Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

Jesus, what a night for cold-blooded murder.

Allen and Earl stood talking about how they were going to do it. Their freezing breath mingling with car exhaust in the crossed high beams of the Cherokee and the Saab. Broker was slumped in the passenger side of the Jeep, his cheek flattened against the windshield.

The Fentanyl for Amy was clean, almost like extreme medicine; but this was killing a man.

And Allen, who had Hank’s cryptic message streaming with a coldness all its own inside his mind, was very aware that once the killing started there were no rules governing Earl and Jolene, beyond sheer self-interest and the reach of their arms and what they held in their hands.

And Earl had the gun.

Such was the flavor of Allen’s thinking as he discussed how Broker would die.

“So, how exactly are we going to do this?” Earl standing there, no hat, with his blond hair frizzed out wild; he looked like a lame Nazi rock star in the outlandish, one-armed black leather trench coat.

Allen kept staring at Earl’s sternum, bare; the young, healthy skin fogged with red chilblain under the clumsy coat. Back in the lodge, in his medical bag, Allen had a scalpel. Easy in under the sternum and up, prick the heart. He’d bleed out internally. Less mess.

Which left the problem of disposal. Allen shook his head; he was becoming disoriented by the cold. One thing at a time.

“We have to make it look like he lost control and went off the road.”

“The road we came in on?” Earl asked.

“I think a secondary road in the woods would be better. We don’t want him found right away. Something less traveled. With a sharp turn.”

“Okay. What we can do is put him behind the wheel, wedge his foot on the gas, and hold down the clutch and put the Jeep in gear. Then we get back out of the way, use something-a stick-to pop the clutch, and off he goes into a tree.”

“We just have to make sure it hits hard enough to shatter the windshield,” Allen said.

“What if he wakes up?”

“With everything he’s got on board? Plus, hypothermia tends to put you to sleep.” Allen shook his head.

Earl grinned. “For a long fucking time.”

“Let’s get going,” Allen said. Lights , he thought. Music.

A mile of back road from the lodge, Allen turned down a logging trail that was cushioned with frozen pine needles and leaves that crunched like cornflakes. He followed it along a swamp or the edge of a lake until it curved back into the woods. He slowed, and then crawled around a tight left turn and a down a short slope. At the bottom of the incline the road turned left again in front of a stack of pulpwood logs.

Six feet high, twelve feet long. Which was perfect-denser than a single tree, more mass targets to hit. And the frozen ground was virtually free of snow, just a few leftover clots like dirty melted marshmallows.

He stabbed his brake lights to alert Earl behind him. Earl stopped, cranked down the window, and leaned out. Allen had his window down too and yelled back, “This is it. Back up to the top of the hill. I’ll go to the bottom, turn around, and put my lights on the pile of logs.”

The Jeep backed slowly up the hill. Allen continued on, positioned his car clear of the turn, and left it running, lights on, so his high beams illuminated the target. Then he yanked six logs out in the top tier, so they extended and drooped like tusks toward the road. One of them was bound to come through the windshield and hopefully brain the driver. Then he jogged up the slope.

Earl had parked the Jeep just above the lip of the short hill, pointed toward the logs. He tried to pull Broker over behind the wheel. But his sling made it too awkward.

“You got to help me with this,” Earl said.

Allen nodded and swiftly positioned Broker. Earl said, “I got it in neutral, so jam his right foot between the floor mat and the accelerator.”

Allen accomplished this with some difficulty; it was a tight working space, it was dark, and the cold was dazing.

The engine raced.

“Okay,” Earl said. “It’s a nineteen-ninety model, so no air bag to worry about. Now we need a stick.” So they hunted for a branch, discarded several, and finally a slightly bowed six-footer met Earl’s approval.

“This is the tricky part. I’m going to push in the clutch with this stick and you have to shift into first and get back out of the way when I release the clutch. You ready?”

“Ready.”

Their voices were magnified by the desolation and the cold. Allen could see sweat freezing on Earl’s chin stubble and glisten on his abdominal muscles. How was he doing this without a shirt?

The Jeep’s engine whined, being wound tighter and tighter.

And Broker was slumped forward in the harness of the seat belt. Allen could not see his face. Allen felt a nuance of remorse. Broker was the innocent bystander sentenced to die by the rules of triage.

“Here we go,” Earl yelled. He eased up on the stick so the engine wouldn’t stall, and, as the Jeep lurched forward, he yanked the stick altogether.

The Jeep rumbled forward, picked up speed, and plowed down the slope. Allen and Earl were already running downhill when it smashed diagonally into the pulp logs with a hollow thud of metal, frigid plastic, and shattering glass. The engine whined once and then quit.

Silent. A slight smell of burning electric circuits and one headlight still on, making a fractured pool of illumination.

“The light is good, lets the battery run out,” Earl said.

Two of the logs Allen had pulled out ripped a long gaping hole in the windshield. Even better, one of them had struck Broker a glancing blow to the head and Allen had seen him jerk on his seat belt tether like a crash-test dummy. The driver’s-side door sprung out, stuck open on its broken hinge.

Panting huge white clouds, Allen and Earl inspected the results. The ground beneath their feet was hard as brown, rippled iron and left no tracks. Broker now had blunt trauma to the skull going for him in addition to being drugged and gavaged with scotch. A thick curd of blood and torn scalp matted his left temple and eyebrow. A fast dribble broke out of the mess, streaked down his left cheek, and dripped from his chin. His dark sodden hair was spangled with flat, translucent pebbles of windshield glass. His breath made a trickle of steam. Allen wanted to be sure Broker was dying, so they stood for long minutes, stamping their feet and hugging themselves in the insane cold, watching Broker’s life leak away.

“Look,” Earl said, “his blood is freezing solid off his chin.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Allen said.

They rode back side by side in the Saab, happy for the powerful heater, the comfortable upholstery, the solid performance that kept the wheels turning.

“There’s something we have to talk about,” Allen said.

“Oh, yeah?” Earl asked.

“It’s about Jolene. When the insurance company sees that the anesthetist they’re defending has committed suicide, they’ll probably be in a mood to write a check. That will be tempting after what she’s been through. You have to convince her to hold out. After tonight, Milt will be more determined to go for a jury trial.”

“Which means a lot more money,” Earl said.

“Which means a lot a more money,” repeated Allen. “But there’s a catch.”

“Always is,” Earl said.

“You have to move out of the house.”

“So you can move in?” Earl laughed. “Look, I’ve already been through this. I understand, I’m out, okay?”

“Good. That way Milt will think he’s easing Jolene away from your influence and under his own.”

“Uh-huh. Somebody should tell him that Jolene is always under her own influence. Except when she was drinking. And if she hasn’t reached for a bottle after what happened today, she never will again.”