John Eisenhower, J.T. Merryweather. Wives and girl-friends. Caren laughing.
Rookies. Crazy brave. Run every red light in town to be the first one to get shot at.
Pieces of Caren lingered, literally. Nina had unearthed ar-tifacts during her pregnancy, as she and Broker emptied out the old cabin in preparation for the wrecking crew-a cup with a lipstick mark on the rim, a slinky, black knit dress stuffed in the back of a drawer. Nina in her eighth month, at first self-conscious, then bewildered that her body could swell up like special effects. Not the best time for her to find old snapshots of lithe, sable-haired Caren.
In the female hierarchy, Nina disapproved of Caren, whom she saw as a woman who attached herself to men. To Nina, Caren’s home remodeling business was an affluent hobby.
Not serious work.
Nina’s current idea of serious work was to parachute into Belgrade and personally arrest Radovan Karadzic.
A car swerved off the highway at reckless speed and interrupted his rumination. Broker moved through his house, toward the sound of frozen gravel ricocheting across the hardpack. The gray Ford Crown Victoria drifted in a four-wheel, controlled skid around a turn and down the driveway.
Unmarked cop car. Keith had gotten in front of her. Broker watched his former friend, partner and boss snap the big car out of the slide, rock it to a stop, roll from behind the wheel, cross the drive and trudge up the porch steps. Broker met him at the front door.
Behind the menacing sunglasses, Keith’s features twitched like mummy ribbons coming undone.
He was an inch taller, thicker and had a gregarious side; he would look at home at a prayer breakfast, something Broker could never do. He’d been to the FBI Academy.
Broker always suspected there was an uptight fed inside him, filing applications in triplicate, trying to get out.
The grievance list was long; Keith had made Broker’s life miserable until he left the St. Paul Police Department and went to the BCA, Bureau of Crinimal Apprehension, to get away.
He’d hunkered down in his new life, within walking distance of the Canadian border, and now here was Keith, coming up his steps. But not the old control-freak Keith; this Keith was a shiver of barely contained fury. Broker opened the door.
“C’mon in. No sense freezing,” said Broker in a calm, almost inaudible voice. He noted Keith’s sloppy appearance, the underscent of alcohol layered by Certs.
So the stories were true.
Keith reacted with caution, knowing that voice and the trip wire tension it conveyed. He nodded, removed his sunglasses and swung his head. Fatigue threaded his eyeballs, bloody wires around the jonquil iris. A day’s growth of rust-blond beard roughed his jaw. “Christ, I was hoping she’d be here. She shouldn’t be driving the way she’s fucked up.”
“Getting hit can do that to you,” said Broker.
Keith looked away. His eyes tracked the high-beamed living room, the blaze of new wood, skylights-and stopped on the fireplace. Broker’s one indulgence, a fearsome, coiled gilt bronze dragon’s head, an actual hood ornament off a tenth-century Viking long ship, weighing over a hundred pounds, was bolted to the chimney over the mantel. Attracted, Keith walked to the serpentine metalwork, reached up and clasped it in both hands, like a derelict Norseman making a vow.
He rubbed his bleary eyes. “God. What’d this set you back?” Looked some more. “Place looks like a goddamn mead hall now. “Frowned. Curled his lip. “You still don’t own a computer.” He pointed to the brightly colored plastic baby toys heaped in boxes by the Franklin stove. “Where’s the kid?”
“Sleeping.”
“Nina?”
“She’s overseas, Keith.”
Keith grimaced. He pointed to the table. “Can I sit down?”
“Coffee?” asked Broker.
Keith nodded and went for a chair. Broker walked to the kitchen counter and the coffeemaker. They moved with de-corum, walking on eggshells. Broker returned with two coffee cups. Another car came down the drive.
Keith came around in a half crouch. Then he collapsed back in his chair when he saw that it was a tan on brown county sheriff’s Bronco. Sheriff Jeffords got out of the truck wearing a patrol belt with a full load. Keith swung his eyes on Broker.
“Sorry, Keith. I thought we might need an umpire,” said Broker, waving the big lawman in.
“Great, Jeff,” said Keith. “Another fuckin’ runaway to the fuckin’ woods.”
Jeff was six two, weighed 240, had sandy iron hair and quiet brown eyes. Banded in a cold leather gun belt, he creaked when he walked into the room. “How you doing, Keith?” he asked as he padded to the coffeepot.
“Not so hot,” said Keith.
“You know,” said Jeff, giving him his chilly lawman’s eye,
“they got this new law for cops. Pop your wife and it’s domestic abuse and you lose your right to carry a gun. You heard of that new law, Keith?”
Keith sagged and reached in the pocket of his over-coat.
He pulled out an empty plastic pharmacy bottle and placed it on the table with a decisive click. “I found it in the bathroom this morning. Empty. Couple of pills were in the toilet bowl.”
Broker reached over and read the prescription aloud:
“BuSpar.”
“Read the rest of it,” said Keith.
“Caution: Do not stop taking this medication abruptly without consulting your physician.” Broker and Jeff exchanged glances.
Keith reached in his other pocket and brought out a mangled photograph. He tossed it on the table.
There was a slight, but tribal, tightening of jaws all around.
Quietly, with distaste in his voice, Broker said, “Who is he?”
“Tom James. Reporter for the St. Paul paper.” Keith expelled a lungful of air.
“And…,” said Broker.
“And”-Keith strained his breath between clenched teeth-“Caren has a borderline personality disorder. She’s been seeing a shrink for a year…”
Two vertical worry marks deepened above the center of Broker’s thick eyebrows.
“She’s anxious, depressed,” explained Keith.
Broker looked away. “Caren and I didn’t agree on a lot of things, but she was always resilient.”
“The strain got to her,” said Keith, looking him straight in the eyes.
“The strain, huh?” queried Broker. Time slipped, missed a beat. It seemed they’d had this conversation before.
Keith exhaled. “Yeah. Of living with me.” He nodded at the empty pill container. “She quit taking the medicine four, five days ago and went totally snake shit.”
“What about the reporter?”
Keith muttered under his breath. His eyes swung, trapped.
“The little creep is witch-hunting me. I’m real quotable these days.”
“We heard,” said Jeff.
“Well, it must have been a slow news day because he came out to dig some dirt. And the shape she’s in…” He shook his head. “I just lost it. Went after both of them. This time it’s my job. The press’ll blow this thing way out of proportion.”
Caren said she might be bringing someone. Broker took a breath. Hit an air pocket. Why bring a reporter? Great.
Caren would show up. His kitchen table would be an autopsy slab for dissecting a failed marriage and Keith’s dead career.
“Who took the picture?” he asked.
Keith looked away. “I followed them, I wanted something, to get in her face.”
“Besides a fist?” asked Broker.
