The Big Law pb-2

by Chuck Logan

  Unceremoniously, Tom dumped her on the cold cement floor and stooped to gather up the cash. She shook off her blanket. Damn. The kid was quick. She snatched a loose hundred. Tom tried to grab it back.

  The bill ripped. Instantly, Tom matched the torn halves.

  Christ, the whole middle was missing. Fast as a little mon-goose, the fat kid stuffed the missing portion into her mouth.

  Tom was totally flummoxed, squatting, stuffing money back in his pocket with one hand. Bills everywhere.

  He spotted an empty air mail envelope under the work-bench, seized it and shoved money in as fast as he THE BIG LAW/107

  could. Didn’t want them loose in his pocket. He crammed the envelope in his jacket, yanked the kid up in his arms and tried to get a finger in her mouth. Good luck. Little piranha had teeth. Then he did and…

  Ow, shit! Fucking kid bit him.

  From the corner of one wild eye, through the door window, Tom saw the big county cop interpose himself between Broker and Angland. He grabbed each of their collars in a slab hand and pushed them apart. Tom turned back to the kid.

  The kid glowered, jaws clamped obstinately shut.

  Christ. Frustrated, angry, Tom shoved. The kid plopped over on her butt. Amazing. Damn kid got up and faced him.

  Good. She was chewing. Go on, you little shit. Swallow it.

  Outside, the two overforty gladiators backed off, and Tom saw that the concern on all the faces was intimate. Local.

  Not the kind of cop masks you’d expect when capital crimes and federal agencies were waiting in the wings.

  Dumbass hicks. They don’t know. They don’t know.

  Tom grabbed the kid and shook. When she started crying, he got a finger in her mouth, swept around, trying to avoid her six or seven teeth. Nothing. She had swallowed it.

  Relieved, Tom patted her. “Nice baby,” he said. Outside, the tough guys performed a face-saving male dance of heavy breathing, straightening their clothing, running their hands around their belts and hitching up their pants. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

  “Okay,” Keith was saying. “Just keep this guy away from Caren.”

  Tom couldn’t resist. He pointed his finger. “He beat her up. He beat her up.” Nah nana nah na.

  Keith started to come at Tom again, and the big cop snared his right hand in a hold Tom recognized-from a police manual-as an arm bar. He levered Keith to the ground.

  “You’re real close to an assault charge here, Keith,” the cop admonished with massive understatement.

  Tom marveled at them, caretaking that fucker Angland.

  Cops. Buds to the bitter end. He reached back into the shop, swept up the bawling kid, and hugging her before him as a shield, stepped toward Keith. Tingling. It was jazz. He was improvising. He loved it. “Lock him up, he’s a wife beater…”

  A moment passed during which Keith made signs he had stopped resisting. “I’ll take Keith back in the house,” the cop said. “You talk to this one.”

  Keith muttered but jerked his head in agreement. The cop eased back on the arm and Keith stood up and swatted rusty, frozen pine needles off his overcoat. He turned and walked back to the house with the cop.

  The baby stopped crying. Little eyes cranked saucer huge, bulging up at Tom.

  Tom grimaced and held the kid at arm’s length. Damn bugged-out eyes annoyed him, so he turned the kid to face away. Kid was a little too cute. His own kids at this age had faces like cold macaroni and cheese. Like Caren. Like Keith.

  Even the ex-husband, the Marlboro Man. All of them. They were all somebody.

  And this snotty little kid would grow up to be like them.

  Should drop-kick the little brat into the lake.

  Broker snatched his child back and hugged her close to keep her warm.

  Tom held out his hand. “I’m Tom James with the-”

  “I know who you are,” snapped Broker. “Where’s Caren?”

  Tom appraised Broker at close range. Midforties, 180

  pounds packed long and tight into a six-foot frame. His spare face was a study in edges. His black eyebrows grew in a bushy line across his brow and lent a lupine intensity to his gray-green eyes. And hard. Not health club hard or even street hard. Harder than that-working outside in all THE BIG LAW/109

  weather hard. And still acting like a cop, because he had that barely concealed cop expression, the physical smirk he and all his cop buddies reserved for civilians and especially for reporters: I’ve forgotten more about real life than you’ll ever know, asshole.

  The wind reared off the lake, and Broker, who wasn’t wearing a coat, instinctively stepped into the shop. Tom followed him, cleared his throat and said, “I just wanted that moron to know I’m not afraid of him.”

  Broker’s gaze did a slow burn over Tom’s face. With his free hand he reached out and thumped Tom on the chest.

  “Where’s Caren? Why’d she drive all the way up here with you?”

  Tom shook his head. “Uh-uh. Not till he’s gone.”

  “How is she? Is she acting strange?” Broker demanded.

  “She’s strung out. Who wouldn’t be…”

  Broker reached in his pocket and pulled out a plastic bottle with a pharmacy label. He thrust it at Tom. “Keith says she went off these all at once. Which is dangerous. So quit dicking around and tell me where she is.”

  Giving orders. Tom grimaced, hating the authority implicit in the man. He took the pill bottle and turned it in his fingers.

  It explained a lot. He jerked his head toward the house.

  “What about Angland?”

  “That’s the county sheriff in there with him. He’ll escort Keith to the county line and send him home to cool off.”

  “You’re going to let him go?”

  Broker’s squint was like a beagle sniffing. “Does Caren want to charge him?”

  “She…” Tom couldn’t say it. He had come to deliver a message, and now he couldn’t. All he saw, thought, felt, was: the Money. And he liked it, Keith being on the loose…

  “She what?” Broker took a step closer. Razor-slit eyes, real skeptical. “What kind of trouble is Keith in? That would send a reporter on a field trip?”

  Tom fought for control of his features. “How long will Angland be here?” he muttered.

  “That’s up to the sheriff.”

  “Okay. I’ll call back, and if he’s gone, I’ll tell you where she is.”

  “Who made you stage manager. And who said you could leave,” said Broker. Dead flat voice. Arrogant cop’s eyes.

  The baby was still staring at Tom with those X-ray eyes.

  Baby cop’s eyes. She squirmed, trying to twist from Broker’s arms, trying to get down. Eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  That’s when Tom saw the object of her struggle. A hundred-dollar bill lay on the floor an inch behind Broker’s right boot.

  “C’mon, we’re going inside for a little talk,” said Broker turning, moving to the door. Tom dropped to one knee and scooped up the bill. Eyes darting, he checked the floor. Clean.

  Rising up, he came level with the damn kid, looking over her father’s shoulder. Saw him take it but she couldn’t do anything about it.

  Can you, you bug-eyed little shit.

  Now the damn kid’s face was beet red, swollen; she was holding her breath. Going out the door, Tom and Broker sensed it at the same time. She was choking.

  “Kit!” shouted Broker. Scary fast-this whole other set of scary reflexes kicked in-he hurled her belly-down into his left hand and smacked her hard on the back with his right.

  At the third hit, she gasped, coughed and expelled a wad of drool-wadded paper onto the floor.

  “What the hell?” Hugging his gasping daughter, Broker stooped. Poked at the expectorated mess. Picked it up.

  Tom walked stiffly past him in a controlled panic. All he could think was: have to get out of here. Jesus, right there, Ben Franklin’s smiling face oozed in Broker’s fingers.

 
; The baby, her airway clear, screamed.

  Broker, perplexed, concerned for the child, hugging her, shot out his free hand and spun Tom around by the shoulder.

  “How the hell did she get this?” he demanded, brandishing the wad of chewed paper. It fell away as Broker’s hand hooked at Tom’s collar.

  Tom tried to sidestep. Broker blocked him. Tom tried to run, but Broker closed the distance, tightened his grip on Tom’s collar. Slam. Tom’s back hit the side of the workshop.

  He met the suspicion in Broker’s eyes honestly, with a look of trapped hatred. He had the distinct impression it was a face that Broker had seen before.

  Guilty of something.

  “What’s going on?” Broker demanded; fast eyes, fast study.

  His strong hand twisted on the collar, shutting off wind.

  The baby screamed. Tom wanted to scream. Then somebody yelled, a hoarse male voice, furniture tipped over; trouble, inside the house. Broker released his grip and turned.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered. But he had started to jog toward the sounds of struggle in his home. The second Broker’s back was turned, Tom ran for the car as fast as he could.

  21

  Broker had to let James go. All hell was breaking loose in his house. Running, hugging Kit, half thinking: Choking.

  Really shook him. She was still panting, gagging, trying to catch her breath. The protective instinct fired afterburners more powerful than adrenaline. It was…

  Just powerful. So powerful he…

  Heard Tom James’s car door slam, engine start. Gravel clattered off car doors as James peeled up the driveway. Keep going. Jeff was in trouble.

  He vaulted the steps and stepped into the empty living room. Stopped. The odd quiet set his neck hair on end. Then he heard a muffled thump from the bathroom. At the same time he felt the draft from the ajar door leading to the deck.

  Clutching Kit to his side, he threw open the bathroom door and-aw Jesus-a very angry Jeff sat, arms extended behind him, cuffed to the water pipe under the sink. He had a washcloth stuffed in his mouth.

  Broker yanked out the rag. Jeff yelled, “I don’t believe it.

  He’s nuts. He pulled his weapon the minute we got inside.”

  Keith’s car door slammed in the yard. Kit began to cry louder.

  “Shit,” hissed Broker. “Where’s the key?”

  “They’re his cuffs. He’s got the key.”

  The Crown Victoria’s engine revved. “Shit,” said Broker again, tensing. Maybe he could run down Keith before he made the road. Then what?

  Kit held him back. The fear leaped again when she turned bright red in midwail, holding her breath. Not choking, scared.

  Jeff studied Broker’s turmoil. “Let him go. Leave it to us.”

  He bounced on the floor, furious. “Call nine-one-one. Give them Keith’s car.”

  Goddamn fucking kid. How was he going to explain the money in her mouth? Tom rotated the pill bottle in his fingers as he drove. Side effects. Had his own side effects to worry about. There could be a regular landslide of side effects. He crushed the plastic bottle in his fist and slammed the debris on the dashboard.

  Tom winced, remembering Broker’s suspicious eyes, questioning the piece of currency, putting it together. Tom and money.

  I’m going to get caught.

  Just say I took some of the money to show the FBI. That might work. All that buried money. He almost cried. Okay.

  Get past it. Needed Caren now, to vouch for him.

  He parked the station wagon in front of the motel office, headed into the dining room. The clerk called to him.

  “She isn’t here. She said to tell you she went for a walk.”

  Tom was confused. “Where? It’s freezing out.”

  “In the woods, up the ridge.”

  “Great.” Tom grimaced. Finding people in the woods was not his specialty. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “She uh, went up the trail to the Devil’s Kettle. It’s a waterfall a little ways up the Brule River.”

  “Waterfall?” Tom was incredulous.

  “It’s pretty unusual, mysterious actually,” said the clerk.

  “Half the river disappears in this enormous pothole. Over the years they’ve run experiments. Dumped in red dye, bobbers, hundreds of Ping-Pong balls. None of them were ever seen again. It’s bottomless.”

  “Where’s this trail?” Tom sagged, resigned.

  “Right across the road. There’s a path this side of the bridge. Otherwise, you go in through the park. It’s clearly marked, can’t miss it.” The clerk pointed.

  “Okay,” said Tom. He shook his head to clear it. His hand squeezed the shape of the cellular phone in his jacket pocket.

  “Do cell phones work up here?”

  “Have to be on top of the ridge. There’s a new tower they just built.”

  He opened the door and stepped outside. Roiling clouds grumbled, tiny snowflakes zipped, stacks of urgent whitecaps ripped across Superior. Across the road, the ridge rose in ominous pine thickets, black and green, like serrated teeth.

  “Thunder snow,” offered the helpful clerk. “Something you don’t see very often.” Tom nodded as he handled his cell phone, making sure the battery was socked in tight. Sheets of icy wind sheared off the lake. Shivering, he stuck his hand in his pocket and felt the locker key.

  He wanted to kill her, of course. And her crazy ex-husband.

  And the damn kid. But he needed her. To explain the money.

  With a rueful smile, he realized he hadn’t thought about the story for hours.

  He pulled on his light gloves. Should have brought mittens.

  Couldn’t find his hat. Not dressed warm enough but he had to get it over with. He got in the car, drove it to the end of the drive and braked out of habit, to check both ways.

  The growl of the big engine preceded the speeding Crown Vic. Keith Angland skidded around a turn and came straight for the Subaru.

  Seeing that car coming directly at him, Tom panicked. He kicked open the door, jumped out and darted across the highway. Where’s the damn trail? Running. Found it. Cold air seared his lungs. But he kept going through a knee-deep slush of frozen grass until he’d gained enough high ground to overlook the highway through a break in the trees.

  Saw Angland park at the lodge, hurry into the office. He came out a minute later at a dead run, jumped back in the car and came up the drive, heading right for the spot where Tom had disappeared into the trees.

  Tom gripped the cell phone in his pocket. Call for help.

  But he couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. Angland was loose.

  After him.

  But then-

  A hot, loud cheer shoved aside the detached, reasoning voice that had guided him through twenty years of journalism. Take a chance, Tom.

  Angland was after them. Terror whittled his imagination to a lethal sticking point. He saw the way out.

  What if Keith threw her in a frozen river and she drowned?

  It would be his word against Angland’s. But he had the tape. Got to try. Angland was out of his car. Three hundred yards away. Tom sprang forward and ran for his life, up the trail, into the spiky black forest.

  22

  The wind swung an ax. Frozen sweat clicked in his hair.

  Snow pecked his face. He shuddered, hunched his shoulders, gasped for breath, and his lungs crunched the ice-cold air.

  Tom didn’t care. He prayed to his Jackpot God: Please, let me have this one thing and I’ll never ask for anything else.

  Signs. C. R. MAGNEY STATE PARK. To his left, a deserted campground, some brown buildings, a footbridge across the lower stream.

  The trail skirted the edge of a river gorge carved through raw rock. Curtains of mist twinkled in the chill air. From the corner of his eye he saw rushing brown water, dirty ivory froth, curling between ice swirls.

  All uphill, tricky footing on ladders of landscape timbers furred with frost and frozen mist. Brilliant green ma
ts of Arctic moss bunched in crannies. Weird trip roots. Rocks.

  He paused. Gulped air. Heard-brush crackling behind him.

  With a sob in his lungs, he bolted on.

  The low subterranean grumble of surging water animated the canyon. His breath came harder. His calves burned. His thighs burned. Up more slick-timbered stairs. A sign. DEVIL’S KETTLE. Arrow to the right. Running now, along the lip of the gorge the ice-choked river a hundred feet below. Down.

  Up again. Then he was slipping and falling down the longest cascading flight of rugged wooden stairs he had ever seen, out in the middle of nowhere.

  With a silent pop-the ice gray day mushroomed into Snow City.

  Tom’s white tortured breath exploded. A million snowflakes filled the world and dropped a gauzy net of sticky flakes. Every surface-coated. The mangy undergrowth had its Cinderella moment, transformed. Delicate white-encrusted coral lines graced the hillsides. Even Tom was struck with the gentle sorcery of first snow.

  Soon a white, soft silent cushion absorbed the thud of his shoes. All he heard was the blast of his own breath. And the muted torrent up ahead. Then he breasted the slope, passed an observation platform of stout timbers and saw the falls below. The Brule growled, hidden beneath a petticoat of ice that pitched down a fifty-foot drop.

  Granite boulders divided the river into two channels. To the right, the solid ice sheet masked the falls. But on the left the ice was open. The left channel spun on the brink, spiraled in a tight roller-coaster turn and boiled like a runaway black sprocket between the glassy skirts. Down, out of sight, into a granite cavern.

  Seeing it, Tom believed it was bottomless.

  And he saw Caren. A pale, blue denim figure

  poised-dangerously-on the huge slippery boulder that divided the river. He saw how. She’d crossed an ice bridge that linked smaller boulders to the shore. Through breaks in that ice Tom could see the streaking white water mark the velocity of the current as it rammed the boulder. Bare-headed, ghostly in the thick snow and mist, snowflakes sequined in her black hair, she stared into the exposed pothole.