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  He took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Broker?” said a calm but controlled voice, “this is Trudi Helseth, principal at Glacier Falls Elementary. We met when you registered your daughter, Karson.”

  “Kit. She goes by Kit,” Broker said as he stared at Nina, who stood on the deck, huddled in her robe and slippers, puffing on an American Spirit. Oblivious to the cold, her green eyes flitted up to the gray clouds with apprehension, as if they were a messy ceiling about to collapse. She yanked her eyes from the sky and fixed them on the edge of the tree line where the woods started, eighty yards away. The wolves howled again on the errant shaft of wind, and she hugged herself.

  Broker was watching Nina closely as he listened to the phone. Past the worst of it; now, the way she had started to key on the weather had him thinking—could be a swerve in her condition toward seasonal affective disorder. The overcast sky meant she’d have a bad day…Then Principal Helseth commanded his full attention when she said, “There was a playground incident involving Kit this morning…”

  His heart sped up. “Is she…?”

  “She’s fine. Just skinned her hand a little. I have her here in the office. Is it possible for you to come into the school to talk?”

  “What happened?”

  “I really need to see you in person. This is not something we can handle on the phone.” When Broker didn’t respond immediately, Helseth continued. “We’ll be sending Kit home with you for the rest of the day, Mr. Broker.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He switched off the phone and went over to Nina, who was stuck, her tired eyes anchored to the snow-draped pines behind the house. He put his arm around her shoulder and gently guided her back toward the patio door. “C’mon. It’s cold out here.”

  Jeez, Kit?

  Galvanized by the understated urgency in the principal’s tone, he stayed in his work clothes, went straight to his truck, and drove toward town. The plows had been through, but there was still a hard undercoat of icy snow on the roadbed. After he skidded through a curve a little too fast, he eased off the accelerator, leaned back, and took a deep settling breath through his nose.

  Center down. Wait and see. Don’t jump to conclusions.

  So he let his eyes track the snowy landscape to either side of the road. Glacier County was aptly named; a white place on the map, just this long skinny ditch the last ice age had gouged into the map and filled with moraine and melt. Wedged between Thief River Falls and the Red Lake Rez. It had always been remote, and now it had pulled ahead of Broker’s native Cook County as the least populated county in the state. In the winter. The population quadrupled in summer. Broker smiled ruefully when he came around a bend and saw the construction site of another lake house going up. The flimsy yellow sticks thrusting at the pines and snow. A bundled work crew swarmed over it. Hola. Mexicans, by the swarthy faces peeking from their headgear and the amused grins. Yesterday they had been wearing shirtsleeves. But they were swinging their nail guns, working like hell. Even up here they were starting to build the fast Pac Man houses that ate the woods.

  He took another deep breath. Up ahead, over the tree line, he saw the town water tower pinned against the gray sky. The city council had tacked a tinny round cupola on top and painted it red and white like a fishing bobber to promote their main resource, the chain of Glacier Lakes. The tower stood like a wish, to lure the tourists to come with their boats to fish in summer. And the snowmobile crowd in the quieter winter.

  It was an uphill fight; Glacier County was off the main track. North of the lakes it consisted of a long stretch of jack pine barrens. The barrens led to the spooky Washichu State Forest and the Canadian border, where no one lived but the wolves. After Labor Day you couldn’t get a cup of Starbucks in the whole sparsely populated county. No local newspaper. Hardly any cops. The two gas stations closed at 8:00 P.M. in the winter, so you had to mind your gas gauge. Which suited Broker just fine and was, in fact, the reason he’d brought his family here.

  He came into town south on County 12. Crossed the railroad tracks and went past the population sign: 682. He paused for the town’s single stoplight near the old railway depot, where 12 intersected Main Street. Turned right. The elementary school was on the west side, past the two blocks of business district; a durable two-story cube of Depression-era redbrick. Just a traprock driveway and the traffic circle that he’d wheeled around this morning when he’d dropped Kit off.

  Decided to drive her every day. Didn’t want to put her on the bus.

  A brown extended-cab Ford F-150 was parked skewed at the curb by the front door. Stylized cursive type in white on the door: “Klumpe Sanitation.” Same colors as the local garbage truck. Broker braked his Tundra halfway up the drive, more alert when he saw the green-and-white Glacier County Sheriff ’s Department Crown Vic parked behind the Ford. No one behind the wheel, it idled empty in a low cloud of creeping exhaust.

  Another deep breath. Coincidence? Flags going up? Forcing himself to approach very slowly, he parked behind the cop car, got out deliberately, walked to the school, opened the front door, and—

  “Little bitch attacked my Teddy, that’s what!” The shrill voice came from a woman whose gaunt beauty was almost painful to look at; early thirties, dark eyes flashing, long dark hair in motion. She wore snow boots. A ski parka lay on the floor behind her.

  Biiig diamond ring.

  Oh-kay. Easy does it. Broker’s eyes swept past her, taking in the fact that even undernourished, she’d up the temperature in a room. But his gaze faltered, snagged on the broken intensity of her eyes, the way they seethed in the sockets like two nests of bluebottle flies, feeding off something ugly. Her eyes buzzed at him, her facial expression flitted. Her carefully applied mask of cosmetics barely kept up.

  She held a digital camera in her right hand.

  The husky cop who belonged to the car outside wore green over brown. He had short-cropped sandy hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses that seemed to emerge naturally out of the tired lines of his oval face. He stood patiently, arms loosely extended, palms out; but a little up on the balls of his feet too, like he got stuck with trying to cover a particularly nasty point guard who was way too fast.

  “Now, Cassie, just calm down here,” the cop said. Then he saw Broker come through the door, sized him up fast, and waved his arm to get someone’s attention in the office. Broker, having been announced, turned left, opened the office door, and went in.

  There was a counter with three desks behind it, storeroom at the back, three doors on the left. A TV bolted to the wall was tuned to the Weather Channel.

  The room was full of women and one tall, thick blond guy wearing a brown jacket; color and white type on the chest matching the truck outside. He seemed not all the way awake, with a stubble of beard gilding his red cheeks and jaw and his short hair sticking up. Broker made his own fast assumption and figured the guy belonged to the woman in the hall; they both had the same manic twitch to their eyes. His blue eyes were several notches lower in velocity than the woman’s; about the ratio that separates a bluebottle from a hatched larva. Both of them unpleasant to the touch.

  Okay.

  So let the hick games begin. First the cop, now this guy checking him out. Broker held the guy’s sticky scowl for a fraction of a second; enough to absorb the murky heat of someone barely under control. Then the guy jerked his attention into the far door. The one with “Nurse” printed on a sign over the top. Broker anchored down on another slow deep breath. Way more tension poisoning the air than an elementary school office deserved at ten-thirty in the morning.

  Then, like the next cue in a choreography the cop in the hall had set in motion, one of the women broke away and approached. She was a tidy fast mover in faded jeans, a snug white sweater, and Nikes. Wheat brown hair cut in a pageboy swung clean above her shoulders. She took his arm with quiet urgency as her direct brown eyes stated simultaneously and emphatically, “I’m here to help, so don’t mess with me.”

  “
Mr. Broker, right?” Perfectly timed bright smile, expertly smoothing an edge. He nodded. She pressed his arm and guided him toward the other office door to the right. “Kit is fine, she’s in the conference room with a teacher’s aide. Could you come with me, please?”

  Broker was led from the office down a side hall, but not before he saw the group move away from the nurse’s office. The guy in the brown jacket had his arm around the shoulder of a stout little boy who raised his arm to wipe tears from his eyes.

  He had a spray of fresh blood stippled down the front of his beige SpongeBob T-shirt.

  “Oh, honey, look at you. Does it hurt?” said the woman in the hall. She raised her camera and started snapping pictures. Then the end of the hall blocked Broker’s line of sight, and he turned to face the women who’d escorted him from the office and eyed her left hand on his arm. She removed her hand. Out of old habit he noted: no wedding band. As her fast eyes gauged him, the angry female voice started up again around the corner.

  “At least this time you’re not blaming him, that’s a switch. You know how they’re always trying to trip him up. You should have more help on the playground to watch out for sneaky little bitches who like to hit people. This is not the end of this.”

  “Sneaky little bitch, huh,” Broker said in a neutral tone.

  “Hold on. We wait until they leave the building.”

  “Uh-huh. So why the cop?”

  “That’s Cassie Bodine you hear out there.”

  “I see ‘Klumpe’ written all over everything?”

  “She’s married to a Klumpe, but she’ll always be Cassie Bodine. The last time we had a scene with her, she threatened the principal…” She knit her smooth forehead. “It’s a special needs case.”

  Broker stared at her, and her cheeks colored slightly. “I’m sorry.” She extended her hand. “Susan Hatch. I’m the school psychologist.”

  Broker’s hand hesitated. “Psychologist?” He glanced around. “This place rates a psych?”

  She shook his hand firmly. “Relax. I’m on a co-op schedule. Mostly I work next door, in Thief River Falls. Her kid’s on my list. Your isn’t. We’re a cluster school. We have all the special-ed students in the county. So I travel here two, three days a week.”

  A fifty-something woman stuck her head around the corner and said with a touch of inflected drama, “All clear. Cassie has left the building.”

  “Thanks, Madge,” Susan said. “Okay, let’s go.” They started toward the office.

  “You gonna tell me—” Broker started.

  “Sorry, you have to talk to the principal first.” Susan Hatch was all cool and professional now that her delaying action had been successful. As they approached the office, Broker was aware of two small, quiet bodies creeping along the hall, all eyes and ears. Susan turned on them. “Why are you not in class, Mr. Wayne Barstad?”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

  “In the hall?”

  The boy darted away. She turned to the next kid. “Billie Hatton?”

  “Ah, I’m getting a drink of water. My mom says I gotta drink eight glasses of water a day.” His voice sped up. “Is the new girl gonna get expelled for decking Teddy?”

  “Scram,” Susan said.

  Trudi Helseth, a raw-boned, striking woman in her fifties, stood in her doorway. She was almost as tall as Broker and clearly in charge of her turf. She did not offer to shake his hand; instead she indicated her office with a practiced tilt of her head. “In here, please, Mr. Broker.”

  Broker went in and saw Kit sanding behind a chair, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her face blazed with stubborn fire that was an miniature cameo of her mother. It had been months since he’d seen Nina’s eyes as on fire as Kit’s at this moment.

  Helseth stood back a moment, observing. Broker moved forward and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “What happened, Kit?”

  She shook his hand off and stared straight ahead. “He stole my gloves, and then he pushed me.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s a bully. All the kids are afraid of him. He gets away with stuff.” Eyes narrowing, lips bunched.

  “Stick with what happened,” Broker said.

  Kit clamped her arms tighter, then released them. She held out her right hand, peeled back a Band-Aid and showed two raw skinned knuckles. “He took my gloves and threw them up on this roof, then he started pushing me hard. I backed away and warned him three times, like I’m supposed to…and then when he kept it up, I hit him. Once. In the nose.” Her voice was level but her tone and her hot eyes were unrepentant.

  Like I’m supposed to.

  Broker showed no expression, but his eyes settled on Trudi Helseth. Clearly she didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Please sit,” Helseth said, standing behind her desk.

  As Broker and Kit settled into two chairs in front of the desk, Helseth pushed a sheet of paper across her blotter. Broker scanned it fast.

  Notice of suspension…

  “This is to advise you that the above-named student has been suspended from school…”

  Farther down the form, under “Grounds,” he saw a check next to:

  “Willful conduct that endangers the pupil or other pupils, or surrounding persons, or property of the school.”

  Under the heading, “The facts have been determined as follows,” Broker scanned the handwritten notation:

  During morning recess Karson P. Broker and Teddy Klumpe got into an argument over Karson’s gloves. Teddy said Karson had thrown her gloves at him and that they flew over his head and landed on the toolshed roof. Karson said Teddy had taken her gloves and tossed them on top of the shed. No one witnessed this event. Jackie Etherby, playground monitor, did observe Karson and Teddy when they came around the back of the shed having an argument. Etherby then saw Karson punch Teddy in the face causing a bloody nose.”

  Helseth motioned toward the doorway. A ruddy woman in jeans and a pile jacket entered. “This is Jackie Etherby. She was the playground monitor who witnessed the incident,” Helseth said.

  Broker sat resolutely still, willing himself to look humble and respectful. Inside he felt his defensive hackles start to raise. Moving toward pissed.

  Helseth continued, “We expect a certain amount of roughhouse from time to time during recess. But this incident was extreme. Jackie?”

  Etherby shifted from foot to foot and peered sincerely at Broker. “Well, like it says on the form there, I saw Teddy Klumpe and your daughter come running around the toolshed out by the monkey bars. They were yelling at each other, but I was too far away to hear. But I started toward them, and then she…”

  Etherby licked her lips, shifted from foot to foot again.

  Broker started to open his mouth, paused, looked to Helseth, who nodded. He continued, addressing Etherby. “What about the other kids? What did they see?”

  Etherby shrugged. “None of them were behind the shed, where it started.”

  Kit lurched forward in her chair. “They all saw him take my gloves and run behind the shed. He’s got ’em all scared.”

  “Kit,” Broker said quietly, firmly. She settled back in the chair and clamped her arms over her chest again.

  Etherby waited a few seconds, then she said, “The thing was the way she did it. Like she really knew what she was doing. She really hit him a hard one.”

  As Etherby’s words sank in, Kit squirmed on her chair and stared straight ahead. Helseth thanked Mrs. Etherby, who left the room and closed the door behind her. Broker waited a moment and then asked, “So where does this go next?”

  Helseth pointed to a second sheet of paper on her desk and said, “A readmission conference is scheduled for tomorrow at ten A.M. Here in my office. We’ll go into it all then, when we’ve had some time to settle down.”

  Broker stood up, collected the forms, and motioned for Kit to get up. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be here.”

  Helseth raised her hand, “Kit, could you wait in t
he office, just outside the door, please?”

  Kit looked to her dad, who nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” Kit said, then exited the door and closed it behind her.

  Helseth then opened a manila folder on her desk. Looked up at Broker. “I just have a few questions, if you can take a moment.”

  “Sure.”

  “This is Kit’s prior school record. She’s a very bright student. The only thing we’ve noticed is really minor, how she really keeps to herself. Not that unusual for a transfer into a new school. But the record jumps around a lot. She started third grade in Stillwater, here in Minnesota, before she transferred to us. Before that it mentions tutors in Lucca, Italy, and she attended a military school at the Aviano Air Force Base in Italy, for first grade. But she attended preschool in Devils’s Rock, Minnesota, and kindergarten in Grand Marais.” Helseth closed the folder and studied Broker. “Were you in the Air Force?”

  “No.”

  Helseth cocked her head, waiting.

  “Her mother was in the Army,” Broker said finally.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met Mrs. Broker,” Helseth said.

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Will she be coming to the meeting tomorrow?”

  “Does it require both parents?” Broker asked.

  Helseth shrugged but continued to study him. “No, not at all.”

  “Then I’ll be here. Is there anything else?”

  “No, we’re through for now. And thank you for coming in so promptly on short notice.”

  Susan Hatch was waiting in the office with Kit’s coat and book bag, which she handed over with a curt smile, no words. Broker walked Kit outside, and he asked her where her gloves were. Kit pointed to the toolshed on the playground. He noted that the brown Ford was still parked at the curb, its black-tinted windows and opaque mirrors full of reflections of the gray churching clouds. Another reason to hate tinted windows. He could feel the mom and dad and the kid in there, watching.

  A little more aggravating was the presence of the county cop car, still parked idling in back of the Ford. The cop stared over his steering wheel, his creased face composed in an unreadable professional mask. He did not make eye contact as Broker and Kit walked past.