After the Rain Part 7

Nina leaned forward. "A bird in the hand bites. My husband is a total a.s.shole a.s.shole."

They stared into their empty gla.s.ses. Nina had switched to vodka sevens. She'd had a lot of success drinking vodka with a crazy bunch of Russian paratroopers in Kosovo. A new round of drinks arrived. The way Ace spread his hands before he spoke, Nina could see him behind a pulpit.

"Okay. It's like this," he said. "You're strung out. Strung out means you talk a little too fast. And there's off-the-wall thoughts come out of nowhere and bash through the conversation at random times. Like just now."

"You know this for a fact?" Nina said.

"Sure. I'm strung out, too. But mine is more long haul, more like holding off deep s.p.a.ce. Mine's sadder. Yours is madder."

"So what do we do?"

"Drink. Booze tames down the brightness and buffs the edges off so it don't make the air bleed."

"Jesus. You been thinking about this stuff way too long, Ace."

"I'll say."

And that's the way the afternoon went into sunset: the ironies of marriage counseling, Ace's slow-hand seduction and booze. One bar, two bar, red bar, blue bar. Not quite a blur. Maintaining. Hey. They were both obviously competent folks.

They drove east out of town and he got her talking. About growing up an Army brat, schools on bases all over the South. How she'd gone into the Army, served in the Gulf War in a signal company, and moved to Minnesota after discharge. How she was tending bar in this joint called the Caboose by the U of M when she met her husband.

They stopped, ga.s.sed the Tahoe at a Super Pumper. Ace made good on his promise and bought her a toothbrush. They went to dinner in Cavalier, the next town east, and she talked about having a kid, thinking it would improve the marriage.

They drove back to Langdon in the dark.

Then Ace suddenly switched off the headlights and the night outside Nina's open window jumped up so black and shot with stars it took her breath. "G.o.d-d.a.m.n."

Stars like she'd seen on night patrols in remote stretches of Bosnia. But more of them here. More sky.

"Welcome to the prairie, gateway to the Great Plains," Ace said.

But then the grandeur plummeted as she looked north. Anything could come across the border and filter down through the empty grid of back roads, run this deserted highway. The interstate just an hour away. Then she looked at Ace Shuster, who was good with women, but who might do anything for money. Him and his pal Gordy.

He switched the lights back on and drove into town, slowed in front of the Motor Inn, and turned to her.

"You want to see your daughter? Say anything?"

Nina shook her head.

"You sure?"

"Look. I thought about this a lot. I need a clean break or it'll be a tar baby, I'll get stuck in it all over again. Jane. My old man probably coming to pick up Kit. I mean, I took her and didn't tell him face-to-face. Just left a note, for Christ's sake. I just need some...time."

"Okay, okay," Ace slowly accelerated past the motel and continued west on 5 toward the Missile Park.

They found Gordy rolling a dolly, wheeling four cases of booze at a time off the loading dock onto a truck bed. He scowled at Nina and went back to work, hairy and furious. Nina turned to Ace and said, "Maybe you're right. He doesn't like me."

They went inside and Nina pointed to the cases of booze stacked along the wall by the bas.e.m.e.nt stairway.

"You got a lot of booze for a bar that's out of business," she said.

Ace scratched his head. "Long story. Tell you all about it in the morning."

Nina gathered herself and followed him up the stairs into the apartment. And-h.e.l.lo-it was much cleaner than she expected. Dishes washed and put away, the drainboard in the kitchen clean. And lots and lots of books. A beat-up, old-fas.h.i.+oned desk and a swivel chair. Another well-worn armchair with an ottoman and a lamp.

No televison.

One whole wall was a blowup photomural of grazing buffalo.

"Moved in here when I split with my wife," he said as he stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. She watched him make the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles, folding and tucking in tight hospital corners.

"You sure you weren't in the Army, the way you make a bed?" she said.

"Prison," he said.

He took the old sheets out to the couch. Then he handed her a T-s.h.i.+rt and showed her the bathroom. She took the toothbrush from its cellophane wrapper, used his Sensodyne and brushed her teeth, undressed, and put on the s.h.i.+rt. The s.h.i.+rt was an extra-large maroon cotton number that came down to mid-thigh. The sleeves and neck had been cut out way down the side so the shadowed dents and curves along her ribs peeked out.

She folded her clothing and came back into the living room.

Ace smiled and looked her over. "Picked the s.h.i.+rt to go with your hair and eyes." They stood a foot apart, watching each other.

"Another one of your little touches, huh?" Nina said as she hugged herself. Her word touches touches turned slowly in the close s.p.a.ce between them like a silky scarf, slowly descending. "Now what?" she said, too abruptly, awkward, clearly on edge. turned slowly in the close s.p.a.ce between them like a silky scarf, slowly descending. "Now what?" she said, too abruptly, awkward, clearly on edge.

"Good night," he said simply.

Nina, wary, went into the dark bedroom almost on tiptoe, walking a plumb line to the bed, not wanting to disturb or touch anything, fearing s.e.xual trip wires strung in the dark.

Alert. She braced for him coming through the door.

Chapter Eight.

The first moment of truth came in Detroit two days ago, just after they broke Ras.h.i.+d. They'd had a real quick sit-down with the Colonel, who'd provided the intell that located Ras.h.i.+d. One of the "Squirrels," a pure intelligence network so spooky n.o.body knew its origin, the Colonel was their unofficial link to the databases back at the Pentagon. He could not say yea or nay to their preemptive mission. He could only evaluate. He had a chalky air-conditioned pallor acquired in some unnamed Pentagon sub-bas.e.m.e.nt. He'd told them, just the three of them who were the sharp end-Hollywood, Nina, and Jane: of truth came in Detroit two days ago, just after they broke Ras.h.i.+d. They'd had a real quick sit-down with the Colonel, who'd provided the intell that located Ras.h.i.+d. One of the "Squirrels," a pure intelligence network so spooky n.o.body knew its origin, the Colonel was their unofficial link to the databases back at the Pentagon. He could not say yea or nay to their preemptive mission. He could only evaluate. He had a chalky air-conditioned pallor acquired in some unnamed Pentagon sub-bas.e.m.e.nt. He'd told them, just the three of them who were the sharp end-Hollywood, Nina, and Jane: "We believe the intelligence is too provocative to pa.s.s up. They may have something, possibly a suitcase; one of those KGB tactical nukes. They could be bringing it into the States through North Dakota. Virtually anybody can claim refugee status and enter Canada. We know there's Al Qaeda activity in Winnipeg, just to the north of Langdon. So it could already be here, and maybe there's a fresh trail."

He told them it was a real long shot. They'd be going into a very fragile intelligence matrix. He concurred with Nina's plan, given the target, to lead with D-girls. He advised them to plan their approach carefully. He bid farewell saying, "This meeting never happened." Then he packed his briefcase and departed.

Fragile intelligence matrix.

That meant a small town where everybody knows everybody and strangers stick way out.

The information on Ace Shuster was already spitting out of the fax machine.

Wonderful. He killed a guy in a bar fight. Although, even in the official record, the incident looked like self-defense. But Shuster was convicted and did a year on a manslaughter rap at the state farm.

Then-Jesus-the FBI had pictures of him in the spectators gallery at Waco. This raised the specter of anti-Semitic American militias finding common cause with Al Qaeda.

No subsequent arrests. No known militia affiliations.

Shuster's father had been investigated repeatedly as a major player in the liquor traffic along the border, but the charges never stuck. He wasn't breaking any North Dakota laws.

The Colonel had put together a fast synopsis after a consult with Shuster's former probation officer. Shuster had served his time, went back into the community, and caused no real trouble. He'd had his conviction reduced. Probation described him as an underemployed heavy-machinery operator, and real smart. But the brains went wasted, because he tended to brood and drink. The drinking was probably self-medication for moderate depression. He'd dabbled in sports, smuggling, and women. Possibly peripherally involved with the biker gangs who ran the smuggling on the Canadian side of the border. No solid evidence linked him to the looming meth traffic. Remember, he was smart. He could be mixed up in almost anything out in all that empty country. Potentially a very dangerous guy, but not so's you notice it right off.

A ladies' man.

Nina had looked out the window toward Ann Arbor, where Kit was staying with her mother's sister, and came up with the idea.

"It could work if it's bold enough," Holly said.

Bold enough...The gloves were off. They were in the serious black on this one.

"You still sure you want in?" Holly said.

The serious black. Lie, cheat, steal.

"We're not carrying copies of the Geneva Convention in our kit," Holly said.

Jane, the sharp tack, cracked wise. "There's killing in combat and then there's murder. You ain't talkin' about combat."

"Correct. I ain't necessarily talkin' about combat. And there's other things you might have to do."

"Things?" Jane had said.

"What, I gotta draw you a picture?" Holly said pointedly to the two women.

So Nina told Jane, "He means like whatever it takes. Like you might have to suck some smuggler's d.i.c.k. Not your favorite thing, Jane."

Jane came back fast. "Just as long as it ain't Holly's."

D-girls. Nothing but hardcore. Behind the bravado they were all picturing Paula Zahn on CNN going zombie-cottonmouthed, trying to get her words out while in the background a nuclear plume mushroomed over downtown Chicago, or Kansas City, or...

f.u.c.k it.

Nothing else mattered. Mission first.

But the way the plan worked, Jane drew a pa.s.s. Jane was in the motel in town probably reading Harry Potter Harry Potter and the and the Sorcerer's Stone Sorcerer's Stone to Kit. Nina got the duty and now here she was in a smuggler's bed, listening to him putter around in his living room just beyond the closed but unlocked door. Jesus, his place was clean. Did that mean he was clean? What if he was a bareback kind of cowboy who didn't want to use condoms? to Kit. Nina got the duty and now here she was in a smuggler's bed, listening to him putter around in his living room just beyond the closed but unlocked door. Jesus, his place was clean. Did that mean he was clean? What if he was a bareback kind of cowboy who didn't want to use condoms?

What was the statistical probability of contracting AIDS from unsafe s.e.x in remotest North Dakota, anyway? Better or worse odds than being the first dummy rolling out of a Black Hawk on a hot mountain LZ in Afghanistan?

Numbers. Odds. Probabilities...

Nina slid between the clean sheets.

Downstairs she heard the dolly scurry across the floor. A one-man ant colony, Gordy went back and forth, loading the crates of whiskey. The rhythm of the work, the rolling dolly wheels, the thud of the cases being hefted in place drummed like a harsh lullaby.

Exhausted from the alcohol, Nina's mind wandered.

The mission.

Her first job was to survive insertion. Boy, there's an example of military lingo falling flat on its a.s.s. Boy, there's an example of military lingo falling flat on its a.s.s.

Think about other things.

Like her ex-husband...no, that wasn't right, they were just separated. Her estranged husband. Better.

It occurred to Nina that her a.s.shole estranged estranged husband would be right at home in these shadows. He'd lived this life for years on end working the margins, hiding out. A lot of people thought he'd done it too long. Not much for small talk, Broker. Not real great social skills at a c.o.c.ktail party. Good with Kit, though. husband would be right at home in these shadows. He'd lived this life for years on end working the margins, hiding out. A lot of people thought he'd done it too long. Not much for small talk, Broker. Not real great social skills at a c.o.c.ktail party. Good with Kit, though.

And no one was better in the fog.

It was Broker who had taught her about compartments. The necessity to keep various parts of your life scrupulously segregated. And right now she had her daughter in one box and her husband in another. So she just cracked the door on Broker's cubbyhole, because if she wasn't careful all this stuff would come rus.h.i.+ng out.

Stuff she didn't need right now.

Emotional stuff.

She realized she was holding on to her discipline like a chin-up bar. Hanging by it. White-knuckling it. Below her the rest of the night waited.

In order to function she had to sleep.

But sleep would leave her vulnerable.

She had to let go and drop into the darkness.

She had duty-trained herself to do so many things-among them, to drop into a fundamental animal sleep almost at will. She had learned how to sleep standing up, to catnap, to meditate.

So she relaxed her grip on the strange day, finger by finger, and started to slide down into the blackness. Sinking, she caught a fleeting notion of Broker and how he'd handle the news that Kit was left hanging in some motel room in North Dakota.

So, Broker, how many women did you sleep with in the line of duty?

But then she had to smile. He wasn't gonna like it the way she reeled him into this one. Uh-uh. Boy, was he gonna be p.i.s.sed.

And that's exactly how they needed him.

Chapter Nine.