Absolute Zero (9 page)

The rush was not that loud in Broker’s memory but it was audible enough to prompt ordering another double. After it arrived and he drank it, his thinking wobbled: Okay. The body dies first. Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, and Christians could all agree on that much. The problem was—the major religions were designed for a medical reality that didn’t anticipate CPR, ventilators, and dialysis.

“Hey,” Broker signaled across the dim, nearly deserted room to the waitress at the bar. “Give me another.”

Pocketing his change after the drink arrived he noticed that he was losing corners of seconds off his reflexes and that the fine muscle control at the tips of his fingers had turned blunt. But his thinking had profoundly elongated.

So. Here’s the deal. Sommer’s body didn’t die but his mind did, and now his stubborn flesh was holding HIM—his spirit, whatever—hostage inside. Broker shook his head, stymied at the physical geography of where Sommer
was
. And his layman’s impressions about biomechanics did not encourage a solution. He understood vaguely that the “human” parts of Sommer’s mind had been obliterated because the deeper cortex—the lizard brain—had sacrificed the higher functions to preserve the vital pumps: the heart, the lungs.

Broker envisioned the embers of Sommer’s life warming a lidless reptilian eye and he suddenly wanted someone to blame besides himself—so he looked around and, well, no shit, he’d been sitting here for ten, fifteen minutes and hadn’t seen Iker hunched over a bar stool at the end of the bar. Iker had traded in his St. Erho sweats for a pullover, jeans, and a heavy leather coat.

Like two aging Earp brothers, their eyes met, paused briefly to check each other’s backs, and dropped back to their glasses.

Then, scanning the room more carefully, he spied Amy Skoda sitting at a corner table with her back against the wall. Half her face was blacked out in shadow. The other half was caught in the neon haze from a Budweiser sign. She still wore her blue trousers, now tucked into car boots, and her open anorak revealed the ID badge clipped to her blue tunic.

She moved her head forward into the light, their eyes met, and Broker saw reflected in her face the blame he felt burning in his own.

Amy was not alone.
Two snowmobile jocks, mistaking her troubled, fixed stare for an intoxicated cripple, had moved into chairs on either side and were treating her to drinks. And judging by the full shot glass in her hand and the empty one in front of her, she was not protesting.

Broker was smart enough to know there’s no fool like an old fool. He was just too burnt and boozed to listen to himself. So he thought—what the hell, why not give forty-seven going on twenty-five one last try? He heaved to his feet playing funky theme music in his head. Like Muddy Waters and Bonnie Raitt.
I’m Ready
. Dumb barroom stuff.

He pushed his chair aside and fixed on the beefy one wearing the Arctic Cat knit cap who’d looped his arm around her shoulder. The guy was a chinless wonder, a regular evangelist for the lite worldview of a beer commercial.

“Aw, c’mon, you can tell me about it,” Arctic Cat said with great sincerity as his fingers grazed near the shape of her left breast.

“Aw, God,” Amy said, shoving the arm away.

“Hey honey. It’s all right.” Arctic Cat, tone deaf to the lethal disgust in her voice, took encouragement as Broker came across the room surprisingly light on his feet and appeared on Arctic Cat’s blind side.

Amy had the right idea, and she clearly knew her anatomy. This time she grabbed Arctic Cat’s hand and cranked down on his wrist. The husky snowmobiler grinned at her attempted armlock.

She’d hit the same old problem—upper body strength. Arctic Cat was just too big.

Broker experienced no such difficulty as he swiftly took over the arm grab from Amy, wrenched the wrist, and threw in an old-fashioned Iron Ranger hockey check.

Arctic Cat’s fleshy nose and lips briefly adhered to the wall like thrown Silly Putty before he oozed to the floor, leaving a wet smear down the pine paneling. His buddy stood up and discreetly took a step back.

The man Broker had knocked down rolled over and sat up, holding his wrist; confused, blinking, he wondered aloud, “What’s that she got me with? Musta been some kung fu?” His nose and lips commenced to bleed.

“Nah,” Broker said, amazed at the callous spring of his anger, “you’re just fat, ugly, and slow.”

Then Amy was between them with two deep furrows creasing her brow. She jammed both hands on Broker’s chest, extended her arms, backed him off, and said hotly, “Hey, don’t
hurt
him; take it easy, he didn’t mean . . .”

And Iker was there, moving fast and edgy for a big man; he shouldered Broker aside, flipped open his wallet, and badged the two guys. “Go away,” he said tersely. “Now.”

While Iker soothed the bartender who had picked up the phone, the snowmobilers parleyed, recognized that they had strayed into the dangerous part of the zoo, and made the proper decision.

“C’mon, let’s go down the street.”

“But nothin’s open down the street.”

“Let’s go there, anyway.”

Amy handed the guy with the nosebleed a bar napkin with some ice inside and told him to apply pressure. After they left, Iker peered first at Broker, then at Amy and asked, “You two all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Amy said quickly.

“Hey, no problem,” Broker said.

“Sit down, Dave, have a drink,” Amy said.

Iker gave them a tight smile. “No thanks, I don’t have the energy to get between you two. Not after today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Broker said.

“Means I know both of you. I’ll just finish my drink and go sleep on a desk, thank you.” He tipped a finger to his forehead at Amy, grabbed Broker by the elbow, and steered him across the room and out the front door. He did not stop to finish his drink.

No wind now. Just the big quiet and the big snowflakes drifting down like tiny parachutes.

Iker took a stance and eased back his coat so Broker could see the cuffs and the clip-on-hide-out holster on his belt from which protruded the patterned grip of a stubby Colt Python. Dave Iker stood six one, weighed 205, and was no slouch in the physical department, and right now he looked slightly dangerous, like he was working.

“Okay. It’s like this. She’s a little vulnerable right now.” Iker’s voice was reasonable, but his cop body language said,
watch the fuck out here
. “I know her family. She’s been a perfectionist since she was a kid, so she’s going to take this thing pretty hard.”

Jesus
. “What . . . ?”

“Hey look, age-wise, she’s still a kid compared to you.
And
she knows your marriage is on the rocks. And just maybe she’s got a little thing for you. And you’re not helping matters playing twenty-five-year-old cowboy coming to the fucking rescue . . . so go easy and don’t take advantage . . .”

“I wouldn’t . . .” Broker protested.

“I know you wouldn’t. Just don’t. And another thing. I don’t know what the story is between you and your old lady but don’t take it out on drunks. Not in my town. The body slam on that lush was unnecessary. That was excessive force. Jesus, Phil, you know better. The lone wolf UC days are over. You’re a goddamn civilian . . .”

Iker
was
working. Broker was being
warned
. He stepped back, chastised. “Hey, Jesus, Dave . . .”

“Just . . .” Iker gave him a tight cop smile that really was no smile at all and made a pressing down “cool it” gesture with his open hands. He shook his head. “Look. It’s been a bad day. Let’s not have a bad night.” He punched Broker on the arm. Hard. “So, you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Broker was replaying the shock and fear on the snowmobiler’s face when he plowed into him, and seeing Amy, stepping in, with the pained look in her eyes.

“Drop my truck at the office in the morning,” Iker said as he turned and walked to a county cruiser. Broker waved vaguely, and he was thinking how none of this was supposed to happen. He came here to hide and wait out his . . . problem. Now there was all this
stuff
.

Shivering, he stood alone on the street and watched Iker’s taillights disappear around a corner. Then he went back into the bar, returned to Amy’s table, and the words came out before he got them lined up right. “Look, I’m sorry, going off on that guy. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Oh
you
do, do you,” she said making her eyes a little wider.

“Well, I guess you do, too. Can I sit down?”

“Sure, as long as you understand I don’t need any more of
that
kind of help.” The gray eyes, though dipped in alcohol, still cut.

Broker nodded and pulled up a chair while Amy flagged the bartender and held up two fingers. The waitress, eyes lowered, brought the two glasses on a small round tray, put them down, made change, and retreated.

“They know,” Amy whispered, looking after the waitress. “This is a small town. Everybody knows about Sommer.”

Broker rotated the double shot in his fingers and raised his eyebrows. “Do you always drink like this?”

“I never drink. It’s a filthy depressant. Cheers.”

He drank and the two burning ounces seared through the roof of his mouth and up his sinuses.

“Now take off. I really don’t need any help,” she said, squaring her shoulders, sitting up straighter. A gesture that wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously.

“Yes, you do,” Broker said and he figured she’d been the bright, sharp tack all her life and maybe sometimes she got ahead of herself.

“I do?”

“Yeah, we’re linked,” Broker said. “You left your post to come out in the hall and chat me up, remember.”

Amy shook her head and her hand floated up and touched her hair. “Nancy was with him.”

“She left
her
post to get the new patient. Who was in charge?”

She met his eyes on the level from behind her fort of shot glasses, and he could find no excuses in her defiant gaze. She did not impress him as someone prone to making fatal mistakes, and her choice of occupations was an alert exercise in avoiding exactly such an outcome. “No, that’s too simple. Something else happened,” she said firmly.

“Something?” he asked.

“Look, you should probably leave me alone.”

“Sorry.”

“What? Are you one of these guys who finds tragedy a turn on?” Amy asked.

“Takes one to know one, huh?”

“I guess.” Amy looked away and her profile, big-eyed and cleanly featured in a tumble of bright hair, contrasted with the dull residue of the snowmobiler’s blood on the wall behind her chair.

“You’re one of his friends,” she said.

“No. I rented them the gear and went along to help around camp. I paddled out to get help.”

She turned full-face to him, lowered the gray eyes, and raised them slowly, which felt good to an old, married, recently deserted guy who was getting drunk. “You don’t look like a canoe guide,” she said.

So it begins. He thought to play his part, so he inclined his head to go along.
Huh? What? Me?
But he remembered Iker’s warning.

A little clumsy now, Amy said, “You have more . . . range.” Her hand drifted out and her cool right index finger floated over the pale stripe on his ring finger. “You, ah, forgot your wedding ring.”

“Separated,” he said, not sure if it was the right word. There wasn’t a word for people in his situation. Fucked, maybe.

She started to say something, stopped, and let the calm finger touch a hollow of bone and tendon above the joint of thumb. “Nice veins,” she said.

They paused to look off in different directions while the waitress came to their table, stooped with a small bucket of hot water and disinfectant, and scrubbed the dots of Arctic Cat’s blood from the wall and the floor.

When the waitress left they resumed looking at each other and it was clear there was no trivial human clutter between them, and Broker stood on a high board feeling his breath, and he could see it all play out in easy, sexy stages. But it was a game and he didn’t play games with women.

“C’mon, cut the crap. Iker told me you were asking about me,” Broker said.

She slumped. “Figures, you used to be a cop. You guys stick together.” She looked around, furtively.

“What?”

“This isn’t smart, you and me having this conversation. I shouldn’t talk about . . . things. That lawyer on the trip with you . . .”

“Milt.”

“Yeah, I heard Milt is already asking questions half zoned on Percodan.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “There’s this peer-review process and there’ll be a root-cause analysis session.”

“An in-house investigation?”

Amy shook her head. “It’s not . . . legal—of course Milt would love to hear what’s said—but it’s confidential, protected from discovery. It’s more like this forum for medics to talk through an event and find out what went wrong without fear of punishment.”

“So you think there’ll be a lawsuit?”

She snorted. “C’mon, of course there’ll be a lawsuit, and I’ll wind up taking the heat. It’s the logical finding. The anesthetist screwed up
somewhere
. But it’s not like I intubated an esophagus. I’m not going to lose my license.”

She stared mute as the alcohol shut down a whole layer of her facial muscles. With a numb smile she continued, “If you got rid of doctors and nurses every time they made a mistake and croaked somebody in postop, you’d have to close half the hospitals . . .”

Through the veil of booze, Broker tried to listen patiently and get a feel for the person behind the bitter words. Amy was indignant and pissed more than guilty or sad. But he lost his concentration, except to fixate on physical details like the way a sturdy purple vein on her throat throbbed and her habit of making little water circles on the table with the bottom of a glass and then erasing them with her finger.

“It really cracks me up,” she was saying. “Remember those guys who got killed in Somalia, that mob dragged them around on TV? You remember that?”

Broker nodded.

“How many was that they killed?”

“I think it was eighteen dead,” said Broker, the reader of history.

“And it freaked everybody out. Now we just drop bombs and don’t use ground troops . . .”

She lost her place and Broker did, too. Then she leaned forward and wrinkled her forehead.

“How many people do you think die as a result of accidents and negligence in hospitals every year—take a guess?”

“I don’t know, Amy.”

“Depending whose numbers you pick—how about between sixty and ninety thousand. That’s
every
year. Funny isn’t it, how we set priorities. Eighteen soldiers die doing their job. It gets on TV and it changes the foreign policy of a country. And we tolerate those kinds of numbers in the health-care system. Hell, we killed more people this year than the fucking army did.”

“Amy, I think you’re being a little hard on yourself.”

She obliterated water rings with the heel of her fist. “You want to see real nightmares, check out an emergency room in the Cities on a Saturday night.”

“Saturday nights and summer full moons,” he agreed.

Amy sat back, peered into an empty shot glass. “Amen. Emergency room nurse, Hennepin County Medical Center, three years before I went to anesthesia school.”

“The kind of nurse who dated cops?”

“Oh, yeah.” Her eyes conjured up 5
A.M.
in Minneapolis at the end of the graveyard shift. Empty streets. Everything closed. “And I’d come home alone, sad, on the holidays and my mom would suggest I take up some activities, you know, get back into piano. Or dancing . . .”

Amy stretched and slowly leaned her head to the side, which was neat because of the way her hair cascaded slowly, strand by strand.

“. . . Mom was always big on lessons. Ballet almost destroyed my ankles. Every year before high school I had to face
The Nutcracker
. Now there’s an aptly named show. I was a mouse and worked up to an angel.” Her brief smile nicely illuminated a happy childhood. “Mom wanted me to be the Sugar Plum Fairy.” She shrugged. “And my dad—he’d look down the table kind of owly over the turkey and say, ‘Can’t you find a nice boy?’ ”

Amy composed herself and recited. “The reason I know Dave Iker is because my dad used to bring him home for coffee when Dave was an itty, bitty deputy and my dad was a sergeant. Stan Skoda went from the CCC Camps to North Africa, to Sicily, to Italy. He came home and worked in the mines. When the mines closed he became a cop.” She sighed and raised her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Daddy—the nice boys all want to fix my computer.”