The Price of Blood (4 page)

T
HEY WAITED. SWEAT RAN DOWN BROKER’S RIBS and pooled in his shorts. He paced, shadowed by Andy. Jules Tabor stood at the window and watched the street. Earl went upstairs, found Broker’s pistol, came down and scouted the backyard; then he brought a chair from the kitchen and sat facing Nina, knees almost touching, and read through the dossier material that had been in her bag. He glanced up. “What good is this? Most of it’s crossed out.”

“That’s the Freedom of Information Act for you,” said Nina as she suicidally finished the pint. Then she picked up the video cassette and studied the blurb on the back.

Earl set the dossiers aside and spoke to Jules. “Go out to the van, check out the street for about five more minutes then pull in back. We’ll load up there. Andy, look around for some rope to tie them up.”

“Hey—” Broker started to protest. Earl snapped the .45 on him.

“Sorry, Broker, I came to do business with an arms dealer and I wind up with a redheaded chick with a suitcase full of government documents. You lose, buddy.” He grinned at Nina and his voice lowered, husky, thick in his throat. “So we’re going to take you folks for a ride. Get to know you a little better.”

Broker wasn’t believing this. Standing there on razor blades and Earl was blushing. Where’s the goddamn money? He had to
see
the money and the guns together.

It was strange in the room. The five rifles lined up. Earl’s dry rustling breath. Andy rummaging in the kitchen. The skeletal Harley frame like a boned-out steel cheetah.

Nina wasn’t impressed. She curled her lip and tossed the video cassette into Earl’s lap. He twitched pleasurably.

“You write that copy on the back?” Nina mused. “The Jews made it all up, huh. The SS. The death camps.”

Earl cleared his throat and said in a reasonable voice, “There’s eyewitness accounts that the camps were built after the war. It’s a side of things that should be heard.”

Broker watched her bunch into a sinewy coil in the chair. He could feel the lances of adrenaline advance out of her pores.

“Hey, Earl,” said Andy, coming in with a roll of duct tape, “come away, man, the bitch is drunk.”

Broker heard the van engine start, listened to the sound move from the street along the side of his house into the backyard. Andy ripped off a length of tape. Like fingernails on a blackboard.

Then Nina’s voice took on the flat meter of the army officer she had been for six years. “Be advised, mister,
my dad
liberated one of those nonexistent camps…”

Broker tensed when he saw her eyes cloud with holy wrath.
Aw God
, here comes “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“And he told me the GIs were so damn…taken by what they saw that they wouldn’t even shoot those guards. They killed some of them with their…bare…hands!”

Nina Hour. Broker wasn’t fast enough. She came up from her hip with the pint held by the neck and swung it in a backhanded chop like a cleaver across Earl’s nose.

Glass and bones cracked. Andy dropped the tape and went for his pocket and pulled out a thick bone-handled gravity knife and started to flick it open with his big thumb. But some tape was tangled on his fingers and that gave Broker a precious second. First he had to deal with Andy. He pivoted and smashed an elbow in Andy’s surprised face but then he had to go after Earl, who had sprung from the chair with blood pouring from his swelling nose. Earl, raging, growling, and evidently in shock that he had been struck by a woman, dropped the .45 and plucked the shattered bottleneck from his chest and threw it at Nina, who ducked, and it crashed through the window and, with the breaking glass and Earl’s roar, Broker finally felt it start to happen outside.

T
ABOR SCREAMED IN THE BACKYARD. A STAMPEDE of running feet shook the house. Earl, oblivious in rage, raised his hand to slap Nina—which was a real serious culture-bound mistake on Earl’s part. She leaned back and Earl’s open hand swatted thin air. She rebounded like a piston and forked a rigid arc formed by her right thumb and the knuckle of her index finger up under Earl’s chin. Earl instinctively tucked his neck into his hunched shoulders. The force of Nina’s blow was absorbed in the powerful tendons of his neck, not the vulnerable throat.

Tires squealed and the reek of burning rubber torched in from the street; car doors slammed and the back door slammed. They were coming in with all their usual tact of bull elephants. Andy went past Broker running for the kitchen and Broker went for Earl who now had his hands on Nina.

Andy screamed when he saw a tall black man, whom God had made without a waist, so that his pumping hips and thighs jointed in a power train to his ribs, doing a hundred-yard dash across Broker’s grubby kitchen straight at him.

St. Paul Det. Jarrel “T-Bone” Merryweather was pure onyx black and his shirt was an ivory off white and his tie of expensive silk. J.T. came on screaming at the top of his ex-drill-sergeant lungs, managing to smile at the same time because he really ate this shit up. J.T. didn’t take the time to vest up because he knew there was only one way to get through a door, which was first and fastest, because Broker had taught him how to do it. He held a 12-gauge Remington riot pump steady before him with the muzzle gaping like an open onrushing manhole straight to Redneck Hell: “Freeze—you fuckin’ piece of shit—I’ll blow your mother-fuckin’ head loose from your fat cracker ass!”

Broker heard a groan as Andy collapsed to his knees and somewhere Tabor was yelling how he wanted to see his lawyer and other people were in the room giving Andy his rights but he was giving his full attention to Earl and Nina was getting in the way trying to step in and kick Earl and catching Broker in the ribs a couple of times and Earl had this confused little boy lost look in his eyes as his cheeks popped like chicken bones because he’d strayed too far from home in Alabama, and—ha, mother fucker—Brokers from Minnesota had met Alabamians before, in July 1863, at a place called Cemetery Ridge and, like his ancestors before him, Earl had come too far north and walked into the remorselessly moving parts of Det. Lt. Phillip Broker of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.

But then Earl rallied and, with an insane red-and-gray bloodshot flapping in his eyes, surprised Broker by clamping the edge of Broker’s left thumb in his teeth, as he mashed down and Broker felt the teeth sink into the skin, the muscle, and the bone of the top joint.

Earl’s jaw muscles pulsated through the blood running down his face and Broker screamed when J.T. butt-stroked Earl with the 12-gauge to make him let go. The jarring pain traveled—electric, incandescent—up his arm.

“Don’t,” screamed Broker.

Earl wouldn’t let go. He growled even though he was covered with cops grabbing at him, and his neck and jaw continued to surge, leathery and lethal as some damn snapping turtle.

Five pairs of hands searched for a hold on Earl’s face. Fingers clawed in his nostrils, yanking back, while Earl growled and shook his head and Broker screamed.

Procedure went to hell in the bizarre circumstance. “Phil, don’t move,” shouted Ed Ryan, the ATF agent in charge. “Grab that fucker’s head. Stabilize it. Don’t let him shake like that, he’ll
bite it off
.”

Somebody in a vest and black cap was cuffing Nina.

“J.T., keep her close,” Broker yelled, rolling his eyes toward Nina, and Merryweather, who’d been taping the caper off the wire in Broker’s pager, pushed the officer away from Nina and took the guy aside, explaining. And Broker was sure that the terrible crunching sound that he heard with his ears, but also was hearing
inside
his body traveling up his arm, was his thumb being bitten off.

A dozen officers, Robocopped in black body armor, bore down in a twenty-four-handed grab-ass all over Earl who continued to growl and tried to thrash. They sought leverage on the bulging muscles of Earl’s neck and jaw, experimentally jabbed him in the eyes; one guy had a wooden spatula from the kitchen and was trying to pry between Earl’s teeth. Earl had these serious teeth. The spatula broke.

“Man will not
let go
. I’m gonna have to cap the sucker,” said J.T. Merryweather loudly for effect, resigned, dubiously setting down the shotgun and drawing his pistol.

“You can’t shoot a guy for biting somebody,” a voice yelled.

“Hell I can’t, he’s attacking an officer. Just shoot him a little bit, to make him stop.”

A woman deputy from Dakota County wondered aloud, academically, “Where
exactly
would you shoot him?”

Sweat poured into Broker’s eyes. The pain was incredible, immobilizing, and it was just a
thumb
.

Several paramedics pushed through the house, which was now crawling with men and women wearing badges and armed to the teeth and the Washington County SWAT team was there and they were all pumped up on adrenaline and the smell of sweat and fresh blood and everybody was talking at once and the radios were crackling.

And voices. “Who’s the chick? What’s she doing here?”

And “Secure that money on the floor.”

And Nina. “That’s
mine
.”

Broker floated in an excruciating fog, wrapped in fiery cotton candy that dripped sticky red from the mangled knuckle that was locked in Earl’s jaws. Somebody blurted on a radio, “No shit, one of the assholes
bit off
Broker’s thumb.”

They eased him off his knees to the floor so that Earl, stretched out like an alligator, lay between Broker’s spread legs, breathing in short snorts, with worms of snot crawling on his upper lip. His face had turned a demented purple and orange with some parts showing through the blood a horrible fish-belly white and the engorged veins popped out on the twisted crimson cables of his neck muscles.

“Got a doctor coming,” yelled a medic. His cohorts quickly took wood splints from their bags and jammed them between Earl’s teeth. As they worked, Broker noticed the contents of Nina’s purse, which lay scattered beneath him. He reached down with his good hand for the pack of Gauloises.
Like the cognac, her father’s brand
. He found the lighter in her purse and lit it. Despite the pain, the bright pink airsacs in his lungs collected in a happy banzai charge and ran straight for the nicotine.

The medics carried on in awed, too-loud voices. A spirited professional discussion about the problem Earl presented.

“I’ve read about this, surge of adrenaline, ancient survival mechanisms—”

“Strongest muscle group in the body—”

“Stuck together. I thought that meant intervaginally?”

“Bad joke. Bad joke.”

They had worked the splints between Earl’s teeth to buy Broker time but debated that they couldn’t pry the jaws apart without risking a surge that would take Broker’s thumb with it.

A medic shouted into an emergency radio. “We can’t bring him in. They’re attached. Sure we’re trying to keep him calm…whad’ya mean, don’t let him wander around. He’s not in shock, he’s fucking being
eaten
.”

The medic handed off the radio and knelt beside Broker. “Okay. It’s a tricky one so the doctor’s coming with a shot. We gotta keep his neck immobilized, we’ve stabilized the biting pressure, but if he gets to whipping his head around…Hey, the guy’s got serious neck muscles.” Another medic, a husky blonde wearing a Washington County Paramedic jacket, narrowed her eyes at Broker. “You shouldn’t be smoking,” she lectured, just like a good Minnesotan.

“Fuck you! Get him offa my hand!”

Nina was there, watching him. Broker peered into her merry, adrenaline-drunk, gray eyes. Speckled blood blended naturally with her freckles. A slight bruise darkened her left cheekbone. She stifled an absurd laugh.

“What?” Broker demanded.

“I can’t help it,” she sputtered. “It’s…” She glanced at the spectacle of Earl trying to eat the thumb. “Just too weird.” She broke into contagious laughter.

“Don’t,” gasped Broker. “It hurts when I laugh.” The insane hilarity subsided and he drilled her with tormented eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Nina shrugged. “You said if I ever needed help I should come to you. Well, here I am.”

Broker groaned. Earl’s lips curled back and his teeth gleamed, socketed in Broker’s blood—his eyes were pure Pickett’s Charge. The hollow growl emanating from back in his throat sounded like the sound effects in
The Exorcist
.

T
HE DOCTOR LOOKED LIKE BEN FUCKING CASEY, with copious chest hair sticking out of his green scrub shirt. He sauntered like a deeply tanned visitor from Olympus on a slum tour through the seedy mayhem of the house. He smiled, amused at the macabre banter circulating among the heavily armed law-enforcement types forming a brawny huddle over Broker and Earl.

He snapped on thin rubber gloves and tapped a bulging vein on Earl’s red, swollen neck and said, “Hmmmm.” John Eisenhower, the Washington County sheriff, walked into the room. Broker had worked undercover with Eisenhower years back in St. Paul. Eisenhower proceeded to study the situation, alert blue eyes in his blunt blond features. Broker knew the look. John was learning something…new.

“What are you going to give him?” asked Eisenhower.

The doctor held a syringe in one hand, a vial in the other. “Ketamine,” mused the doctor. “The question is how much.”

“Knock him out,” urged J.T. “Fast.”

The doctor shook his head. “Give him too much, he could go into spasm. Cardiac arrest.”

“So?” J.T. was impatient. He gestured with the big black Glock automatic in his hand.

The doctor smiled, enjoying himself. “There’s a liability question,” he said.

“Stick him,” ordered J.T.

“What if his teeth are loose and he swallows one and chokes?” speculated the doctor, inserting the needle in the vial, playing with the pressure on the plunger, estimating his dose.

Broker, his eyes pin dots in a waterfall of sweat, muttered, “Nothing wrong with his fuckin’ teeth.”

“I could get sued,” pondered the doctor.

“All these nervous coppers, you could get shot,” explained J.T.

Ed Ryan squatted next to the doctor. “I’m the ATF special agent in charge. Give the shot.
Now
.”

“Yeah, but who backs me up if I get sued?” replied the doctor.

“
Now
,” said Ryan, in an icy voice.

Earl, imprisoned in a dozen pairs of hands, shied back from the needle. The doctor pointed to Earl’s upper right arm. Earl’s shirt exploded away in J.T.’s hands. It reminded Broker of a bunch of cowboys and cowgirls hog-tying a steer. Earl snorted as the needle popped into his deltoid. He seemed to levitate, thrashing in the imprisoning hands. There was an audible snap. A huge ATF guy spoke up apologetically: “Sorry ’bout that.”

“A wrist,” offered a calm detached female voice. Nina.

“About three minutes to kick in,” said the doctor. He smiled. “One possible side effect of ketamine is that he could go into a psychotic delirium for as long as twenty-four hours.”

“Nice touch,” admired J.T.

“I thought you’d like it,” said the doctor.

Broker puffed mightily on the cigarette and watched the drug seep into Earl’s mad eyes. Everyone took a strong hold and waited. Earl tried to beat the clock. Tried to grind through the wood splints. Broker flashed on
Jaws
—watching the shark come over the transom. Nina wiped sweat from his forehead. She held his free hand.

Finally, Earl’s snarls began to moderate into a ghastly yawn. Slowly the pressure on Broker’s thumb cranked back. Earl’s eyes fluttered and the steely muscles of his face drooped. Broker felt a gruesome suckling sensation as Earl’s loose, bloody lips slipped over his thumb. Earl made a sound like a drooling baby. Ga ga goo.

Earl began breathing in anesthetized, blood-smeared dopery. “Aha,” said the doctor serenely as he removed something from Broker’s bloody thumb. “Did someone hit this guy in the mouth before the bite?”

“You could say that,” said J.T. Merryweather.

“Loose canine,” said the doctor, holding up Earl’s tooth. “That’s probably what saved your thumb.” One of the medics moved in and irrigated the wound with stinging disinfectant. “Move it,” the doctor ordered Broker.

Broker gritted his teeth and sent messages into the gashed flesh. The digit moved.

“Okay, we have intact tendons. Don’t know about nerves. Clean it like hell all the way to the ER. The human mouth is
the
dirtiest thing there is.”

Squads and unmarked cars from the Washington, Dakota, and Ramsey counties’ Task Force jammed the brick emergency entrance portico of the Riverview Memorial Hospital. Rodney, who’d been arrested at Broker’s house—Broker had been arrested with him to keep his cover consistent—sat cuffed in the back of one of them, forgotten for the moment. But as Broker climbed from an ambulance, aided by cops, Rodney raised his cuffed hands and aimed an index finger, cocked his thumb. Through the window Broker saw his lips form a “Bang.”

Word got out over the radios that one of the assholes had bitten off Broker’s thumb. Security got lost in the scramble to come and gawk. It was a real mess. His cover was blown to smithereens. Nina squeezed his good hand and smiled helpfully. Through a veil of blue curtains, Broker saw Earl wheeling by, thrashing against restraints on a gurney. “Mama, Mama,” he screamed. “There’s snakes in my poop!”

A pissed-off ER surgeon and his team shooed the rubbernecking cops from his triage. “Out. It’s a bite. No big deal. So get the hell out of here.”

Nina refused to budge.

“She stays,” said Broker.

“You’ll get some time off work now,” said Nina in a matter-of-fact voice, eyes fixed on Broker’s wound.

“Huh?” Broker watched needles. Tetanus in his butt. Then Novocain in his thumb, then this curved job that strung catgut through what looked like a torn flap of extra-large pigskin glove attached to the palm of his left hand.

“You see, I’m in a little trouble and I could use a guy like you,” said Nina.

“Wonderful.” Broker watched, resigned, as the doctor stitched and tied.