The Price of Blood

“Then tell her to stop hitting me,” yelled Lyle.

Broker found an opening and clubbed the blond dude in the head with the pistol butt. He slung his good arm around Nina’s waist and lifted her free, grunting with the effort because she was compact as a puma and hissing and spitting and she still had a hold on the shotgun.

Lyle had his service pistol out now and jammed the muzzle two inches into the blond guy’s cheek. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

“Hey, man, mind the threads, I ain’t resisting,” said the guy in a ropey drawl. An echo of Earl lay thick on the chilly predawn and Broker, breathing hard, hurting, shaking, became incensed. He hadn’t been in two tussles in two days in a row since he’d been a rookie working patrol.

Urgent footfalls sounded in the brush on the path from the lake. Broker snatched the shotgun from Nina, stuck the Colt in his waistband, and swung the shotgun toward the sound. “It’s Mark Halme, from Grand Marais,” shouted Lyle. Broker lowered the long gun. “We got this under control,” said Lyle to the swift-moving shadow. “Keep an eye on the road.” The other cop jogged back on toward the road.

Broker saw the map, mashed flat by a dirty shoeprint, on the redwood planks among the dry potting soil, dead roots, and broken crockery. He snatched it up and set it aside. Then he turned to this new redneck.

Lyle had him face down and was trying to cuff him, but the guy was making it hard so Broker stepped in and gave him a kick. He quieted and Lyle, who had holstered his piece, grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair and slammed his head down onto the redwood.

“I got no problem cuffing you unconscious,” said Lyle.

“Awright, man, cut the shit, I’m lettin’ you do this, you understand,” said the guy. A streak of blood on his chin made an oily slick in the yard light. Lyle snapped the shackle.

“Okay, you have the right-”

“Wallet,” said the guy.

“Shut your hole,” said Lyle.

“Badge in my wallet,” said the guy.

Broker glanced over at Nina who sat in a crouch, sweating and gasping for breath, eyes bright. “The green Saturn?”

“Now you believe me? He was on the plane. His name is Fret.” She nodded.

“He left the Saturn up on the road,” said Lyle. He had the wallet out and squinted at it in the yard light. He handed it to Broker. The blond guy rolled over and came to a sitting position, his back against a bench. He was wearing a charcoal jacket, matching trousers, a black stretchy muscle shirt, and soft, worn black crosstrainers.

The laminated picture ID matched the guy, a pretty boy, cruel face ruined by a bottom-heavy long jaw. Carefully combed blond hair. A silver badge was pinned next to the ID. Det. Sgt. Bevode M. Fret, Orleans Parish, New Orleans Police Department.

“He’s no cop. He works for Cyrus LaPorte,” said Nina.

“Shut up,” said Broker. He turned to Fret. “What’re you doing breaking into my house?”

“Recovering stolen property,” said Fret confidently.

Broker motioned to Lyle who told Fret to stay put. Then they walked down the steps into the backyard. Lyle said, “Had the car on my sheet, Tom said to keep an eye out, watched him pull out from the motel parking lot at 3 A.M. We had Mark already up here, backed off the road, so I radioed him to look sharp. Asshole there pulled over about a hundred yards from your turnoff. Came in through the woods…”

Broker’s skin prickled suddenly, his eyes swung from side to side, reaching out into the dark. Then he whistled. The high-pitched whistle echoed through the silent pines. Then he called, “Tank.”

Lyle bit his lip and shook his head. “Lured him up onto the road. We found a canine handler’s whistle up there. He hit your dog with a Tazer.” Lyle paused and toed the dirt. “Then musta snapped his neck.”

“Shit.”

“He’s tricky, we lost him in the trees. Mark swung down to the shore in case he was coming up from the beach. Then I saw him creeping toward your place. He went in and I came running and he comes flying out the screen door with the banshee. She a new love interest?”

“That would be too simple.” Broker shivered, bare-chested in jeans and tennis shoes.

“This some kind of snaky UC shit that followed you up from the Cities?”

Broker shook his head. “This is personal. Can you take him down and put him on ice, no rights, no phone call, nothing. I’ll get dressed and meet you at the station. We’ll have a talk with him.”

“Okay, but I’ll have to wake up Tom. This guy’s really a cop. He’s in our jurisdiction without bonafides.”

“This has nothing to do with police work.”

“I gotta take the stuff he was bringing out of your house.”

Broker nodded. “Just keep it quiet.”

“Gotcha.” Lyle went back up the steps. “On your feet,” he ordered.

“How ’bout you take off the cuffs, huh?” said Fret. “Seeing’s I’m a brother officer-”

“You ain’t shit,” said Lyle. “I saw on Sixty Minutes last week about the NOPD. Feds busted twenty of you guys and the crime rate in New Orleans went down eighteen percent.”

“Listen, dickhead, I realize you got it rough up here in the woods going round scooping bear shit off the roads-”

“Move,” said Lyle Torgeson. With a menacing glance, Broker warned Nina to stay clear as he handed the map over to Lyle. Coated with goosebumps, he walked Lyle and his prisoner up the drive to Lyle’s cruiser. Mark Halme shined his flashlight and led Broker into the thick brush on the shoulder of the highway. They stopped and Broker knelt and put his hand on the still warm mound of dark fur.

Halme shined his light on the silver whistle and the electric stun gun that lay next to the dog’s body. He speculated, “That guy had a lot of balls letting that dog in close enough to zap him with the Tazer.”

“Real good or real desperate,” said Broker.

“I already took some pictures. I’ll be at the cabin the rest of the night in case there’s more of them,” said Halme. He gingerly folded the Tazer and the whistle in plastic evidence bags and backed away, giving Broker some room.

Broker jerked nervously. Mosquitoes starting to flock. He fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes and matches from his pocket, lit up, and blew smoke at the insects. It was quiet now except for the waves breaking on the shore. Hyper alert, he could hear his sweat dry, feel the salt crack on his skin.

He took his vows seriously. He’d upheld the ones he’d sworn to the U.S. Constitution and to the people of Minnesota. His failed marriage he still wore like crippling chains.

The Cyrus LaPorte he had known wouldn’t use the likes of Bevode Fret. For the first time he formed the thought that maybe it was LaPorte who had not minded his vows. But it was wrapped in hot angry instinct.

For the dog alone I’ll hurt you bad, General.

Back off. Think. Cool gears of reason shifted through the wrath. Sorting it. Delaying it. He lifted the huge shepherd in his arms and plodded back to the cabin. Nina confronted him, shaking in her torn shirt. There were purple claw marks down her shoulder and on both arms. She had trouble breathing.

“Now you believe me,” she insisted and her voice rasped, barely under control. Then she saw the dead animal. “Aw, God.”

Broker nodded and laid Tank down. Then he noticed the blood oozing from her bruised throat in the porch light. The dark shape of Fret’s thumb prints. “Your neck?”

“Bastard tried to choke me.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital-”

“I don’t need a fucking hospital. I need some fucking help.”

Broker patiently hoarded his anger, pushing it into his heart like icy bullets into a spring-loaded magazine. “Get cleaned up, make some coffee. There’s a cop named Mark Halme staying close. I’ll be back after I talk to this Fret.”

“He won’t tell you anything.”

Broker squinted in the harsh light at the damage on her throat. Sonofabitch, she’d been fighting for her life.

“He’ll tell me a lot,” he said slowly. “But I’ll tell him more and then he’ll tell LaPorte…”