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poured in the fluid, and secured the lid with duct tape.

He tucked the bulbs, syringe, and fluid in his backpack. Then he went into the house, found his small head- mounted flashlight, and replaced the batteries. Going back outside, he paused to look at the patchy clouds drifting past the constellations. The fattening half-moon. Fifty percent illumination. What the hell, now he’d be able to see in the woods.

Thirty minutes later, the only thing moving on the back roads, Griffin arrived back at the logging road off Z, parked the Jeep, and set off trotting back along his fresh tracks.

Like he thought. Didn’t need the light. The snow glimmered with faint moonlight, enough to see his tracks. As he moved, he thought about how this escapade had started because Kit Broker got in a fight at school. Messages were sent back and forth by the belligerent families. Now Griffin was adding his own anonymous little communique, and he was going to use a trick that Ray Pryce, the grandfather Kit had never known, taught him in Vietnam. The dormant artist in him loved the family symmetry.

Breathy with sweat, staying on his earlier tracks, Griffin approached the farm and stalked back along the pine windbreak. Gator’s truck was parked in front of the barn, the chassis an oily yellow in the sodium vapor light on the barn. The farmhouse was blacked out except for the flicker of a TV in two of the first-floor windows.

Part of the fun, going in while Gator was there, awake.

Griffin crossed to the side of the barn, away from the yard light, and entered from the rear through the open shed and pens. Once inside, he pulled on the small headlamp and climbed onto the farthest bin from the front door. He took off his pack, and removed the bulbs, syringe, and plastic container of fluid. Then he reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb from the fixture, put it in the pack, and replaced it with one of the drilled bulbs. Snapped on the headlamp. Gingerly, working by the narrow light, he rotated the bulb just until the thread caught, leaving the hole exposed.

Now for the hard part. He untaped his container and drew a syringe full of fluid. The trick was to insert the needle in the hole and squeeze the fluid into the bottom of the bulb without disturbing the filament, then very carefully screw the bulb back into the socket so the liquid didn’t slosh around, disabling the circuit.

Which he accomplished, holding his breath, with steady fingers. Then he repeated the operation, replacing and loading the next bulb. When he’d stowed his gear back and put the replaced bulbs in the pack, he switched off the headlamp and hopped to the concrete floor. He judged the danger close distance to the front door and the light switch. Should be enough cushion.

The next time that light was turned on, the bulbs would explode and spew liquid fire down on the plywood bins, hopefully igniting all the volatile crap in the area. He wanted to give Gator a scare and hopefully burn his stash, not kill the guy.

Satisfied, Griffin exited the rear of the barn and ran back to the pines. Twenty minutes into the woods, he slowed his pace and allowed himself a cupped cigarette.

Not quite like night work in the old days. In Vietnam, he would have waited until the lights were off in the house, crept in, and cut Gator’s throat.

But close enough to elevate the pulse.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Saturday night. Nina wore a new green peasant blouse with flared sleeves. Kit had a smaller version of the same garment in burgundy. Broker cleaned up as best he could, left his work coat on the hook and dug a decent leather jacket from the closet, ran a comb through the shaggy hair curling over his collar.

Then he took the newly coiffed girls out on the town. Such as it was. The Angler’s Inn was the only good restaurant that stayed open during the winter. It was located off the frontage road, near Glacier Lodge. The dining room was closed, but the bar side was open and served an abbreviated menu.

They entered the old eatery tentatively, like a family venturing into church after a long absence. Only two people sat at the bar; half the booths were filled. The TV was off. A ceiling of antique stippled tin stretched down the long room, etched gray with generations of nicotine, grease, and wood smoke from the open-hearth fireplace. Kit walked solemnly, hugging her bunny, inspecting the gallery of photos and taxidermy on the walls-musky, walleye, a wolf. A moose head projected over the bar like an incoming antlered spaceship.

Like a shrine to the departed twenthieth century, an old Wurlitzer jukebox pulsed and bubbled red and green in the back of the room. Kit had never seen one before, so Nina led her to the music box with a handful of quarters. Broker sat in a booth watching as Nina helped Kit load up songs. The waitress brought water and menus.

At a moment like this, he could be as sentimental as the next guy. He allowed himself a vacation from suspicion about the future; enjoying looking at his wife standing next to his daughter. Nina in the new green flowing blouse, one hand planted on her hip, filling out a pair of Levi’s 501s like a north-country roadhouse dream.

The women returned, and they ordered food as the songs came on. Some Gary Puckett. Jay and the Americans. Deliberate flourishes echoing back to their tornadic courtship.

“Come a little bit closer”…like that.

Midway through grilled walleye and moose burgers, he put the idea in play with a casual remark: “You know, I could call Dooley, have him get a housekeeper in to clean up the Stillwater place.”

Nina looked up from her plate, blew a strand of hair away from her eyes, nodded, and said, “Give me another couple days to be sure. But I’m for that.”

Seeing her mom and dad grinning at each other, Kit bounced in her seat. “You mean?”

“That’s right, Little Bit,” Nina said. “We’re going home.”

As they gabbed about Kit’s friends on North Third Street, and swimming and piano, Broker rode the happy thermals. Nina mentioned that she and Kit had bumped into Teddy Klumpe and his mother when they were shopping.

“How’d that go?” Broker asked, momentarily snapping out of his glide.

“It was icky,” Kit said. “Mom was so nice to her.”

Nina shrugged. “She’s one uptight lady, so yeah, I made nice. Bought the kid a T-shirt to replace the one that got bloodied up-”

“When he started a fight, and I got suspended. It was very icky, Dad,” Kit said emphatically.

Broker grinned as Nina and Kit went back and forth on the etiquette of the meeting. The waitress cleared their plates, and Broker asked for the dessert menu.

Nina was trying to explain to an eight-year-old the difference between necessary and unnecessary conflict. Kit scowled, furrowing her brow, looked to her dad for assistance.

Broker made a stab. “Remember our little talk about laws of human nature?”

Kit swelled her eyes. “Are we gonna throw more rocks in the air? Oh, boy.”

Nina masked her laugh with her hand.

“Well,” Broker said, “another basic law is there’s two kinds of people-”

“Yeah,” Kit said, “there’s girls and there’s fat creepy boys like Teddy-”

“Close. More like there’s people who like themselves and people who don’t like themselves. I don’t think Teddy likes who he is. See, it’s important to know the difference. Because the people who aren’t comfortable in their skins make you miserable.”

By way of response, Kit held up her bunny, holding its stubby arms over its ears. Broker turned to Nina and asked, “Whatta you think?”

“I think I’ll have the German chocolate cake and ice cream,” Nina said, suppressing a snicker.

“I give.” Broker tossed up his arms. The waitress returned and he ordered German chocolate layer cake and ice cream all around.

A little later, as they drove back to the small house on the lake, he found himself sneaking looks at Nina and pondering his glib, simple cliche: What goes up must come down.

Broker built a fire in the Franklin stove, and they played two rounds of Sequence, a board game Kit liked, on the kitchen table. Kit won the first game.

“Don’t pull your punches,” Broker hectored Nina as he reshuffled the cards and they sorted the plastic