Absolute Zero (12 page)

Broker shook his head, pushed up off the couch, put on his parka, and selected a cigar. Brandy seemed like a good idea, so he raided Billie’s liquor cabinet and poured two inches into a cup, hit the play button on Billie’s CD player, went out on the front porch, and sat down on the steps. Through the open door he heard Jay and the Americans kick in as he popped a match.

Cigar smoke clawed his throat, so he took a soothing drink by way of a solitary toast: Whiskey, Women, Work, and War—to Hank Sommer, who wears a coral snake on his wrist, who saved my life, who takes second billing to a kid’s plastic toy . . .

C’mon, Broker, tell the truth, you voted for Ventura, didn’t you?

Yeah, Hank, damned if I didn’t. Just to spite the suits.

He looked out over the dark lake and shivered. Damn, it was cold for October this year. Tiny glints clamped down along the shore; there’d be a skin of thin ice in the morning.

Uncle Billie’s porch faced north up Lake One and as the night filled in, the edges of the pine crowns feathered out and melted into a black sky. As the tree line disappeared so did perspective. Broker was alone with a star dome virtually unblemished by artificial light and, except for the occasional airliner and the seldom satellite, it was the cosmos of the ancients.

The Big and Little Dippers hung high to the north around the polestar, and Orion hugged the eastern horizon. The summer triangle of Deneb, Vega, and Altair slipped away to the west a little more each night.

Mom, hoping he could be the artist she had never been, tried to nurture in him a sense of discovery, and never missed an opportunity to slip a few coppers of wonder into his piggy bank of instincts.

See the shapes of animals in the clouds. The constellations.

Dad taught him to find the real animal in the forest; the deer by his tracks, where he bedded, where he fed; by his rubs and scrapes. Honoring both his parents, he’d let his practicality cross-fertilize his imagination.

The Cities, stacked with high-rise humans, had never been his home. This was home and, as always, the wilderness beckoned with silent beauty, absent mercy. Broker sipped his brandy and mused how the death traps in nature were always feminine: oceans, mountains, deep woods. Which was as it should be because their victims were usually young, romantic, dumb men.

Jay and the Americans called it accurately:

Come a little bit closer

you’re my kind of man

so big and so strong
. . .

Moved by the rhythm of the old music, he didn’t have to travel far to find the memory of Jolene Sommer’s green eyes.

Broker stood up, poured out the rest of his drink, grimaced at the cigar, and threw it away. Getting cold, he went inside, shut the door, and placed another log on the coals.

He dippered out a cup of his mom’s cider, settled back on the fold-out bed, took a sip, and let the citrus mix of honey and vinegar trickle down his sore throat.

The damn newspaper stared at him again, and he was about to toss it across the room when he caught the headline below the fold on page one.

ACCOUNTANT FOUND DEAD, CRUCIFIED IN WOODS

“Crucified?” he said out loud. They gotta be kidding.

But they weren’t.

A bow hunter found a frozen body in the woods northwest of Marine on St. Croix yesterday afternoon. The deceased, identified as Timberry financial planner Cliff Stovall, had his left hand nailed through the wrist into the stump of an oak tree with a six-inch pole barn-spike. Sources close to the sheriff’s office said that a hammer and evidence of heavy drinking had been located at the scene. Stillwater resident Jon Ludwig discovered the body while deer hunting.
    Stovall’s partner, Dave Henson, told the Washington County sheriff’s department that Stovall had gone to look at some property. Henson also explained that Stovall was distraught over a recent separation from his wife.
    An anonymous source in the sheriff’s department said Stovall had been treated in the past for alcoholism and self-mutilation.

Broker slowly sat upright. The flu lost its grip as he calmly worked back through the delirious landing on Snowbank Lake. Distinctly, he remembered Sommer raving:

Tell Cliff to move the money.

Directory assistance listed the
number of Stovall and Hensen Associates in Timberry, a suburb east of the Twin Cities. Broker didn’t have to get past the receptionist.

“I know this is bad timing, but an acquaintance, Hank Sommer, recommended Cliff Stovall for investment counseling. And now, well, I thought maybe his partner . . .”

“Of course, Mr. Sommer is—was—is one of our clients, I guess . . .” her voice caught. “I’m sorry, it’s a little crazy around here.”

“I, ah, understand, maybe I should call later.”

“No. I’m sure Mr. Henson will talk to you. It’s just that these tragedies have hit our office kind of hard. Cliff and his wife were friends of Mr. Sommer and Dorothy . . .”

“Were?”

“Well, before Mr. Sommer remarried. And, ah, before Cliff and his wife broke up.”

Dorothy? “Dorothy Sommer, right,” he said.

“No, she was—well, she’d never changed her name. So it was always Dorothy Gayler.”

“Right, is she still . . . ?”

“At the St. Paul Pioneer Press.”

“Of course. You know, I think I will wait awhile and call later. Thank you.”

Broker hung up and drummed his fingers on a yellow legal pad. Freshly showered and shaved after ten hours of healing sleep, he doodled circles bisected by crosshairs on his notepad. Then he printed “Sommer.” Under Sommer’s name he printed “Stovall.” He drew a circle around Sommer and Stovall. Then he printed “Trophy Wife—Bonnie (Parker?)and Clyde.” He drew a crude open arrow around Bonnie and Clyde and aimed it at Sommer. In a third column he wrote: Dorothy?

He went back to directory assistance, got the newspaper’s number, and punched it in. The switchboard passed him to the features department where he listened to Dorothy Gayler’s voice mail. The businesslike voice on the recorded message revealed nothing: “I’m not here; leave a message.” He hung up, poured another cup of coffee, and had better luck on his second call.

“Dorothy Gayler.”

“Dorothy, you don’t know me, my name is Phil Broker. I was on the canoe trip with Hank Sommer.”

“Yes.” Crisp, the perfunctory voice was precise as the strike of a typewriter key.

“I’m calling from Ely. I’m not a friend, I was the guide.”

This seemed to warm communication. “You went for help, with Allen Falken; I remember now,” she said.

“You know Allen?”

“I’ve met Allen. I wouldn’t say I
know
any of my ex-husband’s new friends.” Distancing.

Broker speeded up his voice, reaching to catch her flagging interest. “Well, I was just doing a job and I got caught in the middle of that lake and pooped out. The fact is, if it weren’t for Hank I wouldn’t have made it. I’d be dead.”

“How refreshing.” She was making up her mind whether to talk to him. “Mr. Broker. Everyone else has talked about the ironic tragedy of Hank’s . . . situation. You call me up and express a kind of gratitude.” Her voice strayed close to sarcasm and closer to Broker. Okay.

He continued quickly. “Except the way it turned out, I can’t say it to him.” He paused, then said, “I’ll be in the Cities the next few days. I wondered if you’d be willing to have a cup of coffee tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“I want to know who he was. I saw this article in the Minneapolis paper but it didn’t feel like the guy I met.”

“The father of the toy, you mean. Ours wasn’t much better. Well, that’s what he turned into but that wasn’t who he was when I knew him.” She paused, then said, “What time tomorrow?”

“Lunch?”

“Make it one
P.M.
; I work out at lunch. I’ll meet you on the street, in front of the building. How will I know you, Mr. Broker?”

Broker looked at the coatrack by the door. “I’ll be wearing a fleece jacket, sort of blaze orange.”

“Of course; it’s getting toward that time of year,” Dorothy said.

Broker thanked her and hung up.

Picking up momentum, he thumbed through Uncle Billie’s permit applications and found Sommer’s number. Deep breath. Slight shuffle of nerves. Jolene Sommer picked up on the third ring. He let the breath out.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Sommer?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Phil Broker, the guide on the canoe trip with Hank.” Broker heard a click as someone picked up an extension phone in the Sommer house.

“Earl,” Jolene said, “put down the phone. I’ve got it.” They waited. The other person on the line did not put down.

“Is this, ah, a bad time to call?” Broker asked. Earl evidently didn’t waste any time moving in.

After a pause, Jolene said frankly, “When’s a good time?”

“How is he?”

“He’s comfortable,” she said in a controlled, tired voice as if she decided on these words after many conversations. “Milt Dane suggested I surround him with familiar things so I set up his bed in his office where the windows overlook the river. And he can see his desk and books. He’s got a feeding tube now. So . . .”

A little shocked, Broker blurted, “He’s at home?”

“It’s become a little complicated, financially,” she said, in a quick, defensive burst. Then more slowly, “Actually, I think he’s better off. Since I brought him home I get the feeling he’s looking at me. Of course, everyone says that’s impossible.”

After an awkward silence, Broker said, “Ah, I’ve still got his truck up here.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry, a lot of things have been falling through the cracks. I’ll send . . .”

“Actually, I’m coming down to the Cities. I could drop it off.”

“Oh.”

“Say tonight, around four or five
P.M.
?”

“I guess . . . that would be fine.” She gave Broker directions which he wrote down on the pad. After he said good-bye he doodled more circles and crosshairs. On the trip Hank had been arguing with her about money. Now he was at home and not in a hospital because of money. In the seaplane, Hank’s last words were about money. Broker printed in big blocky letters—FOLLOW THE MONEY.

He sipped coffee, debated briefly, then picked up the phone again and called a number in Lake Elmo, a rural township on the eastern fringe of the Twin Cities metro area, near Timberry. On the second ring he got a woman’s voice.

“Hi, Denise, is J.T. there?”

“It’s him,” he heard her call out, and he knew she had rolled her eyes in that expressive way. “You know,
him
.”

The guarded but also curious deep voice of J.T. Merryweather came on the line. “Uh-huh?” In the background Broker heard Denise whisper: “Find out why Nina split.”

“Hey J.T., I need a little help.”

“Hmmm,” J.T. said. “You know, so do I. Maybe we should give a call over to Manpower, get us a temp. And by the way, hello, how are you, how’s the family.”

Broker smiled. He and J.T. came out of the service around the same time. Bored with ordinary life, they took the civil service test and were rookies together in St. Paul. They’d partnered together in narcotics and homicide before Broker went to BCA and specialized in guns. J.T. made it up to captain in St. Paul where he flunked office politics and took early retirement to go into business for himself.

“Very funny. Look, could you do me a favor? Call John E. over at Washington County and get the word on that crucifixion in the woods last week.” John Eisenhower was the Washington County sheriff. Also a graduate of the St. Paul Police Academy in the same class with J.T. and Broker.

J.T. said, “Wasn’t no crucifixion. Newspaper got carried away. Guy nailed his hand to a stump. You can’t call, huh?”

“I don’t really want anybody knowing I’m around.”

“Uh-huh. Just can’t shake the old peek-a-boo UC habits?”

“There it is.”

“You use people you know.”

“Yeah. Like how I used you to get a sore back hauling all those hay bales last August. Like I used you, leaving my truck to for
you
to use.”

“Humph. You only come around when you need something.”

Broker grinned. “Actually I could use a place to hang out because I’ll be nosing around in Timberry.”

“Timberry, that’s some serious Yup; I was over there at the mall and saw my first Humee. Cute little blond kid driving it looked about fourteen. Yeah, sure, c’mon by. Denise would love to talk to you.”

“Won’t work, J.T. I’m not in the mood.”

“I hear you, Broker. I don’t give a shit about your sorry personal life. But Denise wants to know, and she wields power over this place. Woman swings that vaginal wrench of hers around like a goddamn scepter.”

In the background, Broker could hear Merryweather’s wife scold him roundly—something about bad influences and people who refused to grow up.

“Call John E. and schmooze him up,” Broker said. “I’ll see you later this afternoon.” On the verge of laughter, they rang off.

Then he glanced at the canoe trip applications strewn on the table with his notes. Sommer and Allen Falken both lived in Timberry, which was as far away from Ely as you could get. It was an instant bedroom community that nineties’ wealth had erected in Washington County. The last time he drove through he’d been amazed to see a whole forest of evergreens transplanted from a nursery to screen the new homes going in.

Broker was up, pacing. Sommer’s keys hung from a peg on the clothes rack next to the door. He glanced out the window at the parking lot, where Sommer’s Ford Expedition waited, hunched and gleaming against the wilting snow like a black enamel bison.

After about ten seconds of debate he reached for the phone again and called Amy. As soon as she answered, he asked without preamble: “Is it weird that Sommer would be at home so soon after the accident?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I just talked to his wife. He’s at home.”

“Something’s off. He needs a full-care nursing facility at minimum.”

“She said he
watches
her.”

“C’mon.”

“No bullshit. You interested?”

“Maybe.”

“So, what are you doing?”

“Coming over to your place.”

“I’ll make another pot of coffee,” Broker said.