Vapor Trail

“We’re on the way,” Broker said as the signs for Interstate 94 came up. He hit his turn indicator. A straight freeway run to St. Paul.

“Wait, I can’t go in like this,” Harry said. “Can we swing by my place? I need to pack some clothes, a razor, a toothbrush for Christ sake.”

“Okay,” Broker said. A little more time to sweat couldn’t hurt. He drove past the freeway entrance, checked his mirrors, and swung a fast U-turn. They traveled in silence, came up on Stillwater, angled off to miss the business district, and skirted the town. After about ten minutes Harry’s bout of shaking eased off. He leaned forward and ran his hand across the leather surface of the contoured dash.

“So this is the new F-150, huh? Got the Triton 4.6 LV8 engine. Lot of horses under the hood.” He shook his head, stabbed a finger at the steering column. Lookit that. Story of our lives.”

“How’s that?” Broker said.

“The speedometer goes up to one hundred twenty.” Harry pointed out the window. “And that speed limit sign says fifty-five.” He flopped back on the seat. “Says it all right there. Living our lives with one hand tied behind our back.”

Harry smoked another cigarette, and Broker drove over the speed limit. Finally, Broker turned off and was going down Harry’s driveway. He slowed to a stop next to the scarred tree where the Acura had been.

“Tow truck must’ve come. I’m keeping them in business,” Harry said, turning to Broker. “There was a squirrel, you know, I swerved to miss him. .”

“I came out this morning. I figured you were eating pizza while you were driving,” Broker said.

Harry sat up, more alert. “Not bad. So you went in the house?”

Broker said, “The door was open. So I went in and saw the receipt from the pizza place.”

“You went in my fucking house,” Harry said with a sag in his voice and his shoulders.

Broker interpreted Harry’s fixed stare into the middle distance as resignation, passivity. “Yeah, like I said, it was open. You bought the pizza at six oh four. The clock on your car was stopped at six forty-two. That gives you time to stop off at St. Martin’s on your way home. At least one of your colleagues thinks we should test your hands for nitrates.”

Harry forced a shaky grin. “Lemme guess. My good buddy Lymon. Except after I bought the pizza I pulled into that car wash place in River Heights Shopping Center, gassed up, and put the car through the car wash. Paid for that on my VISA too, so there’ll be a record. Doesn’t give me much time to go around killing people, does it?”

Broker put the truck in gear and drove on to the house. They got out and went inside. Harry picked up the pizza box from the living room, stuffed it in the garbage, and tied the drawstring bag. “Gotta get this out, or I’ll have critters in this heat.”

After he took the garbage outside the door, he walked through the house as if he were looking for something. He went out on the deck and pointed to the deck chairs. “Gotta bring in the cushions; just throw them in the living room through the patio door.”

Broker was leaning over to pick up a chair cushion when he heard Harry pushing around in the stack of magazines and newspapers on the side table next to a chair. .

And the short hairs on Broker’s neck rose up. .

In that frenzied slow motion that wraps sudden danger, he watched Harry’s hand come up gripping a stubby, nickel-plated.357 revolver.

Broker tried not to freeze as he processed the information. Gun coming up, pointed at me. His reflexes were engaging so slowly, his hand swinging back, but like underwater, reaching for the Colt under his shirt. How dumb. .

Harry extended his arm and pulled the trigger. Broker winced at the sound, felt the whiskers of gunpowder brush by his face. A loud metallic clank echoed in back of him. Turning, he heard the lead pig target crash to the top of the picnic table fifty yards away, down in the yard.

“And this little piggy had none,” Harry said as he swung open the cylinder and dumped the empty casings in his hand. Harry grinned. “I knew this thing was out here somewhere. Had you going there, didn’t I?”

Yes, you did.

Harry sorted through the magazines and pulled out a nylon-zippered pistol case, put the revolver and the brass inside, and zipped it up. Then he gathered up the cushions, magazines, the pistol case, and turned toward the patio door. “Course, now it won’t do any good to test me for nitrates, will it?”

Broker, aggravated, shook his head; Harry and his freaky tricks. He was so aggravated that, as he reached to get the last deck chair cushions, he broke one of his basic rules-which was never turn your back on someone who is potentially dangerous. .

Wham!

Harry sucker punched him from behind, and Broker’s vision popped to static to black and his knees turned to water.

“She would have been forty-four this March, you fuck,” Harry said.

Broker collapsed forward on the deck.

Chapter Eleven

He’d been struck behind the right ear, and the pain didn’t register until after his chest hit the decking. His breath went out in a whoosh, and he struggled to take in another breath as Harry’s knee slammed between his shoulder blades, driving him down hard.

Now he felt the pain, and he was amazed at the flimsy cliches that formed in his numb mind in the first seconds.

This is it.

This is so dumb.

Finally his mind got traction: Fight. .

But Harry wasn’t wobbling or slurring his words now. His trained hands efficiently removed Mouse’s cuffs and the pistol from Broker’s belt. Before Broker could react, metal circled his left wrist, and he saw Harry’s hand clamp the other bracelet to a sturdy upright strut in the deck railing. Broker tried to shake off the shock and brace to push himself up with his other hand, but Harry’s knee kept him pinned down. That’s when Harry took the badge off Broker’s belt and snaked the truck keys and the cell phone from his pocket.

The weight moved off his back, and Broker heard Harry’s shoes scrape across the deck into the house. Alone, he attempted to focus and take a breath. After he drew a few deep breaths, he raised his free right hand and felt the lump behind his right ear. His fingers came away clean. No blood. Harry had hit him with an expert stunning blow, probably with the pistol case.

It was like lying underwater in the heat; slowly, awkwardly he flailed to his knees and yanked the handcuffs against the rail. The steel rattled, but the wood did not budge.

Harry returned carrying a fifth of Johnny Walker Red Label Scotch in one hand and an ice-cold slice of last night’s pepperoni pizza in the other. He put the bottle down on the deck table and pulled a hammer from the waistband of his jeans. It wasn’t a regular carpenter’s hammer but an ugly, two-headed, short sledge. Broker recognized the type (he’d used one like it landscaping); it was heavy enough to drive pole barn spikes into railroad ties. Harry dropped the hammer on the table. Then he kicked the one remaining deck chair that had a cushion back beyond the radius of Broker’s chained reach and sat down.

He chewed some of the pizza, swallowed, and took a generous slug from the whiskey. Despite his throbbing head, Broker noticed the round white plastic thermometer hung on the wall next to the patio door. The needle was stuck at 102 degrees. How could the guy drink the warm alcohol in this heat? He got his answer almost immediately as he watched control suffuse back into Harry’s face and warmth trickle into his hollow eyes.

Broker didn’t know a whole lot about the pathology of alcoholism, but he suspected that Harry had progressed to a point where unintended consequences could ambush him every time he drank. Broker watched the rage and sorrow slosh back and forth in the wreckage of Harry’s eyes.

I kill you-I kill you not.