by Chuck Logan
“Hello.” Pause, then, “Not bad, how’s yourself.” Her eyes turned to Broker. “It’s Griffin.”
Broker heaved up from his chair, took the receiver, put it to his ear.
“I figured you’d be calling me. Looks like you got a little situation going,” Harry Griffin said, his voice coming to a point.
Good old blunt direct Harry. “Oh, yeah,” Broker said ambiguously.
“You met Keith Nygard, right?”
“We met,” Broker said.
“Well, being the sheriff, he don’t exactly need an invite. But he stopped in to see me. He’s here right now, he’s got some questions for you. Figured he’d put me in the picture. He’s low-key, likes to keep it friendly. He ain’t in uniform. Tell Nina it’s about the crew. Ah, put on your coat and boots. You might be taking a ride.”
Broker picked up the cordless phone from the counter, hung up the rotary, and walked into the living room. When he was out of earshot, he asked, “What’d you tell him? About me?”
“Not a whole lot. That you were a cop; but he’d pretty much figured that out. Up to you how much more you tell him. But he ain’t dumb. Relax, this dustup with Jimmy Klumpe is nothing major, humor him. We’ll be over in half an hour,” Griffin said, ending the call.
Broker walked back in the kitchen and hung up the phone. Saw Nina and Kit watching him. They didn’t get many phone calls. “Griffin’s coming over with a friend. Wants to talk,” he said, sitting down at the table.
He felt Nina’s eyes map his body language. Christ, she is coming back. All the deadly green range-finding optics swimming into focus.
Broker shrugged and sat back down at the table. “Something about the stone crew.”
“Uh-huh,” Nina said.
“Yeah. Wants to look over the woodpile. Maybe take a drive, check out a job.”
“In the dark?” Nina wondered.
“You know Griffin-when he gets an idea in his head, he never quits.” Broker let the thought hang. Then he turned to Kit and said, “C’mon. Eat your dinner.” He picked up his fork and looked down at his own plate, where the spaghetti lay twisted in a meaty red coil like a belly wound.
The sheriff. Great.
Chapter Twenty-one
The first time Broker laid eyes on Harry Griffin was thirty-two years ago-this surreal red figure from a Fellini movie that emerged from the soaking white morning mist next to a sandbar in the Trieu Phong River. Griffin had been walking point with a squad of Popular Forces, moving between night positions. A roving ambush. He collided with a VC point man on a muddy trail, and they exchanged fire point-blank in the fog. The Viet Cong’s AK rounds ripped through the red smoke grenades that had been hanging off the side of Griffin’s radio, and the smoke seeped out and completely coated him in the thick chemical pigment; his hair, his teeth, his skin, and his gear.
They met because of a bomb.
Buck sergeant Griffin, the radio man on the local district advisory team, had killed the lead VC. The rest scattered. He also killed two water buffalo on the trail behind the VC point. The animals made an unreal racket going down, but not so loud that Griffin didn’t hear the screeching metal ricochet. The Viet Cong had been moving four buffalo across the river. The two dead animals and the two survivors were lashed together with a bamboo yoke on which they were transporting an unexploded 2,000-pound bomb.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in red shit,” Griffin had said to brand-new Second Lieutenant Phil Broker, who had choppered in from Hue City with Major Ray Pryce and a gaggle of brass to inspect the find.
They met again, a short while later, in the cauldron battle for Quang Tri City. They stayed together until the end, in ’75.
Broker, with a flashlight in his pocket, stood in the driveway smoking a cigar as Harry Griffin eased up the drive in his runaround vehicle, a ’99 Jeep Sport. His work truck was still on the hoist at Luchta’s. Griffin parked next to the Tundra and got out. He was in his late fifties now, and as he approached, Broker saw how the harsh yard light really dug into the creases and hollows under his gaunt cheekbones. After way more Peter Pan years than a guy should have, Detroit Harry was finally starting to look his age.
Griffin was alone. He walked up to Broker, followed him through the garage to the back deck, and glanced at the video flicker in the kitchen windows.
“Why do I get the feeling she ain’t watching Survivor?” Griffin said.
“The War in the Box,” Broker said.
“She feels left out, huh?” Griffin asked.
Broker shook his head. Not so much an answer as a weary dismissal of the subject. He did notice, even in the dark, that Griffin was watching him closely.
“You’re no fun,” Griffin said, “don’t want to talk about the war-everybody’s talking about the war; how cool it is. Reporters gushing all over themselves, getting to ride on tanks…” He paused, nodded toward the TV flicker. “How’s she doing? I was surprised she answered the phone. She sounded more like her old self.”
Broker nodded. “She coming out of it.” Looked back through the garage. “Where’s the local copper?”
Griffin shrugged. “A few minutes behind me.”
“What’s he know?”
“I been living up here ten years, so he knows me, some of what I did in the Army. He’s called me a couple times, to help out in a pinch.” Griffin shrugged. “Knows we were on the same team in the old days.”
“Great, what else did you tell him?”
“Hey, numb-nuts, you were the one whipped a Kansas City lateral restraint on Jimmy Klumpe yesterday. Keith says you did it perfect, like it was pure reflex. Says he learned the technique in Skills and never has been able to get it right.”
Broker turned and looked at the bluish flicker of the TV in the kitchen. “Does he-”
Griffin shook his head. “No. Nothing about her.”
Broker changed the subject, poking Griffin not quite playfully on the shoulder. “Talked to Susan Hatch at the school today, huh? Actually, she talked to me. She got right down to cases, asking questions about Kit. And me. Let it slip she knew you in the biblical sense. What have you been telling her, like in bed?”
The question hung unanswered in the falling snow as a pair of headlights swept across the tree line to the side of the yard. Broker and Griffin walked back through the garage into the driveway. Keith Nygard drove a gray Ford Ranger, not his Sheriff ’s Department cruiser. He parked it next to Griffin’s Jeep, got out in jeans, a Filsen parka, and bulky La Crosse boots. He walked over to the two older men.
“He’s okay,” Griffin said, watching the sheriff approach. “Young but okay.”
Broker nodded and said by way of greeting, “Sheriff.”
“Jimmy Klumpe called the office today and lodged a complaint; says somebody dumped a can full of garbage at his office door. His driver, coming back from a route saw a green Tundra leaving the yard.” Nygard said. His wire-rim glasses gleamed in the yard light, the lenses slightly fogged.
“That why you’re here?” Broker asked.
“You tell me.” Nygard’s voice was low, almost quiet. His hard cop stare, however, was unmistakable in the bad light. Broker matched him, stare for stare.
“Guys,” Griffin chided.
Broker relented, dropped his eyes. “Okay. This morning Klumpe was driving the truck that collected my canister. He picked it up with the hydraulic auto reach arm, then dumped it deliberately in the ditch and drove away. Took his time so’s I got a good look at his face. I guess I overreacted, considering all the strange shit that’s been going on.”
“Define strange shit?” Nygard asked.
“This way,” Broker said, starting to walk. They fell in step through the snow in the backyard. Stopped at the side of the garage by the doghouse. Broker shined his flashlight on the bowl of meatball antifreeze. “That showed up last night,” Broker said. “Right after I found a brand-new tire flat on my truck. Had it repaired-old man Luchta said it was a puncture.”
“You have
a dog?” Nygard asked.
Broker shook his head and motioned to the two other men to follow him. As they left the radius of the yard light, Broker pointed the way up the connecting trail.
When they came to the ski pole where the trails T-boned, Broker stopped and switched on the light. Griffin and Nygard continued forward, stood looking at the stuffed bunny for a full minute. Slowly Griffin took out a pack of cigarettes and an old Zippo lighter. He lit the cigarette, put the lighter back in his pocket, then turned to Broker.
“Bloody nose to crucified bunny. He escalated on you,” he said.
“Every morning Kit makes her bed and puts that bunny in the same exact place on her pillow. Last night after the tire and the antifreeze happened, the toy was missing. I’m thinking somebody was in my house yesterday when Kit and I where out on the ski trail. Maybe he was watching the house, waiting until we left…”
“What about your wife? Was she home?” Nygard asked.
“She wasn’t feeling good and was taking a nap when we left,” Broker said.
Nygard waited for Broker to continue. When he didn’t, Griffin steered off Nina, asking Nygard, “Jimmy?”
Nygard nodded. “He’s dumb enough to do something like this, ’specially if Cassie was egging him on.”
“There’s more,” Broker said, extended his hand, finger pointing. “Check the collar around the bunny’s neck. Our kitten disappeared last night. Nina and Kit think the cat got out because I left the garage door open.”
“Was the door open?” Nygard asked.
“No,” Broker said. Then he bit his lip, thought. “I don’t think it was.”
“You positive someone came in your house?” Nygard asked.
Broker exhaled. Saw where Nygard was going. “Not for sure. The toy could have been in the truck, the truck wasn’t locked. The bowl with the antifreeze could have been on the deck with cat food in it.”
“Okay,” Nygard said carefully, “without getting too far into exactly who you are-’cause it ain’t really my business-” He stared at Broker for several seconds. “What I want to head off here is you and Jimmy going back and forth with this feud until you bump into each other at the gas station and somebody winds up in an ambulance.”
“I just want to be left alone,” Broker said.
“Don’t take this wrong,” Nygard said, “but to stop this fight that’s brewing here, somebody gotta step up and be the adult.” The comment, coming from the younger man, struck Broker as quietly bristling with hair-shirt Scandinavian piety.
“Sheriff-” Broker started to protest.
Griffin interrupted, “Hear him out, Broker.” Broker relented, raised his hands, gloved palms open, let them fall.
“Okay, then,” Nygard said. “Griffin and I are thinking you and me should take a drive, fill you in on some background about Jimmy Klumpe and Cassie Bodine. Might help you manage this situation better.”
Broker nodded. “Uh-huh. This teacher at the school cautioned me about ‘rubbing up against the local soap opera.’ Is this what you’re getting at?”
“I guess,” Nygard said. Then he turned and walked back up the trail.
Broker looked at Griffin. “You two are in cahoots.”
“Yep,” Griffin said. He plucked the bunny off the ski pole and thrust it in his parka pocket. “Somebody’s got to sew this up so Kit don’t notice. That wouldn’t be you or Nina.” He pulled the pole from the snow and handed it to Broker. They walked back toward the house. Nygard went through the garage and got in his truck, started the engine.
“So what’s Nygard know about me?” Broker asked, placing the ski pole with its twin in the garage.
“Ask him,” Griffin said,
“You think he can smooth over all this bullshit?”
“Yep.”
“Hey, Griffin, somebody broke into my house-”
“You assume.”
“Bullshit. This guy had a plan. He took my kid’s toy, then he took the cat. Shit, man; there’s tracks leading off the deck into the woods, doubled back.” Broker flung his arm toward the trail behind them. “I spent an hour working out his pattern. He came in on skis, through the woods. Yesterday afternoon there was all kinds of folks coming down that trail on skis.”
“On skis, huh? You sure?” Griffin stopped, thought a moment, then turned deliberately. “Maybe you’re a little stressed right now and not thinking too clearly. In the scheme of things, this really where you want to make a stand? Defend your homestead, put down roots, plant a garden?” He puffed on his smoke, looked away. “Ain’t why you’re here. Hell, man. I can get you another cat. You go on with Nygard. I’ll hang back, keep an eye on the house.”
Broker ducked into the kitchen, kissed Kit good night, and told Nina he was going into town with Harry. She protested mildly when he took her fresh carafe of coffee and three travel mugs. He left her heating water for another pot and staring at Hardball on the TV screen, where Chris Matthews was talking twenty times faster than General Wesley Clark about the invasion of Iraq.
Griffin took his cup of coffee and parked his Jeep down the road. Broker got in Nygard’s Ranger and doled out coffee as Nygard drove up 12, away from town, continued north, and shifted the Ranger into four-wheel drive as they went beyond where the snowplow had stopped. They followed a single set of tire tracks dwindling in a foot of snow. Soon it was pitch black, no yard lights, just a light snow sparkling in the high beams. Nygard slowed as a doe and two fawns meandered across the road.
“Jack Pine Barrens, big fire in here, oh, twenty years ago,” Nygard said, waving his hand at the darkness. “Hardly anybody lives up here anymore.” After another three minutes, Nygard addressed the silence in the Ranger. “Okay. The way you put Jimmy on his ass got my attention. So I called Griffin, and then I called this copper in St.-”
“Who?” Broker asked.
“Jack Grieve, sergeant in narcotics. We met when I went through the academy. We keep in touch. He comes up summers to fish. Stays with me.”
“I know Jack,” Broker said. “Good no-bullshit cop.”
“Asked him if he knew of a Phil Broker,” Nygard continued. “‘Why do you ask?’ Jack says. Got him staying in my county, I says.” Nygard turned and looked directly at Broker for emphasis. “‘Won’t get anything direct from me about Broker,’ Jack says. Fair enough. How ’bout indirect, I says. ‘But that would be gossip,’ Jack says.” Nygard paused to sip his coffee. Waited.
Broker accepted Nygard’s workmanlike preamble. “So we’re off the record,” he said.
Nygard grunted affirmatively. “Hell, man; we’re driving into the Washichu. Pretty soon we’ll be clear off everything.”
“You mind if I smoke?” Broker asked, pulling out his cigars.
“Crack the window,” Nygard said. He probed his pocket and withdrew a toothpick, which he held in his fingers like a cigarette before putting it between his lips.
Broker dialed down the window several inches, lit the rough wrap, and waited.
Now Nygard was direct. “Basically Jack said you were always more an adventurer than a cop. Paid your dues in St. Paul, made sergeant fast, and developed a real taste for undercover work. Then you worked a deal with BCA. And here Jack says something happened. A supervisor made a mistake; let you take the bit in your teeth, go too deep, and stay there. You got out eight years ago. Married this heavy-duty lady in the Army. Rumor is, every once in a while, you do things that don’t get written down. For the feds. Got this little resort up on Lake Superior. But Jack says that ain’t really where you get your money.”
“That it?” Broker said, staring ahead, rolling the cigar across his mouth.
“Yeah, except Jack said to give you a lot of room. Said the rumors put you and your wife smack in the middle of whatever really happened at the Prairie Island Nuclear Plant last July. ’Nuff said.”
Now the darkness crowded in closer to the road. The spindly jack-pine muskeg gave way to thicker pines and ghostly stands of birch. They drove through a
tunnel of overhanging branches.
Broker stared into the darkness. “Years ago we’d come up here and hunt. Bunch of young cops. When Griffin first bought the old place on the lake. Great place for whitetails, nobody else around. Hardly any shots on opener except us. But…” His voice trailed off.
“Spooky,” Nygard said.
“Yeah.”
Nygard rolled his toothpick across his lips. “A few Indians come here around this time of year, tap the paper birches. And not many of them…”
Abruptly he pointed into the high beams. “There, on the right. See him?”
Broker caught a fleeting impression of the large gray wolf before it danced back into the trees.
“There’s two packs in here now; got the woods divided up. Maybe thirty animals.” He settled back. “Any rate, Indians got a story about these woods. Two early settlers thought they found gold nuggets in a stream and set to fighting and eventually shot each other. Turned out to be fool’s gold. A Sioux hunting party found the dying men. According to the story, even both gut-shot, they were still struggling over a bag of rocks. The Sioux considered it so strange that men would kill for stones they named the place Washichu, which became their terms for whites.”
Broker nodded. “Means something like ‘unnatural,’ doesn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Nygard said. “Got so only one family lived up here, the Bodines. Cassie’s family lived on a farm deeper in. Her cousins lived on another farmstead right up here. Where we’re headed.” He slowed as the forest on the passenger side thinned into an overgrown field. He turned into a drifted-over road. When the snow breasted his front bumper, he stopped, backed up and put the Ranger in neutral, set the emergency brake, and left the high beams on. He glanced at Broker. “Hope those are good boots. We gotta walk.”
They got out, and Nygard switched on a heavy-duty flashlight.
Plodding through knee-deep drifts, they outdistanced the headlights, and up ahead, the swinging motion of Nygard’s torch illuminated the carcasses of old cars, cast-off debris of all kinds. Then they came upon piles of fresh wreckage; scorched wood siding, shingles, a blackened, half-burned mattress and bedsprings clotted with snow.
