by Chuck Logan
He spun and asked point blank, "Does Keith know you have the money?"
She shook her head no. "It took me a week to find where he hid it after I first saw the tape." She studied his face and asked, "Are you all right?"
"I was just thinking how it isn't a story for me anymore. It's a tragedy happening to some people."
"That's an odd sentiment for a reporter."
"I don't feel like a reporter right now, Caren." He studied her beautiful, bruised face, saw how it was chilled by the wind, almost like a carved ivory brooch.
Or a death mask. How would it look under a million tons of Lake Superior ice water? Effortlessly, he sketched the rough headline: "Dirty Cop Kills Wife Who Helped Indict Him."
But he didn't know how to make that happen. He tried to imagine himself holding her under water, out there, in that violent surf. Hell. She was stronger than he was. And that would still leave him walking around, the last person to have knowledge of her whereabouts. The loose end. Loose ends get yanked on, they could braid into a noose. An exercise in fantasy.
Still—almost perfect.
He turned and faced south; every atom in his being was drawn to the hidden cash. Magnetic greed. But it was probably dirty. Easily traced. Still, there were ways to pass cash. He'd written about it.
But not without accomplices. Not in large amounts.
The fantasy was coy, danced close, then moved off like a third person and pranced on the frozen grass. It handled her all over and she didn't know it.
He still had the story. With a resigned heave, he turned to her. "Do you really need to talk to Phil? The FBI will be here in a couple of hours."
Caren nodded her head vigorously. "I want him to know that I'm doing the right thing for once. And, I don't know—maybe I need a lawyer. Ask him what he thinks about the Witness Protection Program."
Tom could still experience a piercing moment of compassion for her. "People like you don't go into Witness Protection. It's for crooks."
"Then what happens to people like me?" she asked in a flat doomed voice.
They looked at each other, out of words. Tom had the impression they'd arrived at a place off the map of their lives. They turned back toward the warmth of the lodge. Inside, Tom said, "Okay, I'll go talk to him. Where is he?"
"Keith's there," she cautioned.
"I'll just have to deal with it."
She scanned his face dubiously. "Broker's Beach is about four miles up the road on the right. There's a sign. You can't miss it."
He left her sitting at a table, alone, with the ornate hall surrounding her like a gaudy broken heart.
20
Tom drove to Devil's Rock, which was nowhere. Just a sign. He pulled over to the side of the road fifty yards from the faded sign for BROKER'S BEACH RESORT—CLOSED. He took the packet of bills from his pocket. It won't be missed, he told himself. He slipped off the rubber bands that secured the ends. Broke the paper strap.
The hundreds fanned in his hand. He counted, thinking there was nothing that couldn't be fixed by money. That buried suitcase contained enough to manufacture a whole new life.
The count was one hundred. He'd never felt so strong, lifting $10,000 with one hand.
Except Caren knew where it was hidden. She would gush it all to this Broker guy. Maybe she had a count and would figure out the packet was missing.
A hundred hundreds and that was just one. The goddamn bag weighed almost fifty pounds. And now he'd have to put it back.
Looking up and down the empty stretch of road, he was stricken. What a wild desolate place this was. It wasn't fair. Being this close. He stuffed the loose bills in his jacket pocket. Angry now, Tom stabbed the gas and turned down the entrance road to the resort. The only satisfaction left was seeing the look on Keith Angland's face when he told
him his wife had ripped off his money. And the FBI was coming for his ass—and all because of me—Tom James.
The gray Subaru pulled into the drive and parked alongside the county Bronco, Broker's Jeep, and Keith's Ford. Broker watched a pasty guy in a baggy brown parka get out—longish hair, mustache, glasses, the same guy in the picture lying on his kitchen table.
A chair tipped, slammed against the plank floor. "Hey! What's going on?" Keith was on his feet.
Everybody was moving. Broker pointed to the picture, out the window, said to Jeff, "That's him, he's traveling with Caren." Kit had quieted. Now she began to cry again in the bedroom. Keith yanked open the door. Jeff stayed with him step for step.
Broker was torn. One step forward and two steps back. He confirmed that Caren was not in the car. The old Broker would have Keith on the ground by now. Jeff yelled over his shoulder, "Stay clear." The new Broker went for the baby.
Outside, Tom James slammed the car door, looked around and pulled up his collar. Resort cabins, bleached by cold, with shuttered windows, hunkered in a rocky cove. A county sheriff's Bronco, the big unmarked Ford, and a green Jeep were parked in front of a large cedar-plank home, out on a rock promontory.
Lake Superior lashed the shore. Spume flew ten feet. The air turned to shadow. Even Tom, an inside city dweller, could feel the storm charge jitter in the swirling clouds.
The door to the house opened and Angland pushed through it. A tall husky uniformed cop strode after him. Seeing the tough hick lawman provided instant comfort as Angland bore down on him. Shouted:
"Where is she, scumbag?"
"Guess what, Angland, it's FBI time," Tom shouted back in a shaky voice, trying to stand his ground. The wind whipped the words away.
"Hey, fuck you," seethed Angland, and Tom saw that he was working himself into a jerky Samurai rage, like an actor in a Japanese movie. The uniformed cop threw out a restraining arm. Angland put both his palms out, warding off the cop. "Stay out of my personal life, Jeffords," he warned.
Personal.
The word tattooed into Tom's brain. They still thought it was personal. Keith was fooling them. Oh boy. Caren hadn't told them about the real reason…
A lean, dark-haired man with striking black eyebrows strode out on the porch, holding a toddler bundled in a blanket. Another tough hick. The uniformed cop swung his eyes to the man on the porch and called, "Stay there, Broker."
In that instant, when the cop's eyes were averted and he took a step back toward the porch, Tom and Keith were alone.
Tom sneered at Angland, wanting to wound him. The words shot out, "Hey, tough guy. Guess what—she's got your dirty mob money."
For a second, Angland did nothing except tabulate behind his cold eyes. Then his face curdled. "I'll kill you sonofabitch!"
Before the cop spun back around, Tom's wild glance locked with the hard-eyed gaze of the man on the porch. He had seen the exchange with Angland and was now scrutinizing Tom. But then the cop lunged and threw his arms around Angland's shoulders. Broker sprinted, baby in arms.
"Hold her," he yelled, holding the baby out as he pushed Tom toward a door in the side of the garage, opened it and thrust him and the kid through. "Stay put."
Inside, a woodstove, wood shavings curled on the floor. The walls held racks full of woodworking tools. The kind of shop Tom once dreamed of having. The kid squirmed and started to cry. Tom ignored her. Voices surged outside. He went to the door, to watch the fight develop in the yard.
All big guys, in their forties. Tom sensed their slight caution, past the straight-ahead fury of their youth. Broker waded in and hooked one of Keith's legs with his ankle and swept him off balance. But Keith, light-footed, recovered, shook them both off and went for Broker. And Tom saw that it was definitely Japanese movie time, the way they puffed up with macho-strut and put on their bad Kabuki scowls. Wow. These two guys really hate each other.
Fighting over Caren, maybe.
He tensed forward, eager to see two men their age fight. Especially these two. But then he became aware of the weight of the toddler in his arms—she had stopped yowling.
And plunged her plump hand into his pocket and now
was fascinated by the fistful of hundred-dollar bills mashed in her small but strong fist.
"Hey, you little shit," protested Tom.
As he shifted the baby's weight to reach with his other hand, the kid thrust the hand up and out, throwing open her fingers. Bills erupted and fluttered all around. The kid squealed, distinctly, "Pretty-pretty."
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 mongoose, 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 workbench, seized it and shoved money in as fast as he 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 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 hundreddollar 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.
