After the Rain Part 22

"I could do that," Broker said. He walked back to his truck, pressed the lock remote, opened the door, and got in. As he turned the key in the ignition, he instinctively checked under the seat with his left hand.

s.h.i.+t. After a fast inspection he noticed his window open a crack. And now the badge and gun were missing. Yeager? The brown van? Okay, so it was getting tricky.

Broker decided not to mention the missing pistol and badge as he followed Yeager back to town. He'd just watch and see if Yeager gave anything away. He pulled into the parking area in front of the motel, next to Yeager's Crown Vic. Yeager got out and leaned against the cruiser's front fender, hatless, smoking a Marlboro Light that looked like a white straw in his thick fingers. He could have got those arms lifting free weights, but you don't lift iron for hours on end. Throwing hay bales, more likely.

"It's Yeager, right?" Broker said.

"Yeah." Yeager took a drag, exhaled. The steady breeze bled the smoke from his nose and mouth. "Kinda figured you'd be on that plane that took off." Inhale, hold, exhale. "Guess not."

Broker did his best to look attentive. He pointed to the Explorer and said, "I'll be driving."

"When?" Yeager asked.

Broker mugged a tight smile, looked away.

Yeager was mellow, totally relaxed. He was, after all, completely in control here. He raised his chin inquiringly. "So how's the hand? Heard you tagged Ace Shuster with a left. Musta smarted some."

"Some."

"Uh-huh. And I noticed that you and the little girl dropped in on Dale Shuster this morning. I don't think he's going to sell that old Deere, do you?"

"Not likely," Broker said.

Yeager looked away for several seconds. "You know, there's this Air Force radar base east of town. Real sophisticated stuff. Tracks all the s.p.a.ce junk, is what they say. Can spot a beer can at eight hundred miles."

"Really."

"Really. Got private security, though. Local guys man the gate. They stay on orange alert there. The rest of the country is on yellow. But they know what's going on, and one of them tells me this helicopter showed up last night. One of those Black Hawks, like in that movie that just come out." Yeager paused and watched Broker's face for a reaction.

"No s.h.i.+t," Broker said.

"No s.h.i.+t. The story is, the chopper was en route to Grand Forks on a routine flight and had to stop for minor mechanical repairs. Six guys plus the crew. 'Cept they all wear civilian clothes and keep strictly to themselves. This guy told me four of them are, like, in real good shape. Regular animals. The other two are kinda nerdy looking. Just hanging out, playing basketball next to the hanger. Thought you might be interested."

"Well, maybe they just had minor mechanical trouble."

"Yeah, probably. Another thing...Your wife? Nina?

"Yeah..."

Yeager watched him come forward through his cool act, alert.

"Yeah, well, thing is...Her and that Jane Singer"-Yeager hooked his fingers, making air quotes-"the overt lesbian? Army doesn't know anything about them. Where they are. What they're doing in North Dakota. Said they'll get back to us."

Broker smiled his unhappy smile.

Yeager went on talking in a steady, friendly voice. "And the old guy in the beach s.h.i.+rt who was hanging around the swimming pool when you showed up?"

"You been following me, Deputy Yeager?"

Yeager shrugged and smiled. "Not me."

"Somebody else maybe?"

"Maybe. Well, after Jane checked out of the Motor Inn yesterday, the old dude drove out of town behind her. Just take a wild-a.s.s guess where they spent last night."

Broker stared at him.

Yeager smiled. "My buddy the security guard at the radar site heard that Jane has a mean hook shot."

Broker saw that Yeager wasn't going away. So, effectively agreeing to dance, he said as much. "You ain't going away, are you, Yeager?"

"Hey, Broker, I live here. See-after the spooks and the black helicopters and the feds finish creepy-crawling around and have their moment, then they'll leave." Yeager studied the coal of his cigarette, put it back between his lips, and calmly placed his hands on his hips. "Then, well...I'm still here in this county. Me and, basically, three other guys."

Broker withdrew the tinfoil pouch of Sweets from his back pocket, dug out one of the rough wraps, put it in his mouth, and waited while Yeager took out an old-fas.h.i.+oned Zippo and thumbed the wheel.

Broker puffed until he was lit and then pointed at the lighter. Yeager handed it to him. The case was nicked and rubbed smooth. Ditto the bra.s.s eagle, anchor, and globe on the side. Under the Marine insignia there were just two engraved words, one almost faded away, one newer: IWO.

BEIRUT.

Yeager said, "My dad gave it to me when I went into the crotch. I had it in the 'Ruit in '83."

"The barracks?" Broker handed the Zippo back.

"I was on detail, hauling ash and trash, about a mile away when it blew. Three other guys in my room-they never found enough to fill one body bag." Yeager paused, thumbed his smoke, set his jaw. "Nineteen years old. I handled a whole lot of dead bodies the next couple days. How many dead people you touched in your life, Broker?"

Broker looked past Yeager, scanning the scrolls of clouds that filled the sky, as if he'd find a list of instructions spelled out. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n.

Yeager, ever patient, watched the wheels revolving in Broker's eyes. "Okay. Tell you what. Instead of just standing around looking out of place, why don't you hop in my cruiser and let me show you around. I'll do all the talking. You just listen. Then, later, if you want to talk or get ahold of me-like, if something were to happen..." Yeager heaved his shoulders, let them drop.

"What the h.e.l.l," Broker said. The more he saw of Yeager, the more sure he was that it was the guy, the one in the van, who broke into his truck. Deal with that later.

"Get in. Your Ford'll be just fine here."

Broker got in, looked around. "No computer."

"Nope, we got us a time warp going here when it comes to budget. So it's old-style. Just the radar and the radio."

They were easing east on 5 and came up to the flas.h.i.+ng red stop. Yeager hung a left, looked across the seat. "So when's the last time you worked patrol?"

"Jesus. Hadda be the eighties."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n. And I thought I was old. Things have changed, huh?" He paused. "Not here, maybe."

Broker wished he still had Kit because the fields started to roll out like a scene from the Wizard of Oz Wizard of Oz, all green and yellow. Swirls of blue. Dizzy with the heat. But no contour to the crops. Flat.

"Yeah," he said, "things have changed. The new breed of cops are a lot smarter than I was."

Yeager grinned. "Got to be smart to drive, talk on the radio, type on a computer, answer your cell phone, and ding out messages on your Palm Pilot all at the same time."

"Way too smart to rush into things the way we did," Broker said.

Yeager leaned back and rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his right hand. "Something to be said for rus.h.i.+ng in. I watched that Columbine thing live on TV. Those Colorado boys sure didn't do any rus.h.i.+ng in on that one." He cut Broker with a frank look. "Just my opinion-but my gut read was if there would have been more dead cops, there would have been less dead kids." After making his point, Yeager swung his eyes back on the road. Then he said, "Your wife and her army pals are old-style, when it comes to rus.h.i.+ng in..."

Broker didn't take the bait and so Yeager drove in silence. They pa.s.sed two deserted farmhouses in as many miles, the driveways filled up with weeds, the white paint on the wood siding peeled back to gray pith. Stark as rib cages left to molder in the wheat.

"Looks like the real estate market is kinda depressed," Broker said.

Yeager shrugged. "Some of it's consolidation. Big ones eat the little ones. Cheaper to just plant around the abandoned houses than tear them down. But some of it's just changing times. That last house, they still farm but they moved into town. When I grew up we had animals, an orchard, a big truck garden-enough stuff to keep a family busy. And a cus.h.i.+on to fall back on during a bad year." Yeager twisted his lips in a cynical smile. "In addition to durum, we used to grow more of a certain kind of kid out here. Yeah, well-couple years ago they closed down the Future Farmers of America program at the high school."

Yeager slowed as they came up to a long capsule-shaped white tanker on a wheeled gurney parked next to the road. He pointed to the hose coming off a coupling. "This is a dumb s.h.i.+t, leaving his hoses on the tank."

"I don't follow," Broker said.

"You're out of touch, Broker. These white tankers you see all over. It's anhydrous. Liquid fertilizer. There can be enough ammonia left in the hoses to cook a batch of meth. A gallon of anhydrous is worth less than half a buck to a fertilizer dealer. But it converts to two ounces of meth, worth a thousand bucks on the street in Grand Forks, Fargo...Minneapolis."

They lost the asphalt and were driving on gravel now.

Yeager jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Those deserted houses we went by? Perfect sites for Beavis and b.u.t.t Head meth labs. Little a.s.sholes come up from Fargo, Bismarck. Road-trip around, a.s.sembling their cook kit, then come up here for the free anhydrous sitting all over the place. Then they find a deserted house to cook in."

Broker nodded. "It's just starting to hit Minnesota. Since they regulated the ephedrine, it's harder to cook it down from commercial cold medications, like Sudafed. Can only buy two packs a pop."

"Yeah," Yeager said. "They have to cover a lot of territory to come up with quant.i.ty. Mostly it's kids making it for their personal use. The real problem is the border."

Broker saw a cl.u.s.ter of buildings. A flutter that could be flags.

"Maida," Yeager said. "Port of entry." He turned left on a less maintained gravel road. They b.u.mped along in silence for a couple miles and then Yeager turned right into a rutted path. Just two tire tracks running off into the green, empty, treeless horizon. But they were well-worn tracks, no gra.s.s growing in them. Yeager drove slower now, the weeds swis.h.i.+ng up to the windows of the cruiser. Finally he stopped the car. "Let's get out, stretch our legs."

They walked down the path. Yeager pointed to the ground that was damp enough to clearly show fresh tire treads. "Mulberry Crossing. Active." They continued walking. A hundred yards further and the path turned and paralleled a slight road embankment. A yellow sign was set in the ground next to the tire tracks that climbed the embankment. It said: ILLEGAL BORDER CROSSING ILLEGAL BORDER CROSSING.

"See how easy it is," Yeager said.

Broker nodded. "This is Canada."

"Yep. And in good weather this prairie road will support a tractor-trailer. Pick a no-moon night. Turn off your lights. From here to the road we came up on," Yeager pointed back toward his cruiser. "Maybe twenty seconds and you're across. Like we were talking before, less and less people living out here now. And them that do, h.e.l.l, they all shop in Canada, because the dollar buys more. They see somebody coming through here at night, it could be their neighbor buying fertilizer at a forty-percent savings. Just come across, go east, in an hour you're on the interstate.

"So," Yeager went on, "ephedrine is still easy to get in bulk in Canada. Say, a case of seventy-five thousand pills might go for eighteen thousand bucks. Makes about eight pounds of meth that wholesales for around forty-eight thou. Figure a hundred cases of pills in a trailer. Adds up to serious money."

Broker squinted back toward the customs station. "What about the border patrol?"

Yeager smiled. "They say they got sensors, but I don't hear any alarms going off, do you? They started sending more bodies up after 9/11. Guys mostly with names like Martinez, from Texas. Right after they started showing up, that first October, it was about thirty-eight degrees out and I noticed them all out in front of the Motor Inn plugging in the tank heater on their s.h.i.+ny new Tahoes. So I go over and ask, 'What's up?' 'Getting cold,' they said." Yeager shook his head. "They come and go in thirty-day rotations, like R&R. h.e.l.l, I understand they need a break, they got some hairy duty down south. But the point is, they don't stay long enough to know the ground. And they don't patrol, anyway. They sit on the official crossings."

Broker s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot. Thought of starting another cigar to keep his hands occupied. Clearly Yeager was laying foundation, leading up to something. Gamely, Broker tried to hold up his end of the conversation. "They just watch the crossings?"

"Yeah. Used to be, when the customs shut down the border and went home from ten P.M. P.M. to six to six A.M. A.M. they'd put orange plastic cones across the road. Of course, after 9/11 they geared up for heavy-duty action and built these little steel gates. Border patrol, they watch the gate. And, sure, there's a few aircraft overhead from time to time." they'd put orange plastic cones across the road. Of course, after 9/11 they geared up for heavy-duty action and built these little steel gates. Border patrol, they watch the gate. And, sure, there's a few aircraft overhead from time to time."

Broker decided to start that cigar. Yeager popped his Zippo, giving him a light.

"So," Yeager said.

"So," Broker said.

"Point is, the border patrol's number-one priority up here ain't to stop our meth problem. Not now. Like, say, take our friendly smuggler who usually drives a load of ephedrine pills, or kitchen cabinets, or flush toilets."

"Toilets?"

"Yeah, we had a run on full-capacity flush toilets a while back. You know, we got all these environmentally correct toilets now that use less water-you gotta flush two, three times. They were bringing truckloads of the big five-gallon jobs down, some of them right through where we're standing. Any rate, point is, one night our driver hauls a different cargo. Maybe he don't even know what's in his trailer."

Yeager squinted down the rutted track back toward his cruiser. "Like, say, a full load of Stinger missiles. Or those Russian SA-18s. That'd play some h.e.l.l with the air traffic pattern."

"So you guys been brainstorming scenarios, huh?" Broker said.

"You bet. Your wife's caper has a terrorism angle all over it. And we wouldn't have had a clue if she wouldn't have used your kid as a prop. I don't know if that was brilliant or just plain cold-but once your sheriff buddy called and asked us to get tight on the kid, we got onto you, and then we started getting pieces of the whole picture."

"Look, Yeager. Nina and her crew are cowboying, way out ahead of something. I got a feeling the big-footed feds will roll into your shop any day with the official word."

"I don't think you're hearing me, Broker. What good is some fancy helicopter full of commandos gonna do? h.e.l.l, they don't know what it's like out here on these prairie roads at night. Me and the boys grew up here. We can keep track of Ace and Gordy. It ain't like they're going to do anything with Nina along. Or didn't she think it through that far?"

Broker thought about it. Yeager was right. But so was Holly. Once the words nuclear device nuclear device were put into the mix there was no telling how even steady-looking dudes like Yeager would bounce. were put into the mix there was no telling how even steady-looking dudes like Yeager would bounce.

"Yeager, I just came up here to get my kid." Broker didn't sound convinced and Yeager sure wasn't.

Sensing that Broker was weakening, Yeager remained patient. "Okay, come on. Back in the car. We got one more stop."

They got in the cruiser and backed out of the trail and drove the roads on the American side. For Broker the empty monotony of these fields now took on a sinister sweep. There was just no way to stop a simple suitcase coming across.

After a mostly silent ten-minute ride, Yeager wheeled his cruiser into a weed-thick driveway and drove up to yet another deserted farmhouse. A windmill tower stood beside the house with just the gears up top, no blades. A collapsing barn leaned off to the side, and a rundown Quonset hut out back. This house had a narrow front and a high-pitched roof, its two upstairs windows empty of gla.s.s and the front door, torn away, looked like gaping eyes and a mouth.

Yeager leaned back in his seat and lit another Marlboro.

"This is where Ace Shuster lived when he was a kid." He pointed south. "Our house was about two miles that way, and it's in worse shape than this place."

"What are we doing?" Broker asked.

"Figured I'd bring you up to speed on Ace, since he's become the object of all this intense interest."

Broker had to grin at Yeager's style-laid back but relentless.

"What? You got something better to do?" Yeager grinned back.

"So you're going to take your time, give me the county tour. Spend half the day out in the tullies and maybe my cell phone will ring and I'll have to go somewhere and you'll just have to take me there."

"Hey, Broker, you got a suspicious mind. You should be a cop."

"I already met Ace."