“And I can’t paddle with this arm,” Milt said.
“And I can’t do it alone,” Broker said, careful to control his voice. On a hard paddle out, he’d much prefer Milt.
“So that’s it,” Milt said. “I stay with Hank, you two paddle for help.”
Broker started making his preparations.
“What are our chances?” Allen asked.
Broker glanced over at Sommer in the sleeping bag. “I won’t bullshit you. Getting out’s the easy part. It’s getting back in that’s hairy.” He yanked his thumb at the storm. “The wind’s out of the northwest. That’s classic Alberta Clipper. If something really big’s coming down from Canada, we’ll hit it going out. The Forest Service has a seaplane base in Ely, and the state patrol has a helicopter. That’s his only chance.”
Their eyes met. Allen said, “But bad weather could keep them from flying.”
“There it is,” Broker said.
“I don’t have to tell you how serious this is,” Allen said. “His bowel has popped through a tear in his stomach wall, the muscles have constricted, and I can’t reduce it-push it back in. His intestine is incarcerated, it’s not getting blood, the tissue is dying. If it perforates, depending on the size of the tear, his stomach cavity could literally flood with his own shit.”
“Peritonitis,” Broker said.
“Not the way I’d choose for him to die,” Allen said tartly, staring out into the whirling snow.
Sommer curled in the sleeping bag with his knees drawn up in a fetal knot of pain. “Jo-lene,” he moaned, going in and out of consciousness.
“Is that?” Broker asked.
Milt nodded his head, raised an eyebrow, and drew out the syllables as an afterthought: “Joe-leene.”
Sommer repeated his wife’s name like a painful metronome, marking time, and it was all about time now. Two hours had passed since they’d fumbled ashore. Hypothermia was behind them, they had retrieved the canoe from the point, but Broker wanted to make sure that he and Allen were thawed and in dry gear before they faced the weather again.
They hunkered over a topographical map on which their itinerary had been traced in yellow Magic Marker. Allen reached over abruptly, turned Broker’s wrist, and plucked the cheap canvas strap on his watch. Broker started to react, then saw that the doctor didn’t mean to be rude-he was just curious and his curiosity didn’t respect normal boundaries.
“Still running. Twelve bucks, United Store,” Broker said evenly.
Allen, wearing a Rolex Explorer II, nodded and continued to lace on his boots. Broker cinched up the survival bag. They had food, flashlights, sleeping bags, a change of dry clothes, a sound eighteen-foot canoe, and three paddles. For ballast, Broker wrapped some dry kindling in a poncho liner.
Allen gave his last instructions to Milt about applying ice packs to reduce the swelling. Broker knelt and put his hand on Sommer’s shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hiya, homeboy,” Sommer said through clenched teeth. Briefly their eyes conjured with credentials, then Sommer quipped, “You still here? Go out there and find me a skyhook.”
Allen said, “No food and no water after midnight. This time tomorrow he’s going to be on an operating table.”
“Allen, we’ve gotta roll,” Broker said, getting to his feet.
“Better get ahold of Jo,” Sommer said.
“First thing,” Allen said.
“Tell her I ain’t dead yet,” Sommer said, managing the barest grin. He raised one hand weakly in farewell and dropped it.
Broker and Allen left shelter and went to the canoe that Broker had readied on the cobble beach. The storm winds had spiraled away, leaving the fickle lake relatively calm. They shook Milt’s left hand and, with snowflakes pelting their faces, they launched into the restless swells.
Chapter Six
The storm left behind gloomy flurries that stuck to their faces, melting and trickling down their cheeks. The breaking waves were gone, now sluggish swells slapped the bow of the canoe.
“If only she wouldn’t have called this morning.” Allen paddled furiously and stared ahead at the misty spruce crowns. “Can you believe it. He
“Nothing like a domestic dispute.” The remark rolled easy and world-weary from Broker’s tongue; a cliche from his background in law enforcement.
Allen paused to rest on his paddle and shake his head. “Typical. He does things on impulse, then he regrets it later. That’s been the story of his life since he met her.” Allen looked up and shook his head. “And
“In an AA group, right?” Broker said, to keep the conversation going.
“Right, but the reason they met personally was, she walks in to this group of guys in this church basement- folding chairs, cinder blocks, no windows, the air full of
Allen said “cigarette smoke” like he’d just raised Satan.
“. . and she’s wearing this sweater and she has these perfect tits. So Hank and this other guy start to wager, like, are they for real or are they implants? So Hank is on the case. He takes her out for coffee-at this motel and gets her in bed and, he swears, no scars, they are real.” Allen continued to shake his head. “I was married. You know where I met my wife? In Sunday school.”
“So Sommer married a sweater girl,” Broker mused.
“Milt thinks she’s practically a gun moll. But he’s reacting more to her old boyfriend, that Earl character. He’s definitely a criminal element.”
Broker suppressed a grin at Allen’s language. He was getting an impression of Allen as a missionary-position Minnesota Normal.
“I guess some women find that attractive,” Allen said. “And Hank has a little bit of that in his past, too. You know, rough stuff.”
Broker cleared his throat and looked to his paddle. Getting into the locker-room swing of the conversation, he’d been on the verge of asking Allen to describe more of her.
They were silent for a while, just paddles shoving water.
Allen turned out to be surprisingly strong and steady on the paddle, which led Broker to revise his earlier judgment. The doctor, he decided, was used to digital results and was holding nothing but an analog wooden paddle in his hands, so he was more frustrated than fussy. And, far from being annoyed at Allen’s carping, Broker welcomed it because it filled the dreary monotony of sky and water.
Talk was good, because they had a lot of time to fill. Broker figured fourteen to sixteen hours of nonstop paddle and portage to the lodge. And they’d have to camp when it got dark. So add six more hours. If Sommer had twenty-four hours, they’d be cutting it close. And they still had to rely on a plane or helicopter to get him out.
The time stretched out in front of them. Old-fashioned, unplugged, slow Real Time with no crowds, no traffic, sirens, TV, telephones, email, or Internet. Just the creak of the canoe, the hiss and slap of the bow cutting the chop, and the dip of the paddles.
“How long have you guys known each other?” Broker asked.
“I met Hank through Milt. I met Milt at a seminar. He was the keynote speaker on malpractice. Milt invited me to a poker game where I met Hank. That was just after he got the movie deal for his book.”
“I don’t read much. .” Broker was about to say “fiction.”
“But you’ve been around,” Allen said quickly.
“How’s that?”
“Back by the fire, when we were stripping out of the wet stuff. Your shoulder, your back, and your right leg. I spent a month in Bosnia in ’94. Doctors without Borders. I’ve seen shrapnel wounds before.”
