Homefront. Part 36

Sheryl lit the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the icy draft. After a minute or so she turned and caught Shank watching her.

"What?" she asked.

He shrugged affably, turned back to watching the road. "Shouldn't smoke those things," he said. "They're bad for your health."

Chapter Forty-two.

Monday morning was another first. Nina drove Kit to school. Not just to drop her off, but to go in and talk to the princ.i.p.al about gathering Kit's records and transferring them back to the elementary school in Stillwater. Maybe sit in on some of her cla.s.ses. Today would be Kit's last school day in Glacier Falls. Nina had set the tone at Sunday breakfast when she casually suggested that Broker should call Dooley.

He'd called Dooley and told him to get the duplex straightened up and turn up the heat; they be arriving Wednesday afternoon. That gave them Tuesday to finish packing and clean Griffin's place. He called Griffin, explained their plans, and they agreed to have supper Tuesday night at the Anglers to settle up and say good-bye.

Now it was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, and Nina hadn't returned yet. Broker stood in the garage studying the stack of boxes and suitcases that he, Nina, and Kit has a.s.sembled on Sunday. Seeing them, he remembered the tense days last January, the rushed packing. He raised his right hand to his throat, felt the key to the gun locker on the leather thong. The guns would be the last thing he'd load in the Tundra.

His cell rang. It was Griffin.

"You think I could get a little more work out of you, before you split?" Griffin said.

"What's up?"

"My truck's still in the shop. And my wood trailer's got a broken axle. Teedo's home with a sick kid, so I don't have his truck. I need a couple loads of oak carted over here at the lodge. Want to get it under a tarp before this big mother of a storm moves in."

"Sure," Broker said. "I'll get on it as soon as Nina gets the truck back."

"Look, I know you're packing. Just bring one load over. We can trade cars, and I'll come back for the second load."

"No problem, any way you want to do it," Broker said.

After he ended the call, Broker walked out into the driveway and looked at the storm clouds marshaling over the northwestern treetops. Persistent spitb.a.l.l.s of frozen snow rattled on his parka. The mini sleet drew a faint veil over the road, and he saw Nina's high beams knife through it. He watched the Tundra pull up the drive. Walked out to meet her.

"How'd it go?" Broker said.

Nina gave him a droll smile and did a snappy little curtsy. "Am I a soccer mom from central casting or what?" She was wearing the cross-country ski outfit he'd given her for Christmas. "I talked to the princ.i.p.al, Helseth, and sat in on a reading and math cla.s.s. Kit wanted me to stay for lunch and for her gym cla.s.s. You know, she wanted to put me on front street. Like, 'See, I got a mom, too.' And the paperwork is all set. They'll s.h.i.+p it end of week. How's it going here?"

Broker explained Griffin's call, how he'd drive over to the lodge with a load of wood, then use Griffin's Jeep to pick up Kit.

"You might want to go in early to school. When I left, they were all watching the weather in the office. They might start the buses early if this thing rolls in before school lets out."

"Okay, I better get on it."

Nina nodded. "I'll sort through the upstairs bathroom, pack everything except essentials, then-" She perused the sky. "Maybe get in a run before we get dumped on."

They set off to their separate tasks. Nina went inside as Broker took off his good parka and pulled on the beat-up brown work-crew jacket. Then he started the Tundra and backed it up to the woodpile. Half an hour later, he had the bed full of oak, got in, and headed off for the lodge.

When Broker arrived at the lodge work site, he found Griffin upbeat, busy squaring away his gear as if he relished the prospect of working in the midst of a severe winter storm. They unloaded the wood, covered it with a tarp, and weighted the tarp down with hunks of flagstone.

"You planing to work tomorrow?" Broker asked.

"Nah, but if we really get a lot of snow, it'll take a day for the plows to clear the roads. Might as well get the wood in before it hits, so we can start on Wednesday," Griffin said.

They hunkered in the lee of the warming tent, drank coffee from Griffin's thermos, and watched the gauzy afternoon light slowly filling in with billows of white. Start to pick away details on the lake.

"Nina still on track?" Griffin asked.

"Life is good," Broker said. "She went to school this morning with Kit. Stayed through lunch."

"And the other thing?"

"Well, we're coming to that. She said we're going to have a long-overdue talk. But we ain't there yet. There's this doctor at Bragg she has to check in with. It'll happen then."

"Well, good luck." Griffin squinted at the rising wind. "You still planning to head back Wednesday? This could make a mess out of the roads."

"Why they made four-wheel drive." Broker shrugged and studied his friend, standing there in the identical jacket and black watch cap. "Remind me to give you this coat back," he said.

"Hey, keep it," Griffin said, his face ruddy, his gray eyes merry, more youthful and alive than usual, as he watched the whipping snow.

"You're in a good mood," Broker observed. "Your lady friend Hatch come over and whip some Cla.s.s A maintenance on your relations.h.i.+p?"

Griffin grinned and quipped, "There's some things more exciting than mere s.e.x."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Like winter storms." Griffin smiled, then upended the dregs of his coffee and pounded Broker on the shoulder. "C'mon, I gotta do a few more things here. Keys are in the Jeep. See you over at the place in an hour or so."

Chapter Forty-three.

Quarter to one, Gator pacing on the farmhouse porch, peering into the light sifting snow. Felt like he was onstage, coming up on a big job interview. He could feel the barometer dropping, pressure building like it was in his throat. They were auditioning for the big time. So take it one step at a time, Sheryl had said on the phone. Don't rush it. Presumably she meant stay focused on Shank's business with Broker. Don't expect anything. Play a support role. Just be competent and keep your mouth shut. on the farmhouse porch, peering into the light sifting snow. Felt like he was onstage, coming up on a big job interview. He could feel the barometer dropping, pressure building like it was in his throat. They were auditioning for the big time. So take it one step at a time, Sheryl had said on the phone. Don't rush it. Presumably she meant stay focused on Shank's business with Broker. Don't expect anything. Play a support role. Just be competent and keep your mouth shut.

The garage door was pulled open. He had a fresh pot of coffee perking in the shop. He'd put the cat in the house to be out of the way. Maybe this guy was superst.i.tious about black cats. Who knows.

Jesus. Hope they didn't run into trouble coming in on Z. Near as he could tell, the storm was still to the north and west, but the wind could whip up small whiteouts in the open s.p.a.ces.

Then he saw the high beams cut through the wavy tissue-paper light. The Nissan Maxima glided through the snow like a low gray shark and turned off into the drive. Gator's hands moved in a silly tucking-in gesture, straightening his jacket. He took a deep breath, let it out, and walked toward the barn as the car slipped into the garage.

Sheryl got out of the pa.s.senger side and smiled. Gator saw she was wearing sensible new Sorel boots for a change. The guy behind the wheel got out, and Gator had a look at him. In the joint, Gator had roughly cla.s.sified scary guys into two categories; there were the muscled-up brutes and then there were other guys who had this weird intimidating energy. Crazy waiting to happen. Shank struck him as a very controlled version of the second type.

He was lean and too white, like he had bleach in his veins, whitish hair and eyebrows, pale blue eyes. He moved smooth and deliberate, walking right up to Gator and extending a hand.

"It's Gator, right? I'm Shank, good to meet you." Cool dry hand. Didn't make a handshake into a show of strength. More like a probe. "Where can we talk?" Shank said.

"In the shop," Gator said.

Sheryl yanked a thumb toward the house. "I'm going in to use the john. Let you two get acquainted." She turned and walked toward the house.

Shank thumbed his remote, and the s.p.a.cious trunk popped open. He hauled out a rugged gym bag, the kind with lots of zippered side pockets, shouldered the bag, and waited for Gator to lead the way.

Gator opened the door to the shop and stood aside to let Shank enter first. Shank went in and lowered his bag. "Mind if I have a look around?"

"Sure." Gator opened his right palm in a gesture of welcome. "You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, black is good." Shank removed his jacket and set it on the cot in the alcove, then walked through the door into the garage bay. He returned in a minute. Gator handed him a cup of coffee.

"What do you do here?" Shank asked.

"Restore antique tractors. Got three completes in the yard out back of the shop. Can cannibalize parts off another half dozen."

Shank sipped his coffee. "The one you have in there. How long to get it ready for sale?"

"That's a special one. My Prairie Gold 1938 Moline UDLX. C'mere for a sec." Gator led Shank into the garage and proudly pointed at the color centerfold on the wall.

Shank pointed to the sleek photo. "That's"-he pointed to the gray bifurcated jacked-up heap of junk-"that? No s.h.i.+t."

Gator shrugged. "Might take me another six months to get it exactly like the picture, all the authentic gauges and tinwork."

"How much they pay for something like that?" Shank said.

"It's like rare rare. Restored inside out? Mint condition; a hundred K."

"Christ, our guys go to jail, and they wind up taking computers apart. We should be getting into tractors." Shank laughed. Then he looked around and nodded. "This is a real squared-away shop you got here."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, well"-his voice dropped a decibel-"you figured out that I ain't here to buy tractors."

Gator wasn't sure whether to respond "yep" or "nope," so he just nodded.

"Okay," Shank said, looking Gator pointedly up and down. "We asked around, got the book on you when you were inside. You were a stand-up guy. When OMG leaned on you for some favors, you were practical." Shank paused, sipped his coffee, his pale eyes burning into Gator over the rim of the cup. "You ever meet Danny?"

"No. I spent most of the time in Education, was an a.s.sistant in the Vo Tech Shop."

"Yeah, I spent some time down in the bas.e.m.e.nt doing slave labor for MinnCor; built those G.o.dd.a.m.n hay wagons, some docks for the DNR. So you never met him, huh?"

"Just saw him at a distance, in the chow hall."

Shank cut him with a hard look. "As far as you're concerned, Danny's watching you right now through my eyes. You with me?"

"Yeah, h.e.l.l." Gator shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever it takes."

"You help me now, it'll pay off later. But right now, first things first." Shank crossed to the alcove, reached in his jacket, took out an envelope, and returned to the desk. He removed a stack of color photographs and spread them on the desk. "Your move," he said to Gator.

Gator studied the pictures. Bunch of bikers hamming it up for the camera, including a younger Danny Turrie and Sheryl showing lots of tanned skin and f.u.c.ked-up eyes. His index finger smacked down on the lean guy with the shovel. "Broker," he said.

"You sure? The picture is pretty old," Shank said.

"That's him. I saw him close as you and me are standing, a couple days ago. That's him. Those eyebrows..."

"Okay. This kind of thing, you gotta be sure. So, where is he?"

"In a lake cabin near town, about twelve miles south."

"What's it like, the layout?"

"Secluded, thick woods. There's houses two hundred yards on either side, but hidden away. County Twelve runs right in front of the place, but people up here notice strange cars. This time of year, they'll come out and look just to see who's driving by. I'd go in through the woods, there's a ski trail. Be real quiet, with the snow." After a moment, he added, "Lake ain't iced over. I suppose you could go in by boat, except I don't have one."

Shank reached to the fax machine on the desk, peeled off a sheet of paper from the tray, took a pen from the desk blotter, and handed it to Gator. "Draw it-the lake, the road, the trail, and whatever you know about the house."

Gator stared at the sheet of blank paper like it was an entrance exam. Balked and said, "We should go in the house. I got a county map with the ski trail to scale."

Shank nodded, retrieved his coat, and picked up his bag. "Let's go."

A few minutes later they were in the farmhouse, standing around the kitchen table, on which Gator had spread out the county map over the half-done puzzle. Shank summoned Sheryl, who stood off to the side, sipping a cup of tea. "C'mon, you're part of this."

Swiftly, Gator marked significant reference points; an X marked his house, a second X located Broker's. He circled the trailhead turnoff of County 12, indicated the relevant portion of ski trail with arrows between the trailhead and Broker's cabin. Then Gator stepped back and stood next to Sheryl, waiting while Shank leaned forward on his locked arms, like a general pondering over a tactical problem. Just then the kitten made an appearance, hopping lightly up on a chair, then onto the table.

"f.u.c.kin' cat," Gator muttered, coming forward.

Shank slid a hand under the kitten, expertly palming it over and cradling it belly up along his forearm. "It's okay. I like cats. Only animals I get along with." He gently eased the cat back on the chair and watched it jump to the floor and pad into the next room. Then he looked back to the map. "Cell phones work up here?" he asked.

"Yeah. They built a couple towers for the summer people," Gator said.

"Okay." Shank reached into his bag and took out three cell phones, handed one each to Gator and Sheryl, kept one for himself. "These are cold-we lifted them from people who are on vacation. Let's get our numbers straight."

They turned on the phones. The displays showed normal service. Gator s.n.a.t.c.hed a piece of paper and pen off the counter and made a list-Shank's number, his number, Sheryl's number. Then he copied it three times, folded the sheet, tore it in thirds, and handed out the individual lists.

"Now," Shank said, "we do a dry run. Check the travel time going in on the trail, make sure the cell phones work. Make sure he's there. Then we go back for real. You with me?"

Gator chewed his lip, unable to disguise the pained expression on his face.

"What is it? C'mon," Shank asked.

"Well, the whole reason this happened, how I got the warrant is-Broker's kid had a fight at school with my brother-in-law Jimmy's kid. Then Broker and Jimmy got into it in front of the school. And the sheriff saw it. My sister asked me to kinda f.u.c.k with him, like payback. That's how I wound up in his house and found the warrant. So if something happens to Broker, one of the first people they'll look at is Jimmy and probably me."

"And?"

"Jimmy's no problem, he's on the road all day picking up routes. But maybe I should be someplace public, like be seen having dinner in town, you know."

Shank thought about it. "Makes sense. But you go in with me on the trial run, make sure I can find my way in and out. Make sure Sheryl can find the house when I call her to come pick me up."