“Okay. But can we have Christmas first?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. How many teeth does Kit have now?”
“We refer to them as ‘teef.’ Two on top, three bottom, two in back each side, top and bottom.”
Nina gave him her flight information and said goodbye.
Broker rubbed his hands together. Determined not to have Christmas ruined, he looked around the house and announced in a loud thespian voice, “Kit. Where’s the tree?”
She squinted at him. Tasted a strawberry finger. Darted her eyes.
“We have to get the tree. Mommy’s coming home.”
“Tee,” she chirped.
“That’s right. C’mon, we’re going to sneak into the woods and poach a tee.”
After giving her face and hands a quick cat wash, he stuffed her into boots and a snowsuit. “Lots of mysterious goings-on around here lately, Kit. Sudden death. Sick letters. The first, last, best line of defense against the big black questions posed by sudden death is the make-work of ritual.”
He swung her under his arm and went out the door. “And getting the Christmas tree is way up there on the ritual list.”
Instead of strapping her in the car seat, he stood her on the passenger side floor. The top of her cap did not quite reach the dashboard. “Keep a sharp eye out for cops.” Outlaws, they hit the road.
Devil’s Rock was hardly there if you drove fast. It had a post office and a volunteer fire department. But no place that sold Christmas trees. And anyway, buying a tree up here was like buying lake water to fish in.
He drove south, parked off a hardpack gravel road that skirted Magney State Park, and slipped into the forest with Kit under one arm and a bow saw in his other hand. Deep in a thicket of tall spruce, Broker listened for a moment, then, reassured they were alone, felled an eight footer. He dragged it out, threw it on top of the Jeep and bungeed it down.
When they got it home, and had the tree inside, he built up a fire in the Franklin stove and put a Christmas CD on moderately loud.
Once the tree was fixed in the stand, boxes of decorations and lights were opened. Slowly the tree assumed the fantasy sparkle of Christmas. Broker rummaged among the bulbs and candy canes and removed a small, worn, handmade wooden loon. The paint was wearing thin. A frayed ribbon draped the neck.
“Loon,” he explained.
“Lew,” Kit pronounced in a burst of breath.
He’d made the set of decorations for Caren, kept this one for himself. Patiently, he put it in Kit’s hands and assisted her in hanging it from a branch.
31
Like a preview of things to come, the room had no windows.
Tom wasn’t sure what state he was in. It could be Wisconsin, Illinois, or even Michigan. He had seen license plates from all three states on cars in the lot at the last rest stop.
His escorts didn’t provide clues.
They had driven the morning on freeways. He based this assumption on constant speed and very little stopping and starting. Finally they did slow down, stop, start and turn a lot. The van nosed down. Parked. The engine quit. He was invited out of the van into an underground garage. Red letters and numerals of the license plates. Wisconsin.
Milwaukee, he thought. He sensed a large body of water nearby.
The cars in the garage didn’t look like a government car pool. It could be any building. He was taken up five floors in a service elevator and ushered down deserted carpeted corridors. Room numbers and ID plaques had been masked with tape.
His wristwatch said 5 P.M.
He bet Seymour Hersh never did anything like this.
One of his escorts opened a door. When the door closed behind him tumblers clicked. Locked.
The room contained a conference table and a blank blackboard. An empty cork bulletin board took up one of the narrow end walls. The other walls were bare. Blue shag carpet covered the floor, wall to wall. Three chairs were arranged on one side of the table. A single chair on the other.
He figured the single chair was for the person being grilled.
He put down his suitcase. It contained toilet articles, four changes of underwear and socks, two pair of slacks, three shirts and two sweaters, and an extra pair of shoes. The brown parka with the money sewn into the hem never left his hands.
They’d told him he could take up to seven bags. Tom didn’t even want the bag he carried. He’d only removed the bare essentials from his apartment when Agent Terry whisked him in on the midnight visit.
Tom smiled and composed himself. Take deep breaths.
Be appropriately nervous. Do not overreact. Avoid looking smug. Most people lived their innermost desires as talk or fantasy. He was through talking and dreaming. Being in this room proved that.
He was a player now. And he felt like the man who drew the first circle. Simple and perfect. The only way to commit the seamless crime was with the unwitting assistance of the most powerful government on earth.
Airtight. Mentally, he felt along the seams of his accom-plishment, assuring himself that they were snug. He savored the picture of Angland in his cell-soon to be condemned-powerless. Up against that tape, not even his own lawyer would believe his protest of innocence in Caren’s death. He was guilty of too many other things.
The door opened. Two marshals entered the room, a man of medium height and a short compact woman. They both wore slacks. The man wore a tie. The woman wore a tailored shirt. Laminated clip-on ID cards hung from their belts along with blocky-handled automatic pistols riding high in nylon holsters.
They introduced themselves. Norman and Sarah were in their early forties and had veteran cop faces, eyes set like tired rhinestones in nests of fine wrinkles. As he had with Lorn and Terry, Tom looked for signs that these two could sense a criminal. Scent an evildoer.
“Sit, Mr. James,” said Norman, pointing to the single chair.
Tom sat. Adopting a patronizing tone, Norman admonished,
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”
Tom had been prepared for this by Lorn Garrison, and by his own research. He had also read everything he could find on the Internet about body language and interrogation techniques. Direct, short answers. Maintain eye contact, but don’t overdo it.
“Who’s the psychologist? Isn’t that the first step on an intake evaluation?” he asked.
“Ordinarily, yes. Psych and vocational interviews. But usually we’re dealing with scummy criminals. Are you a scumbag criminal, Tom?”
Tom laughed. Incredulous of the charge, frightened by the power they represented, a little uncomfortable because of the healing gunshot wound in his leg.
Norman backed off. “Relax, you don’t even have any outstanding parking tickets.”
Tom’s sigh of relief was genuine. “I drive the speed limit.
I don’t walk against red lights. Even on empty streets. I read instruction manuals to the end.”
Norman and Sarah smiled a little.
“And I know what I’m getting into. I read everything I could find on the Net about you guys. The suicide rate among protected witnesses is fifty times the national average, if that’s what you mean,” said Tom.
Norman and Sarah exchanged glances. “Okay,” admitted Sarah. “You’re our first newspaper reporter. How do we know you’re not crazy enough to go through all of this just to write a story?”
“If I was going to write a story, I would have already.”
“Maybe,” said Norman.
“Two people knew about that tape. One of them is dead.
The other got shot.” Tom smiled weakly.
“And it’s worth giving up your identity?” asked Sarah.
“You betcha.”
“Convince me,” said Norman aggressively.
“How long have you been a marshal?” Tom asked.
Norman steepled his fingers. “Eleven years. Eight years as a detective in Akron before that.”
“Uh-huh. And how many times have you been shot?” Tom raised his leg and yanked up the cuff of his trousers to show his bandage.