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Griffin had been walking point with a squad of Popular Forces, moving between night positions. A roving ambush. He collided with a VC point man on a muddy trail, and they exchanged fire point-blank in the fog. The Viet Cong’s AK rounds ripped through the red smoke grenades that had been hanging off the side of Griffin’s radio, and the smoke seeped out and completely coated him in the thick chemical pigment; his hair, his teeth, his skin, and his gear.

They met because of a bomb.

Buck sergeant Griffin, the radio man on the local district advisory team, had killed the lead VC. The rest scattered. He also killed two water buffalo on the trail behind the VC point. The animals made an unreal racket going down, but not so loud that Griffin didn’t hear the screeching metal ricochet. The Viet Cong had been moving four buffalo across the river. The two dead animals and the two survivors were lashed together with a bamboo yoke on which they were transporting an unexploded 2,000-pound bomb.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in red shit,” Griffin had said to brand-new Second Lieutenant Phil Broker, who had choppered in from Hue City with Major Ray Pryce and a gaggle of brass to inspect the find.

They met again, a short while later, in the cauldron battle for Quang Tri City. They stayed together until the end, in ’75.

Broker, with a flashlight in his pocket, stood in the driveway smoking a cigar as Harry Griffin eased up the drive in his runaround vehicle, a ’99 Jeep Sport. His work truck was still on the hoist at Luchta’s. Griffin parked next to the Tundra and got out. He was in his late fifties now, and as he approached, Broker saw how the harsh yard light really dug into the creases and hollows under his gaunt cheekbones. After way more Peter Pan years than a guy should have, Detroit Harry was finally starting to look his age.

Griffin was alone. He walked up to Broker, followed him through the garage to the back deck, and glanced at the video flicker in the kitchen windows.

“Why do I get the feeling she ain’t watching Survivor?” Griffin said.

“The War in the Box,” Broker said.

“She feels left out, huh?” Griffin asked.

Broker shook his head. Not so much an answer as a weary dismissal of the subject. He did notice, even in the dark, that Griffin was watching him closely.

“You’re no fun,” Griffin said, “don’t want to talk about the war-everybody’s talking about the war; how cool it is. Reporters gushing all over themselves, getting to ride on tanks…” He paused, nodded toward the TV flicker. “How’s she doing? I was surprised she answered the phone. She sounded more like her old self.”

Broker nodded. “She coming out of it.” Looked back through the garage. “Where’s the local copper?”

Griffin shrugged. “A few minutes behind me.”

“What’s he know?”

“I been living up here ten years, so he knows me, some of what I did in the Army. He’s called me a couple times, to help out in a pinch.” Griffin shrugged. “Knows we were on the same team in the old days.”

“Great, what else did you tell him?”

“Hey, numb-nuts, you were the one whipped a Kansas City lateral restraint on Jimmy Klumpe yesterday. Keith says you did it perfect, like it was pure reflex. Says he learned the technique in Skills and never has been able to get it right.”

Broker turned and looked at the bluish flicker of the TV in the kitchen. “Does he-”

Griffin shook his head. “No. Nothing about her.”

Broker changed the subject, poking Griffin not quite playfully on the shoulder. “Talked to Susan Hatch at the school today, huh? Actually, she talked to me. She got right down to cases, asking questions about Kit. And me. Let it slip she knew you in the biblical sense. What have you been telling her, like in bed?”

The question hung unanswered in the falling snow as a pair of headlights swept across the tree line to the side of the yard. Broker and Griffin walked back through the garage into the driveway. Keith Nygard drove a gray Ford Ranger, not his Sheriff ’s Department cruiser. He parked it next to Griffin’s Jeep, got out in jeans, a Filsen parka, and bulky La Crosse boots. He walked over to the two older men.

“He’s okay,” Griffin said, watching the sheriff approach. “Young but okay.”

Broker nodded and said by way of greeting, “Sheriff.”

“Jimmy Klumpe called the office today and lodged a complaint; says somebody dumped a can full of garbage at his office door. His driver, coming back from a route saw a green Tundra leaving the yard.” Nygard said. His wire-rim glasses gleamed in the yard light, the lenses slightly fogged.

“That why you’re here?” Broker asked.

“You tell me.” Nygard’s voice was low, almost quiet. His hard cop stare, however, was unmistakable in the bad light. Broker matched him, stare for stare.

“Guys,” Griffin chided.

Broker relented, dropped his eyes. “Okay. This morning Klumpe was driving the truck that collected my canister. He picked it up with the hydraulic auto reach arm, then dumped it deliberately in the ditch and drove away. Took his time so’s I got a good look at his face. I guess I overreacted, considering all the strange shit that’s been going on.”

“Define strange shit?” Nygard asked.

“This way,” Broker said, starting to walk. They fell in step through the snow in the backyard. Stopped at the side of the garage by the doghouse. Broker shined his flashlight on the bowl of meatball antifreeze. “That showed up last night,” Broker said. “Right after I found a brand-new tire flat on my truck. Had it repaired-old man Luchta said it was a puncture.”

“You have a dog?” Nygard asked.

Broker shook his head and motioned to the two other men to follow him. As they left the radius of the yard light, Broker pointed the way up the connecting trail.

When they came to the ski pole where the trails T-boned, Broker stopped and switched on the light. Griffin and Nygard continued forward, stood looking at the stuffed bunny for a full minute. Slowly Griffin took out a pack of cigarettes and an old Zippo lighter. He lit the cigarette, put the lighter back in his pocket, then turned to Broker.

“Bloody nose to crucified bunny. He escalated on you,” he said.

“Every morning Kit makes her bed and puts that bunny in the same exact place on her pillow. Last night after the tire and the antifreeze happened, the toy was missing. I’m thinking somebody was in my house yesterday when Kit and I where out on the ski trail. Maybe he was watching the house, waiting until we left…”

“What about your wife? Was she home?” Nygard asked.

“She wasn’t feeling good and was taking a nap when we left,” Broker said.

Nygard waited for Broker to continue. When he didn’t, Griffin steered off Nina, asking Nygard, “Jimmy?”

Nygard nodded. “He’s dumb enough to do something like this, ’specially if Cassie was egging him on.”

“There’s more,” Broker said, extended his hand, finger pointing. “Check the collar around the bunny’s neck. Our kitten disappeared last night. Nina and Kit think the cat got out because I left the garage door open.”

“Was the door open?” Nygard asked.

“No,” Broker said. Then he bit his lip, thought. “I don’t think it was.”

“You positive someone came in your house?” Nygard asked.

Broker exhaled. Saw where Nygard was going. “Not for sure. The toy could have been in the truck, the truck wasn’t locked. The bowl with the antifreeze could have been on the deck with cat food in it.”

“Okay,” Nygard said carefully, “without getting too far into exactly who you are-’cause it ain’t really my business-” He stared at Broker for several seconds. “What I want to head off here is you and Jimmy going back and forth with this feud until you bump into each other at the gas station and somebody winds up in an ambulance.”

“I just want to be left alone,” Broker said.

“Don’t take this wrong,” Nygard said, “but to stop this fight that’s brewing here, somebody gotta step up and be the adult.” The comment, coming from the younger man, struck Broker as quietly bristling with hair-shirt Scandinavian piety.

“Sheriff-” Broker started to protest.