Being this close. He stuffed the loose bills in his jacket pocket. Angry now, Tom stabbed the gas and turned down the entrance road to the resort. The only satisfaction left was seeing the look on Keith Angland’s face when he told him his wife had ripped off his money. And the FBI was coming for his ass-
The gray Subaru pulled into the drive and parked alongside the county Bronco, Broker’s Jeep, and Keith’s Ford. Broker watched a pasty guy in a baggy brown parka get out-longish hair, mustache, glasses, the same guy in the picture lying on his kitchen table.
A chair tipped, slammed against the plank floor. “Hey!
What’s going on?” Keith was on his feet.
Everybody was moving. Broker pointed to the picture, out the window, said to Jeff, “That’s him, he’s traveling with Caren.” Kit had quieted. Now she began to cry again in the bedroom. Keith yanked open the door. Jeff stayed with him step for step.
Broker was torn. One step forward and two steps back.
He confirmed that Caren was not in the car. The old Broker would have Keith on the ground by now. Jeff yelled over his shoulder, “Stay clear.” The new Broker went for the baby.
Outside, Tom James slammed the car door, looked around and pulled up his collar. Resort cabins, bleached by cold, with shuttered windows, hunkered in a rocky cove. A county sheriff’s Bronco, the big unmarked Ford, and a green Jeep were parked in front of a large cedar-plank home, out on a rock promontory.
Lake Superior lashed the shore. Spume flew ten feet. The air turned to shadow. Even Tom, an inside city dweller, could feel the storm charge jitter in the swirling clouds.
The door to the house opened and Angland pushed through it. A tall husky uniformed cop strode after him.
Seeing the tough hick lawman provided instant comfort as Angland bore down on him. Shouted:
“Where is she, scumbag?”
“Guess what, Angland, it’s FBI time,” Tom shouted back in a shaky voice, trying to stand his ground. The wind whipped the words away.
“Hey, fuck you,” seethed Angland, and Tom saw that he was working himself into a jerky Samurai rage, like an actor in a Japanese movie. The uniformed cop threw out a restraining arm. Angland put both his palms out, warding off the cop. “Stay out of my personal life, Jeffords,” he warned.
The word tattooed into Tom’s brain. They still thought it was personal. Keith was fooling them. Oh boy. Caren hadn’t told them about the real reason…
A lean, dark-haired man with striking black eyebrows strode out on the porch, holding a toddler bundled in a blanket. Another tough hick. The uniformed cop swung his eyes to the man on the porch and called, “Stay there, Broker.”
In that instant, when the cop’s eyes were averted and he took a step back toward the porch, Tom and Keith were alone.
Tom sneered at Angland, wanting to wound him. The words shot out, “Hey, tough guy. Guess what-she’s got your dirty mob money.”
For a second, Angland did nothing except tabulate behind his cold eyes. Then his face curdled. “I’ll kill you sonofabitch!”
Before the cop spun back around, Tom’s wild glance locked with the hard-eyed gaze of the man on the porch. He had seen the exchange with Angland and was now scrutiniz-ing Tom. But then the cop lunged and threw his arms around Angland’s shoulders. Broker sprinted, baby in arms.
“Hold her,” he yelled, holding the baby out as he pushed Tom toward a door in the side of the garage, opened it and thrust him and the kid through. “Stay put.”
Inside, a woodstove, wood shavings curled on the floor.
The walls held racks full of woodworking tools. The kind of shop Tom once dreamed of having. The kid squirmed and 106 / CHUCK LOGAN
started to cry. Tom ignored her. Voices surged outside. He went to the door, to watch the fight develop in the yard.
All big guys, in their forties. Tom sensed their slight caution, past the straight-ahead fury of their youth. Broker waded in and hooked one of Keith’s legs with his ankle and swept him off balance. But Keith, light-footed, recovered, shook them both off and went for Broker. And Tom saw that it was definitely Japanese movie time, the way they puffed up with macho-strut and put on their bad Kabuki scowls. Wow.
These two guys really
He tensed forward, eager to see two men their age fight.
Especially these two. But then he became aware of the weight of the toddler in his arms-she had stopped yowling.
And plunged her plump hand into his pocket and now was fascinated by the fistful of hundred-dollar bills mashed in her small but strong fist.
“Hey, you little shit,” protested Tom.
As he shifted the baby’s weight to reach with his other hand, the kid thrust the hand up and out, throwing open her fingers. Bills erupted and fluttered all around. The kid squealed, distinctly, “Pretty-pretty.”
Unceremoniously, Tom dumped her on the cold cement floor and stooped to gather up the cash. She shook off her blanket. Damn. The kid was quick. She snatched a loose hundred. Tom tried to grab it back.
The bill ripped. Instantly, Tom matched the torn halves.
Christ, the whole middle was missing. Fast as a little mon-goose, the fat kid stuffed the missing portion into her mouth.
Tom was totally flummoxed, squatting, stuffing money back in his pocket with one hand. Bills everywhere.
He spotted an empty air mail envelope under the work-bench, seized it and shoved money in as fast as he THE BIG LAW/107
could. Didn’t want them loose in his pocket. He crammed the envelope in his jacket, yanked the kid up in his arms and tried to get a finger in her mouth. Good luck. Little piranha had teeth. Then he did and…
Ow, shit! Fucking kid bit him.
From the corner of one wild eye, through the door window, Tom saw the big county cop interpose himself between Broker and Angland. He grabbed each of their collars in a slab hand and pushed them apart. Tom turned back to the kid.
The kid glowered, jaws clamped obstinately shut.
Christ. Frustrated, angry, Tom shoved. The kid plopped over on her butt. Amazing. Damn kid got up and faced him.
Good. She was chewing. Go on, you little shit. Swallow it.
Outside, the two overforty gladiators backed off, and Tom saw that the concern on all the faces was intimate. Local.
Not the kind of cop masks you’d expect when capital crimes and federal agencies were waiting in the wings.
Tom grabbed the kid and shook. When she started crying, he got a finger in her mouth, swept around, trying to avoid her six or seven teeth. Nothing. She had swallowed it.
Relieved, Tom patted her. “Nice baby,” he said. Outside, the tough guys performed a face-saving male dance of heavy breathing, straightening their clothing, running their hands around their belts and hitching up their pants. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
“Okay,” Keith was saying. “Just keep this guy away from Caren.”
Tom couldn’t resist. He pointed his finger. “He beat her up. He beat her up.”
Keith started to come at Tom again, and the big cop snared his right hand in a hold Tom recognized-from a police manual-as an arm bar. He levered Keith to the ground.
