The Big Law

Twisting gladioli formed a lavender-blue arch over Ida Rain’s hospital bed. Dreamy from medication, she leaned back against her pillows with a noseguard of bruises plastered in the center of her face. Like Broker had imagined, bandages made a white turban around her head. Tests would determine if she’d suffered long-term memory loss. The doctors didn’t think so.

Ida licked her dry lips, talking was still difficult. Broker held a sippy cup to her mouth. She drank from the straw.

“How’d it go out there? I mean, afterward?” she asked.

“You waking up and IDing James as your attacker helped a whole lot,” said Broker, not real keen about reliving being grilled by the Santa Cruz cops, the Marshals Service, and the FBI.

“Did you see the stories?” She pointed to copies of the Minneapolis and St. Paul papers on the bed.

“I read them on the ride in from the airport.”

“Not often a guy like Wanger gets to use a line like: ‘Real life is stranger than fiction.’” Ida attempted to smile.

Broker took her hand, and they were quiet for a few beats.

Then she looked around the ward, at the curtains, machines, patients, and staff in green gowns.

“Reminds me of ER,” she said.

Broker shook his head.

“I expect to see Doug Ross or Dr. Benton show up any minute.” She stopped. “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“No.”

She tugged for him to come closer. When he did, she whispered in his ear. “I have this little secret.”

“You should rest,” said Broker.

“No,” said Ida. “It’s important I get this straight before I talk to any more cops.”

“Okay.”

“Tom-Danny-him; he told me he killed Caren Angland.

He was curious why Keith Angland didn’t contest his story.”

Broker nodded. “That’s a secret, all right.”

“But it has nothing to do with why he attacked me?”

“Not directly.”

“Indirectly?” She attempted to narrow her cloudy eyes.

Couldn’t.

Broker figured: no memory loss, still sharp. The nine-thousand-piece puzzle would be completed.

“Something’s going on, huh?” she asked.

Broker nodded again.

“But you won’t tell me?”

“Can’t. Don’t know myself, for sure.”

“Give me just a hint?” Same old Ida.

Broker rubbed his chin. “How’s your World War Two history?”

“Try me. You might be surprised.” Beaten to a pulp in a hospital bed, Ida sounded like Mae West.

Broker said, “In 1942, Eisenhower briefed the press corps about the landings in North Africa-before the troops hit the beach. He assumed they wouldn’t say anything because everybody was on the same side.”

Ida leaned back and smiled painfully. “Journalists aren’t supposed to take sides…”

“Right, for objectivity’s sake, they should have solicited a reaction from Hitler,” said Broker.

“You, ah, have an example that isn’t from the Stone Age?”

Ida asked.

“Maybe we’re working on that now,” said Broker.

Slowly, she picked her words, “You’ll tell me someday, when it’s more just a story than a secret.”

“Deal,” said Broker.

“Okay, my selective memory loss has wiped out that part of Tom’s conversation. Now we have our stories straight.”

“My turn. St. Paul Homicide is after me on this. How did Tom know we were working on those stories?”

“Easy. He hacked into the company office network and read an e-mail about it.”

Broker shook his head. “I knew there was a reason I put off getting a computer.”

A nurse approached and told Broker that was enough. Ida had to rest.

She touched her puffy upper lip. “You may kiss me goodbye, here, on this bruise.”

Chastely, Broker did.

Lorn Garrison, waiting in the hall, asked, “How is she?”

He didn’t mean her medical condition.

“She’s cool,” said Broker.

They parted in the parking lot after making tentative plans to hunt together next fall. Soon, bounty money would start trickling into a Kentucky bank account.

“So what did you tell them?” asked Nina over the long-distance connection from Tuzla. She referred specifically to Tommy Reardon at St. Paul Homicide; but she meant them all.

“Same thing I told the Santa Cruz sheriff’s department, the Marshals Service, the FBI, and the reporters. They wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to make an argu

THE BIG LAW/439

ment about James being involved with the missing money.

So I went on my own to find him. Except somebody was listening. Probably bugged the house. When I got the lead on James from Ida, they were right on top of me. Those guys wrapped me up the minute I knocked on the door.”

“So they were watching you?”

“Must have been. The BCA had a crew up to check the house. They never found a bug, though.”

“Did you mention the couple down the beach?”

“You know, they slipped my mind.”

“Sometimes I don’t like talking to you when I can’t see your eyes.” Broker didn’t respond. She didn’t push it. They both reserved separate compartments to store bodies in. So she asked, “Does James change the case against the husband?”

Broker smiled. “Jeff just heard through the grapevine-that Italian Mafioso, Tony Sporta, the feds’ key witness-well, after seeing how well they guarded James in Witness Protection, he’s changed his story. He’s refusing to testify. So the case is getting more circumstantial all the time, and Keith has a sharp lawyer.”

“Can of worms,” said Nina.

“Yeah, well; I’m through sticking my nose in other people’s business,” said Broker.

“Can I get that in writing?” They laughed, and then Nina asked, “How’s Kit doing?”

Broker watched Kit perform her peculiar stomp dance under the dragon. “You know. Normal kid things. It’s a beautiful clear night. We’re going out and learn some stars.”

They stood on Broker’s favorite rock while the big water beat a rolling cadence at their feet. Six breath- stopping degrees filed each star to a point. The night sky was sharp enough to bite.

“Ars,” puffed Kit, echoing Broker’s coaching. Muffled 440 / CHUCK LOGAN

in Polarfleece bunting, only her eyes showed, specked with diamonds.

He held her up, face to the south, where the mighty hourglass of Orion blazed. The constellation was a night anchor running back through time, to the first humans who raised their eyes above survival in the dirt.

“See. The three stars in a row. That’s the belt. And the big one down to the right, that’s Rigel.”

To honor the advent of his daughter’s new century-and for her mom and Caren and Ida-Broker pronounced, “That’s Orion, Kit; she’s a hunter.”