Back at the sheriff’s office, he shouldered his way to a phone, grabbed at Kit as she scurried past, missed, got through to St. Paul Homicide.
Tommy Reardon came on the line fast after Broker identified himself. “What you got going with this Ida Rain?”
“She was Tom James’s boss. I talked to her about how he got on to Caren.”
“Women have bad luck with you lately, huh, Broker? First Caren, now this one.” More ill will than suspicion snickered in Reardon’s voice.
Not funny. He ignored the dig and asked, “You have any leads?”
“Nah. Looks like smash and grab. The asshole wore gloves, no latents on the soup can he used. We have everybody looking for her car. Maybe something will show up on her credit cards. That and the car’s our best bet. Until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”
Broker shut his eyes. C’mon, Ida. “So, just in and out fast?”
“Yeah, probably followed her home from the grocery store.”
“Okay, thanks, Tommy. If anything comes up, appreciate it if you call Cook County.”
“Yeah, sure, good-bye.”
Broker watched Kit play with Lyle Torgerson’s flashlight.
Amazement glowed in her eyes as she moved the switch with both tiny thumbs and the light came on. Then off. Ida, turned off that abruptly? Lyle collected his flashlight. “You all right, Broker?”
“Yeah, tired.”
“Everybody is. Damn storm.”
He heaved to his feet, took Kit, left the fatigued synergy of the sheriff’s office and crept north in four-wheel low. The crystalline world, enchanted in the light, became melancholy with sundown. Trees bowed under the icy
yoke, their green dreams of spring turning to nightmares.
Ida fighting, screaming. Which compartment could he check her into? He was full up.
Broker eased down his driveway, edged around the turn, cleared the trees and-
The butternut Ford Ranger 250 had a new camper box up back and was parked right in front of his porch.
67
Broker threw into reverse, fishtailed back behind the garage, apologized to Kit for leaving her alone again, and rolled out; county police radio in one hand, 45 in the other.
He approached the Ford, still no license plates, keyed the radio, about to ask for some backup when he peeked through the cracked driver’s side window and saw the classic, felt, porkpie brown hat perched on the dashboard. He took his thumb off the transmit button and clicked the pistol back on safe.
Garrison.
The porch window presented a view of the man, sitting in the dark flickering living room. Definitely Garrison. In out of the cold. Building fires in Broker’s fireplace. A minute later, with Kit dozing on his left shoulder, Broker mounted the porch and heard the mournful voice warble through the ajar door.
“As I walked out on the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day
I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen All wrapped in white linen and cold as the grave…”
Lorn Garrison, calm as can be, in a red Pendleton wool shirt, jeans, and hunting boots, sat in front of a roar 384 / CHUCK LOGAN
ing fire. A lined Levi’s jacket hung from the back of the kitchen chair. A section of the Duluth News Tribune spread on the floor, by the hearth, under his boots. Wood shavings littered the newsprint.
Broker carried Kit into the living room and saw that Garrison delicately held an old Randall pocketknife in his right hand. Firelight flickered on the sweat-cured walnut handle, the pitted shank and the razor-sharp wink of the blade. In his left hand, he turned a flitch of basswood that was becoming the comical head of a six-legged insect, complete with feelers. Garrison cleared his throat,
“Hope you don’t mind I let myself in. Got a little weather-some in the back of the truck when this storm hit.”
“Am I under FBI surveillance?” asked Broker, very alert, fatigue forgotten. His mini-Ice Age, north of Grand Marais, was suddenly crowded with possibilities: first the break-in, then the news about Ida, now Garrison.
Garrison grinned, folded the knife with a flick of his fingers and stuck it in his back pocket. “Sit down. Relax. I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but you haven’t made it yet.”
“Answer the question. I picked up that truck on my tail over a week ago in St. Paul. Saw it again, right out there in my woods. You might as well be driving a fire engine.”
“Beauty, huh? Cost a big chunk of my early retirement bonus.”
“Retirement?”
“Yeah.” Garrison raised his elbows and gyrated his hips.
“No badge, no cuffs, no gun. I don’t work for uncle anymore.
Some bean counters at headquarters are cooking the books for the budget, clearing off as many old-timers as they can.
So I signed up. Cashed in a couple days after pulling Keith off you in that cell.” Garrison shrugged. “Maybe I’ll write a book about President Clit’s love life and go on Larry King Live like everybody else. But first, I figured we should talk.”
“I’m listening.” Broker walked to the kitchen, took candles from the cupboard and set them on the counter. He filled a teakettle with bottled water and put it on the stove. He had propane. No lights. No water. Checked the phone. No phone.
Garrison stood up. Without a suit coat, he looked like an aging wrangler, barrel chest, heavy shoulders, narrow hips.
He squatted and handed Kit the carving. “Hello, little girl, this is for your daddy.” He rose slowly, favoring his knees, and joined Broker in the kitchen.
Kit stared at the carving, at Broker, at Garrison, then back at Broker. “Bring it here,” he said. She darted under the kitchen table, sat down and hugged the carving to her chest.
“Smart move, kid,” said Garrison.
“So, what-?” Broker started to ask.
Garrison cut him short, raising a finger to his lips. He smiled, reached over, plucked up the pen off the magnetized notepad refrigerator door and scrawled on the pad. Broker read in the failing light: YOU GOT COOTIES!
Garrison roved his eyes over the living room and drew a little bug on the note for emphasis.
Broker took the pen from Garrison and wrote: “Talk in the workshop.” Garrison nodded, picked up his coat.
Five minutes later, Broker had instant coffee in a thermos and candles. Garrison had moved his truck into the garage.
By candlelight, Kit was banging the carved bug on a bench in the workshop.
Broker snapped trim pieces of maple, shoved them in the woodstove with handfuls of wood shavings. He took a matchbook from the bench, lit a crumpled piece of newsprint.
The stovepipe creaked as the tinder ignited. He turned to Garrison.
Garrison said, “I started out following you. After your session with Keith. I wound up following the guys who are following you.”
A slow wave of heat melted the chilled puff of Broker’s breath. “What guys?”
Garrison crossed his legs. He sat in a distressed rocking chair, sipped his coffee, rolled a blue tip match in his lips.
He’d brought a heavy plastic briefcase in from his truck and balanced it across his knees.
Whack. Whack. Kit laid about her with the carving.
“Three guys, one dolly,” said Garrison, “in a VW van, a gray Saturn and a blue Plymouth Horizon.” Garrison rubbed his chin. “You talk to Keith in jail. People start following you. Gotta be a reason. So I don’t sleep for a couple days, drive a lot and get a lot of parking tickets. You had lunch with Captain Merryweather. You tooled all over the freeway system. They’re on you. They put you to bed at your motel and stayed on you when you got up. You talked to a guy in St. Paul City Hall, they drifted past, stood around chatting, listening. You met that woman in a coffee shop across the street, they sat at the next table. They followed you up to the big place on Summit Avenue, back to your motel in Stillwater. Then to Sergeant Street in St. Paul, where the woman you met for coffee lives.