Chapter Fifty
Keith Nygard sat at his desk in the sheriff ’s office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different.
“Hey, Gator; you look different,” Keith said.
Gator shrugged, brushed his knuckles along his cheek. “Just treated myself to a shave and a haircut at Irv’s.”
“What’s the occasion?” Keith put the report aside.
“Barnie called me from Bemidji. Just sold that old 1918 Case Model 9-18, the one with the big steel wheels.” Gator shrugged. “What the hell, thought I’d take a break, maybe go to the Anglers, have a sit-down meal.”
“What’d you get for it?” Keith asked.
“After Barnie’s commission, I should see about eighteen thousand.”
“No kidding. I’m in the wrong racket. Grab a seat.” Keith indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Gator lowered himself in the chair. “Ah, reason I’m here-besides dropping in to see Mitch, down the hall”-Gator always visited his parole officer when he sold a tractor, offered to buy him a beer; Mitch always grinned and just shook his head-“is, ah…” Gator cast his eyes around.
Keith nodded, got up, walked over, and shut the door. Resumed his seat.
“Reason is, I ran Terry Nelson’s kid out of the old Tindall place the other night. He had all the ingredients. But he’s pretty far gone. Had him an electric hot plate for a heat source. Check this, when I caught him, he was wandering around looking for someplace to plug it in. So, like that.”
Keith shook his head. “Jimmy Raccoon Eyes. Christ, has that kid gone south fast. Can’t believe he used to run the hurdles. He graduated high school just two years ago. Hot plate, huh? Christ. The electric’s been off in that place for years.”
“Uh-huh. So I hassled him some. Came up with some names.” Gator withdrew a folded sheet of ruled paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “One of them’s in high school. A senior named Danny Halstad. They been out at Tindall’s cooking on a propane stove.”
“How much?”
Gator shrugged. “Strictly their own use. A gram maybe. But if they keep it up, others will copy them.”
“Okay.” Keith slid the folded sheet across his desk and dropped it in his drawer. “What about the Mexicans?”
“They’re keeping to themselves. Stay in that trailer on the building site. I think they got the message after you popped those guys.”
Keith grinned. “You know, you got a flare for this snitching sideline.”
Gator flashed on Shank’s parting words: What do we do with snitches? “That ain’t a term I like, Keith,” Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble.
“Yeah, well, you dumb fuck. You did it to yourself.”
After letting an appropriate amount of time pass, Gator asked, “So what about that thing we talked about?”
“Forget it. You ain’t gonna get your hunting rights restored, I don’t care how many meth labs you help me bust. We’d need a pardon from the governor. And that just ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. I checked with Terry”-Terry Magnason was the county attorney-“you should be happy with the local deal we worked with Mitch and Joey”-Joe Mitchell was the county game warden-“long as you hunt, quiet like, in the Washichu you can have your venison. You try going outside the county, even south of Z, Joe will stuff a walleye up your ass. End of story.”
Gator accepted the lecture passively. It didn’t really bother him anymore the way Keith harped on it-like he was mourning their high school friendship, like Gator had personally disappointed him or something. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to a mounted ten-point buck: 4:06. Then he stood up.
“Angler’s, huh,” Keith said, glancing at the snow boiling outside his office windows. “Watch it on the road going home. This could be a bad one. Howie’s out on a three-car pileup on Two.”
“You got a point,” Gator said. “Maybe I’ll drop in on Jimmy out at the garage. Looks bad, I’ll stay over.”
Keith nodded. “Good plan. You talk to Jimmy much lately?”
“Not really. Cassie called me few days back, whining about Teddy getting in a fight at school. Total bullshit.”
“Yeah, Jimmy and the other kid’s father went round and round. I had to get involved. Guess it did some good. Cassie called me, too, told me she got together with the kid’s mother and they worked it out.”
“Whatever,” Gator said.
“Yeah, well. Congratulations on selling the Case.”
Gator waved, turned, and left the office, walked down the hall, and nodded to Ginny Borck, who’d been two years ahead of him in high school and who now sat in a county uniform behind the dispatch desk with its bank of new radios and computers.
Strolling. He was strolling. Should be whistling. He went out on the street, turned up his collar, and strolled to his truck.
A few minutes later he was easing through the snow, approaching the Angler’s, when the secure stolen cell phone rang. Relaxed, feeling complicit with fortune, he punched answer.
Sheryl’s voice jumped at him; desperate, yelling, practically screaming: “We got a problem!”
Chapter Fifty-one
Broker braked the Jeep halfway up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other.
Broker nodded, going numb. He saw the blood crystallizing, freezing in the snow outside the door, a lot of it. Then he saw the tracks. The basement window hanging open. Looked up. Nina was in. Started after her. She met him at the door to the kitchen. “Don’t come in here,” she said, looking him dead serious in the eye.
“Kit?” His knees buckled, then he recovered and surged past her. Saw Griffin sprawled on the floor next to the Roberts. Saw the AR-15 on the floor behind the body. Had a magazine in it. The operating handle angled back loose.
“I told you not to come in,” Nina said. “Stay here.” She darted away. He heard her dash up the stairs, rummage though the upstairs, come back down the stairs. Doing something in the living room.
“Kit?” he shouted.
“Not here.” Nina reappeared, handed him the.12 gauge, a box full of shells.
“Basement,” Broker said, pointing to the bloody steps as he jammed shells in the shotgun and racked the slide. Then old reflex kicked in. “Don’t touch anything.” He stuffed more shells in his pocket. “I’ll be outside.”
Nina skipped down the stairwell, avoiding the bloody steps. Broker turned toward Griffin. Do something. Shut his eyes. Shook it off. Totally on automatic. Don’t touch anything. Don’t think.
“Not here,” Nina yelled.
“I’m outside,” Broker yelled, going back out the garage. When Nina came out, he pointed to the tracks leading off across the lawn. “She got out the basement window. Those are her boots. The shooter’s following her. Let’s go.” Then he froze, and his voice failed as it hit him. He swallowed to clear the roar in his ears. Through the explosions of their crystallized breath, he said, “He loaded the AR, Nina. I left him with a piece that didn’t work…”
She pounded him hard on the chest. “Do your job! He did!” she shouted in that fierce voice, indicating the blood trail. “Now you do yours!”
They moved off in unison, running on either side of the tracks leading across the field. As he ran, Broker tore out his cell and punched 911.
“Nine-one-one, is this an emergency?” the dispatcher answered.
“This is Phil Broker. Fire number 629, on the lake. Harry Griffin is dead, shot by an intruder in my house. My eight-year-old daughter is missing. Put me through to Keith Nygard.”