Chuck Logan - The Big Law

Ice City.

Hell. If he was this lucky, he should stop at the Black Bear Casino. But-no more detours. Keep moving. Toward California. Toward his hideaway on Valentino Lane.

Like a shadow, he crept through a landscape transformed into white coral reefs. Every surface hackled, feathered. White trees from Mars. And him the only thing moving.

When he’d passed out of Cook County, he stopped at a rest area that overlooked the lake. Had the whole place to himself. First, he threw Ida’s gun into Superior, then went back to the shelter of the car. Methodically, steeling himself against the temptation to break open the bundles and frolic in hundreds, he sat in the backseat, opened the suitcase and packed the tidy wads of currency into the canvas bags. Taking care of business. Nothing but focused. He buffered the money with newsprint, wrapped them with duct tape.

Tried to make two symmetrical bundles. Twenty-two pounds apiece. Then he stuffed the wrappings from the trash bags in the suitcase, carried it down to the beach, filled it with round cobbles, walked out on a boulder and flung it into the lake. One last thing. Burn the manuscript in a frozen camp grill.

Now. Wait for stores to open. Back on the road. In Two Harbors, he found an open restaurant, ate a huge breakfast and renewed himself with coffee.

And did what he did every morning. Read the paper.

In Duluth, at 9 A.M., after consulting the Yellow Pages, he walked into a Wrap and Ship office with his packages.

Watched the lady behind the counter pack them in sturdy boxes. No questions. No problem. Was given a tracking number. He filled out the return address as B. Franklin on fictitious Pampas Street, Duluth.

And sent them to Danny Storey at 173 Valentino Lane, Watsonville, California.

Yes .

At 10 A.M., he was making good time on the sanded freeway. Heading south.

Through the whole thing he had faithfully worn the latex gloves under his winter gloves. No fingerprints on the car. His hands were turning to liquid from the sweat. Not much longer.

The rest of the drive was uneventful. Clear roads. Not much traffic. He drove into Minneapolis, stopped at a gas station and used a vacuum hose to clean the upholstery and carpet. Stuffed the sled into a trash can. Then he continued on to the downtown loop and parked at the bus depot.

Generously, he handed the new boots, the hat and the gloves to a derelict standing outside the Greyhound station.

Then he walked Hennepin Avenue until he flagged a cab.

Under way, he threw first Ida’s credit cards, then the rubber gloves out the window. He arrived at the airport with hours to spare. He passed through the metal detectors, checked his flight information on the monitors, turned up the collar of his leather jacket and walked down the green concourse to celebrate in an airport lounge.

Not a bad day’s work.

The morning after the ice storm, Broker strapped on his sidearm and checked the cabin on the point. Still no one home. Kit, adjusting to being abandoned, gave herself an oatmeal facial, strapped in her high chair, and didn’t cry.

He drove into town and dropped her with Madge at the sheriff’s office. She wandered between the legs of harried dispatchers who were fielding cell phone calls from stranded motorists and alarmed tourists in remote Gunflint cabins.

Broker put on a Cook County deputy’s parka and helped out.

With a gum ball stuck on his Jeep roof, he four-wheeled back roads, collected stranded people and drove them to Trail Center, the lodge halfway up the Gunflint where emergency services had set up.

Midafternoon, Jeff overtook him in his Bronco, waved him to the side of the road. The sheriff walked slowly, up all night, red-rimmed eyes. Broker rolled down his window. Jeff leaned, resting on his forearms, said, “Bad news,” in a tired, flat, official voice.

“Some phones are up. Tommy Reardon, St. Paul Homicide, just called. They found that newspaper woman you’ve been talking to, Ida Rain, damn near dead, in her kitchen three hours ago.”

“Shit.” Broker took a sledgehammer to the chest. The cliche poised on his lips: I just talked to her the other …

“Bludgeoned, strangled, robbed, took her car. Her house keys were still in her side door. Neighbors spotted them and called nine-one-one. Looks like somebody jumped her carrying in the groceries, her wallet was missing from her purse.

Probably had a spare set of car keys in there.”

“How is she?”

“Fractured skull, broken nose, comatose; in ICU at Regions.”

“How’d you get the call?”

“Tommy spotted your card-or my card with your name written on it-tacked up on her refrigerator. He wants you to check in with him.”

Broker nodded. “They establish time of the attack?”

“The receipt in the shopping bag logged 5:47 P.M. So sometime after that. Guy whacked her with a can of mines-trone soup, Tommy said, then smothered her. Probably to stop her from screaming. Looks like a botched mugging.

Didn’t know what he was doing. Left her for dead.”

“Shit,” Broker said again. “Tommy say anything about her chances?”

“The docs say she’s strong. Have to wait and see.”

“Broken skull for twenty, thirty bucks, that’s a bummer,”

said Broker. But he couldn’t shake a bad feeling about the timing. Still hadn’t told Jeff about the break-in.

“Yeah, well, anytime I can wreck your night, just let me know.”

They watched a column of olive-camouflaged Humvees, National Guard out of Duluth, slowly snake into town. Jeff said, “Finally, these guys can handle the back roads better than we can. And their radios work. Why don’t you hang it up, take Kit home.”

Spirited Ida Rain, randomly chopped down. His sadness produced the image of the huge ambitious puzzle on her carpet-unfinished. Fluky? His night visitor. Ida. Broker didn’t rule out coincidence. But he was suspicious.

Back at the sheriff’s office, he shouldered his way to a phone, grabbed at Kit as she scurried past, missed, got through to St. Paul Homicide.

Tommy Reardon came on the line fast after Broker identified himself. “What you got going with this Ida Rain?”

“She was Tom James’s boss. I talked to her about how he got on to Caren.”

“Women have bad luck with you lately, huh, Broker? First Caren, now this one.” More ill will than suspicion snickered in Reardon’s voice.

Not funny. He ignored the dig and asked, “You have any leads?”

“Nah. Looks like smash and grab. The asshole wore gloves, no latents on the soup can he used. We have everybody looking for her car. Maybe something will show up on her credit cards. That and the car’s our best bet. Until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”

Broker shut his eyes. C’mon, Ida. “So, just in and out fast?”

“Yeah, probably followed her home from the grocery store.”

“Okay, thanks, Tommy. If anything comes up, appreciate it if you call Cook County.”

“Yeah, sure, good-bye.”

Broker watched Kit play with Lyle Torgerson’s flashlight.

Amazement glowed in her eyes as she moved the switch with both tiny thumbs and the light came on. Then off. Ida, turned off that abruptly? Lyle collected his flashlight. “You all right, Broker?”

“Yeah, tired.”

“Everybody is. Damn storm.”

He heaved to his feet, took Kit, left the fatigued synergy of the sheriff’s office and crept north in four-wheel low. The crystalline world, enchanted in the light, became melancholy with sundown. Trees bowed under the icy

yoke, their green dreams of spring turning to nightmares.

Ida fighting, screaming. Which compartment could he check her into? He was full up.

Broker eased down his driveway, edged around the turn, cleared the trees and-