All because Keith had climbed on his Russian cross and decided to go out there and try to save the goddamn world.
69
They took four-hour shifts, watching the cabin down the beach. The next morning, still no electricity. No black Audi.
Routine kicked in. While Garrison slept on the living room couch, Broker put breakfast out for his daughter. Kit called yogurt “aga.” Possibly related to her word for spaghetti, which was “spaga.” Broker noted the new word in the journal he kept for Nina.
He heard a vehicle up on the road, glimpsed the mail truck through the trees. Early. Catching up after the storm. He carried Kit out to pick up the mail. Maybe there would be a letter from Nina.
When he opened the lid to the rural route box he found no letter from his wife. Just junk mail, a phone bill and a manila envelope.
After reading the neat angular printed name on the return address, his stomach churned, sweat popped on his temples: Ida Rain.
He tore open the seal and pulled out several paper-clipped photocopied sheets. A note attached on a memo under the logo of the St. Paul paper. FYI was printed across the top.
Then Ida’s vigorous slanting penmanship:
Broker,
I should have given this to you before, but I was a little embarrassed by what it reveals. But, what the hell.
The notion of Tom’s writing being a link to recent events intrigued me, so I dug out an old manuscript he played with last year.
When you read the first few paragraphs it’s clear he was projecting a personality along the arc of his fantasies, not to mention fine-tuning his narcissism.
The rude part is that he insisted I call him his protagonist’s name in bed. And I confess, I did on occasion.
And when I did, it enhanced his performance. Which was never more than B minus, top end.
I called the local FBI media representative and asked if people entering Witness Protection can choose their new names. It’s common practice that they do, as long as the name is “secure.” I thought you might find this interesting.
Regards, Ida
Broker checked the postmark. Mailed on the day she was attacked. He flipped up the memo and studied the typed pages below.
UNTTTLED
by Tom James
There were first-time suckers and forty-year Vegas Strip alumni at the table, the bejeweled wife of a man who owned the casino sat elbow to elbow with a $500-a-night call girl. What they all had in common was fascination for the tall man with the cold blond hair and steady blue eyes as he blew in his fist to warm the dice. More money was riding on this toss than he had earned last year.
Oblivious to the envious eyes trained on him, and to the chips heaped before him, utterly without hesitation, Danny Storey threw the bones.
There was more, but Broker went back and reread the first paragraph. He did not read literally, he listened to the language. The cry of it.
Disliking the clarity of his imagination, he pictured Ida Rain locked in a carnal embrace with Tom James.
He squinted at the typed paragraph again.
Danny Storey.
Hugging Kit, he said, “I take everything back I ever said about newspaper people.”
Running on the ice, taking the steps two at a time, kicking open the door.
“Garrison!”
“Hiya, Madge.”
“What’s up.” She looked up as Broker came into Dispatch.
Since the National Guard arrived, the pace had slackened.
Madge was alone in the office. Kit had been handed off once more to Sally Jeffords, who said she was going to claim the kid as a dependent.
“Need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s run this name-Daniel Storey.” He handed her his notebook, with the name scrawled across a whole page. “And all spelling variations they come up with-for a new driver’s license…”
“In Minnesota I’ll need a middle initial and date of birth.”
“Skip Minnesota, run it on every other state in the country.”
“Alaska and Hawaii?”
“Yep.”
“And here I thought your brief return to law enforcement was winding down,” said Madge, squinting. She turned to her keyboard and ordered, “Get me a date of birth.” Her terminal routed to a state computer in St. Paul that could talk to all the systems in all the states.
“Working on it,” he said as he picked up a phone and called the Sawtooth Mountain Clinic. Thinking the feds would alter James’s DOB, but maybe not that much. Experience taught him that people falsifying ID changed the year of their birth but frequently hung on to the real day and month.
The phone rang. Calling this number made him think of ear infections. A receptionist answered, he asked her to get Doc Rivard. She said he was in emergency with a patient.
Broker left a message for Rivard to call him at the sheriff’s office.
“How’s it going?” he asked Madge.
“Zip for Alabama.”
Broker nodded, looked down a list of emergency numbers on the wall and called Regions Hospital in St. Paul. It took five minutes to get a straight answer out of a nurse on ICU.
Ida’s signs were improving, but she wasn’t “out of the woods”
yet.
Another phone rang, Madge took it, spoke, shoved it at Broker. He hung up on St. Paul, took the receiver.
“Broker, Frank Rivard.”
“Yeah, Frank, need a favor.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Our big scene before Christmas, Tom James. You treated him for a gunshot wound. The Kettle thing. Caren, right.
Ah, I need his date of birth.”
Patiently, Broker sat still for a lecture on the confidentiality of medical records. “Frank, it’s urgent.”
“You owe me, I’ll get back to you,” said the doctor. He hung up.
Broker tapped his pen on his spiral notebook. Looked around. “Where’s Jeff?”
“Conducting a sweep with the border patrol. There’s a party of winter campers missing out by Saganaga. He and Lyle took gear for three days,” said Madge.
“Uh-huh,” he said. But he thought, Good. He didn’t want Jeff and Garrison locking horns. He pictured Jeff and Lyle snowshoeing up the Gunflint, staring across Lake Saganaga into the Canadian mist.
Madge handled a few storm calls. Used the radio to reach a deputy patrolling the ritzy West End around Lutsen. Then Doc Rivard called back.
Broker wrote down: November 22, 1956. “What do you have for a physical description?” He wrote: five feet ten, 180
lbs., hair, brn, eyes blue. He thanked Rivard, hung up.
Turned to Madge. “How’s it going?”
She whistled. “I thought we’d need middle initials and DOB, but I’m getting hits without it.” Her fingers pounded the keys. “Alaska, Robert Store, that’s o-r-e, March 15, 1941.”
“Nah,” said Broker, “too old.” He pushed the DOB note to her.
“Arizona, no record. Arkansas, no data. California, hello: Three hits: Arthur Story-not your spelling, but the second one is right on the money. Daniel Storey.”
“Date of birth?”
“Eleven. Twenty-two. Fifty-eight.”
“Is there a physical description?” Broker had a pleasant deja vu sensation from high school hockey, set up at the net and Jeff passing the puck right to him.
“Brown hair, blue eyes, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, five ten.”
“Address?”
“One seven three Valentino Lane, Watsonville, California.”
She gave the license number. “Just issued last week.” She looked up. “Happy?”
“Very. Thank you, Madge.” Broker wrote the address on a notepad and stuck it in his pocket. Briefly, he slumped in his chair. Shut his eyes. C’mon Ida.
Could be you found Tom James, girl.