffee, and had better luck on his second call.
“Dorothy Gayler.”
“Dorothy, you don’t know me, my name is Phil Broker. I was on the canoe trip with Hank Sommer.”
“Yes.” Crisp, the perfunctory voice was precise as the strike of a typewriter key.
“I’m calling from Ely. I’m not a friend, I was the guide.”
This seemed to warm communication. “You went for help, with Allen Falken; I remember now,” she said.
“You know Allen?”
“I’ve met Allen. I wouldn’t say I know any of my ex-husband’s new friends.” Distancing.
Broker speeded up his voice, reaching to catch her flagging interest. “Well, I was just doing a job and I got caught in the middle of that lake and pooped out. The fact is, if it weren’t for Hank I wouldn’t have made it. I’d be dead.”
“How refreshing.” She was making up her mind whether to talk to him. “Mr. Broker. Everyone else has talked about the ironic tragedy of Hank’s . . . situation. You call me up and express a kind of gratitude.” Her voice strayed close to sarcasm and closer to Broker. Okay.
He continued quickly. “Except the way it turned out, I can’t say it to him.” He paused, then said, “I’ll be in the Cities the next few days. I wondered if you’d be willing to have a cup of coffee tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“I want to know who he was. I saw this article in the Minneapolis paper but it didn’t feel like the guy I met.”
“The father of the toy, you mean. Ours wasn’t much better. Well, that’s what he turned into but that wasn’t who he was when I knew him.” She paused, then said, “What time tomorrow?”
“Lunch?”
“Make it one P.M.; I work out at lunch. I’ll meet you on the street, in front of the building. How will I know you, Mr. Broker?”
Broker looked at the coatrack by the door. “I’ll be wearing a fleece jacket, sort of blaze orange.”
“Of course; it’s getting toward that time of year,” Dorothy said.
Broker thanked her and hung up.
Picking up momentum, he thumbed through Uncle Billie’s permit applications and found Sommer’s number. Deep breath. Slight shuffle of nerves. Jolene Sommer picked up on the third ring. He let the breath out.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Sommer?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Phil Broker, the guide on the canoe trip with Hank.” Broker heard a click as someone picked up an extension phone in the Sommer house.
“Earl,” Jolene said, “put down the phone. I’ve got it.” They waited. The other person on the line did not put down.
“Is this, ah, a bad time to call?” Broker asked. Earl evidently didn’t waste any time moving in.
After a pause, Jolene said frankly, “When’s a good time?”
“How is he?”
“He’s comfortable,” she said in a controlled, tired voice as if she decided on these words after many conversations. “Milt Dane suggested I surround him with familiar things so I set up his bed in his office where the windows overlook the river. And he can see his desk and books. He’s got a feeding tube now. So . . .”
A little shocked, Broker blurted, “He’s at home?”
“It’s become a little complicated, financially,” she said, in a quick, defensive burst. Then more slowly, “Actually, I think he’s better off. Since I brought him home I get the feeling he’s looking at me. Of course, everyone says that’s impossible.”
After an awkward silence, Broker said, “Ah, I’ve still got his truck up here.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry, a lot of things have been falling through the cracks. I’ll send . . .”
“Actually, I’m coming down to the Cities. I could drop it off.”
“Oh.”
“Say tonight, around four or five P.M.?”
“I guess . . . that would be fine.” She gave Broker directions which he wrote down on the pad. After he said good-bye he doodled more circles and crosshairs. On the trip Hank had been arguing with her about money. Now he was at home and not in a hospital because of money. In the seaplane, Hank’s last words were about money. Broker printed in big blocky letters—FOLLOW THE MONEY.
He sipped coffee, debated briefly, then picked up the phone again and called a number in Lake Elmo, a rural township on the eastern fringe of the Twin Cities metro area, near Timberry. On the second ring he got a woman’s voice.
“Hi, Denise, is J.T. there?”
“It’s him,” he heard her call out, and he knew she had rolled her eyes in that expressive way. “You know, him.”
The guarded but also curious deep voice of J.T. Merryweather came on the line. “Uh-huh?” In the background Broker heard Denise whisper: “Find out why Nina split.”
“Hey J.T., I need a little help.”
“Hmmm,” J.T. said. “You know, so do I. Maybe we sho
uld give a call over to Manpower, get us a temp. And by the way, hello, how are you, how’s the family.”
Broker smiled. He and J.T. came out of the service around the same time. Bored with ordinary life, they took the civil service test and were rookies together in St. Paul. They’d partnered together in narcotics and homicide before Broker went to BCA and specialized in guns. J.T. made it up to captain in St. Paul where he flunked office politics and took early retirement to go into business for himself.
“Very funny. Look, could you do me a favor? Call John E. over at Washington County and get the word on that crucifixion in the woods last week.” John Eisenhower was the Washington County sheriff. Also a graduate of the St. Paul Police Academy in the same class with J.T. and Broker.
J.T. said, “Wasn’t no crucifixion. Newspaper got carried away. Guy nailed his hand to a stump. You can’t call, huh?”
“I don’t really want anybody knowing I’m around.”
“Uh-huh. Just can’t shake the old peek-a-boo UC habits?”
“There it is.”
“You use people you know.”
“Yeah. Like how I used you to get a sore back hauling all those hay bales last August. Like I used you, leaving my truck to for you to use.”
“Humph. You only come around when you need something.”
Broker grinned. “Actually I could use a place to hang out because I’ll be nosing around in Timberry.”
“Timberry, that’s some serious Yup; I was over there at the mall and saw my first Humee. Cute little blond kid driving it looked about fourteen. Yeah, sure, c’mon by. Denise would love to talk to you.”
“Won’t work, J.T. I’m not in the mood.”
“I hear you, Broker. I don’t give a shit about your sorry personal life. But Denise wants to know, and she wields power over this place. Woman swings that vaginal wrench of hers around like a goddamn scepter.”
In the background, Broker could hear Merryweather’s wife scold him roundly—something about bad influences and people who refused to grow up.
“Call John E. and schmooze him up,” Broker said. “I’ll see you later this afternoon.” On the verge of laughter, they rang off.
Then he glanced at the canoe trip applications strewn on the table with his notes. Sommer and Allen Falken both lived in Timberry, which was as far away from Ely as you could get. It was an instant bedroom community that nineties’ wealth had erected in Washington County. The last time he drove through he’d been amazed to see a whole forest of evergreens transplanted from a nursery to screen the new homes going in.
Broker was up, pacing. Sommer’s keys hung from a peg on the clothes rack next to the door. He glanced out the window at the parking lot, where Sommer’s Ford Expedition waited, hunched and gleaming against the wilting snow like a black enamel bison.
After about ten seconds of debate he reached for the phone again and called Amy. As soon as she answered, he asked without preamble: “Is it weird that Sommer would be at home so soon after the accident?”
“Are you kidding?”
“I just talked to his wife. He’s at home.”
“Something’s off. He needs a full-care nursing facility at minimum.”
“She said he watches her.”
“C’mon.”
“No bullshit. You interested?”
“Maybe.”
“So, what are you doing?”
“Coming over to your place.”
“I’ll make another pot of coffee,” Broker said.
Chapter Seventeen
Jolene Sommer hung up the phone and paused for a moment with her palm on the plastic receiver where his voice had been.
Broker, the guide.
She sat at the kitchen table, exhausted, taking refuge in a cup of coffee, staring out the window. At the edge of the backyard patio, a red cardinal was inspecting an empty feeder that dangled from a barren tree limb. She knew what Sharon Stone wore to the Academy Awards last year, but she didn’t know what kind of tree it was. She never caught the knack of feeding the birds. She barely remembered to feed the cat.
Hank had . . .
She looked away and restarted her thoughts. Broker. She had a notion of him from up north, paddling with Allen through the night in an effort to save Hank.
He was not smooth and all tucked in like Allen. He had a deep-set tongue-and-groove muscularity and he was at home in his body, which was important. He had a quiet voice; simple perhaps, but direct. She tried to remember his weathered face, the light, courteous touch of his hand that day at the hospital.
Jolene was good at first impressions. She was also good at puzzles, the ones with pieces. She wasn’t so good at crossword puzzles—yet—because her vocabulary needed work. She believed you liked a person in the first seconds when you met them or you didn’t. She had liked Phil Broker. He possessed a solid, old-fashioned quality, like he’d been made to last.
Her eyes moved across the spacious kitchen and back out the window past the bird feeder to a jumble of oak rounds strewn on the dead grass by the woodshed behind the garage. A heavy splitting maul was imbedded deep in one of the upright rounds. Rust had formed an orange scab on the wedged blade.
A muffled crash echoed up from the basement and that was Earl dropping his barbells on the carpet. Earl had installed himself downstairs, where, like a bilge pump, he’d siphoned away just enough of the bills to keep the house—and her—afloat.
Earl was a creature of habit. And so, to her regret, was she. When things fell apart, when she realized she was facing this crisis literally broke, with nothing for resources but a couple of credit cards—she’d reached out to Earl.
Which had been a large mistake.
Jolene rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. After all these years about the only thing she could say about Earl was that he’d peaked early and still looked good with his shirt off.
They just couldn’t seem to break the pattern—she’d go off on her own and wind up drinking too much. Earl would step in and pull her back from the brink. Her part of the deal was to manage Earl’s temper so he didn’t go berserk on people.
This dynamic spun in circles for more than thirteen years, since high school; except for the year and a half when Earl went off on his own tangent in the army. That was after the mess out in Washington. He’d signed on to Desert Storm, trekked deep into the Iraqi desert with the 24th Mech, eager to redeem himself. Spent six months battling nothing more serious than sand and fleas, and he came home without any real medals, just one sandy case of the clap. All his life Earl just couldn’t catch a break.
Until now.
Jolene finished her coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher, added detergent, and tapped the start button. Then she paced the kitchen, touching up the table, the island, and the counter with a damp washcloth. Her life had turned into one of those ads from a woman’s magazine at the check-out counter. Be thinner, richer; live in a beautiful house . . .
Right.
The first few days she had been stunned and needed Earl to guide her. But now she was over the initial shock and not real sure she wanted Earl back in her life, living in her basement, playing his mind games, waiting for her to lose it and start drinking again so it would be old times again. Him calling the shots.
Well, she wasn’t going to drink today. She had fourteen months of sobriety in the bank. And not a penny more. Hank had tied up every cent he owned in the trust.
Trust had sure turned into a funny word around this house.
Jolene took a deep breath. Earl always started out intending to do it by the rules. Just trying to help, he’d taken Cliff Stovall off for a heart-to-heart, to convince him to open the trust. She didn’t know the details, but she could guess. Earl got mad. So far, no cops had come snooping around.
And the bills . . .
Jesus Christ, when she faced the idea of the bills she thought of the scene in Jaws when Roy Scheider first sees the shark and he jerks back—like whoa. Now, like Roy, she needed a bigger boat.
She shook her head and let her eyes drift back out the window to the woodpile. She could not imagine Earl yanking out the maul, splitting the wood, stacking it in tidy rows. He enjoyed watching it burn, all right, in the fireplace but it never occurred to him to go out and split more when it ran out. For all his pampered muscles, Earl refused to sweat outside a gym. He was the future, he’d said. In the future, the third-worlders would do the physical work. Mexicans, probably.
She looked out the window for a few more moments at the hungry cardinal and the brown leaves and the gray sky. The morning was like a moody song from an oldies station: sentimental. Perfect for feeling sorry for herself. Perfect for stinking-thinking.
It was one of her favorite alcoholic fantasies: being rescued. And a lot of men had come to grief on it, walking into a dark barroom and seeing her marooned on a bar stool.
That’s what had been so perfect about meeting Hank. She met him sober. I know I was bad, but just give me this one chance and I promise I’ll be so good . . .
Hank had rescued her, all right, but Jolene saw right away that his ex-wife had handled the finances. Hank was lost around money.
The hammer fell about ninety minutes after she got to the intensive care unit at Regions in St. Paul. A neurologist had been called in to evaluate Hank; his workup and consulting was costing hundreds of dollars a minute.
Then this square-shaped lady in a maroon and black business suit had trampled though the blue-garbed medics like a rhino trashing a patch of petunias. She had pointed out that Hank Sommer’s Blue Cross policy had lapsed because of nonpayment of premiums.
Private pay.
Boy, those two words could empty a hospital ward of smiles real fast.
Well, no way could she keep him in the hospital at two, three grand a day. Milt Dane protested, said she couldn’t just take him AMA—against medical advice. Jolene, mad, said, “Watch me.” Hank had already had a feeding tube inserted, so Earl borrowed a wheelchair and they brought Hank home in Earl’s van.
A bad move that almost alienated Milt, which she could not afford to do. Now she was smoothing that over; in the meantime, until Milt put Hank in a fancy nursing home, she was working round the clock, playing nurse. And while she was sure that Milt worried about her not sleeping, the real reason he wanted Hank in that home was so he could check on him without running into Earl, whom he despised.