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In the icy jaws of an early winter, three big-city professionals joined Phil Broker on a canoe trip across Minnesota's remotest lake. Nature's unexpected fury battered and nearly killed them. But it was Man who left one of them worse than dead . . .
In the icy jaws of an early winter, three big-city professionals joined Phil Broker on a canoe trip across Minnesota's remotest lake. Nature's unexpected fury battered and nearly killed them.
But it was Man who left one of them worse than dead . . .
Haunted ex-cop Phil Broker owes Hank Sommer his life -- and now the wealthy writer is in a coma, thanks to a “freak” mishap on a hospital operating table. Broker knows from hard experience that accidents are not always what they appear to be. He suspects foul play, and he's not about to let Sommer fade out of this world so easily. But the trail to answers is twisted and deadly, winding around the comatose man's beautiful wife -- a former exotic dancer -- and the ring of dangerous men still surrounding her. And Broker's determined search for justice and truth is taking him to a dark and terrifying place where he will be forced to fight for his very survival on the coldest night in Minnesota's history . . .
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
cold and they tramped after him across the yard to the large equipment shed. J.T. pushed open the doors and flipped on a light. A tractor and a John Deere bailer were parked in the foreground. A bobcat sat beyond them, and parked in the rear was the shape of Broker’s sleek Ford Ranger, shrouded in a huge blue tarp. Broker walked forward, grabbed a handful of tarp, yanked, and then groaned. The windows on both doors were gone, nothing but pulverized shatter-glass hanging in the corners. The door
conversations that confirmed Cliff was dead. Lost in the woods in his special pain, with the cold shadows lengthening, the snow creeping over his shoes, and the booze for comfort. Allen, Garf. They were coming in with cold, blunt noses, sniffing like jackals, tearing off hunks of him, thinking he was a corpse. The question mark was Jolene; would she land heads or tails? She’d shown signs of empathy since his accident in the way she attended to him, talked to him, played music for him, left the
and gray slacks and looked more like a senior Lutheran angel than an aficionado of a steamy dance that originated in Argentine whorehouses. Her only concession to the dance was pointed black dance shoes. Allen was in his stocking feet. He got her number from a Timberry adult-education brochure. In this, his first stab at self-improvement, he didn’t want other people watching, as in a studio class. He’d wanted anonymity. He watched Trudi move her kitchen table against the wall to make her dinette
garden. So his eyes rolled. His fingers, with their mighty new muscles, were as motionless as white banana peels on the TV remote. They drew near the bed. Allen and Jolene stood on the right, Earl was on the left, munching cereal. * * * “He was just like that with the clicker,” Jolene said. Allen leaned over the bed and carefully inspected Hank’s eyes and his hands. “This is exactly the way he was?” Allen asked again. Jolene bit her lip. “No, actually, now that I think of it, Ambush was on