Absolute Zero

by Chuck Logan

  Shit.

  He was still wearing his hospital gown under his coat. A nurse had knotted the belt around his waist as he rushed through processing. He wasn’t wearing undershorts. Or socks.

  His shoes weren’t tied.

  All that was too hard, bending with his cast and sling and the swollen fingers.

  And he was hungry, but he didn’t have time for that, either.

  Plus, he hurt, but he couldn’t afford to take any more of the pills because he was heading into a four-hour drive. Muttering, he went down the stairs and stooped to the file cabinet next to his computer and opened the bottom drawer. In the back, behind some folders, he located the small canvas zipper case. With difficulty, using his numb left fingers to wedge the case against his hip, he unzipped the case. He removed the heavy Colt automatic and the two loaded magazines—fat, stumpy bullets in a staggered row. They looked like spring-loaded teeth from a small tyrannosaurus rex. Earl shook his head. The pistol was a fossil from another era.

  He tried to remember the last time he’d cleaned the .45.

  Hell, he hadn’t even fired the thing for years. Stovall hadn’t known that, though.

  Goddamn Jolene. This off-and-on roller coaster had to cease. When this is done, we’re going to take the money and go someplace warm. An island, maybe, full of people who speak a different language to limit her ability to get into messes.

  He inserted the magazine, pulled the slide with difficulty. Snicker-snack, the mechanism loaded a round in the chamber. Okay. He set the safety. Then he put the other magazine in his jacket pocket, grabbed at a fleece sweater, some socks, gloves, a hat. He stuffed them in the first thing that came to hand—a plastic bag from CompUSA. Funny, he hadn’t been to CompUSA lately.

  It’d be cold up north.

  Which forced him to think in practical terms. The ground would be permafrost, impossible to dig; and he couldn’t anyway with his arm. So hopefully the lakes wouldn’t be frozen, because that’s where they’d have to put Broker and the nurse.

  And what about Hank?

  He was in the middle of this thought, coming up the steps into the kitchen, headed for the refrigerator, hoping to find something to eat real quick—

  When the needles raked his bare ankle.

  Goddamn fucking cat!

  Everything that had happened and now this. It blew his stopper. He yanked the Colt from his pocket with his good right hand, flicked the safety, and—

  BLAAM!

  He blasted a round at the ball of gray fur and scrambling claws and punched a ricochet notch in the floor tile that sent shards of terra-cotta flying all over, pinging off the walls and windows.

  The empty casing flipped over in a plume of cordite and tinkled in the heavy burner grates on the stove.

  Fucking cat was still booking through the living room.

  BLAAM!

  Missed again, hit the far wall, and the impact knocked two pictures down.

  “I’ll get you when I come back,” Earl shouted, his ears stinging from the violence of the shots. He shook his head. Cat crossing his path, a bad sign at the beginning of a bad project.

  Swinging his gun hand to clear the blur of cordite in the air, he opened the refrigerator, found nothing easy to carry except four cans of Diet Pepsi linked by a web of white plastic. He put his gun back in his pocket, took the soda and a box of day-old glazed doughnuts from the cupboard, and went to the garage and got in his van.

  Ten minutes later he was driving west on Highway 36 heading for the junction of I-35. He had three-quarters of a tank of gas, and he was on his second doughnut and was halfway through a Pepsi.

  Steppenwolf was playing on KQRS. Which was a good sign. It canceled out the cat. He rubbed the head of the War Wolf action figure taped to the dashboard, then reached down and turned the volume up all the way, gobbled the rest of the sugar dough, and rocked behind the wheel.

  Heavy metal thunder . . .

  For better or worse, that’s me, he thought.

  Here I come.

  Allen sprinted through the pines, crashed through some underbrush, and jumped in his car. Their fault, not mine, he thought as he sped away, shifting through the gears.

  I could have stopped it right there. Hank dies peacefully in his sleep. The End. But no, they had to come back. Now more people will have to pay.

  Interesting the way the logic worked in this new world. Clearly they were bringing this on themselves. Almost with a mind of its own, the Saab raced toward the Timberry Trails Hospital. He visualized the procedure he must perform; he knew exactly what he had to do next and what he needed to do it.

  He’d be reversing his skill-set, operating outside the OR.

  The opposite of fixing.

  He put his chances at one in three of getting out of this.

  “One in three,” he said out loud.

  But, if he correctly understood Jolene’s phone conversation with Garf, he had some leverage. He now recalled the odd talk he’d had with Garf about crucifixion, just after Hank came home from Regions, after they discovered his health insurance had lapsed. And after they’d discovered that Hank’s wacko accountant had put all Hank’s funds in a trust where Jolene couldn’t get to it.

  And then the accountant was found frozen, nailed to a tree, taking masochistic body piercing to a new height. Everyone at the hospital had talked about it. Preoccupied with his own dilemma, he had not put Garf’s questions, and his own precise advice about the placement of the nail, together with Stovall’s death. Clearly Garf was trying to reclaim Hank’s money for Jolene. Clearly Garf was much more dangerous than previously thought.

  And so was Jolene.

  And so was he.

  Congratulations, Allen. You finally made it to the bigs.

  Timberry Trails Hospital appeared below him on its own cloverleaf; compact, red brick, it could have been a small bible college.

  Allen had leapfrogged the tango. He imagined he was wearing spurs, that they jingled. He parked and took his doctor’s bag and walked through the icy dusk toward the main entrance. The parking lot was almost empty. A slow end to the day. The OR would be practically deserted unless they got emergency business. Or they brought a woman down from Maternity who needed a C-section.

  There’d just be a bored anesthetist on call, probably watching television in the anesthesia office.

  He let himself in the side door and slipped down a stairwell and came out in the hall near the pre op desk.

  Just as he expected, the corridors on either side of the red line were deserted. And the sounds of college football came from the only office door that was open.

  Allen removed his watch from his left hand and put it in his pocket. Then he poked his head in the door. A lean young man dressed in blue scrubs and bonnet looked up, then came alert.

  “Hey, Allen, what are you doing here? Is there something scheduled I don’t know about?”

  “Nah, Jerry; I just need a favor.”

  “What’s up?”

  Allen held up his left hand and pointed to his bare wrist. “I left my watch somewhere in here. The last place I was before I left today was the anesthesia workroom, talking to Jeannie. Toss me the keys for a sec.”

  Jerry reached in his pocket and flipped a key ring. Allen caught it and paused, feigning interest in the TV. “Who do you like?” he asked.

  “Notre Dame.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The anesthesia workroom was just three doors down the corridor. Allen found the key and opened the door. He hit the light switch and went in. The room was designed like a long, gray closet lined with cabinets and shelves. The center of the room was jammed with anesthesia carts from the day’s surgery.

  Off to the side, Allen saw what he was looking for: an anesthesia tray that hadn’t been cracked for a cart and had been set aside to be returned to the pharmacy.

  He snapped open his bag, unsealed the tray, and took several ampules and stopper bottles of narcotics. He selected some needles, closed th
e tray, and returned it to the counter on the far side of the room. He found an elastic tourniquet in one of the open carts. From the cabinets along the wall, he took a couple of IV bags, some IV tubing, and another bottle filled with white liquid. He snapped his bag shut.

  Time elapsed, less than two minutes. He slipped his watch back on his wrist, turned off the lights, closed the door, and went back down the hall.

  “Bingo,” he said to Jerry, holding up his hand that now sported his Rolex. “Right next to the sink where I thought it was.”

  Jerry, deep in his game, just held up his open palm. Allen dropped the keys into it and hurried from the hospital. Going to his car he ignored the frigid air that ice-picked his eyes. It was time to focus. To visualize the task ahead. He drove toward the Interstate on deserted asphalt starched with frost.

  The procedure would be easy. The people would be the problem. He thought of Jolene and Garf as patients on a mission, propelled by crude ideas and armed with cruder implements. There would be complications.

  Allen took a deep breath, calculated—no, he was wagering now, betting. Gambling.

  He flipped open his cell phone and pressed some plastic, keying in the letters: GA. The Caller ID function searched his queue. Because Garf was assisting in Hank’s home care, Allen had logged his cell and pager numbers.

  Garf’s name, followed by his number, popped up on the screen. Now it all depended on Garf having his cell phone and pager close at hand. His car ran smoothly and he was gaining ground. Perhaps the fierce cold pressing on the windshield helped concentrate his mind. His reflexes were functioning perfectly. He had never believed in luck.

  Until now.

  He punched in Garf’s cell number.

  One ring, two, three. Patience, Garf had the broken arm.

  “What now?” answered a surly voice after ring four.

  “I wouldn’t stop in Ely and ask directions to Uncle Billie’s Lodge if I were you. Especially wearing a cast and considering what you and Jolene are planning for Broker and the nurse.”

  Long pause. Then: “Who the hell is this?”

  “Professor Rath.” Allen smiled.

  “What a minute,” Garf said through the road noise. Then. “Okay. I know who you are. Give me a reason why I should continue this conversation.”

  “Because it turns out we have a lot in common. Where are you right now?” Allen asked.

  “Heading north. I just passed Cambridge.”

  “Stop at Tobie’s when you get to Hinckley,” Allen said. Tobie’s restaurant was the traditional halfway pit stop to Duluth. “What are you driving?”

  “I’m in the van. Freezing my ass.”

  “Park in the lot, stay in the van. I’ll find you.” Allen switched off the phone and stepped on the accelerator. It was an amazing sensation. His life was rolling like dice.

  Chapter Forty-four

  He was moving in the back of a car and it was all black outside the boxy windows. Not far away he sensed terrific cold. But here, inside, bundled in his bedding, the sensation of motion was enjoyable. Especially enjoyable considering the last thing he remembered was Allen coming in through the patio door to suffocate him with a pillow.

  Now he was just inches from a snoozing Amy Skoda, whose hair tickled his cheek and smelled like herbal shampoo. She reclined beside him. They were like Roman lovers at a feast.

  Maybe he had dreamed the scene with Allen.

  Maybe he was dreaming now.

  In the front seat Broker and Jolene discussed procedure. If it turned out that Hank could make a case that Nancy Ward, the recovery-room nurse, had acted with malicious intent, Broker insisted on calling the St. Louis County sheriff’s office.

  Jolene thought Milt should be in on the decision. But she understood Amy’s status and was willing to hold off on Milt until the next round of communication with Hank.

  Broker shook his head. “We don’t know how much energy he’s got left, how long this can go on. I want someone else around to verify what we’re doing.”

  Jolene worried her lower lip between her teeth, squinted at the luminous numerals on her digital watch, and looked out the window.

  “Okay,” she said. “But we wait for the morning. I want him to get a full night’s rest.”

  Broker nodded. “How we doing back there?” he asked, calling over his shoulder.

  There was no answer. Jolene twisted in her seat. “They’re both asleep.” She turned back around and gave the silence between them enough time to go from informal to personal. Then she inclined her head. “You and me; we’re water under the bridge, right?”

  Broker did not answer so she extended her hand and poked a finger in his right thigh. “So you were a cop?”

  “Who says?”

  Jolene tossed her head toward Amy in back. “Miss Goody Two-shoes told me.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Broker minimized.

  “You should have told me, you really should have,” Jolene said.

  Broker shrugged.

  “An undercover cop?”

  “I worked some time undercover.”

  “Is that where the police record came from, made up for working undercover.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about drugs? Did you work around drugs?” Jolene asked.

  “Some. I didn’t like working drugs. Mostly I went after illegal gun traffic,” Broker said. He braked slightly as the loneliest, coldest, eight-point buck in Northern Minnesota trotted stiffly across the frost-bleached highway.

  “Really? I thought cops were big into busting people for drugs,” Jolene said.

  “They are. It’s their buffalo, the resource that supports their way of life. We should legalize them, like booze.”

  “That’s radical for a cop.”

  “Ex-cop.”

  “Okay, ex-cop.” Jolene nodded respectfully.

  Broker returned the nod. “People can learn how to quit getting high. You’d agree with that.”

  “I’d agree with that,” Jolene said.

  “Yeah, well, try to learn how to quit being dead after you’ve been shot five times in the chest with a Tec Nine converted to full auto.”

  “And the drugs are the reason a lot of people are shooting each other,” Jolene said.

  “There you go,” Broker said.

  “Sort of like what Hank used to call a worldview, with the buffalo and everything,” Jolene said with a wry smile. Then she turned away and stared out the window. The dashboard lights created a transparent mirror effect in the glass, and she saw her face superimposed on the darkness.

  Of the many hard parts to this thing, the hardest was that she still liked him a lot.

  No one wanted to turn off their cars in this weather. An inferno of auto exhaust clouded the air and made the vehicles in the parking lot of Tobie’s look like they were on fire. Allen, always prepared, popped his trunk, opened his winter survival bag, and pulled out a fleece sweater and his Goretex parka, put them on along with a warmer hat and gloves. Then he closed the trunk, picked up his medical bag, walked over to the green Chevy van, knocked, and then opened the door.

  Garf’s hair was askew and silver-tipped with ice. His face looking like raw Polish sausage. He sat behind the wheel with his bare chest peeking between the askew hospital robe that he wore under his coat. His empty left sleeve stuck out akimbo, his left hand was in a sling and poked from the coat and rested on the steering wheel. He looked demented, Shakespearean, in that getup.

  There was this big pistol sitting in his lap.

  Allen, getting in, sitting down, had learned about guns working his way backward from wound ballistics at Regions, back when it was Ramsey County Emergency. He identified the weapon as an old, 1911 military-model .45. It made a big hole and had been designed specifically to knock a man down with one shot.

  “Okay,” Garf said, sliding his right hand over the handle of the pistol and pointing it at Allen. “The next thirty seconds are the most important of your life. Talk.”


  Allen stared into the muzzle of the pistol and took a moment to anesthetize the stammer of panic he felt swelling up in his gums and teeth and tongue. Then he smiled tightly and peppered Earl with concise sentences: “You talked to Hank, I talked to Hank. You told him what happened to Stovall. I told him how I accidently gave him the wrong medication in the recovery room up there. He can hang both our asses.” Allen checked his watch. “Ten seconds. Anything else you want to know?”

  Garf stared at Allen for a long time.

  Allen, reassured, continued in a more relaxed tone. “I saw Broker and Amy bring you into the ER early this afternoon. I went to the house and was in the kitchen when they were in the studio with Hank. When they did the alphabet-board bit. I heard them on the baby monitor. Then I went around the back of the house and hid under the deck when Jolene came out and called you. I tried to get in and do it quietly with a pillow but they came back and I had to leave. Sorry.”

  Garf had to laugh. “The fucking baby monitor?” Then he narrowed his eyes. “A pillow? What happened to, you know, the Hippocratic Oath?”

  Allen smiled. “What’d Jolene mean when she said this is NoDak serious?”

  Garf lowered his eyes and scratched the pattern on the wooden handle of the pistol with a fingernail. It made a distinct sound. Maybe the hinge of fate.

  Allen continued. “I get the impression you and she have been here before.”

  Garf’s eyes came up. Allen thought they might have been very nice eyes once and had been filled with many possibilities. Garf said, almost tenderly, “And this is your first time.”

  Allen, all business, brushed the comment aside. “So how are you going to find the place? Ask everybody in town?”

  Garf took a deep breath, winced; mistake, his ribs.

  “I remember how to get there,” Allen said. “And what were you going to do with them after you shot them full of great big holes? There’s ballistics to worry about. And messy body fluids. And what about Hank. He has to stick around, you know. There’s millions of dollars at risk.”