After the Rain by Chuck Logan

protect his daughter.
    Twenty minutes later, two blue water towers, some grain elevators and a micro dish antenna rose out of the fields and he drove into Langdon, North Dakota. It was one-thirty on a Sunday afternoon, no sun, gray clouds like an overcoat over ninety-seven humid degrees. The air was heavy and sweaty, hovering over a million acres of ripening wheat.
    The first thing he saw was the four new white Tahoes with Border Patrol markings parked at the motel. Okay…
    The county building was low red brick on his right. A leafy main street nestled in shadow on his left. Keep going? Find the pool? Or talk to the cops?
    Kit was waiting in the park two blocks away. Broker doubted that Jane was alone. Assuming Jane and company were Nina’s comrades, Broker figured his daughter was at this moment the mostwell-defended child in North Dakota. She could last another half-hour.
    Broker reverted to one of his basic commonsense rules, which in this case was the Waco Rule of Thumb. The WRT posited that in 99.9 percent of all cases the locals knew the ground far better than the federal interlopers, were less arrogant, and would return straight talk in kind.
    So he ignored mysterious Jane’s admonition to check in with her first. He drove around the county offices until he spotted a small sign on a rear entrance by the parking lot: SHERIFF’S OFFICE . He parked, checked the note he’d scribbled to himself again. Sheriff Norman Wales. Then he went in through the door.
    Something had to be up. Why else would the sheriff be in his office on a muggy Sunday afternoon?

Chapter Eleven
    Broker gave his name and came under the intense scrutiny of a very curious dispatcher the moment he was buzzed in through the security door. She directed him through the radio room and pointed to two men, one in uniform, who appeared in a doorway. Then she immediately reached for a phone.
    “We’ll walk you down to Norm’s office. Jim Yeager,” said the husky one in jeans and a T-shirt, extending a hard farmer’s mitt. “This is Barry Sauer, state highway patrol,” he said.
    Broker shook their hands in turn. Sauer was obviously working today. He wore a dark brown shirt and tan trousers and had a full service belt strapped around his waist. He had the creased and spit-shined military bearing that the people who bossed state cops liked to see in their troops. Yeager and Sauer kept glancing at Broker’s bandaged left hand. But there was more to their curiosity.
    They came in to look me over. Word’s out.
    They were old-fashioned cops, like Broker’s dad had been. Two of the biggest, strongest guys in town. But they had quick eyes and were light on their feet and Broker decided that strong did not imply dumb with this bunch.
    Stay alert.
    Sheriff Norm Wales, like his deputy, Yeager, came in special today. He wore jeans and a golf shirt and stood waiting in his office doorway. He waved the two cops off and they retreated back down the hall. “That where you got shot?” he asked, pointing to Broker’s hand. The remark got Broker’s attention. Wales was letting him know he was up to speed. He had a soft, reserved voice, sad, blue basset-hound eyes, sandy brown hair, and thirteen-inch wrists.
    “How’d you know?” Broker asked back as they shook hands.
    “I had this little sheriff’s convention to get the book on you. When I heard you were coming I talked to Jeffords in Cook County again. He handed me off to Eisenhower in Washington County, who says, by the way, you forgot to turn in one of his shields.” Wales paused and cleared his throat. “In case you were thinking of flying any false flags. We seem to have a rash of that going on last couple days.”
    Broker shifted from foot to foot. This prairie cop had done his homework.
    Wales indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Go on, sit.” He closed his office door, went around behind his desk, sat down, and said, “Your daughter is just fine. She’s up at the municipal pool, swimming