“Shit.” Broker took a sledgehammer to the chest. The cliche poised on his lips: I just talked to her the other

“Bludgeoned, strangled, robbed, took her car. Her house keys were still in her side door. Neighbors spotted them and called nine-one-one. Looks like somebody jumped her carrying in the groceries, her wallet was missing from her purse.

Probably had a spare set of car keys in there.”

“How is she?”

“Fractured skull, broken nose, comatose; in ICU at Regions.”

“How’d you get the call?”

“Tommy spotted your card-or my card with your name written on it-tacked up on her refrigerator. He wants you to check in with him.”

Broker nodded. “They establish time of the attack?”

“The receipt in the shopping bag logged 5:47 P.M. So sometime after that. Guy whacked her with a can of mines-trone soup, Tommy said, then smothered her. Probably to stop her from screaming. Looks like a botched mugging.

Didn’t know what he was doing. Left her for dead.”

“Shit,” Broker said again. “Tommy say anything about her chances?”

“The docs say she’s strong. Have to wait and see.”

“Broken skull for twenty, thirty bucks, that’s a bummer,”

said Broker. But he couldn’t shake a bad feeling about the timing. Still hadn’t told Jeff about the break- in.

“Yeah, well, anytime I can wreck your night, just let me know.”

They watched a column of olive-camouflaged Humvees, National Guard out of Duluth, slowly snake into town. Jeff said, “Finally, these guys can handle the back roads better than we can. And their radios work. Why don’t you hang it up, take Kit home.”

Spirited Ida Rain, randomly chopped down. His sadness produced the image of the huge ambitious puzzle on her carpet-unfinished. Fluky? His night visitor. Ida. Broker didn’t rule out coincidence. But he was suspicious.

Back at the sheriff’s office, he shouldered his way to a phone, grabbed at Kit as she scurried past, missed, got through to St. Paul Homicide.

Tommy Reardon came on the line fast after Broker identified himself. “What you got going with this Ida Rain?”

“She was Tom James’s boss. I talked to her about how he got on to Caren.”

“Women have bad luck with you lately, huh, Broker? First Caren, now this one.” More ill will than suspicion snickered in Reardon’s voice.

Not funny. He ignored the dig and asked, “You have any leads?”

“Nah. Looks like smash and grab. The asshole wore gloves, no latents on the soup can he used. We have everybody looking for her car. Maybe something will show up on her credit cards. That and the car’s our best bet. Until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”

Broker shut his eyes. C’mon, Ida. “So, just in and out fast?”

“Yeah, probably followed her home from the grocery store.”

“Okay, thanks, Tommy. If anything comes up, appreciate it if you call Cook County.”

“Yeah, sure, good-bye.”

Broker watched Kit play with Lyle Torgerson’s flashlight.

Amazement glowed in her eyes as she moved the switch with both tiny thumbs and the light came on. Then off. Ida, turned off that abruptly? Lyle collected his flashlight. “You all right, Broker?”

“Yeah, tired.”

“Everybody is. Damn storm.”

He heaved to his feet, took Kit, left the fatigued synergy of the sheriff’s office and crept north in four-wheel low. The crystalline world, enchanted in the light, became melancholy with sundown. Trees bowed under the icy

yoke, their green dreams of spring turning to nightmares.

Ida fighting, screaming. Which compartment could he check her into? He was full up.

Broker eased down his driveway, edged around the turn, cleared the trees and-

The butternut Ford Ranger 250 had a new camper box up back and was parked right in front of his porch.

67

Broker threw into reverse, fishtailed back behind the garage, apologized to Kit for leaving her alone again, and rolled out; county police radio in one hand, 45 in the other.

He approached the Ford, still no license plates, keyed the radio, about to ask for some backup when he peeked through the cracked driver’s side window and saw the classic, felt, porkpie brown hat perched on the dashboard. He took his thumb off the transmit button and clicked the pistol back on safe.

Garrison.

The porch window presented a view of the man, sitting in the dark flickering living room. Definitely Garrison. In out of the cold. Building fires in Broker’s fireplace. A minute later, with Kit dozing on his left shoulder, Broker mounted the porch and heard the mournful voice warble through the ajar door.

As I walked out on the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day

I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen All wrapped in white linen and cold as the grave…”

Lorn Garrison, calm as can be, in a red Pendleton wool shirt, jeans, and hunting boots, sat in front of a roar 384 / CHUCK LOGAN

ing fire. A lined Levi’s jacket hung from the back of the kitchen chair. A section of the Duluth News Tribune spread on the floor, by the hearth, under his boots. Wood shavings littered the newsprint.

Broker carried Kit into the living room and saw that Garrison delicately held an old Randall pocketknife in his right hand. Firelight flickered on the sweat-cured walnut handle, the pitted shank and the razor-sharp wink of the blade. In his left hand, he turned a flitch of basswood that was becoming the comical head of a six-legged insect, complete with feelers. Garrison cleared his throat,

“Hope you don’t mind I let myself in. Got a little weather-some in the back of the truck when this storm hit.”

“Am I under FBI surveillance?” asked Broker, very alert, fatigue forgotten. His mini-Ice Age, north of Grand Marais, was suddenly crowded with possibilities: first the break-in, then the news about Ida, now Garrison.

Garrison grinned, folded the knife with a flick of his fingers and stuck it in his back pocket. “Sit down. Relax. I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but you haven’t made it yet.”

“Answer the question. I picked up that truck on my tail over a week ago in St. Paul. Saw it again, right out there in my woods. You might as well be driving a fire engine.”

“Beauty, huh? Cost a big chunk of my early retirement bonus.”

“Retirement?”

“Yeah.” Garrison raised his elbows and gyrated his hips.

“No badge, no cuffs, no gun. I don’t work for uncle anymore.

Some bean counters at headquarters are cooking the books for the budget, clearing off as many old-timers as they can.

So I signed up. Cashed in a couple days after pulling Keith off you in that cell.” Garrison shrugged. “Maybe I’ll write a book about President Clit’s love life and go on Larry King Live like everybody else. But first, I figured we should talk.”

“I’m listening.” Broker walked to the kitchen, took candles from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

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