Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

“You know what Harry says?”

Gloria raised one hand in the stiff, dismissive gesture Gena Rowlands made famous in A Woman Under the Influence. “By all means, lay it on me.”

“Harry says the Saint is back with bad target information. He says somebody in-house has been retrieving his notes from the computer trash and has put together an erroneous list of child abusers.”

Gloria was careful not to bristle too much. “Ah, Jesus. I’ll make it simple for you. Harry Cantrell is brilliant but erratic. He had quite a juggling act going, but now he’s dropped his balls, as it were. Now he’s grabbing at straws. I know the man. We, ah, had a thing. .”

“I heard.”

“I broke it off. Hell hath no fury like an old macho scorned.”

“He’s teasing me on the telephone. He won’t give me a name.”

Gloria cocked her head. “Okay, let me tell you about Harry. Do you know how we initially got onto Dolman?”

Broker shook his head.

“Sometimes cops go out to schools and talk to teachers about reporting child abuse, what to look for, stuff like that. So a year ago last spring Harry goes out to Timberry Trails Elementary and talks to the staff.

“There’s this one paraprofessional who’s got this chest like a shelf, right? This dish. So after he gives his talk, Harry starts putting the moves on her. Naturally, being the snake that he is, he uses the elements in his talk as an entree.

“And this lady has a pile of these storybooks at her desk that kindergartners have written about themselves, and Harry is paging through them as he’s doing his thing. The kids draw self-portraits on the front of the books and write their names. The teachers help them with the text. And he comes across this book that looks different from the others. Instead of a happy smiley face, the face is all colored in. So he holds it up and asks, ‘What’s this?’

“And the lady answers, ‘Oh, that’s Tommy Horrigan; he always draws himself with his back turned.’ Harry opens the book and reads things Tommy has written, ‘The leaves are coming back’ or ‘Mommy plants tulips.’ He sees that Tommy does not put himself in his story.

“So Harry asks to meet Tommy Horrigan, and the rest is history.” Gloria shook her head. “Harry starts out trying to get laid and winds up detecting the trail of a child abuser.”

Broker looked her square in the eye. “And you started out with Harry, building a case against Dolman. And you wound up getting laid.”

Gloria pursed her lips, looked at the wall, and said, “You know, it really bothered me that a guy that old, with such lousy personal politics, could be so damn. .” She mugged a smile, turned back to Broker, and said, “Is this what you came for?”

“You asked to have Harry taken off the case,” Broker said.

“Had to. When I took on Dolman, my marriage was on life support. The thing I had with Harry basically pulled the plug. But it was interfering with the work.”

“Enter Lymon,” Broker said.

Gloria leaned forward. “Don’t get distracted by the boy-girl and the racism. Bottom line: Harry has it worked around in his head that if he had stayed on the case Dolman would have been convicted.”

Broker studied her. She came across as bright, candid, and brave; plus sinewy in her armless blouse and raven crew cut. She looked as if she belonged on the front of a Patagonia catalog, scaling a sheer rock face. Gloria Russell conquers El Capitan over a long lunch.

“Do you know what it was like, losing that case?” Gloria said. “I was so mad at first that I stormed out of the chambers. But then I realized I had to go back. .”

She drew herself up, and Broker watched it come, a memory like electrodes clipping onto her body, sending electric current up the corded muscles of her neck, into her face, and burning in her eyes.

“Because. . I left that little boy in there alone watching Dolman grinning and pumping the hand of his attorney.”

She shook her head violently. “And we said we’d never leave him alone. We always said we’d be there to protect him.”

Gloria was tough. Gloria didn’t cry. She kept talking in a dead, level voice. But her body cried. It was like looking at a statue of grief and seeing the unmoving bronze eyes trying to water.

“We had to go back and explain to Tommy and his parents. How do you explain that to a six-year-old? Here we told him that we were going to protect him. . Christ, do you have any idea what we put that kid through? The physical examinations-our doctor, the defense’s doctor. .”

And Broker watched her dissociate with the moment and retreat into a private limbo. Gloria spoke as if to Tommy Horrigan. “We told you we’d get the guy who did those things to you. But we didn’t get him. We didn’t do our jobs good enough, and he got away.”

In a purely visceral way Broker now understood why John had brought him in. Nobody who’d been close to the thing wanted to pick up this particular live wire.

“Worst day of my life,” Gloria said.

Gloria caught herself and looked across her desk. “I don’t have to be here carrying water in county, you know. I could be almost a partner by now in a legal money factory in St. Paul or Minneapolis, driving a Beamer, working seventy hours a week, and taking files on stressed-out vacations to wherever. I chose not to do that because I believe there’s more to life than making money. And I believe in being involved in this system out of self-interest, to protect all of us from people who will take the law into their own hands.”

“So Harry gets your vote for Saint,” Broker said.

An expression of painfully acquired revelation came over Gloria’s face. She said, “Just as I’m sure I get his. But Saint is much too kind a word. The next time you see Harry, take a good look at him. He’s the face of the mob.”

“Majority of U.S. Bishops Have Protected Abusive Priests,” declared the headline in the newspaper box at the front door to the county building.

Broker walked out into the heat with Gloria’s parting shot stuck in his mind. Fuckin’ Harry. He crossed the parking lot and kicked the Crown Vic’s tires. Fuckin’ Harry’s car. As he flopped behind the wheel, his phone rang. He whipped it open and braced for another Harry mind game.

“Mr. Broker, this is Annie Mortenson; I’ve been thinking about what you said and we should talk.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the library, but I’m through for the day.”

“I’ll meet you on the front porch in ten minutes.”

Eight minutes later, after scalding his hands on the red-hot steering wheel, he met her on the library steps. They sat down side by side on a bench.

“Harry did contact me and asked me for a favor. Am I in any trouble?” Annie asked.

“No, no. What was the favor?” Broker said.

“He asked me to call you and give you this information anonymously.” She handed him a note written in concise Palmer penmanship: Broker’s truck can be found in the vicinity of County Road 97 and Merril Lane today after 3 P.M.

Broker took the note and tucked it in his chest pocket.

“Your truck isn’t going to wind up like my car, is it?” Annie said.

“I hope not,” Broker said as a shadow fell across them.

“Is this guy bothering you, Miss?” an amused voice said.

Broker looked up. The tallish man standing in front of him had calm, angular features and straight blond hair falling an inch over his ears. His powder-blue eyes ruminated behind wire-rim glasses.

Drew Hensen, Janey’s husband, had always reminded Broker of Garrison Keillor’s radio persona: congenial and wise in a cute way and several comfortable steps removed from the real world. Broker remembered him lanky in chambray shirts and faded jeans. Today the heat had him in a tank top and running shorts and flip-flops.