The morning after the ice storm, Broker strapped on his sidearm and checked the cabin on the point. Still no one home. Kit, adjusting to being abandoned, gave herself an oatmeal facial, strapped in her high chair, and didn’t cry.
He drove into town and dropped her with Madge at the sheriff’s office. She wandered between the legs of harried dispatchers who were fielding cell phone calls from stranded motorists and alarmed tourists in remote Gunflint cabins.
Broker put on a Cook County deputy’s parka and helped out.
With a gum ball stuck on his Jeep roof, he four-wheeled back roads, collected stranded people and drove them to Trail Center, the lodge halfway up the Gunflint where emergency services had set up.
Midafternoon, Jeff overtook him in his Bronco, waved him to the side of the road. The sheriff walked slowly, up all night, red-rimmed eyes. Broker rolled down his window. Jeff leaned, resting on his forearms, said, “Bad news,” in a tired, flat, official voice.
“Some phones are up. Tommy Reardon, St. Paul Homicide, just called. They found that newspaper woman you’ve been talking to, Ida Rain, damn near dead, in her kitchen three hours ago.”
“Shit.” Broker took a sledgehammer to the chest. The cliche poised on his lips: I just talked to her the other…
“Bludgeoned, strangled, robbed, took her car. Her house keys were still in her side door. Neighbors spotted them and called nine-one-one. Looks like somebody jumped her carrying in the groceries, her wallet was missing from her purse.
Probably had a spare set of car keys in there.”
“How is she?”
“Fractured skull, broken nose, comatose; in ICU at Regions.”
“How’d you get the call?”
“Tommy spotted your card-or my card with your name written on it-tacked up on her refrigerator. He wants you to check in with him.”
Broker nodded. “They establish time of the attack?”
“The receipt in the shopping bag logged 5:47 P.M. So sometime after that. Guy whacked her with a can of mines-trone soup, Tommy said, then smothered her. Probably to stop her from screaming. Looks like a botched mugging.
Didn’t know what he was doing. Left her for dead.”
“Shit,” Broker said again. “Tommy say anything about her chances?”
“The docs say she’s strong. Have to wait and see.”
“Broken skull for twenty, thirty bucks, that’s a bummer,”
said Broker. But he couldn’t shake a bad feeling about the timing. Still hadn’t told Jeff about the break-in.
“Yeah, well, anytime I can wreck your night, just let me know.”
They watched a column of olive-camouflaged Humvees, National Guard out of Duluth, slowly snake into town. Jeff said, “Finally, these guys can handle the back roads better than we can. And their radios work. Why don’t you hang it up, take Kit home.”
Spirited Ida Rain, randomly chopped down. His sadness produced the image of the huge ambitious puzzle on her carpet-unfinished. Fluky? His night visitor. Ida. Broker didn’t rule out coincidence. But he was suspicious.
Back at the sheriff’s office, he shouldered his way to a phone, grabbed at Kit as she scurried past, missed, got through to St. Paul Homicide.
Tommy Reardon came on the line fast after Broker identified himself. “What you got going with this Ida Rain?”
“She was Tom James’s boss. I talked to her about how he got on to Caren.”
“Women have bad luck with you lately, huh, Broker? First Caren, now this one.” More ill will than suspicion snickered in Reardon’s voice.
Not funny. He ignored the dig and asked, “You have any leads?”
“Nah. Looks like smash and grab. The asshole wore gloves, no latents on the soup can he used. We have everybody looking for her car. Maybe something will show up on her credit cards. That and the car’s our best bet. Until she wakes up. If she wakes up.”
Broker shut his eyes. C’mon, Ida. “So, just in and out fast?”
“Yeah, probably followed her home from the grocery store.”
“Okay, thanks, Tommy. If anything comes up, appreciate it if you call Cook County.”
“Yeah, sure, good-bye.”
Broker watched Kit play with Lyle Torgerson’s flashlight.
Amazement glowed in her eyes as she moved the switch with both tiny thumbs and the light came on. Then off. Ida, turned off that abruptly? Lyle collected his flashlight. “You all right, Broker?”
“Yeah, tired.”
“Everybody is. Damn storm.”
He heaved to his feet, took Kit, left the fatigued synergy of the sheriff’s office and crept north in four-wheel low. The crystalline world, enchanted in the light, became melancholy with sundown. Trees bowed under the icy
yoke, their green dreams of spring turning to nightmares.
Ida fighting, screaming. Which compartment could he check her into? He was full up.
Broker eased down his driveway, edged around the turn, cleared the trees and-
The butternut Ford Ranger 250 had a new camper box up back and was parked right in front of his porch.