Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

Taken by surprise, Annie put her right hand to her throat, then dropped it to the top button of her blouse. Self-consciously, she twirled the button with her fingers. “Drew? Oh no, we were just talking. .”

Broker stood up. “Drew, how you doing?” They shook hands.

Drew shrugged. “Same old stuff, waging war against junk food and prime-time TV.”

“You two know each other?” Annie said.

“Sure, we used to work together,” Drew said.

“You two, really?”

“In another life. At the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I used to be a police artist,” Drew said. “Remember, I told you.”

“Okay,” Anne said. Her eyes rolled back, placing a memory.

“It’s been a while, though,” Broker said, practicing small talk while he checked Drew out. The artist appeared totally relaxed and untroubled by any marital discord Janey had alleged. However, Broker did notice that, in his presence, Drew and Annie adjusted their gaze to avoid looking directly into each other’s eyes.

“Janey tells me you married a soldier,” Drew said with a sly smile.

“An Amazon hoplite, actually,” Broker said.

“ Hoplite. Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day,” Annie said.

Drew smiled, warming to the repartee. “They burned off their breasts, didn’t they?”

“The right breast. So it wouldn’t get in the way drawing a bow,” Annie said.

“Now I think they just burn off men’s balls,” Broker said, smiling pleasantly.

“Always the mellow fellow,” Drew said. “So are you still on the job?”

“I’m filling in as a deputy for John Eisenhower, just for a few days,” Broker said.

Drew nodded. “Sure. I know John. Are you, ah, working now?” He nodded toward Annie.

“No, we have an acquaintance in common. That’s all,” Annie said.

“Well, I gotta go in and set up this program,” Drew said.

“He has this afternoon reading group for third graders,” Anne said.

“Watch yourself, Annie. Broker worked deep undercover; he’s a sneaky sort of guy,” Drew said amiably.

“I’ll be careful,” Annie said.

“See ya,” Broker said.

Drew waved good-bye and went in the library. When he was gone, Annie said, “Do you know his books?”

Broker nodded. “He draws these friendly monsters like Sendak, but in brighter colors. I read a couple to my daughter.”

“He’s very good,” Annie said.

“Right. Look, Annie: keep in touch about Harry. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

Broker thanked Annie, accompanied her out to the street, and then they went separate ways. Briefly, he watched her walk down a line of parked cars and wondered who was worse for her, Harry or Drew. Then Broker turned away and went in search of his truck.

Not sure about the whereabouts of Merril Lane, he opened the glove compartment on a hunch and found a Washington County road map. He also found a black billed cap with a motto stitched in yellow across the crown: I Am Not Like the Others. And below, in smaller letters: 3rd Mar Div Force Recon. Broker consulted the map, and seeing that he was headed into the country-maybe for a walk in the sun-he put Harry’s hat on his head.

Broker drove northwest of town toward White Bear Lake into rolling countryside. He passed acres of long, white slat fences and horse barns. Overgrown gravel driveways wandered into the brush with signs that said things like Excellent Development Site. He found the intersection of Manning and Merril and saw only rolling empty fields. Probably the farmers had them in the land bank. In the vicinity of , the message said. He continued down Merril, topped a slight hill, and feathered the brakes. In the distance an American flag tossed in a hot gust of breeze.

Nothing unusual there; more and more flags had popped up in the countryside since 9/11, flying from mailboxes or fence posts. This flag, however, was attached to a black Ford Ranger.

The truck was parked way out in a weedy pasture that was gated and fenced with barbed wire.

A tractor path meandered into the field, but the gate was padlocked. So Broker got out and climbed over the gate. After a few minutes walking through the knee-deep grass and thistles, and avoiding numerous cow pies, he was thankful for the hat because he had to walk toward the west into the lowering sun. As he crossed the field he saw that the truck had been parked with the hood facing east, the direction he was walking in from.

Clearly, this was Harry’s idea of a joke. He took out his cell phone and held it at the ready.

About one hundred yards from the truck, he caught a powerful draft of manure fermenting in the sun. He saw a pile of it dumped next to the truck.

Uh-oh.

A dozen steps later, he realized that some of the smell was coming from inside the truck.

Harry, you. . son. . of. . a. . bitch. .

Broker walked closer in and saw that the interior of the cab had been shoveled full of cowshit. A note was stuck on top of the crud with a downward-pointing arrow. The note said: Badge and gun this way.

There was no sound except the buzz of insects and the faint rustle from the flag when it caught and released a nudge of steaming air. Instinctively, Broker backed off and started to circle the truck looking for some sign, tracks maybe. .

A flash of opaque gray stood out against the green of the grass and weeds. Approaching, Broker saw it was a plastic gallon milk container. It had been planted upended on a stout, sharpened sapling. Then it had apparently been pushed over. Dirt still clung to the stick’s sharpened end.

With a definite pucker contracting between his lips, Broker saw that it had been discarded after it served its purpose. Its purpose was obvious from the three bullet holes grouped in a two-inch radius in the middle of the container.

Harry had taken a few practice shots. Then he’d left the target in plain view.

Broker thought about it. . Harry’s finger out there attached to a nervous system drowned in Jack Daniel’s, caressing the trigger on the black rifle. A trigger with a pull so fine a sneeze could set it off.

So now what? Jump under the truck? Into the weeds?

He squinted to the west, because that’s where Harry would have set up his firing position with the sun at his back, in that tree line about six hundred yards away. Broker raised his right hand in that direction, middle finger extended.

Then he turned and noticed that the side-view mirror on the truck was cranked out and had some tiny writing on it in Magic Marker.

He took several steps forward and read: Smile! You’re on candid camera.

Broker watched his own eyes freeze in his face in the mirror. Instinctively, he understood that Harry had planted the flag on his truck to keep track of the wind direction. He could even appreciate the twist of elegance in the way Harry had set him up, looking at his face in a mirror at the precise moment the.338 slug. .

The hot sizzle passed through the air where his shoulder and his neck formed two sides of an angle. Broker watched the image of his face explode in the mirror before he could react.

A tiny fragment of flying glass cut his cheek as he dropped to his knees in an involuntary reflex. Otherwise he was untouched. Most of the glass had been knocked from the mirror frame, and there was a small hole a little off the dead center.

Broker took a deep breath, turned, and fixed on the tree line about six football fields away. Far enough that he wasn’t aware of having even heard the sound of the shot.

He just had to go see, so he got up, started walking toward the trees, and began to count his steps. 1, 2, 3, 4, . damn it was hot. . 54, 55. . used to be able to shed the heat. . 74, 75. . Jesus, it can’t get any fuckin’ hotter . . 124, 125. . when is this fucker gonna break?. . 290, 291, 292. . shoulda brought some water, dummy . . 340. . dehydrated for sure, gotta watch it. . 430, 431. . not a kid anymore, at least you’re still putting out sweat . . 510, 511. . be careful, you could crap out in this field, just sink in these weeds . . 587, 588, 589. Dizzy, squeegeed dry by the sun, he staggered into the shadow of the trees and looked back. His truck was about the size of his hand. He checked the tree line carefully and couldn’t find any sign of a person having been there.