Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

“Still running. Twelve bucks, United Store,” Broker said evenly.

Allen, wearing a Rolex Explorer II, nodded and continued to lace on his boots. Broker cinched up the survival bag. They had food, flashlights, sleeping bags, a change of dry clothes, a sound eighteen-foot canoe, and three paddles. For ballast, Broker wrapped some dry kindling in a poncho liner.

Allen gave his last instructions to Milt about applying ice packs to reduce the swelling. Broker knelt and put his hand on Sommer’s shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hiya, homeboy,” Sommer said through clenched teeth. Briefly their eyes conjured with credentials, then Sommer quipped, “You still here? Go out there and find me a skyhook.”

Allen said, “No food and no water after midnight. This time tomorrow he’s going to be on an operating table.”

“Allen, we’ve gotta roll,” Broker said, getting to his feet.

“Better get ahold of Jo,” Sommer said.

“First thing,” Allen said.

“Tell her I ain’t dead yet,” Sommer said, managing the barest grin. He raised one hand weakly in farewell and dropped it.

Broker and Allen left shelter and went to the canoe that Broker had readied on the cobble beach. The storm winds had spiraled away, leaving the fickle lake relatively calm. They shook Milt’s left hand and, with snowflakes pelting their faces, they launched into the restless swells.

The storm left behind gloomy flurries that stuck to their faces, melting and trickling down their cheeks. The breaking waves were gone, now sluggish swells slapped the bow of the canoe.

“If only she wouldn’t have called this morning.” Allen paddled furiously and stared ahead at the misty spruce crowns. “Can you believe it. He threw the cell phone away.”

“Nothing like a domestic dispute.” The remark rolled easy and world-weary from Broker’s tongue; a cliche from his background in law enforcement.

Allen paused to rest on his paddle and shake his head. “Typical. He does things on impulse, then he regrets it later. That’s been the story of his life since he met her.” Allen looked up and shook his head. “And how he met her, Jesus.”

“In an AA group, right?” Broker said, to keep the conversation going.

“Right, but the reason they met personally was, she walks in to this group of guys in this church basement-folding chairs, cinder blocks, no windows, the air full of cigarette smoke . .”

Allen said “cigarette smoke” like he’d just raised Satan.

“. . and she’s wearing this sweater and she has these perfect tits. So Hank and this other guy start to wager, like, are they for real or are they implants? So Hank is on the case. He takes her out for coffee-at this motel and gets her in bed and, he swears, no scars, they are real.” Allen continued to shake his head. “I was married. You know where I met my wife? In Sunday school.”

“So Sommer married a sweater girl,” Broker mused.

“Milt thinks she’s practically a gun moll. But he’s reacting more to her old boyfriend, that Earl character. He’s definitely a criminal element.”

Broker suppressed a grin at Allen’s language. He was getting an impression of Allen as a missionary-position Minnesota Normal.

“I guess some women find that attractive,” Allen said. “And Hank has a little bit of that in his past, too. You know, rough stuff.”

Broker cleared his throat and looked to his paddle. Getting into the locker-room swing of the conversation, he’d been on the verge of asking Allen to describe more of her.

They were silent for a while, just paddles shoving water.

Allen turned out to be surprisingly strong and steady on the paddle, which led Broker to revise his earlier judgment. The doctor, he decided, was used to digital results and was holding nothing but an analog wooden paddle in his hands, so he was more frustrated than fussy. And, far from being annoyed at Allen’s carping, Broker welcomed it because it filled the dreary monotony of sky and water.

Talk was good, because they had a lot of time to fill. Broker figured fourteen to sixteen hours of nonstop paddle and portage to the lodge. And they’d have to camp when it got dark. So add six more hours. If Sommer had twenty-four hours, they’d be cutting it close. And they still had to rely on a plane or helicopter to get him out.

The time stretched out in front of them. Old-fashioned, unplugged, slow Real Time with no crowds, no traffic, sirens, TV, telephones, email, or Internet. Just the creak of the canoe, the hiss and slap of the bow cutting the chop, and the dip of the paddles.

“How long have you guys known each other?” Broker asked.

“I met Hank through Milt. I met Milt at a seminar. He was the keynote speaker on malpractice. Milt invited me to a poker game where I met Hank. That was just after he got the movie deal for his book.”

“I don’t read much. .” Broker was about to say “fiction.”

“But you’ve been around,” Allen said quickly.

“How’s that?”

“Back by the fire, when we were stripping out of the wet stuff. Your shoulder, your back, and your right leg. I spent a month in Bosnia in ’94. Doctors without Borders. I’ve seen shrapnel wounds before.”

Broker let the statement hang unanswered. Three years retired from police work, he still retained the dissembling persona of ten years working deep undercover for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Before that he’d been a St. Paul cop. Before that, he’d caught some Communist metal during the last two years of that war people didn’t like to talk about and couldn’t forget.

After a polite interval, Allen asked, “You’re from Ely?”

“I’m not a local. I have a little resort over on Superior, north of Grand Marais. I’m just helping out my uncle on this trip.”

“So your family’s in the resort business?”

“You could say that.” It was an accurate if incomplete answer.

“So how are we doing on time?” Allen asked.

“We’re doing fine. If we can keep up this steady paddle till sundown.”

“Then what?” Allen said.

“We’ll have to stop. We can’t take a chance on getting turned around in the dark.”

“Agreed,” Allen said.

They paddled and portaged through the afternoon and, as the clouds sagged lower and the temperature dropped, the lakes sweated a fine late-afternoon mist.

“It’s funny,” Allen said, talkative again, “Jolene married a guy who had some money and she thought she’d get to go shopping in Paris, maybe see Florence. But Hank bought a big old fixer-upper and their life turned into This Old House . Now he wants to fill it up with smelly cats and dogs. And maybe kids.”

Allen turned. “I mean, you have to see this woman to believe her. A figure like hers. The thought of stretch marks drives her crazy.”

“Sounds like one of those trophy wives,” Broker said. He imagined her blond, tanned, and spa-rat skinny in Spandex.

“Absolutely. And like I said,” Allen lowered his paddle, turned, and cupped his hands generously to his chest. “You know, they stay aloft on their own.”

Broker laughed. “You seem to know a lot about the aerodynamics of Mrs. Sommer’s knockers.”

“I saw some topless pictures taken when she was an entertainer,” Allen said.

“Hmmm.”

“An exotic dancer,” Allen said. “Hank Sommer is not your normal writer and Jolene isn’t your normal writer’s wife.”

“And not your normal type of friends, either, huh?” ventured Broker.

“Touche. Very good. That’s Milt for you, he’s famous for collecting characters.”

Allen wore no ring on his left hand. “What about you? You said you were married?” Broker asked.