Homefront. Part 9

Plus he could give Jimmy some responsibility. Jack him up.

Jimmy Klumpe. Gator shook his head, leaned back in his seat, and ran through Jimmy's story. Like the regulars at Skeet's Bar observed after a few beers: Jimmy Klumpe had won the Moose Lottery.

Jimmy's money dilemma started when his mom and dad were driving home from the little casino near Thief River Falls, three years ago January. Icy roads and a ground fog were a contributing factor, Keith Nygard wrote in his report. They rounded a turn, possibly too fast. Old Tom was known to have a heavy foot and also was an authority on everything, including how fast to drive on slick back roads. What it turned out he wasn't so smart about was the bull moose that trotted right through a barbed-wire fence and into the path of his old Bonneville. They died instantly, Ed Durning, the medical examiner, said. In an explosion of air bags, trailing barbed wire, entrails, and moose s.h.i.t, Keith Nygard said. Took two hours with the jaws of life for the Fire and Rescue boys from Thief River Falls to free the antlers that had pinned the bodies in the front seat. back roads. What it turned out he wasn't so smart about was the bull moose that trotted right through a barbed-wire fence and into the path of his old Bonneville. They died instantly, Ed Durning, the medical examiner, said. In an explosion of air bags, trailing barbed wire, entrails, and moose s.h.i.t, Keith Nygard said. Took two hours with the jaws of life for the Fire and Rescue boys from Thief River Falls to free the antlers that had pinned the bodies in the front seat.Jimmy, an only child, turned out to be the beneficiary on their life insurance policies, and found himself in possession of a million bucks. Up till then, Jimmy's life had been all downhill since he was homecoming king to Ca.s.sie's queen senior year. He always drank a little too much and stayed tangled in family ap.r.o.n strings, marking time as a driver at his dad's garbage company. Now he had inherited his dad's house on the lake and Klumpe Sanitation, which consisted of three trucks, a garage, the dump, and the county contract.Nine years ago Ca.s.sie had married Jimmy. Which Gator thought was a dumb idea, knocked up or not. Marrying a garbage truck driver who likely as not ended Friday night facedown on Skeet's bar. Five months later Teddy was born. Gator did admit that Ca.s.sie had cleaned up her act and was working as a receptionist at True North Realty in town. She was positioned to watch the lakefront boom start to take off.They made their fresh start about the time Gator started his bit in Stillwater. They sold their rambler in town and moved into the vacant Klumpe family house on Big Glacier. After an initial spending spree-a new bathroom, a Jeep Cherokee, a snowmobile, a sixteen-foot Lund-Ca.s.sie settled on a plan. The lakefront on Big Glacier was sewn up, but Little Glacier, to the north, was still open.Gator, hearing of the insurance windfall, suddenly transformed himself into an attentive letter writer and devoted brother-"Really, Ca.s.sie, you owe me something for that thing I did on your behalf a certain October in high school." Ca.s.sie coughed up a modest investment so Gator could turn the garage on the old farm into a tractor restoration shop when he got out of prison. coughed up a modest investment so Gator could turn the garage on the old farm into a tractor restoration shop when he got out of prison.Jimmy and Ca.s.sie got ahead of the real estate market and spent their windfall on three thousand feet of lakefront on Little Glacier, planning to divide it into ten lots. They hired an architect, settled on a set of plans, and went to the bank for a construction loan. They secured the loan and broke ground on a model lake home. Once the first house sold, they'd roll over the profit and build another until they had built on all ten lots.Gator, the model prisoner, did his time and returned to Glacier County with a business plan to rehabilitate his criminal a.s.s. He had a supportive parole officer, a new set of tools, an air compressor, and sixteen hot antique tractors sitting in the junkyard behind his shop.Then came the fatal day that Ca.s.sie agreed to watch the neighbor's three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Marci. Except she had an appointment at the spa in Bemidji to get a body wrap and her legs waxed. So she called their freaky cousin, Sandy, to watch Marci while she drove to Bemidji to soak in seaweed...

Dumb.

But the way Gator had worked it out was...well...nothing short of f.u.c.king brilliant.

For him, at least.

Gator wheeled up the drive of the dark house hooded with gables where old Tom Klumpe never used to give the kids candy on Halloween; where, in fact, Gator and Keith, twelve years old, had set a bag of cow pies on fire on Tom's doormat one Halloween and rung the bell.

He parked the truck and trudged up the porch steps, heard the loud beat of voice-over aerobic music. Antic.i.p.ating the bittersweet headache he'd have by the time he left, he rang the bell.

The music stopped, and a moment later Ca.s.sie opened the door. She still looked great on the outside, but her eyes gave away the inside; two empty blue holes screaming to be filled. She was barefoot, wearing these little red gym shorts that rode up, revealing the start of her rear end. Her white tube top was damp and clingy with sweat. She had her hair heaped in a wild pony spray, fastening by a silver headband. Seeing the tallowy perspiration on her throat and arms still could halt his breath.

"You must have the heat turned way up," he said.

"What?" she said.

"That outfit."

"I was doing an exercise tape. C'mon in," she said, staring at his left hand. The way his fingers curled, holding something. Noting her attention, he withdrew the hand, put it behind his back. "Hey, don't tease me, now," she pouted, moving into his path, grabbing for his hand. They b.u.mped torsos, then the sibling roughhouse got stuck hot at the hips. She reached around, trying to catch his hand.

"Hey, not so needy," Gator danced to the side, grinning, leaning back, loving the unbridled covetousness surging in her eyes. "You're starting to like this stuff way too much, probably should taper you off..."

"Gimme," Ca.s.sie demanded, flinging both arms around him, grasping.

"Said you just wanted to lose some weight. Looks to me like you lost it," Gator now held his hand straight in the air, making her go up on tiptoes. "Okay, you can have it if you promise me you'll stop-"

"Christsake, Gator, stop playing games."

"Promise me."

"Okay, I promise," she said, heaving her eyes.

Gator let the folded square of Reynold's Wrap drop from his palm. It glittered between them and landed on the floor. She immediately stooped and s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and as she started back up, he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, holding her face level with his belt buckle.

Then he removed his hand and stepped back. Serious now. "Don't go smoking this stuff, you understand," he said.

"Not me," she said, making the packet disappear in the waistband of her shorts.

"So how's Teddy doing?" Gator said, staring at her throat, feeling his temples start to throb.

"He's okay, upstairs finishing his homework."

"Jimmy?"

"In the bas.e.m.e.nt, watching an old Vikes-Packer game on Teevo."

"Get him," Gator said with muted authority, not taking off his coat. "You both should hear this."

Ca.s.sie padded off across the barnlike living room with the old brown leather chairs and couch she hated and called down the stairwell, "Jimmy, Gator's here." Then she hurried toward the kitchen, where Gator heard the door to the downstairs bathroom close.

While he waited, Gator looked over the living room, then the dining room with its lace curtains, framed duck stamps, and clubfooted oak table. No wonder she was half nuts, living in this museum with Jimmy, doing her Buns of Steel tapes.

She kept it clean, though. Wasn't at all like Mom in that regard, except that she married a drunk.

Jimmy came up the stairs with a tall water gla.s.s of Jack Daniel's. His eyes were a medium blur at 8:00 P P.M. Little dots of crumbly yellow junk food were smeared on his T-shirt. Popcorn maybe. When Ca.s.sie walked back into the dining room, she was much improved.

"Sit down," Gator said, indicating the dining room table with a toss of his right hand.

They sat.

"I had a look at your Broker guy," Gator said.

"And?" Ca.s.sie said. "Was I right?"

"You got no idea how right," Gator said, grinning, unable to suppress his pleasure.

Jimmy and Ca.s.sie exchanged looks. "So, what?" Ca.s.sie said.

"I got in his house and looked around. Saw some stuff. I think he was a cop down in the cities," Gator said.

"Jesus," Jimmy muttered and stared glumly into his gla.s.s. "You think he knows?"

"Not sure what he'd doing here. But I got an idea how to find out," Gator said. "The thing with Teddy, where you want that to go?"

"We want an apology, right," Jimmy said, glancing at Ca.s.sie, who nodded her agreement. "But a cop, jeez, I dunno..."

"Okay, here's the deal. I got a job for you." Gator leveled his eyes on Jimmy like he was a trusted lieutenant. "Jimmy, I need you to mess with him a little, just kid stuff."

"Like what kind of stuff?" Jimmy said, sitting up straighter. Ca.s.sie, her color up, her eyes now full and steamy, watched the play between the two men. Real curious.

"In the morning your guys pick up on Twelve, right?" Gator said.

"Yeah."

"So, you take the route, get there early when he's taking the kid to school, and do that trick with the mechanical claw so you tip over his garbage, fling it along the ditch. So he sees you. Do it so it looks like he put it out wrong."

"I can do that," Jimmy said.

"Just some little c.r.a.p to drive the guy nuts, but not so he can prove anything. If he comes at you again, it'll give Keith something to do. You know how he loves to play Mr. In-Between."

Jimmy nodded. "Shoulda been a Lutheran minister, like his dad."

"Yeah," Gator said. "Plus, Keith's having a bad winter, since he had to put out that ordinance keeping trucks and sleds off the lake 'cause it didn't completely freeze over."

"Might cost him the election," Jimmy nodded.

"Yeah," Gator said, "needs something to do, so maybe if it gets going back and forth between you and Broker, Keith'll check him out, and it'll get back to us who he is. Worth a try."

"Uh-huh. So just little stuff," Jimmy said, more confident now.

"Yeah, but he'll be p.i.s.sed. He might come at you. h.e.l.l, we want him to. Can you handle that?"

"Sure, Gator." Jimmy squared his thick shoulders. "Woulda nailed his a.s.s today except I slipped on the ice."

"I hear you. So, tomorrow morning," Gator said.

"Piece of cake. People always leave the containers out back-a.s.swards so they flip off the claw," Jimmy said.

"Good." Gator smiled, pleased with the way he set it in motion, giving orders sort of low-key. Like a good boss should. To underscore the point, he slapped Jimmy on the shoulder, comradelike. "Can't really tell you all of it, but I got a feeling we're getting close, huh."

"I'm for that," Jimmy said.

"Okay. I gotta go," Gator said. Ca.s.sie walked him to the door.

"You know what you're doing," she said happily. Not a question, eyes merry with the meth she'd eaten. This raspberry flush spreading up from the top of her tube top, creeping up to her collarbones, the smooth shoulders...

"Just don't smoke it, go easy," he cautioned, pulling his eyes away. Going out the door.

He sat in the truck waiting on the heater for a few minutes, watching the lights in the house. Maybe they wouldn't bicker about money tonight. Maybe Ca.s.sie would take his big a.s.s to bed, shut her eyes, and pretend he was somebody else. Satisfied, he put the truck in gear and started down the drive. Musing.

Some crew he had. His desperate cash-strapped lush of a brother-in-law and his not quite reformed nympho meth-addled sister. Plus Sheryl, his biker groupie turned waitress.

Thing was, his plan was so good, not even this bunch of screw-ups could mess it up.

He had to believe that.

Half an hour later he came up on the crossroads and took the turn on Z, turned off his lights again, and coasted up to the empty farmhouse. This time he got out and walked close enough to hear rap music banging on the faint breeze. Lights swirling in the windows. Must have a battery CD player. Little rave going in there; good, keep it up. He turned and walked back to his truck. One of these days, he'd be back.

Chapter Fourteen.

Broker started in the garage. No tiny paw prints led from the garage back door; a dusting of new snow where Kit had shoveled was unmarked. Then he got lucky. Kit had not been super-conscientious about her cleaning along the edge of the deck. He set down the bowl of cat food and studied the pattern of imprints filled in with fresh snow, s.p.a.ced like footsteps next to the rail. No tiny paw prints led from the garage back door; a dusting of new snow where Kit had shoveled was unmarked. Then he got lucky. Kit had not been super-conscientious about her cleaning along the edge of the deck. He set down the bowl of cat food and studied the pattern of imprints filled in with fresh snow, s.p.a.ced like footsteps next to the rail.

Way to go, Kit. Okay.

Broker exhaled, went down a level.

Someone had been here, had slipped over the rail.

It took a few minutes peering over the flashlight, but Broker saw enough to get a gut check on how the night visitor had entered and exited the yard. Came in serpentine, stepping in existing tracks. No new cleat marks, only the pattern of Kit's Sorels and Broker's Eccos along with the prints of their ski boots. But even filling in with fresh snow, Broker could see that those prints were mashed out where the intruder had stepped, widened.

Like the newer tracks off the deck.

Uh-huh. So you tied cloth on your boots to mask your tracks.

It took another ten minutes to follow the tracks through the edge of the woods. They led to the connecting path to the state ski trail. Where they vanished.

More stooping, more studying impressions in the snow. The path appeared undisturbed since their afternoon ski run. Just the wide-angled splay of Kit's skis next to Broker's parallel tracks.

But the parallel tracks were cleaner, the snow firmed by pressure.

Broker thought back to all the skiers on the trail this afternoon. Okay, so you're smart. You came in on skis, stayed in the tracks I made earlier today. Okay, so you're smart. You came in on skis, stayed in the tracks I made earlier today. Stepped out of the bindings, slipped some kind of wrap on his boots. Went in, came out, took off the wrap, and stepped back into the skis. Turned the skis around without disturbing the tracks. Not some casual vandal. Stepped out of the bindings, slipped some kind of wrap on his boots. Went in, came out, took off the wrap, and stepped back into the skis. Turned the skis around without disturbing the tracks. Not some casual vandal. You put effort and planning into this. You put effort and planning into this.

He straightened up, turned off the flashlight, and shook out his senses. He smelled the faint camphor of pine and frozen resin. Felt the invisible wall of cold up close. Almost silent now. Just the wind shifting through the pine needles; here and there dry dead branches rattled. Hazy moonlight sifted down through the tall old red and white pines and traced northern European shadows on the snow, bent and twisted together like stained-gla.s.s patterns. Could see where the Gothic cathedrals got their start, in among trees like this.

The trail beckoned, a curving band of open white.

At home in the woods, aren't you. Confident.

Broker had made a life of high-wire work, shifting his balancing act between caution and impulse. Going with his gut. With mood. At the moment he was still mainly curious; so he walked slowly up the trail.

Each step brought him closer to a bad feeling, so he instinctively tempered his curiosity with caution. Somebody this tricky could still be out here. He slipped off the trail into the trees. Focused now, ignoring the raw cold.

Took three slow, silent steps, stopped, and listened. Then repeated the pattern. An Australian sergeant had taught the still-hunting routine to Broker and Griffin at the MACV-SOG Recondo school in Da Nang. "Takes forever," a young Broker had protested.

The Aussie had cut them with the bemused utter contempt he reserved for regular American troops. "The object, mate, is to get to the other side of the f.u.c.kin' woods alive."

Broker had come home alive and trusted the method. It took him ten minutes to cover the two hundred yards to the end of Griffin's land. He came to the yellow No Hunting sign posted on the property line where the connecting trail T-boned into the broader ski trail.

He stopped dead still, his alertness total and jagged, like a snapped tuning fork. Faint but definite, he heard a tinkle on the wind. Broker stood unmoving. There it was again.

He experienced a flush of almost preadolescent excitement. He could picture the smile on Kit's face. When Daddy found the kitty.

Okay. Don't blow it. Gotta spot her.

Slowly, straining his eyes in the haze of moonlight, he scrutinized the surrounding trees, stopping at the center of the T formed by the trail intersection.

This slender vertical shadow.

Out of place. Stark against the snow. A dark lump at the top.

Now impulse rushed to the surface, but he reined in the dark intuition that propelled him forward. It was Broker's nature to go quiet now, to keep his anger cold and controlled, to save it up. He stepped from the cover of the trees.

So this is how it is.

He removed his glove and reached out his right hand. Old Bun leaking stuffing. Impaled on one of Kit's ski poles, the handle driven deep into the snow.