Absolute Zero

dangerous games with a hammer and a spike.”

J.T. tapped a sheet of faxed paper on the desk. Broker recognized it as a police report. J.T. said, “July ninety-six, Washington County responded to a nine-one-one from Stovall’s wife. He’d gone off the wagon and nailed his wrist to the bathroom door in the basement of their home. Paramedics used a Wonder bar to get him free. Same wrist. Like this.”

J.T. picked up a pen and then positioned his left forearm on the counter, palm up, and then curled his wrist back, aligning his thumb and fingers so the pen pointed back into the hollow of his wrist. “They figured he was playing this kind of game again.”

J.T. pounded the pen down into his wrist with an imaginary hammer in his right hand. “He went a little too far and he got, pardon the pun, stuck in the woods with the weather turning bad, and he froze to death. Not suicide.”

Broker shook his head. “Well, thanks for the trouble.”

“No problem.” J.T. tossed the pages aside and said, tongue in cheek, “I know how you benefit from a steady hand when you go off on a tangent.”

Broker ignored the jab and rocked silently back and forth and stared out the picture window where the blackness had dissolved into pale streaks of purple and vermilion.

“So you really went for this thing; why is that?” J.T. asked.

“We were bringing Sommer out in the seaplane. And he started raving about telling Stovall to move the money. That’s what got me going after I saw the article about finding Stovall in the woods.”

“Raving, like in delirious?”

“Yeah, he was delirious. He was pissed at his wife. So he moved all his money into a trust where she can’t touch it. The alternate trustee was Stovall, who checks out the day after they discover that Hank Sommer’s health insurance has lapsed.”

J.T. stroked his chin. “Her lawyer is Milton Dane. She’s not without resources.”

Broker nodded. “True. Milt’s arranging for a nursing home, and he’s busting open the trust.”

“So she panicked and now she’s covered,” J.T. said. “You went with your gut and arrived at a conclusion and worked backward, trying to make events fit. Uh-huh. Typical Broker. You always were a prosecutor’s nightmare. But they put up with your bullshit because it helps to have someone around who’ll walk into the lion’s den with a pocketful of raw steak. That last bust, you bagged those National Guard guys selling machine guns all over the Midwest, that got a lot of people promoted. Not just at BCA, but at the Bureau and ATF. The word on the street was, they left you out there about five years too long.”

“You getting into giving speeches in your old age?” Broker said.

J.T. squinted. “Yeah, I’m into speeches and simple shit like knowing where my wife is. She’s in the kitchen eating Total Raisin Bran with my daughter, getting one hundred percent of her vitamins before she goes to work. And this is your problem we’re getting to.” J.T. leaned forward. “Can you tell me where your wife is? Where your kid is?”

Broker grimaced. “C’mon J.T.; not first thing in the morning.”

“You can’t, can you?” J.T. said. “ ’Cause you don’t even know. And you know why? Because you married yourself, you dumb shit. Only difference between you and Nina Pryce is she’s younger, so she’s got bigger balls.”

“Having fun, aren’t we?” Broker said.

“I’m just warming up. See, the way I have it figured out is those other women you knew bored you, and then here comes Nina who doesn’t bore you. And you actually thought that because she had your kid and married you, she’d toss off her Wonder Woman bracelets and stay home and knit.” J.T. rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Looks like she’s the one that got bored with you this time.” J.T. grinned.

“What is this? Tough love or shooting-wounded?” Broker asked.

“You tell me,” J.T. said. “Nina left your shit weak and some writer guy had to save your ass. And you’ve got yourself so turned around that you show up here looking like the poster boy for the Peter Pan Principle, with your snappy young nurse.”

Broker had to protest. “Peter Pan Principle? When did you stoop to psychobabble?”

“Actually it’s Denise’s term,” J.T. sniffed. “You know, for guys who never grow up.”

And then Amy, who had been standing in the doorway unobserved, nursing a cup of coffee, enunciated precisely: “That’s snappy young nurse-anesthetist.”

“Hmmm,” J.T. said, slightly deflated, coming off his roll.

Amy entered the room and said, “Okay, while you guys are solving the problems of the world I need to borrow a vehicle and do some early Christmas shopping.”

“Hmmmm,” J.T. said again.

“Right,” Broker said, glad to change the subject. “So where’s my truck?”

J.T. cleared his throat; wrinkles appeared on his neck as he drew his head back between his broad shoulders and tried to stand up and scratch his forehead. “I been meaning to talk to you.”

“My truck?” Broker insisted.

“It’s in the Quonset,” J.T. said, pulling on his coat and moving toward the door.

Broker and Amy followed J.T. back out into the cold and they tramped after him across the yard to the large equipment shed. J.T. pushed open the doors and flipped on a light. A tractor and a John Deere bailer were parked in the foreground. A bobcat sat beyond them, and parked in the rear was the shape of Broker’s sleek Ford Ranger, shrouded in a huge blue tarp.

Broker walked forward, grabbed a handful of tarp, yanked, and then groaned. The windows on both doors were gone, nothing but pulverized shatter-glass hanging in the corners. The door panels were caved in and so were the fenders and wheel wells. The sides of the truck bed were cratered. The tailgate was dimpled.

His truck looked like a Roman legion had hauled it in a field and used it for catapult practice.

“I can explain,” J.T. said as Broker began to space out his cussing.

“Goddamn mother fucker. . I let you use this to bring in hay?”

“Well, it involved hay-straw actually. See, I was taking bedding straw into the paddock where I used to keep Popeye and. .”

“Son of a bitch, shit!”

“. . and the sucker decided to take on the truck. Amazing he could kick that high.”

“Kick?” Broker voice was strangled. “A bird did this?”

“If it helps any, I damn near didn’t get out of that pen intact,” J.T. offered. “It’s not like you paid full boat for the thing. I remember how you had the fix in at the police auction. You had your eye on that truck since the time you confiscated it on that meth bust up in Pine County.”

Broker growled and stomped out of the Quonset and paced back and forth. He noticed Denise and Shamika standing on the porch. After making fleeting eye contact they both diplomatically scooted to Denise’s Accord and drove away.

Hearing J.T.’s boots crunch up on the cold trap-rock behind him, Broker walked to where J.T.’s glossy Chevy Silverado was parked next to the house. “Well,” Broker announced, “I’m going to need to drive something.”

“Uh, wait. No way, man. You can’t use the Chevy. I sort of promised that to Amy to go shopping. But, ah, you can use the Cherokee.”

“The Cherokee?” Broker swung his gaze to the ten-year-old boxy red Jeep that sat next to the Chevy. It looked like an experiment to determine how much rust could be balanced on top of two axles.

“The Leper Colony?” Broker protested.

“Not much to look at, I agree; but everything under the hood is rebuilt, got new rubber, heater’s good. Oil changed every three thousand miles,” J.T. added.

Amy smiled and patted the fender of the Silverado. “So which of you guys is making breakfast?”

Chapter Twenty-four