The ground contact Holly had been talking to was a young, black Army MP sergeant from Fort Snelling. He had a Hudson’s map open, with the route to the Fuller address indicated in yellow Magic Marker. He was in uniform and he was wearing a sidearm.
“Let’s go,” Holly said.
Irv Fuller lived less than three minutes away on four wooded acres. A sign next to the address announced PRIVATE DRIVE. House numbers had been chiseled into a large granite boulder.
“Ole Irv looks like he’s doing all right,” Yeager said as they drove up a long asphalt drive screened by evergreens. The house was deceptive on approach, showing a limestone-faced Tudor, casement windows, and cedar shake in the front. But it was built into a hill with a third-story walkout on the back slope over a swimming pool. A large Morton building sat off the driveway apron. The doors to the Morton building and the three-bay garage were closed.
They got out and snooped the house. A gray-and-white cat stared at Broker from a window; otherwise, it looked like no one was home. The MP sergeant sat in his car reading an Easy Rawlins paperback while Broker, Holly, and Yeager continued to nose around.
“So, what do you think?” Broker asked.
“I see an office in there,” Holly said, pointing through a window. “Maybe there’s business cards, stationery, invoices…”
They had walked a circuit around the back, looking for a likely window, when a horn beeped out front.
Then they heard the purr of an engine coming down the drive as they jogged around front and saw a Mercedes sedan pull up to the Chevy. The MP was out talking to a blond woman dressed in gymrat Spandex, sweatband, sport top, and cross trainers. The woman was tapping her foot and had her arms folded across her chest.
As they walked up, Yeager speculated, “Irv’s first wife, Ginny Weller, was better from the waist up. I’d say Irv’s generally moving south in his life. This one’s better on the bottom.”
She was attractive enough but Broker thought she’d better back off on the tanning booth unless she was working on donating her skin for a crocodile purse. She was uncertain, seeing an Army uniform and gun belt and then Yeager’s uniform in her driveway.
“Is something wrong?” She asked.
“Mrs. Fuller?” Yeager asked.
“Yes. Sydney Fuller.”
“I’m deputy Jim Yeager, Cavalier County Sheriff’s Department in Langdon-where Irv’s from. We know each other.”
“Yes…” She shook her head. “He’s all right. I just dropped him off at the job an hour and a half ago. Before I went to my step class at the-”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s somebody else from Langdon we’re looking for who might be in contact with Irv. Dale Shuster.”
Sydney oriented quickly. “Sure. They had some business recently. Irv bought some machinery.”
“We really need to get in touch with Irv.” Yeager nodded to the house.
“You’ll need his cell.” She gave Yeager the number and proceeded to talk, relieved this was a routine visit: “We took a run over to the Dells for two days. It’s the rain. The site was too muddy to work. We came back after lunch and I dropped him off to look it over. He figures by tomorrow they can start digging.”
“And where’s the site?” Yeager asked.
“Prairie Island.”
Yeager saw Holly immediately react and flip open his cell phone. At the same time, Broker’s eyes went wide and hard. “What is it?” Yeager asked Broker.
Broker moved forward, rasing his hand up to silence Yeager. “Did you say Prairie Island?” he asked Sydney Fuller, his voice struggling to stay calm.
Still smiling, she was made a little uncertain now by Broker’s intensity. “Yes,” she said, “Irv landed the contract to…”
Suddenly she winced and put her hands to her ears. “What’s that noise?” she gasped, staring at the way Holly abruptly circled his hand and ran out on her lawn, phone jammed to his ear. Totally un-prepared for the Black Hawk appearing in a fury of spinning machinery over her line of evergreens, she screamed and waved her arms. “My flower beds!”
Broker came through the flowers and mulch churning in the prop wash, grabbed her arm, shook her to get her attention, and yelled, “You mean the power plant?”
Aghast at the whirlwind whipping her yard, she shouted, indignant, “Yes, goddammit, the power plant.” She yanked her arm away. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Fuck! Let’s go!” Broker shouted to Yeager and started to sprint for the chopper. Yeager turned to Sydney Fuller, his face a question mark.
Sydney yelled, “Prairie Island, the nuclear power plant, okay?”
Yeager turned and ran.
Chapter Forty-two
At some point the lull of the tires on the road had tired out the monsters in her mind and put her to sleep. Upon waking, she had a perfectly normal thought. When Kit was an infant and they couldn’t get her down, Broker would tuck her in her car seat and set the seat on the clothes dryer. The steady motor chug would ease her to sleep.
Kit.
She pressed down on her elbows, brought up her head, and glared straight ahead. First they’d keep it from her. But someday she’d learn how her mom had died; drugged, smothered, violated.
Can’t go out this way. Got to make it a fight.
She heard: “Partly cloudy to sunny. Temperature eighty-three. The prevailing wind direction is steady, seven to eight miles per hour out of the northwest.”
He was listening to the weather report, every chance he could, on an all-news station. She looked around. Couldn’t see much through the one clear window: treetops, a patch of blue sky. The steady thrum of the wheels on pavement changed, slowed; he was turning in somewhere. More trees rushed by the window. The Roadtrek stopped. He turned off the motor.
Then Dale pulled the curtain to the side and Nina could see out the windshield: treetops, a lot of power lines all ganged together. Closer in, she saw him take pills from two prescription bottles propped up on the dashboard. Pop them in his mouth. Swallow. Wash them down with Coke.
He was humming as he stripped off his work shirt and jeans. But then he took new clothes from a shopping bag and tore off the labels. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he pulled on comfortable baggy jeans and a blue golf shirt that set off his heavy white arms, throat, and face.
The driver’s seat swiveled, and now he spun it around and sat down, facing her. “Now, about the bomb,” he said.
The word bomb cut through the routine terror. She blinked herself alert as he rummaged around on the passenger seat, plucked up a four-by-eight-inch color photo, and leaned far forward, extending his arm so she could see it. She strained up, squinted. It was some big boxy yellow tractor with a shovel bucket on the front. Like you see on construction sites.
“I sold this used 644C to Irv Fuller. He thinks he took me on the deal. But, trust me, he’s the one who’s in for a surprise.” Dale smiled slowly. “That’s what I do. I surprise people.”
Nina shook her head. Sensed movement. Someone else coming.
“Dale and I have some business to attend to,” said George Khari, as he climbed over the passenger seat, stood in the compartment, and nodded curtly.
“Last night…” Nina said.
George shrugged, waffled a hand in the air. “Fake left, go right, heh?” He was unshaven, haggard, still wearing the same soiled shirt and shorts. He smiled uneasily at Nina, spreadeagled on the bed. Perhaps she saw a hint of disapproval in his brown eyes. Even disgust. If true, it was the last item on his agenda.
Nina tried to focus on him and got an impression of tremendous tension, but also excitement. The guy was practically throwing sparks as he held up a manila envelope and said to Dale, “Trade you.”
Dale handed over the single photo and took the envelope. His thick fingers shook as he opened the flap and pulled out a stack of prints. An almost sweet smile spread over his face.
“Just a peek,” George said softly as he held up a set of car keys. Dale nodded, lovingly set the envelope aside, and took the keys. “Now, make the call,” George said, again in the soft but firm tone.