Police tape clamored yellow in the fifty-mile wind. An ambulance sat halfway up the drive. Glacier County’s two police cars were parked at the foot of the drive. The state patrol cruiser was positioned at an angle across the road, to stop anyone driving by.
Nygard, Broker, and Nina were observing a local moratorium on bringing up Griffin’s name. A BCA Crime Lab van was en route from Bemidji to work the scene. It was all about Kit’s voice, patched through the radio.
They were hunched forward, holding hands, Nina in the passenger side, Broker in the backseat, listening to Kit’s voice cut in and out. Nygard stood outside, talking to a fire and rescue guy; his deputy was in the house with another fireman; State Patrol Sergeant Ruth Barlow sat in her car talking on her radio. Two more volunteer fireman in heavy parkas were tramping across the broad lot toward the woods with flashlights, poking the snow, marking the faint blood trail with Broker and Kit’s skis and poles from the garage. Going to locate the body.
Nina keyed the radio mike, spoke in a slow deliberate voice, “Stay calm. We’re coming.”
Just static.
The door opened, and Nygard jumped in behind the wheel. Removed his hat. Dusted snow from his neck and shoulders. Methodically, he removed his frosted glasses, took out a small plastic bottle, and squirted antifogging solution on them. As he cleaned them with a handkerchief, he asked, “Anything new?”
Nina shook her head. “Keeps cutting in and out. She’s still talking.”
“What’s that?” Nygard grimaced at the speaker box.
“She’s swearing,” Nina said, gnawing her lip.
Nygard glanced back at Broker.
“Better than crying,” Broker said, his voice awful.
Sergeant Barlow tapped on the window. Nygard zipped it down. She eyed Broker and Nina with restrained amazement. “I put out the APB with the description you gave me: Kit Broker, eight-year-old white female, red hair, four foot three, seventy-three pounds, cross bite on front teeth. Gave your names, said you were in contact with Kit by cell phone. Few minutes later the FBI in St. Paul called me back on my radio. Asked me if I’d met the parents and did the father have eyebrows. Was the mother in the Army. When I said, Yeah, about the eyebrows, the FBI guy says, in the clear: ‘Prairie Island Broker and Nina Pryce, no shit.’”
Sergeant Barlow bit her lower lip. “I don’t know who you people are, but the FBI outa Duluth is putting an Air Force Reserve Blackhawk up in this. Packed with electronics. BCA’s coming from Bemidji and St. Paul. Something’s going on in St. Paul, because half the troopers in northwest and central are shutting down the road-”
Nina cut her off, her open hand shooting up in a blur, signaling silence.
“…stopped…red…I see…” The faint voice crackled in the speaker box.
Nina and Broker leaned forward, desperate.
“Shit,” Nina said. “Can’t-”
Then the dispatcher’s stronger signal stepped on the static. Yelling with excitement. “Keith, got good copy on her last. She said, ‘We stopped. I see a red tractor in a light.’ You copy?”
“Copy. Ruth, saddle up!” Nygard shouted, slamming the Vic in gear, wrenching the wheel, and fishtailing the cruiser in a wheely, sending Sergeant Barlow jumping back out of the way. Nygard righted the vehicle and pointed it north up 12. Stepped on the gas.
“What?” Broker and Nina shouted in unison, lurching in their seats.
“Only one place in cell range I know of got a red tractor under a light. Gator’s shop. He’s Cassie Bodine’s brother. Excon…” Then under his breath, “Maybe you ain’t as rehabilitated as you look, you sonofabitch.” He snatched up the mike, his eyes darting to the rearview. “Ruth, you with me?”
“Right on your ass.”
“No flashers, no siren. We’re going about twelve miles up this road to a farmhouse on the edge of the big woods. Place is just barely in range of the last cell tower. Gotta be. Okay. When I kill my lights, you do the same. We’re going in blacked out.”
“I guess,” Barlow yelled back; her voice charged, building on Nygard’s.
“And Ruth-”
“I’m here.”
“Kick it. We’re going in real hot.” Nygard mashed down on the accelerator. He turned a quick eye to Nina, who was picking frozen snow out of the trigger guard of the Colt with the hem of the T-shirt she wore under the sweat-suit jacket. More blowing off tension than serious, he said, “If it gets rough, the book says I’m supposed to jettison civilians-”
“Drive,” Broker said in a grim voice from the backseat, where he was wiping down the shotgun, checking the action.
“Yeah,” Nygard said, doing 70 m.p.h., looking at maybe thirty yards of visibility, with Sergeant Barlow suicidally hugging his rear bumper.