The Big Law

Heard Tom James’s car door slam, engine start. Gravel clattered off car doors as James peeled up the driveway. Keep going. Jeff was in trouble.

He vaulted the steps and stepped into the empty living room. Stopped. The odd quiet set his neck hair on end. Then he heard a muffled thump from the bathroom. At the same time he felt the draft from the ajar door leading to the deck.

Clutching Kit to his side, he threw open the bathroom door and-aw Jesus-a very angry Jeff sat, arms extended behind him, cuffed to the water pipe under the sink. He had a washcloth stuffed in his mouth.

Broker yanked out the rag. Jeff yelled, “I don’t believe it.

He’s nuts. He pulled his weapon the minute we got inside.”

Keith’s car door slammed in the yard. Kit began to cry louder.

“Shit,” hissed Broker. “Where’s the key?”

“They’re his cuffs. He’s got the key.”

The Crown Victoria’s engine revved. “Shit,” said Broker again, tensing. Maybe he could run down Keith before he made the road. Then what?

Kit held him back. The fear leaped again when she turned bright red in midwail, holding her breath. Not choking, scared.

Jeff studied Broker’s turmoil. “Let him go. Leave it to us.”

He bounced on the floor, furious. “Call nine-one-one. Give them Keith’s car.”

Goddamn fucking kid. How was he going to explain the money in her mouth? Tom rotated the pill bottle in his fingers as he drove. Side effects. Had his own side effects to worry about. There could be a regular landslide of side effects. He crushed the plastic bottle in his fist and slammed the debris on the dashboard.

Tom winced, remembering Broker’s suspicious eyes, questioning the piece of currency, putting it together. Tom and money.

I’m going to get caught.

Just say I took some of the money to show the FBI. That might work. All that buried money. He almost cried. Okay.

Get past it. Needed Caren now, to vouch for him.

He parked the station wagon in front of the motel office, headed into the dining room. The clerk called to him.

“She isn’t here. She said to tell you she went for a walk.”

Tom was confused. “Where? It’s freezing out.”

“In the woods, up the ridge.”

“Great.” Tom grimaced. Finding people in the woods was not his specialty. “Did she say where she was going?”

“She uh, went up the trail to the Devil’s Kettle. It’s a waterfall a little ways up the Brule River.”

“Waterfall?” Tom was incredulous.

“It’s pretty unusual, mysterious actually,” said the clerk.

“Half the river disappears in this enormous pothole. Over the years they’ve run experiments. Dumped in red dye, bobbers, hundreds of Ping-Pong balls. None of them were ever seen again. It’s bottomless.”

“Where’s this trail?” Tom sagged, resigned.

“Right across the road. There’s a path this side of the bridge. Otherwise, you go in through the park. It’s clearly marked, can’t miss it.” The clerk pointed.

“Okay,” said Tom. He shook his head to clear it. His hand squeezed the shape of the cellular phone in his jacket pocket.

“Do cell phones work up here?”

“Have to be on top of the ridge. There’s a new tower they just built.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. Roiling clouds grumbled, tiny snowflakes zipped, stacks of urgent whitecaps ripped across Superior. Across the road, the ridge rose in ominous pine thickets, black and green, like serrated teeth.

“Thunder snow,” offered the helpful clerk. “Something you don’t see very often.” Tom nodded as he handled his cell phone, making sure the battery was socked in tight. Sheets of icy wind sheared off the lake. Shivering, he stuck his hand in his pocket and felt the locker key.

He wanted to kill her, of course. And her crazy ex-husband.

And the damn kid. But he needed her. To explain the money.

With a rueful smile, he realized he hadn’t thought about the story for hours.

He pulled on his light gloves. Should have brought mittens.

Couldn’t find his hat. Not dressed warm enough but he had to get it over with. He got in the car, drove it to the end of the drive and braked out of habit, to check both ways.

The growl of the big engine preceded the speeding Crown Vic. Keith Angland skidded around a turn and came straight for the Subaru.

Seeing that car coming directly at him, Tom panicked. He kicked open the door, jumped out and darted across the highway. Where’s the damn trail? Running. Found it. Cold air seared his lungs. But he kept going through a knee-deep slush of frozen grass until he’d gained enough high ground to overlook the highway through a break in the trees.

Saw Angland park at the lodge, hurry into the office. He came out a minute later at a dead run, jumped back in the car and came up the drive, heading right for the spot where Tom had disappeared into the trees.

Tom gripped the cell phone in his pocket. Call for help.

But he couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. Angland was loose.

After him.

But then-

A hot, loud cheer shoved aside the detached, reasoning voice that had guided him through twenty years of journalism. Take a chance, Tom.

Angland was after them. Terror whittled his imagination to a lethal sticking point. He saw the way out.

What if Keith threw her in a frozen river and she drowned?

It would be his word against Angland’s. But he had the tape. Got to try. Angland was out of his car. Three hundred yards away. Tom sprang forward and ran for his life, up the trail, into the spiky black forest.

22

The wind swung an ax. Frozen sweat clicked in his hair.

Snow pecked his face. He shuddered, hunched his shoulders, gasped for breath, and his lungs crunched the ice-cold air.

Tom didn’t care. He prayed to his Jackpot God: Please, let me have this one thing and I’ll never ask for anything else.

Signs. C. R. MAGNEY STATE PARK. To his left, a deserted campground, some brown buildings, a footbridge across the lower stream.

The trail skirted the edge of a river gorge carved through raw rock. Curtains of mist twinkled in the chill air. From the corner of his eye he saw rushing brown water, dirty ivory froth, curling between ice swirls.

All uphill, tricky footing on ladders of landscape timbers furred with frost and frozen mist. Brilliant green mats of Arctic moss bunched in crannies. Weird trip roots. Rocks.

He paused. Gulped air. Heard-brush crackling behind him.

With a sob in his lungs, he bolted on.

The low subterranean grumble of surging water animated the canyon. His breath came harder. His calves burned. His thighs burned. Up more slick-timbered stairs. A sign. DEVIL’S KETTLE. Arrow to the right. Running now, along the lip of the gorge the ice-choked river a hundred feet below. Down.