Absolute Zero

After it arrived and he drank it, his thinking wobbled: Okay. The body dies first. Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, and Christians could all agree on that much. The problem was-the major religions were designed for a medical reality that didn’t anticipate CPR, ventilators, and dialysis.

“Hey,” Broker signaled across the dim, nearly deserted room to the waitress at the bar. “Give me another.”

Pocketing his change after the drink arrived he noticed that he was losing corners of seconds off his reflexes and that the fine muscle control at the tips of his fingers had turned blunt. But his thinking had profoundly elongated.

So. Here’s the deal. Sommer’s body didn’t die but his mind did, and now his stubborn flesh was holding HIM- his spirit, whatever-hostage inside. Broker shook his head, stymied at the physical geography of where Sommer was. And his layman’s impressions about biomechanics did not encourage a solution. He understood vaguely that the “human” parts of Sommer’s mind had been obliterated because the deeper cortex-the lizard brain-had sacrificed the higher functions to preserve the vital pumps: the heart, the lungs.

Broker envisioned the embers of Sommer’s life warming a lidless reptilian eye and he suddenly wanted someone to blame besides himself-so he looked around and, well, no shit, he’d been sitting here for ten, fifteen minutes and hadn’t seen Iker hunched over a bar stool at the end of the bar. Iker had traded in his St. Erho sweats for a pullover, jeans, and a heavy leather coat.

Like two aging Earp brothers, their eyes met, paused briefly to check each other’s backs, and dropped back to their glasses.

Then, scanning the room more carefully, he spied Amy Skoda sitting at a corner table with her back against the wall. Half her face was blacked out in shadow. The other half was caught in the neon haze from a Budweiser sign. She still wore her blue trousers, now tucked into car boots, and her open anorak revealed the ID badge clipped to her blue tunic.

She moved her head forward into the light, their eyes met, and Broker saw reflected in her face the blame he felt burning in his own.

Chapter Twelve

Amy was not alone. Two snowmobile jocks, mistaking her troubled, fixed stare for an intoxicated cripple, had moved into chairs on either side and were treating her to drinks. And judging by the full shot glass in her hand and the empty one in front of her, she was not protesting.

Broker was smart enough to know there’s no fool like an old fool. He was just too burnt and boozed to listen to himself. So he thought-what the hell, why not give forty-seven going on twenty-five one last try? He heaved to his feet playing funky theme music in his head. Like Muddy Waters and Bonnie Raitt. I’m Ready. Dumb barroom stuff.

He pushed his chair aside and fixed on the beefy one wearing the Arctic Cat knit cap who’d looped his arm around her shoulder. The guy was a chinless wonder, a regular evangelist for the lite worldview of a beer commercial.

“Aw, c’mon, you can tell me about it,” Arctic Cat said with great sincerity as his fingers grazed near the shape of her left breast.

“Aw, God,” Amy said, shoving the arm away.

“Hey honey. It’s all right.” Arctic Cat, tone deaf to the lethal disgust in her voice, took encouragement as Broker came across the room surprisingly light on his feet and appeared on Arctic Cat’s blind side.

Amy had the right idea, and she clearly knew her anatomy. This time she grabbed Arctic Cat’s hand and cranked down on his wrist. The husky snowmobiler grinned at her attempted armlock.

She’d hit the same old problem-upper body strength. Arctic Cat was just too big.

Broker experienced no such difficulty as he swiftly took over the arm grab from Amy, wrenched the wrist, and threw in an old-fashioned Iron Ranger hockey check.

Arctic Cat’s fleshy nose and lips briefly adhered to the wall like thrown Silly Putty before he oozed to the floor, leaving a wet smear down the pine paneling. His buddy stood up and discreetly took a step back.

The man Broker had knocked down rolled over and sat up, holding his wrist; confused, blinking, he wondered aloud, “What’s that she got me with? Musta been some kung fu?” His nose and lips commenced to bleed.

“Nah,” Broker said, amazed at the callous spring of his anger, “you’re just fat, ugly, and slow.”

Then Amy was between them with two deep furrows creasing her brow. She jammed both hands on Broker’s chest, extended her arms, backed him off, and said hotly, “Hey, don’t hurt him; take it easy, he didn’t mean. .”

And Iker was there, moving fast and edgy for a big man; he shouldered Broker aside, flipped open his wallet, and badged the two guys. “Go away,” he said tersely. “Now.”

While Iker soothed the bartender who had picked up the phone, the snowmobilers parleyed, recognized that they had strayed into the dangerous part of the zoo, and made the proper decision.

“C’mon, let’s go down the street.”

“But nothin’s open down the street.”

“Let’s go there, anyway.”

Amy handed the guy with the nosebleed a bar napkin with some ice inside and told him to apply pressure. After they left, Iker peered first at Broker, then at Amy and asked, “You two all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Amy said quickly.

“Hey, no problem,” Broker said.

“Sit down, Dave, have a drink,” Amy said.

Iker gave them a tight smile. “No thanks, I don’t have the energy to get between you two. Not after today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Broker said.

“Means I know both of you. I’ll just finish my drink and go sleep on a desk, thank you.” He tipped a finger to his forehead at Amy, grabbed Broker by the elbow, and steered him across the room and out the front door. He did not stop to finish his drink.

No wind now. Just the big quiet and the big snowflakes drifting down like tiny parachutes.

Iker took a stance and eased back his coat so Broker could see the cuffs and the clip-on-hide-out holster on his belt from which protruded the patterned grip of a stubby Colt Python. Dave Iker stood six one, weighed 205, and was no slouch in the physical department, and right now he looked slightly dangerous, like he was working.

“Okay. It’s like this. She’s a little vulnerable right now.” Iker’s voice was reasonable, but his cop body language said, watch the fuck out here. “I know her family. She’s been a perfectionist since she was a kid, so she’s going to take this thing pretty hard.”

Jesus. “What. .?”

“Hey look, age-wise, she’s still a kid compared to you. And she knows your marriage is on the rocks. And just maybe she’s got a little thing for you. And you’re not helping matters playing twenty-five-year-old cowboy coming to the fucking rescue. . so go easy and don’t take advantage. .”

“I wouldn’t. .” Broker protested.

“I know you wouldn’t. Just don’t. And another thing. I don’t know what the story is between you and your old lady but don’t take it out on drunks. Not in my town. The body slam on that lush was unnecessary. That was excessive force. Jesus, Phil, you know better. The lone wolf UC days are over. You’re a goddamn civilian. .”

Iker was working. Broker was being warned. He stepped back, chastised. “Hey, Jesus, Dave. .”

“Just. .” Iker gave him a tight cop smile that really was no smile at all and made a pressing down “cool it” gesture with his open hands. He shook his head. “Look. It’s been a bad day. Let’s not have a bad night.” He punched Broker on the arm. Hard. “So, you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Broker was replaying the shock and fear on the snowmobiler’s face when he plowed into him, and seeing Amy, stepping in, with the pained look in her eyes.

“Drop my truck at the office in the morning,” Iker said as he turned and walked to a county cruiser. Broker