After the Rain Page 15

  “One-sixties” were people who adapted to the unadaptable and continued to function. Lots of people in SOG were logging two and three tours in the war zone.

  People like Broker.

  Broker scowled. “I’d watch the way you’re throwing terms around, considering you guys haven’t been in a war that lasted more than a month for the last twenty-five years.”

  Holly sighed. “Okay. Go on. You’ve earned the right to sound off, I guess.”

  “Guess is right! They call it undercover work for a reason. Cover being the operative word. A commodity there ain’t a lot of around here. Like, say, back in the city a lot of people buy dope, so it’s easy to slip a UC into the revolving door. Penetrating a tight organization is more problematic and takes a long time to build up street credentials. You can’t just fall off the turnip truck and do it over the weekend.” Broker was grim.

  Holly nodded. “Sure. That’s the conventional wisdom. And if we come up empty we’ll go to the locals, the state, the feds. But then we lose the element of surprise. When those Washington goons gear up their egos and intramural politics it’s like a herd of touchy elephants getting organized.”

  Jane’s face tightened up. “That’s why we’re here, not the people who are hung up on procedure and protocol, like the FBI.”

  Holly was less sanguine. He held up a hand to calm Jane and said, “We know this is a serious reach. We talked it over and decided we gotta give it a try,” Holly said.

  Then, in a spooky divot of speech, Holly and Jane both turned and looked at Kit and said, at exactly the same time, “Too much is at stake…”

  Kit was perplexed. The three grown-ups in the room had abruptly stopped talking, and remained silent for almost half a minute.

  Jane broke the silence, and her first words came out naked and vulnerable. It took her a full sentence to get back to the disciplined meter of her language: “And we figured having Kit on the scene would provide a touch of realism—plus make you show up. Now it’s up to her.” Jane rushed past the unprotected moment by furiously packing her go-bag.

  Slam-bam. Efficient. Hu-ah.

  “Aw,” Kit whined a little as Jane packed her fancy laptop.

  “Sorry, honey. No more computer games. This has to go with me.” She picked a hefty book off the bureau and handed it to Broker.

  “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone?” Broker read the title slowly, wondering out loud.

  “You got some catching up to do, muggle,” Jane said. Then she knelt and hugged Kit. “Okay, Little Bit. Uncle Holly and Auntie Jane have to go. And so do you and your dad. We talked about this with your mom, remember?”

  Kit nodded and chewed the inside of her lower lip. Broker didn’t especially like the way she was handling it. The way she nodded, stoic, and said, “We’ll all get together on the other side.”

  Seven was too young to have a game face.

  Holly’s knees creaked when he kneeled down and said goodbye to Kit. When he got up, his pale ghost-eyes cut Broker fast. “We’ll be close, but not in the town.”

  “How close?” Broker asked.

  Again, the fast, cool eyes. Impatient with being challenged by a civilian, Holly said firmly, “We got it in hand, okay? Now, I advise you two to get out of here, pronto.”

  Yeah, bullshit you got it in hand, Broker thought. But he nodded as Holly and Jane went into motion, lugging their go-bags out the door.

  Special ops. The manner of their leaving made a New York minute seem like overtime.

  Broker sat on the bed and held his daughter in his lap. Sensing his anxiety, she made an effort to reassure him. He listened, amazed as she flipped roles with him:

  “In Italy, when the dads went away, the kids and the moms just sit and wait. Like now.”

  Broker noticed she was chewing at the corner of her thumbnail as she spoke. He moved her fingers away from her mouth and saw that several fingers were worried almost raw.

  Kit went on. “When a dad doesn’t come back, the mom gets a flag. And, um, the chaplain comes and talks.”

  “Chaplain?”

  Kit furrowed her brow. “You know. They talk about God. How when something bad happens, it’s his will.”

  Broker cocked his head at his daughter as a thought occurred. “Did you and Mom ever go to church over there?”

  Kit shook her head. “Nah. Mom told me you said if God was really there, he wouldn’t live inside a house. He’d live outside.”

  “Your mom said that, huh?”

  Kit nodded. Then she sniffed—chlorine from the pool, or allergies maybe. Not tears. She rubbed her nose with her forearm. Scrunched her forehead, thinking. “Sometimes I go outside and look up.”

  “We never talked a whole lot about God, did we?” Broker said.

  “Mom says we did but I was little so she’d remind me.”

  “So what’d you come up with?”

  “I don’t know. Some kids believe in Santa Claus and some kids believe in Jesus. In America, you get to believe what you want. That’s Mom’s job.”

  “What?”

  “You know, keeping it so people can believe what they want.”

  Broker stared at his child.

  After a moment, she said, “So now we gotta go home and wait?”

  Broker continued to stare. He pictured them traveling back to Minnesota, to the house on the point overlooking Lake Superior. Saw himself pacing. Making breakfast, lunch, dinner. Waiting for Nina to walk down the road to Broker’s Beach.

  Or the chaplain with a flag.

  When Broker didn’t answer right away, Kit chose her next words carefully, “I can’t stay, can I?”

  “No. You’re going back to Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow.”

  “Are we gonna drive?”

  “You’re going to fly. They’ve got an airport here, I drove past it. I’m going to call Grandma and arrange for a plane.”

  She considered this for several seconds. Broker could almost hear the thoughts churning behind her broad forehead. She kept the tears out of her eyes but not entirely out of her voice.

  “Dad, are we gonna leave Mom here all alone?”

  “No.”

  He swabbed some of the Bag Balm on Kit’s chewed fingers and ordered her to keep them out of her mouth. Then he called his mother. Two hours of phone tag followed, with Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny for accompaniment on the TV. Finally they arranged to have a reliable local pilot, Doc Harris, fly in with Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy, and pick up Kit at the Langdon airstrip. Torgeson’s wife, Lottie, ran a preschool back home that Kit had attended three years ago. Kit would be comfortable traveling with Uncle Lyle. The Torgesons were extended family. They just had to nail down the time. As he waited for the call with an ETA for tomorrow, he took Kit on a walk around the corner from the motel and down the main street.

  After window-shopping, they went into a store and bought a locally sewn quilt. Kit picked it out, calling the tight pattern of grays, maroons, and blues “Grandma’s colors.”

  Irene Broker, who dabbled in astrology and melancholia, was Norwegian.

  They went back on the street. Looking up, Broker saw that the clouds matched the brooding colors of the quilt. The barometric pressure throbbed in his wounded hand like mercury, marking heavy time.

  They had an early supper at a restaurant next to City Hall. Kit had macaroni and cheese. In elliptical snatches, mixed in with a forced game of “I Spy,” she told him about going to first grade at the military school on the Aviano Air Base. Then about Ria, her tutor in Lucca.

  Lucca was a town out of a history book, located in Tuscany, between Pisa and Florence. “It’s got a big wall around it. You could walk or ride your bike,” Kit said.

  Broker nodded along with her conversation, chewing his rib-eye (hold the potato, double veggies). After hot fudge sundaes—strictly a no no for the Atkins Aware—Kit said she wanted to swing. She explained that Jane had taken her to a playground near the swimming pool, so they took the quilt back to their room a
nd then walked toward the city park.

  They passed by old houses double shaded by trees and the solid clouds. The late-afternoon breeze heaved, thick with humidity, slow tidal air pressing in. Holding Kit’s hand, sensitive to the gentle pressure of the pulse in her moist palm, Broker was nudged by eddies of foreboding.

  He accepted clinical depression as a condition for other people, but not for himself. He had never been incapacitated by his dark thoughts. But he had never been free of them, either. They ran non-stop in the back of his mind like a cable TV package of channels from Hell.

  Knowing they were there didn’t mean he had to watch them.

  He was watching them now.

  So he tried his tricks. Broker was adept at walling off his life into compartments, only allowing enough fear and doubt to percolate to the surface to add a streak of afterburner to his adrenaline. Everything else he kept strictly locked up.

  Repressed? You bet.

  They came to the elementary school and Kit dashed through the gate for the playground equipment. Broker hung back, dug in the hip pocket of his jeans for a Backwoods Sweet cigar. He took out one of the rough wraps, put it in his mouth, and flicked his plastic lighter.

  Smoking was another trick, a method of fear management.

  He walked down the block, not wanting the smoke to drift into the playground, and came to the corner of the school.

  Down the street the Spartan missile stood against the gray sky like a stark black-and-white exclamation point.

  He glanced back at the playground, where Kit and a boy her age were monkey-walking up the slide, holding on to the sides. They were still intact, he realized: forty years of Cold War reflexes. Clenched guts, every day, as whole populations went to work, loved, hated, propagated, and always they carried in their hearts the same blank fear when they looked up at the threat suspended in the sky.

  Is this the day our children will burn up in fire?

  Did we really think we’d drawn a pass because one government collapsed? Because a wall had come down?

  A lot of that shit was still out there.

  Some of it came in suitcases.

  Kit and her playmate were at the swings now, yelling, exhorting each other to pump higher. Their seven-year-old minds incapable of imagining the images and feelings churning in his—

  “Dad! Da-dee. Do an underdog. DA-DEE…”

  Broker shredded his cigar, tossed it, joined Kit at the swings, and pushed her with his strong right hand, straight arm over his head as he ran under her. Kit swung higher.

  “Again,” she squealed.

  Again.

  As he pushed her on the swing he felt the dizzy spin of Nina’s, Holly’s, and Jane’s frantic intensity. And all his compartments came to nothing, and all his daddy fears washed through him.

  How much time—what kind of time—would his daughter have in this new century?

  After he was gone.

  Who would protect her?

  Broker watched Kit arc up toward the gray clouds, and the persistent shadows moved right into his chest. He had the fleeting thought—

  What if I never see the sun again?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Joe Reed came down from Winnipeg just before dawn, drove through Mulberry Crossing with his headlights switched off, continued on into Langdon, and pulled into the lot in front of Shuster’s equipment just as the sun came up. He unlocked the door, unfolded the surplus cot Dale kept behind the desk, lay down, and was asleep in minutes.

  An hour later, Dale Shuster had his usual breakfast of a double stack of blueberry pancakes at Gracie’s Café. Coming back to the shed, he saw Joe’s beat-up, brown Chevy van parked in front. Dale opened the door and found Joe napping in his underwear on the cot next to the desk. A fan wobbled back and forth on the floor, stirring the dampness. The second the door eased open Joe rolled up, his good hand coming up from under his pillow with the Browning nine automatic.

  “Just me,” Dale said. Once you knew Joe for a while you expected him to go armed and you didn’t ask him how many times he’d used it. That big pistol was the main reason Gordy Riker wanted Joe back in his employ, to help increase market share with the rough-cut biker gangs up north.

  Joe grunted, slipped his pistol into a leather gym bag under the cot, and sat up. He rubbed at his patchy brush cut with his right hand. People rarely tried to make conversation with him. For starters, it just wasn’t easy to look at Joe straight on.

  Joe’s face looked like a Klingon special-effects mask-in-progress from Star Trek. Ridges of grafted skin had healed unevenly and there was a suggestion of fine belly hair on his cheek and forehead where they’d taken the grafts from his abdomen. The stitch marks looked like wrinkles stretched the wrong way.

  And then there was his voice. He’d swallowed fire and the sound that came from his throat was somewhere between a grunt and a hoarse whisper. He’d scarred his vocal cords.

  The little finger was totally missing from his left hand, along with the first joint of his ring finger. Snakeskin ridges mapped his arms and his neck. His black hair grew in streaks between furrows of scar tissue. He limped.

  But he was something to watch. He’d been handsome once. Athletic. Now he was like a photo of his former self that had been ripped longways and sideways and then pasted back together. None of his edges quite lined up. Yet the injuries had the effect of making him heal stronger. Joe could come up on people real quiet.

  Joe showed up one night last winter to pick up a load of whiskey at the Missile Park. He was driving an old border runner, a muddy, rusted-out truck without license plates. And that’s how Dale came to meet him, when Gordy Riker put him to work hauling contraband: whiskey and tobacco going north into Canada, meth precursor coming south.

  Joe was the ideal driver. A Turtle Mountain Ojibwa, his treaty card gave him privileges crossing the border. Once he was known to local customs, they usually just waved him through. Dale understood vaguely this had to do with the Jay Treaty of 1794, which excused Indians crossing the border from paying duties on “their own proper goods and effects of whatever nature.”

  But Joe didn’t fool much with formal ports of entry. He knew all the prairie roads in four counties.

  And locally, people who were put off by Dale and Joe as solitary misfits approved of them as a pair. Maybe it was just that now that they had each other to talk to, it cut down the talking load on normal people. People said that Joe and Dale sort of found each other.

  They found each other, all right. Meeting Joe turned out to be the most significant event in Dale Shuster’s life.

  Next thing, Dale had stolen Joe away from Gordy to work for him. Gordy was still pissed about that. And now Joe and Dale had become something of a team.

  Joe gestured vaguely with his good hand, cleared his throat, spit, and said in his feathery voice, “So how’d it go?”

  “The rental haulers arrived on time. Irv took possession yesterday afternoon,” Dale said.

  “In the fucking rain,” Joe said.

  “In the fucking rain,” Dale repeated.

  Joe shook his head. “He give you a check?”

  “Sent partial payment. Called me and said one of the loaders ran a little stiff. He’s using that as an excuse to hold back on the balance.”

  “Uh-huh. Just like we figured. And you told him what?” Joe asked.

  “That I’d be happy to make a special trip to check it out. Him being such a good buddy and all,” Dale said.

  “Good.” Joe inclined his head and carefully studied Dale’s bland face. “Okay. I got all your stuff. And the Minnesota plates. Some cash.” He reached under the cot and pulled out a briefcase. “There’s more coming later.” Joe gave a twisted smile and looked up almost deferentially at Dale. Then he pushed the briefcase forward across the concrete.

  Dale reached down and picked up the case and hugged it to his chest. It was a pretty decent leather briefcase with a brand-new smell that was intoxicating, that new car fragrance.


  Dale controlled his excitement. It was important to him to always appear absolutely in control in front of Joe. Casually he placed the leather case on the desk and said, “Gordy’s come asking again. Wants you back for something. And, uh, he got in a fight.”

  Expressionless, Joe said, “Word travels. Was it about the woman who showed up?”

  They stared at each other until finally Dale said, “Maybe.”

  Joe blinked several times and scrubbed at his head with the knuckles of his right hand. He got off the cot and crossed the floor to the window over the desk, favoring his bad left leg, and stared across the highway at the Missile Park. After a moment, he said, “We should go have a look at her.”

  “Okay, first we gotta load that digger attachment for Eddie Solce. After that, we’ll go have a look.”

  Joe nodded and put on his jeans and boots. A minute later, a rumble and cloud of smoke filled the back end of the shed as Joe started up the solitary old Deere 644C loader that needed new tires. Dale had three 644’s and had given it his best try to get Irv in Minnesota to take them all. But Irv didn’t want to deal with putting a new set of tires on this one. And Dale wanted to sell it as is. So the deal went down for the other two. Dale hadn’t been able to peddle this beast at any price and was resigned to let it sit here for scrap.

  Dale pushed open the tall sliding door at the back of the shed. While Joe maneuvered the loader through the open door, Dale collected two heavy lengths of chain.

  The backhoe boom sat in the weeds along the side of the shed like a leg joint plucked off a giant yellow crab. Fortunately the ground around the shed was well drained, because the bald tires on the old loader would get zero traction in mud.

  Gingerly, as Joe raised the wide bucket, Dale attached the chains to the bucket, then looped them down from the control tower on the boom and around the elbow joint by the bucket. Then they played with the tension, Joe raising the bucket ever so gently as Dale made sure the chain didn’t pinch any of the hydraulic lines on the tower. Satisfied, he gave Joe a thumbs-up and slowly the arm was hoisted in the air.