After the Rain

by Chuck Logan

  Should he call his folks and tell them about Nina’s disappearance? Should they discuss the tactics and timing of telling Kit that her mommy was missing?

  Another part of his mind counseled that this pursuit of Dale Shuster was pure denial. According to this part of his mind, he should be getting ready to identify a corpse and make funeral arrangements.

  Yeager tried the Fuller number again, with the same result. The machine. He tried directory assistance for construction firms in the Minneapolis–St. Paul area with “Fuller” in their name. No luck. They sat and stared. The steady whack of the rotors torqued up the tension. Holly especially seemed to be getting wound tighter and tighter.

  “Pretty smart,” Holly finally said. “Using a piece of construction equipment as a delivery system. Hell, we’re used to seeing them sitting all over the place. Drive right by, never give it a second thought.”

  “We gotta wait and see,” Broker cautioned.

  “Bullshit. Why go to all the trouble to mill out solid cast iron?” Holly’s voice trailed off as his eyes drifted out the windows. “I just worry we’ll be too late.”

  Yeager sat calmly and listened. He had the look of an A student playing hookey; amazed pressure was building in his wide eyes.

  Broker realized he’d been holding the pack of cigarettes since they took off. Holly reached down, produced an ashtray, asked for a smoke. Then Yeager put out his hand. “Left mine in the car.”

  They lit up. Broker stared at the crumpled blue pack. Five left.

  When Mille Lacs Lake was a shimmer in the distance, the pilot contacted the tower at Camp Ripley. They dropped to treetop level and eased down on the landing strip, topped off their tanks, and were airborne again.

  Half an hour later they were over the silver ribbon of the St. Croix River, where it winds toward its juncture with the Mississippi. They banked and began a gradual descent southward along the river, then turned west. Holly was on his cell. Then he went forward and conferred with the pilot. Looking out the window, Broker saw a sight from twenty-six years ago. A red smoke grenade popped in an empty field next to a rural intersection. The Hawk swooped down and landed next to the smoke.

  Seeing Broker eyeball the smoke, Holly grinned. “Like old times, huh?”

  A gray government Chevy Nova waited for them next to the dissipating red smoke. Holly told the pilots to stand by, and then he, Broker, and Yeager ran to the waiting car.

  The ground contact Holly had been talking to was a young, black Army MP sergeant from Fort Snelling. He had a Hudson’s map open, with the route to the Fuller address indicated in yellow Magic Marker. He was in uniform and he was wearing a sidearm.

  “Let’s go,” Holly said.

  Irv Fuller lived less than three minutes away on four wooded acres. A sign next to the address announced PRIVATE DRIVE. House numbers had been chiseled into a large granite boulder.

  “Ole Irv looks like he’s doing all right,” Yeager said as they drove up a long asphalt drive screened by evergreens. The house was deceptive on approach, showing a limestone-faced Tudor, casement windows, and cedar shake in the front. But it was built into a hill with a third-story walkout on the back slope over a swimming pool. A large Morton building sat off the driveway apron. The doors to the Morton building and the three-bay garage were closed.

  They got out and snooped the house. A gray-and-white cat stared at Broker from a window; otherwise, it looked like no one was home. The MP sergeant sat in his car reading an Easy Rawlins paperback while Broker, Holly, and Yeager continued to nose around.

  “So, what do you think?” Broker asked.

  “I see an office in there,” Holly said, pointing through a window. “Maybe there’s business cards, stationery, invoices…”

  They had walked a circuit around the back, looking for a likely window, when a horn beeped out front.

  Then they heard the purr of an engine coming down the drive as they jogged around front and saw a Mercedes sedan pull up to the Chevy. The MP was out talking to a blond woman dressed in gymrat Spandex, sweatband, sport top, and cross trainers. The woman was tapping her foot and had her arms folded across her chest.

  As they walked up, Yeager speculated, “Irv’s first wife, Ginny Weller, was better from the waist up. I’d say Irv’s generally moving south in his life. This one’s better on the bottom.”

  She was attractive enough but Broker thought she’d better back off on the tanning booth unless she was working on donating her skin for a crocodile purse. She was uncertain, seeing an Army uniform and gun belt and then Yeager’s uniform in her driveway.

  “Is something wrong?” She asked.

  “Mrs. Fuller?” Yeager asked.

  “Yes. Sydney Fuller.”

  “I’m deputy Jim Yeager, Cavalier County Sheriff’s Department in Langdon—where Irv’s from. We know each other.”

  “Yes…” She shook her head. “He’s all right. I just dropped him off at the job an hour and a half ago. Before I went to my step class at the—”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s somebody else from Langdon we’re looking for who might be in contact with Irv. Dale Shuster.”

  Sydney oriented quickly. “Sure. They had some business recently. Irv bought some machinery.”

  “We really need to get in touch with Irv.” Yeager nodded to the house.

  “You’ll need his cell.” She gave Yeager the number and proceeded to talk, relieved this was a routine visit: “We took a run over to the Dells for two days. It’s the rain. The site was too muddy to work. We came back after lunch and I dropped him off to look it over. He figures by tomorrow they can start digging.”

  “And where’s the site?” Yeager asked.

  “Prairie Island.”

  Yeager saw Holly immediately react and flip open his cell phone. At the same time, Broker’s eyes went wide and hard. “What is it?” Yeager asked Broker.

  Broker moved forward, rasing his hand up to silence Yeager. “Did you say Prairie Island?” he asked Sydney Fuller, his voice struggling to stay calm.

  Still smiling, she was made a little uncertain now by Broker’s intensity. “Yes,” she said, “Irv landed the contract to…”

  Suddenly she winced and put her hands to her ears. “What’s that noise?” she gasped, staring at the way Holly abruptly circled his hand and ran out on her lawn, phone jammed to his ear. Totally un-prepared for the Black Hawk appearing in a fury of spinning machinery over her line of evergreens, she screamed and waved her arms. “My flower beds!”

  Broker came through the flowers and mulch churning in the prop wash, grabbed her arm, shook her to get her attention, and yelled, “You mean the power plant?”

  Aghast at the whirlwind whipping her yard, she shouted, indignant, “Yes, goddammit, the power plant.” She yanked her arm away. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Fuck! Let’s go!” Broker shouted to Yeager and started to sprint for the chopper. Yeager turned to Sydney Fuller, his face a question mark.

  Sydney yelled, “Prairie Island, the nuclear power plant, okay?”

  Yeager turned and ran.

  Chapter Forty-two

  At some point the lull of the tires on the road had tired out the monsters in her mind and put her to sleep. Upon waking, she had a perfectly normal thought. When Kit was an infant and they couldn’t get her down, Broker would tuck her in her car seat and set the seat on the clothes dryer. The steady motor chug would ease her to sleep.

  Kit.

  She pressed down on her elbows, brought up her head, and glared straight ahead. First they’d keep it from her. But someday she’d learn how her mom had died; drugged, smothered, violated.

  Can’t go out this way. Got to make it a fight.

  She heard: “Partly cloudy to sunny. Temperature eighty-three. The prevailing wind direction is steady, seven to eight miles per hour out of the northwest.”

  He was listening to the weather report, every chance he could, on an all-news station. She looked around. Couldn’t see much through the one c
lear window: treetops, a patch of blue sky. The steady thrum of the wheels on pavement changed, slowed; he was turning in somewhere. More trees rushed by the window. The Roadtrek stopped. He turned off the motor.

  Then Dale pulled the curtain to the side and Nina could see out the windshield: treetops, a lot of power lines all ganged together. Closer in, she saw him take pills from two prescription bottles propped up on the dashboard. Pop them in his mouth. Swallow. Wash them down with Coke.

  He was humming as he stripped off his work shirt and jeans. But then he took new clothes from a shopping bag and tore off the labels. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he pulled on comfortable baggy jeans and a blue golf shirt that set off his heavy white arms, throat, and face.

  The driver’s seat swiveled, and now he spun it around and sat down, facing her. “Now, about the bomb,” he said.

  The word bomb cut through the routine terror. She blinked herself alert as he rummaged around on the passenger seat, plucked up a four-by-eight-inch color photo, and leaned far forward, extending his arm so she could see it. She strained up, squinted. It was some big boxy yellow tractor with a shovel bucket on the front. Like you see on construction sites.

  “I sold this used 644C to Irv Fuller. He thinks he took me on the deal. But, trust me, he’s the one who’s in for a surprise.” Dale smiled slowly. “That’s what I do. I surprise people.”

  Nina shook her head. Sensed movement. Someone else coming.

  “Dale and I have some business to attend to,” said George Khari, as he climbed over the passenger seat, stood in the compartment, and nodded curtly.

  “Last night…” Nina said.

  George shrugged, waffled a hand in the air. “Fake left, go right, heh?” He was unshaven, haggard, still wearing the same soiled shirt and shorts. He smiled uneasily at Nina, spreadeagled on the bed. Perhaps she saw a hint of disapproval in his brown eyes. Even disgust. If true, it was the last item on his agenda.

  Nina tried to focus on him and got an impression of tremendous tension, but also excitement. The guy was practically throwing sparks as he held up a manila envelope and said to Dale, “Trade you.”

  Dale handed over the single photo and took the envelope. His thick fingers shook as he opened the flap and pulled out a stack of prints. An almost sweet smile spread over his face.

  “Just a peek,” George said softly as he held up a set of car keys. Dale nodded, lovingly set the envelope aside, and took the keys. “Now, make the call,” George said, again in the soft but firm tone.

  “Right.” Dale found the cell phone on the dashboard, consulted a slip of paper, punched in the numbers. A moment later he connected. “Hey, Irv. It’s Dale. Yeah. I’m here…About ten minutes out. You gonna come down to the gate and meet me?…Sure. Great. See ya.”

  George exhaled, his eyelids fluttered, and he raised his hand to the medal attached to a chain around his neck, fondling it, almost sensually. “Just like that,” he said under his breath.

  Dale gripped the keys in his hand, took a deep breath, and said, “I’ll be back.”

  George clapped him on the shoulder. “Just relax, act natural. It’ll go fine.”

  Dale nodded, spun the seat around, pushed open the door, and exited the camper. George, leaning over the steering wheel, watched through the windshield. Nina heard a car start and then drive away. When the sound of the engine faded, George collapsed into the driver’s seat and placed his hand on his chest.

  “My God, it’s going to work.”

  Nina waited a few moments, until George calmed down. Then she asked, “What’s going to work?”

  George studied her, then said, “I don’t know that I want to talk to you.”

  “Why? Afraid you’ll get to know me and that’ll make it harder to kill me?”

  Slowly George removed one of the Cuban Lanceros from his chest pocket and began peeling off the cellophane. “You’re some kind of Special Forces, huh?”

  “What’s going to work, George?” her voice cracked, not from fear. She was parched.

  George pursed his lips, thought about it, then put aside his cigar. He reached down, grabbed a bottle of springwater, unscrewed the top, leaned over, and held it to her lips. She drank, paused, and drank some more. The water shot through her like a current, waking up some parts, shoring up others. For a brief moment she was stuck on an odd point of captive etiquette: Should she thank him? The moment passed.

  He returned the water bottle to the front seat, took out a plastic lighter, and lit the Cuban. After he puffed a few times he sat back and studied her again.

  “Dale’s really something, huh? I think it’s a form of selective retardation, like autism; he’s got these big social holes in him.” George came forward. “Like, did he say anything about Joe?”

  “The guy who killed my…partner?”

  “Yeah. Dead himself now, too. It was on the radio. The cops shot him at the border.” George sighed and shook his head. “Joseph, always too ready with that gun. Didn’t work this time. But Dale doesn’t care. All he sees is what’s right in front of his nose. You know what? This whole country’s one big version of Dale. Business can’t see past the next quarter. The Army wears berets made in China. One big case of political autism. Blind to the rest of the world.”

  “Are you Al Qaeda, George? Is this some kind of ‘raid on a path,’ like it says in the Koran?” Nina asked.

  “You mean like Rashid, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut? Me? Shit, no. I don’t go in for any church. I sell booze as a front and basically I smuggle drugs. I send some money back to Lebanon. From time to time I run people across the border. But it’s like this deal, strictly for money.”

  “This deal?”

  “You wanna know? Why not. It’ll pass the time. First thing, we got control of Dale.”

  “How?”

  “I found out he’s one sick fuck. He had this list of three people he wanted to knock off. Because they teased him in high school. So we agreed to help him—you know, like snatching the woman in Grand Forks. We threw you in extra—you’re a freebie. And in return, he agreed to help us.” George reached into the passenger seat, took the color prints from the envelope. “And we promised him a new life.”

  George got up and held a Florida driver’s license just inches from her eyes. The name said William Charon. William Charon’s photo ID showed a much leaner man than Dale, with dark hair. With a shudder, Nina observed that William Charon looked a lot like Ace Shuster. Then George showed her the prints; front and side shots; some were head shots, others the whole body. But all were magically slimmed down.

  “It’s all digital imaging. Adobe Photoshop, on the computer. Our people in Winnipeg whipped out the license. Drugs, guns, counterfeiting; it’s what we’re good at. This other stuff is legit, from a plastic surgeon in Coral Gables who’s gonna work on Dale.”

  “A new identity,” Nina whispered

  “Yeah, give him a pretty new face and a backpack full of Epipens. Turn him loose on the female population. Hell,” George laughed, “he’ll be the new Ted Bundy.”

  Nina looked into George’s calm, calculating eyes. Legit…like hell. She figured Dale was a one-use asset. He had about an hour left to live.

  George put the prints and license back in the envelope and returned to his seat. “Things really got rolling,” he said, “when Dale explained the possibilities of this.” He reached down and picked up the picture of the yellow machine. “See those big-ass tires? That’s where we put most of it.”

  “Put most of what?” Nina asked.

  “The Semtex.”

  “How much Semtex?”

  “About four hundred pounds in each tire. Tucked a few hundred more pounds here and there. So we put in about a ton.”

  “You need a power source and a method of detonating it.” Nina thought out loud.

  “Pagers. Small enough to fit into the valve. We wired each blasting cap to a pager, with a cap booster. Then we deliberately overinflated the tires with foam and capped
them up. That way, Irv Fuller would complain that the machine handles stiff, which gives Dale a reason to visit the job site and get in the loader. See?”

  George grinned. He reached in his trouser pocket and took out a Globalstar Qualcomm GSP-1600. “I called the phone company and got a group pager number. Just one call and all the charges go at the same time.

  “Last thing we did was have the machine power-washed. Then we loaded it on a lowboy trailer. See, that’s the only thing they care about at customs on the Canadian border. They’re worried about bringing foreign agricultural soil into the States. Gave customs the paperwork and Dale just drove it right on through the port at Maida. Dale and Joe tweaked it some more in Langdon, and then had it delivered to Irv Fuller. We let Irv drive it to the target.”

  “The target?” Nina said in a numb voice.

  “Yeah, it’s a construction site. And the funny thing is, if it hadn’t been raining it would have blown already, three days ago. But work’s been held up because of the mud. So we had to wait till the rain stopped.”

  “What site?”

  George smiled and pointed his cigar out the window. “How about the Prairie Island Nuclear Plant? It’s about two miles that way. Irv Fuller’s company won the bid to build a security wall around the reactors. Dale and Irv went to high school together. So…Dale sells machines. Irv buys them. That’s the connection that made Dale invaluable.”

  Nina found herself in a new place: dread plus one. “But how do you get it inside?” she whispered.

  George laughed. “It’s already inside. Just sitting there. The construction company brought it in on a trailer, with all their stuff. Their workers have to pass background checks. The guards look inside lunch boxes and underneath vehicles. But they ain’t taking tires apart on the machines that came to make the plant safer.

  “Yeah, right now Dale is probably having Irv Fuller walk him through plant security—just another vendor visiting the site. The tricky part is, Dale has to move the machine next to the spent fuel pool.”