Chuck Logan - The Big Law

He still had the story. With a resigned heave, he turned to her. “Do you really need to talk to Phil? The FBI will be here in a couple of hours.”

Caren nodded her head vigorously. “I want him to know that I’m doing the right thing for once. And, I don’t know-maybe I need a lawyer. Ask him what he thinks about the Witness Protection Program.”

Tom could still experience a piercing moment of compassion for her. “People like you don’t go into Witness Protection. It’s for crooks.”

“Then what happens to people like me?” she asked in a flat doomed voice.

They looked at each other, out of words. Tom had the impression they’d arrived at a place off the map of their lives.

They turned back toward the warmth of the lodge. Inside, Tom said, “Okay, I’ll go talk to him. Where is he?”

“Keith’s there,” she cautioned.

“I’ll just have to deal with it.”

She scanned his face dubiously. “Broker’s Beach is about four miles up the road on the right. There’s a sign. You can’t miss it.”

He left her sitting at a table, alone, with the ornate hall surrounding her like a gaudy broken heart.

Tom drove to Devil’s Rock, which was nowhere. Just a sign.

He pulled over to the side of the road fifty yards from the faded sign for BROKER’S BEACH RESORT-CLOSED. He took the packet of bills from his pocket. It won’t be missed, he told himself. He slipped off the rubber bands that secured the ends. Broke the paper strap.

The hundreds fanned in his hand. He counted, thinking there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by money. That buried suitcase contained enough to manufacture a whole new life.

The count was one hundred. He’d never felt so strong, lifting $10,000 with one hand.

Except Caren knew where it was hidden. She would gush it all to this Broker guy. Maybe she had a count and would figure out the packet was missing.

A hundred hundreds and that was just one. The goddamn bag weighed almost fifty pounds. And now he’d have to put it back.

Looking up and down the empty stretch of road, he was stricken. What a wild desolate place this was. It wasn’t fair.

Being this close. He stuffed the loose bills in his jacket pocket. Angry now, Tom stabbed the gas and turned down the entrance road to the resort. The only satisfaction left was seeing the look on Keith Angland’s face when he told him his wife had ripped off his money. And the FBI was coming for his ass- and all because of me-Tom James .

The gray Subaru pulled into the drive and parked alongside the county Bronco, Broker’s Jeep, and Keith’s Ford. Broker watched a pasty guy in a baggy brown parka get out-longish hair, mustache, glasses, the same guy in the picture lying on his kitchen table.

A chair tipped, slammed against the plank floor. “Hey!

What’s going on?” Keith was on his feet.

Everybody was moving. Broker pointed to the picture, out the window, said to Jeff, “That’s him, he’s traveling with Caren.” Kit had quieted. Now she began to cry again in the bedroom. Keith yanked open the door. Jeff stayed with him step for step.

Broker was torn. One step forward and two steps back.

He confirmed that Caren was not in the car. The old Broker would have Keith on the ground by now. Jeff yelled over his shoulder, “Stay clear.” The new Broker went for the baby.

Outside, Tom James slammed the car door, looked around and pulled up his collar. Resort cabins, bleached by cold, with shuttered windows, hunkered in a rocky cove. A county sheriff’s Bronco, the big unmarked Ford, and a green Jeep were parked in front of a large cedar-plank home, out on a rock promontory.

Lake Superior lashed the shore. Spume flew ten feet. The air turned to shadow. Even Tom, an inside city dweller, could feel the storm charge jitter in the swirling clouds.

The door to the house opened and Angland pushed through it. A tall husky uniformed cop strode after him.

Seeing the tough hick lawman provided instant comfort as Angland bore down on him. Shouted:

“Where is she, scumbag?”

“Guess what, Angland, it’s FBI time,” Tom shouted back in a shaky voice, trying to stand his ground. The wind whipped the words away.

“Hey, fuck you,” seethed Angland, and Tom saw that he was working himself into a jerky Samurai rage, like an actor in a Japanese movie. The uniformed cop threw out a restraining arm. Angland put both his palms out, warding off the cop. “Stay out of my personal life, Jeffords,” he warned.

Personal .

The word tattooed into Tom’s brain. They still thought it was personal. Keith was fooling them. Oh boy. Caren hadn’t told them about the real reason…

A lean, dark-haired man with striking black eyebrows strode out on the porch, holding a toddler bundled in a blanket. Another tough hick. The uniformed cop swung his eyes to the man on the porch and called, “Stay there, Broker.”

In that instant, when the cop’s eyes were averted and he took a step back toward the porch, Tom and Keith were alone.

Tom sneered at Angland, wanting to wound him. The words shot out, “Hey, tough guy. Guess what-she’s got your dirty mob money.”

For a second, Angland did nothing except tabulate behind his cold eyes. Then his face curdled. “I’ll kill you sonofabitch!”

Before the cop spun back around, Tom’s wild glance locked with the hard-eyed gaze of the man on the porch. He had seen the exchange with Angland and was now scrutiniz-ing Tom. But then the cop lunged and threw his arms around Angland’s shoulders. Broker sprinted, baby in arms.

“Hold her,” he yelled, holding the baby out as he pushed Tom toward a door in the side of the garage, opened it and thrust him and the kid through. “Stay put.”

Inside, a woodstove, wood shavings curled on the floor.

The walls held racks full of woodworking tools. The kind of shop Tom once dreamed of having. The kid squirmed and 106 / CHUCK LOGAN

started to cry. Tom ignored her. Voices surged outside. He went to the door, to watch the fight develop in the yard.

All big guys, in their forties. Tom sensed their slight caution, past the straight-ahead fury of their youth. Broker waded in and hooked one of Keith’s legs with his ankle and swept him off balance. But Keith, light-footed, recovered, shook them both off and went for Broker. And Tom saw that it was definitely Japanese movie time, the way they puffed up with macho-strut and put on their bad Kabuki scowls. Wow.

These two guys really hate each other.

Fighting over Caren, maybe .

He tensed forward, eager to see two men their age fight.

Especially these two. But then he became aware of the weight of the toddler in his arms-she had stopped yowling.

And plunged her plump hand into his pocket and now was fascinated by the fistful of hundred-dollar bills mashed in her small but strong fist.

“Hey, you little shit,” protested Tom.

As he shifted the baby’s weight to reach with his other hand, the kid thrust the hand up and out, throwing open her fingers. Bills erupted and fluttered all around. The kid squealed, distinctly, “Pretty-pretty.”

Unceremoniously, Tom dumped her on the cold cement floor and stooped to gather up the cash. She shook off her blanket. Damn. The kid was quick. She snatched a loose hundred. Tom tried to grab it back.

The bill ripped. Instantly, Tom matched the torn halves.

Christ, the whole middle was missing. Fast as a little mon-goose, the fat kid stuffed the missing portion into her mouth.

Tom was totally flummoxed, squatting, stuffing money back in his pocket with one hand. Bills everywhere.

He spotted an empty air mail envelope under the work-bench, seized it and shoved money in as fast as he THE BIG LAW/107