Chuck Logan - Homefront

“I figured you’d be calling me . Looks like you got a little situation going,” Harry Griffin said, his voice coming to a point.

Good old blunt direct Harry. “Oh, yeah,” Broker said ambiguously.

“You met Keith Nygard, right?”

“We met,” Broker said.

“Well, being the sheriff, he don’t exactly need an invite. But he stopped in to see me. He’s here right now, he’s got some questions for you. Figured he’d put me in the picture. He’s low-key, likes to keep it friendly. He ain’t in uniform. Tell Nina it’s about the crew. Ah, put on your coat and boots. You might be taking a ride.”

Broker picked up the cordless phone from the counter, hung up the rotary, and walked into the living room. When he was out of earshot, he asked, “What’d you tell him? About me?”

“Not a whole lot. That you were a cop; but he’d pretty much figured that out. Up to you how much more you tell him. But he ain’t dumb. Relax, this dustup with Jimmy Klumpe is nothing major, humor him. We’ll be over in half an hour,” Griffin said, ending the call.

Broker walked back in the kitchen and hung up the phone. Saw Nina and Kit watching him. They didn’t get many phone calls. “Griffin’s coming over with a friend. Wants to talk,” he said, sitting down at the table.

He felt Nina’s eyes map his body language. Christ, she is coming back . All the deadly green range-finding optics swimming into focus.

Broker shrugged and sat back down at the table. “Something about the stone crew.”

“Uh-huh,” Nina said.

“Yeah. Wants to look over the woodpile. Maybe take a drive, check out a job.”

“In the dark?” Nina wondered.

“You know Griffin-when he gets an idea in his head, he never quits.” Broker let the thought hang. Then he turned to Kit and said, “C’mon. Eat your dinner.” He picked up his fork and looked down at his own plate, where the spaghetti lay twisted in a meaty red coil like a belly wound.

The sheriff. Great.

The first time Broker laid eyes on Harry Griffin was thirty-two years ago-this surreal red figure from a Fellini movie that emerged from the soaking white morning mist next to a sandbar in the Trieu Phong River. Griffin had been walking point with a squad of Popular Forces, moving between night positions. A roving ambush. He collided with a VC point man on a muddy trail, and they exchanged fire point-blank in the fog. The Viet Cong’s AK rounds ripped through the red smoke grenades that had been hanging off the side of Griffin’s radio, and the smoke seeped out and completely coated him in the thick chemical pigment; his hair, his teeth, his skin, and his gear.

They met because of a bomb.

Buck sergeant Griffin, the radio man on the local district advisory team, had killed the lead VC. The rest scattered. He also killed two water buffalo on the trail behind the VC point. The animals made an unreal racket going down, but not so loud that Griffin didn’t hear the screeching metal ricochet. The Viet Cong had been moving four buffalo across the river. The two dead animals and the two survivors were lashed together with a bamboo yoke on which they were transporting an unexploded 2,000-pound bomb.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in red shit,” Griffin had said to brand-new Second Lieutenant Phil Broker, who had choppered in from Hue City with Major Ray Pryce and a gaggle of brass to inspect the find.

They met again, a short while later, in the cauldron battle for Quang Tri City. They stayed together until the end, in ’75.

Broker, with a flashlight in his pocket, stood in the driveway smoking a cigar as Harry Griffin eased up the drive in his runaround vehicle, a ’99 Jeep Sport. His work truck was still on the hoist at Luchta’s. Griffin parked next to the Tundra and got out. He was in his late fifties now, and as he approached, Broker saw how the harsh yard light really dug into the creases and hollows under his gaunt cheekbones. After way more Peter Pan years than a guy should have, Detroit Harry was finally starting to look his age.

Griffin was alone. He walked up to Broker, followed him through the garage to the back deck, and glanced at the video flicker in the kitchen windows.

“Why do I get the feeling she ain’t watching Survivor ?” Griffin said.

“The War in the Box,” Broker said.

“She feels left out, huh?” Griffin asked.

Broker shook his head. Not so much an answer as a weary dismissal of the subject. He did notice, even in the dark, that Griffin was watching him closely.

“You’re no fun,” Griffin said, “don’t want to talk about the war-everybody’s talking about the war; how cool it is. Reporters gushing all over themselves, getting to ride on tanks…” He paused, nodded toward the TV flicker. “How’s she doing? I was surprised she answered the phone. She sounded more like her old self.”

Broker nodded. “She coming out of it.” Looked back through the garage. “Where’s the local copper?”

Griffin shrugged. “A few minutes behind me.”

“What’s he know?”

“I been living up here ten years, so he knows me, some of what I did in the Army. He’s called me a couple times, to help out in a pinch.” Griffin shrugged. “Knows we were on the same team in the old days.”

“Great, what else did you tell him?”

“Hey, numb-nuts, you were the one whipped a Kansas City lateral restraint on Jimmy Klumpe yesterday. Keith says you did it perfect, like it was pure reflex. Says he learned the technique in Skills and never has been able to get it right.”

Broker turned and looked at the bluish flicker of the TV in the kitchen. “Does he-”

Griffin shook his head. “No. Nothing about her.”

Broker changed the subject, poking Griffin not quite playfully on the shoulder. “Talked to Susan Hatch at the school today, huh? Actually, she talked to me . She got right down to cases, asking questions about Kit. And me. Let it slip she knew you in the biblical sense. What have you been telling her , like in bed?”

The question hung unanswered in the falling snow as a pair of headlights swept across the tree line to the side of the yard. Broker and Griffin walked back through the garage into the driveway. Keith Nygard drove a gray Ford Ranger, not his Sheriff ’s Department cruiser. He parked it next to Griffin’s Jeep, got out in jeans, a Filsen parka, and bulky La Crosse boots. He walked over to the two older men.

“He’s okay,” Griffin said, watching the sheriff approach. “Young but okay.”

Broker nodded and said by way of greeting, “Sheriff.”

“Jimmy Klumpe called the office today and lodged a complaint; says somebody dumped a can full of garbage at his office door. His driver, coming back from a route saw a green Tundra leaving the yard.” Nygard said. His wire-rim glasses gleamed in the yard light, the lenses slightly fogged.

“That why you’re here?” Broker asked.

“You tell me.” Nygard’s voice was low, almost quiet. His hard cop stare, however, was unmistakable in the bad light. Broker matched him, stare for stare.

“Guys,” Griffin chided.

Broker relented, dropped his eyes. “Okay. This morning Klumpe was driving the truck that collected my canister. He picked it up with the hydraulic auto reach arm, then dumped it deliberately in the ditch and drove away. Took his time so’s I got a good look at his face. I guess I overreacted, considering all the strange shit that’s been going on.”

“Define strange shit?” Nygard asked.

“This way,” Broker said, starting to walk. They fell in step through the snow in the backyard. Stopped at the side of the garage by the doghouse. Broker shined his flashlight on the bowl of meatball antifreeze. “That showed up last night,” Broker said. “Right after I found a brand-new tire flat on my truck. Had it repaired-old man Luchta said it was a puncture.”