Chuck Logan - After the Rain

He got in the Ford, pulled up to the highway, and looked right and then left. The entry road to the airstrip was about 300 yards from the bar and the equipment shed. He could just make out Dale Shuster and another guy walking across the highway and going into the bar.

Broker had dismissed Kit’s strange comment about Dale Shuster’s toilet, but he’d noticed something else at the shed that got him thinking. So he decided to pay another visit. Making no attempt to hide his approach, he drove down the highway and pulled into the weedy lot in front of the shed. There were two vehicles in the lot, both pretty beat up-a Grand Prix with a filthy windshield and a brown Chevy van.

Okay, he thought as he got out of his truck, so I’m being a little obvious. He threw a glance across the road at the bar’s brick facade. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a rematch with that Gordy guy.

Broker walked around the back of the shed to where the lone piece of earth-moving equipment was parked. Something about the Deere had caught his attention: on the left rear end, one of the counterweights was missing. A solid hunk of yellow cast iron two feet square, six inches deep, and weighing perhaps 500 pounds, a counterweight was the ultimate blunt object. Huge bolts held it to the machine’s frame. Its purpose was to offset the load in the bucket. It was not something that got damaged under normal use.

Broker cocked his ear when he heard a motor start. He peeked around the edge of the shed and saw the brown van pull onto the highway, caught a glimpse of the driver-the scarred-up dude he’d seen with Dale Shuster this morning. The van accelerated back toward town. He waited a few moments, heard nothing else, and moved off ten yards into the damp weeds along the side of the shed. Looked around to get his bearings. Right about here he’d seen a flash of yellow on his first visit. The ground was disturbed, dug up and refilled. Okay. He moved deeper in the weeds and found it. A corner of yellow cast iron peeked from the ground. The rain had washed away the top layer of dirt.

Broker stooped and rapped his knuckle against the dense iron. Now who in the hell would bury a counterweight? He got up, walked back to the Deere front-loader, and began to study it like a puzzle.

“Morning,” a voice said behind him.

Broker turned and saw the husky deputy-Jim Yeager-watching him. Yeager was in uniform, tan over brown.

“Hi,” Broker said.

“What’s up?” Yeager asked.

Broker held up a red Bic lighter. “Was by here earlier looking at this Deere. Dropped my lighter. Just found it.”

“Uh-huh,” Yeager said. “Mr. Broker, would you mind following me into town?” Polite but firm.

“I could do that,” Broker said. He walked back to his truck, pressed the lock remote, opened the door, and got in. As he turned the key in the ignition, he instinctively checked under the seat with his left hand.

Shit . After a fast inspection he noticed his window open a crack. And now the badge and gun were missing. Yeager? The brown van? Okay, so it was getting tricky.

Broker decided not to mention the missing pistol and badge as he followed Yeager back to town. He’d just watch and see if Yeager gave anything away. He pulled into the parking area in front of the motel, next to Yeager’s Crown Vic. Yeager got out and leaned against the cruiser’s front fender, hatless, smoking a Marlboro Light that looked like a white straw in his thick fingers. He could have got those arms lifting free weights, but you don’t lift iron for hours on end. Throwing hay bales, more likely.

“It’s Yeager, right?” Broker said.

“Yeah.” Yeager took a drag, exhaled. The steady breeze bled the smoke from his nose and mouth. “Kinda figured you’d be on that plane that took off.” Inhale, hold, exhale. “Guess not.”

Broker did his best to look attentive. He pointed to the Explorer and said, “I’ll be driving.”

“When?” Yeager asked.

Broker mugged a tight smile, looked away.

Yeager was mellow, totally relaxed. He was, after all, completely in control here. He raised his chin inquiringly. “So how’s the hand? Heard you tagged Ace Shuster with a left. Musta smarted some.”

“Some.”

“Uh-huh. And I noticed that you and the little girl dropped in on Dale Shuster this morning. I don’t think he’s going to sell that old Deere, do you?”

“Not likely,” Broker said.

Yeager looked away for several seconds. “You know, there’s this Air Force radar base east of town. Real sophisticated stuff. Tracks all the space junk, is what they say. Can spot a beer can at eight hundred miles.”

“Really.”

“Really. Got private security, though. Local guys man the gate. They stay on orange alert there. The rest of the country is on yellow. But they know what’s going on, and one of them tells me this helicopter showed up last night. One of those Black Hawks, like in that movie that just come out.” Yeager paused and watched Broker’s face for a reaction.

“No shit,” Broker said.

“No shit. The story is, the chopper was en route to Grand Forks on a routine flight and had to stop for minor mechanical repairs. Six guys plus the crew. ’Cept they all wear civilian clothes and keep strictly to themselves. This guy told me four of them are, like, in real good shape. Regular animals. The other two are kinda nerdy looking. Just hanging out, playing basketball next to the hanger. Thought you might be interested.”

“Well, maybe they just had minor mechanical trouble.”

“Yeah, probably. Another thing…Your wife? Nina?

“Yeah…”

Yeager watched him come forward through his cool act, alert.

“Yeah, well, thing is…Her and that Jane Singer”-Yeager hooked his fingers, making air quotes-“the overt lesbian? Army doesn’t know anything about them. Where they are. What they’re doing in North Dakota. Said they’ll get back to us.”

Broker smiled his unhappy smile.

Yeager went on talking in a steady, friendly voice. “And the old guy in the beach shirt who was hanging around the swimming pool when you showed up?”

“You been following me, Deputy Yeager?”

Yeager shrugged and smiled. “Not me.”

“Somebody else maybe?”

“Maybe. Well, after Jane checked out of the Motor Inn yesterday, the old dude drove out of town behind her. Just take a wild-ass guess where they spent last night.”

Broker stared at him.

Yeager smiled. “My buddy the security guard at the radar site heard that Jane has a mean hook shot.”

Broker saw that Yeager wasn’t going away. So, effectively agreeing to dance, he said as much. “You ain’t going away, are you, Yeager?”

“Hey, Broker, I live here. See-after the spooks and the black helicopters and the feds finish creepy-crawling around and have their moment, then they’ll leave.” Yeager studied the coal of his cigarette, put it back between his lips, and calmly placed his hands on his hips. “Then, well…I’m still here in this county. Me and, basically, three other guys.”

Broker withdrew the tinfoil pouch of Sweets from his back pocket, dug out one of the rough wraps, put it in his mouth, and waited while Yeager took out an old-fashioned Zippo and thumbed the wheel.

Broker puffed until he was lit and then pointed at the lighter. Yeager handed it to him. The case was nicked and rubbed smooth. Ditto the brass eagle, anchor, and globe on the side. Under the Marine insignia there were just two engraved words, one almost faded away, one newer:

IWO

BEIRUT

Yeager said, “My dad gave it to me when I went into the crotch. I had it in the ’Ruit in ’83.”

“The barracks?” Broker handed the Zippo back.

“I was on detail, hauling ash and trash, about a mile away when it blew. Three other guys in my room-they never found enough to fill one body bag.” Yeager paused, thumbed his smoke, set his jaw. “Nineteen years old. I handled a whole lot of dead bodies the next couple days. How many dead people you touched in your life, Broker?”