Be ready to start on the sealer. That stuff put out a stink.
And PCBs. Hydrocarbons killed brain cells. Spend the night in a motel. Charge it to Travis’s VISA. Business expense.
He grimaced, glanced at the cloudy twilight through the screened porch. One day of sunshine would be nice. To help it dry. Air the place out.
As he fitted the new sheet of paper to the drum, he was struck by the clean power of his hands. Physical labor was toning him up. He studied the network of prominent veins, the subtle play of tendon and muscle. Ennobled, almost, by the fine wood dust and sweat. By honest work.
Saw his hands clamped on Ida Rain’s face. Shook his head.
Every time the memory leaped up, he revised it, stripping the thrill away. Cleaned it up. Like the sander stripped off the old paint and carpet glue on the floor. There had been no perverse joy, no sexual quickening. If anything he had experienced a melancholy dredging feeling. Hard goddamn work. Necessity.
“I take no pleasure in this,” he mused aloud.
On the television someone said, “Twenty-four hours into the White House scandal and the president’s approval rating has only dipped two points…”
Danny pulled the mask up around his nose and mouth, adjusted the ear protectors, and flipped on the machine. The torque curled sinuously up the handles and corded his arms.
Hooked deep into his chest. Had to be good for the abdom-inals-
The sander shut off. Danny jerked, shucked the ear protectors. Heard a weary voice say, “Hi, asshole.”
74
Not from the TV. Behind him. Danny turned and saw-impossibly-Phil Broker standing with the power cord plug in his hand. Standing in a relaxed stance and wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a Levi’s jacket. The brown hat with the brim pulled down over one eye gave him an Indiana Jones swashbuckling quality and emphasized his black eyebrows and his shadowed, tired eyes.
Numb, not tracking, Danny blurted, “How the hell?”
Broker feigned surprise. “You remember me?”
“How-” Danny stopped.
Broker smiled. “It’s not important how I found you.”
Danny’s mind reeled with the power of secrets. Dumb North Woods hick. I was just a few feet from blowing your brains out. Three days ago. Now-like an Atlas rocket blasting off in his living room!
What was he doing here?
Danny’s eyes darted. There was a problem with the color on the TV screen. Bernie Shaw’s face bloomed in livid fuch-sia. He cleared his throat, tried to stabilize his voice and said,
“Talking to somebody from the ‘danger zone’ puts me in violation. I have to call Joe Travis, he’s my inspector. You can deal with him.”
He peeled off the mask and started for the phone. Broker blocked him. “Sorry.”
“Hey, what is this?”
“You tell me?” said Broker. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his hip pocket and handed it to Danny. It was shopworn, creased, the futile subpoena Jeff had issued back at the start, for Tom James to appear before a Cook County grand jury.
Danny handed the paper back. “There is no Tom James.”
Broker nodded. “Right. Fuck a piece of paper.” He tore the paper up and tossed it aside.
Okay, thought Danny. Deep breaths. Be cool. You know he’s on to the money. The E-mail between Ida and Bruce discussed it. Ida discussed it. He had a theory. But no case, otherwise he would have shown up with local cops. These were all things Danny wasn’t supposed to know. What the hell was he doing here? What if he knew about Ida? He had to know…
“What are you doing here?” Danny demanded.
“Somebody I used to work for sent me,” said Broker.
“Who?”
“Keith Angland.”
This time, Danny bolted for the door. Broker cut him off with an easy step and gave him a deft, deceptively violent shove with both hands. Broker hardly moved. Danny bounced off the wall, hard, and wound up in the corner.
Trapped.
“You’re holding me against my will. That’s against the law,” he protested.
Broker said, “This all began with a call, a tip. Who called you at the newspaper?”
Danny fidgeted. “The FBI checked the phone records. The call came from Caren Angland. She had some kind of gizmo that disguised her voice.”
“Half right, the call came from Caren Angland’s house.
But at the exact time the call was placed, she was in her psychiatrist’s office on Summit Avenue in St. Paul.”
“What the hell?” Danny’s curiosity briefly overcame fear.
“Keith made that call. He figured you’d be useful, you’d already met Caren, so you could do the story about how he’d come apart, beat her up. Like when he bad-mouthed the chief. It’s called building a legend. He’d been meticulously putting it together ever since he attended the FBI Academy. There wasn’t supposed to be a videotape.”
“What are you talking about.”
“The Suitcase,” said Broker.
“I don’t know anything about any suitcase. I want to call Joe Travis, he’s my inspector,” Danny insisted in a queasy voice. He blinked rapidly, each blink making his head jerk.
Broker’s every word-blink, jerk.
“You were being used, dummy. In a deep solo undercover operation to penetrate the Russian Mafia. You still are.”
Danny stared, not getting any of this. Slowly, he got to his feet.
Broker went on. “They left Lorn Garrison out of the loop.
To give it a real feel down at the grass roots. Keith made two mistakes. He tried to push Caren out of his life. And he underestimated you.”
“You’re crazy,” said Danny, back against the corner, going from foot to foot like he had to pee real bad.
“What happened at the Kettle?” asked Broker patiently.
Danny suddenly realized he was in the stronger position.
All Broker had, behind his bluff, was questions. Danny raised his right hand to his mouth, twisted his thumb and forefinger as if locking a key in his lips, and then he threw the imaginary key away. Kid’s game. I got a secret.
Broker shook his head. “You dumb shit. The way it is now, not even the truth can save you. They’re not going to believe anything you say. Keith’s not going to let you get 426 / CHUCK LOGAN
away with it. You see, you’re still useful. Because you took their money. So tell me, what happened?” Broker stepped closer. Danny shied away from the steady North Woods eyes. “Was it like what happened to Ida Rain? Somebody you had to shut up?” asked Broker.
“Ida?” Danny whispered. Broker knew. For some reason, he relived kicking the cat to death. But it was his dreams.
“She isn’t dead, Tom.” Broker smiled that weary smile again. “Unlike you, she’s going to survive.”
Car doors, opening and shutting outside. Danny, vacant in the eyes, dry-mouthed, tried to rally. Hard to see. His vision popped. Flashbulbs going off in his head. “That’s Joe, try this crazy rap out on him,” he prayed.
“Don’t think so,” said Broker. “They followed me to the airport in Minneapolis. And they were waiting for my flight when it landed in San Francisco. They followed my cab here.”
“Who?”
“Pros. With enough resources to put someone on the ground in San Francisco to meet my plane on a few hours’
notice. Could be the FBI. They know I’m looking for you,”
said Broker.
They heard rubber soles scurry across the deck in back, coming in through the front door.
75
Broker watched James smile his deluded smile and fantasize rescue. Watched the shudder of relief go through him when the two men rushed in from the porch. They wore running suits and sneakers. One of them had short cropped hair and a military stoicism to his sunken cheeks. The other was Rasputin.
They carried pistols. Slender automatics with silencers.
Which James may or may not have known would be very unusual sidearms for FBI agents to carry. But that was aca-demic, because James challenged them: “FBI?”