Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

Dorothy’s barbed comment about men who marry younger women still quivered-right next to J.T.’s Peter Pan Principle remark-and he found himself wondering what happened to old shock troops.

He turned off the freeway, drove aimlessly for a few minutes, and wound up on a desolate country road. The steering wheel jerked and the Jeep bounced around like a steel tray full of rocks, and the rusty suspension found every bump and pothole in the stiff gravel road, and each jolt was a shot of gravity reminding him that-although he’d lived an interesting life-right now he was on his way to turning into a statistic. He was joining the forty-five percent of American couples whose marriages would end in divorce.

Broker ran head-on into Doubt on a lonely country road between two chilly, whispering cornfields.

He couldn’t make the pieces fit for Sommer. Was he on a tangent, trying to relive an exciting part of his life?

So maybe it was time to play the cards in his hand, which did not include a wife and a child or any particular detective brilliance. He’d chop some wood and stack it neatly. He’d look at Sommer one last time and make his gesture and bid farewell. He’d go home and wait for the phone to ring.

There was Amy. Well, she had to live with it. There would be no closure on Sommer; there’d always be a place that hurt when you touched it. Like a dead child.

Onward.

Broker drove east toward the only landmark he could see, the tall NSP smokestack south of Stillwater, and found his way back to the main roads.

After getting his directions straight, he pulled up into Sommer’s drive and parked the Jeep next to the Green Chevy van. Then Earl Garf stepped out on the porch wearing a big smirk and baggy skater pants, and all Broker’s good intentions went to hell, because if ever there was a wrong guy in the picture it was Garf. Look at him, so pretty and immortal.

Broker got out of the Jeep and stalked up the steps.

“Hey,” Garf grinned. “It’s the Tin Woodsman. How you doing?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Broker asked in a level voice, in no mood to be trifled with by assholes. Even assholes who went about 220 and lifted weights.

“The Wizard of Oz, you know. It’s a little joke. You came to chop some wood, right.” Without waiting for a reply Garf sauntered down the steps and inspected the Cherokee. “Wow, what’d you do? Drive this through a rust storm?” Genial contempt caked Garf’s voice as thick as the gunk he wore in his hair, and Broker felt his shoulders loosen and drop slightly and his hands started to get hot and his fingers flexed open and closed.

Reacting to Broker’s body language, Garf raised his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Hey, take it easy. Jolene and I really appreciate what you’re doing.” Smoothly Garf inserted two fingers in his jeans pocket and withdrew another of his hundred-dollar bills. “For your trouble, man.”

Broker didn’t think. He reacted and snatched the bill and deftly stuffed it down the neck of Garf’s funky Calvin Klein sweatshirt. “Go ride your bike. Mug an old lady.”

Garf’s smile crumbled and was replaced with a reluctant resolve as he shook his head and said, “I’m opposed to beating up old guys on principle, but. .” He moved into a stance. “Just so you know. I’ve got a black belt.”

Broker nodded. “Uh-huh. I heard of that. It’s for people who never learn to fight growing up.” A flourish of righteous anticipation swelled his chest and chased away the blues. Here, at least, was something he could understand: putting the hurt on this young asshole.

“Earl.” Jolene’s voice shaped the name so it sounded like “bad dog.” She appeared in the doorway wearing jeans, a denim jacket, a light gray turtleneck tucked in, and scuffed leather shoes. No wrinkles or bulges showed anywhere unless they occurred naturally in material.

“This guy. .” Garf started to say.

“ Earl . Go inside and wipe Hank’s chin.”

Garf grinned tightly. “Some other time, maybe.” He made an accommodating gesture, skipped up the steps, and went past Jolene into the house. She closed the door and joined Broker in the drive.

“He has a good side,” she said. “But you kind of have to lead him to it.”

Broker said nothing and they observed his silence carefully. And he knew that she knew that a lot of guys would have left by this point.

It was just nippy enough to encourage them to keep moving, so, after about thirty seconds of looking each other over, they walked around to the back of the garage. She took the lead. Broker approved of the way her jeans were not too tight, more like a comfortable second skin with a pair of leather work gloves tucked in the wallet pocket.

Around in back, a tray sat in the empty wood lean-to built under the eaves of the garage. It held a fat thermos, two cups, a creamer, sugar, and two spoons. She poured a cup. Broker shook his head when she pointed to the cream and sugar.

It was the kind of very good coffee that made you want to stay in her kitchen forever. So he sipped and surveyed the pile of wood. The rounds were uniformly cut from straight trunks. “This is really clean oak,” he said. “You found a good supplier.”

“Hank cut it on his friend’s land.” She paused. “Late friend. I guess he committed suicide, but the cops didn’t call it that. The accountant. I told you, remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Broker said, who definitely remembered. He was tempted to ask about Stovall but that would be out of character. Instinctively, he was back playing a role. He’d wait.

“It’s pretty gruesome all around. See, Hank had two sets of friends: his old screwed-up AA buddies and his new poker-party friends who he goes on his extreme vacations with, mainly Allen and Milt. Cliff, the dead guy, was from the AA group.” Then she added, deliberately, eyes steady, “I met Hank in that group. He used to say AA was a spiritual journey.”

Broker cocked his head at her language.

She smiled briefly. “He’d say the difference between religious people and spiritual people is religious people are afraid of going to hell. Spiritual people have already been there and meet on the road back.”

Broker nodded. “So you’re in the program?”

“I don’t go to meetings anymore.”

“Sounds like it wasn’t a real lucky group you were in,” Broker said.

“I hear you. But, the fact is, I’ve been sober for fourteen months.”

“It must be working, you look healthy; tired but healthy,” Broker said.

She smiled bleakly and said, “Considering.” She put her coffee cup back on the tray and pulled on her work gloves. “I’ll stack.”

It was turning into a nice afternoon. A residue of frost glistened on Broker’s boots and there was just a faint ghost of condensed moisture trailing off his breath. He pulled on his gloves, picked up a round, set it upright on the block, and hefted the maul.

Jolene watched Broker work and saw how he was a natural, easing into a steady rhythm; each swing of the maul originating from his planted feet, bent knees, whipping up through his hips, and smoothly arcing into his arms. Whack. The oak split and flew apart. He set the halves up and gave them another lick, making each round into four pieces of kindling. When he positioned a new log, she picked up the split pieces and took them to the shed.

After five minutes he striped off his jacket and she got a better picture of how he moved. He was like Hank-his body didn’t telegraph his age. He could be anywhere in his forties.

And she thought how a lot of men self-consciously attacked work, among other things, with a jerky, almost angry, intensity; what Hank had jokingly called the need for man to demonstrate his mastery over nature. Broker had progressed beyond the amateur need to audition for her benefit. Or his own.