Northern Lights - Nora Roberts

[Dalyia]

Beside him the dogs quivered, then bunched, then leaped from snow
to ice. They sprawled and slid and barked in utter and obvious joy when
the door opened. Meg jumped down, her boots ringing. She squatted,
allowed herself to be licked while she energetically rubbed fur. When
she straightened, she grabbed a pack out of the plane. And only then
did she look at Nate.
“Somebody else crash fenders?” she called out.
“Not that I know of.”
With the dogs dancing around her, she crossed the short span of ice,
climbed up the slight slope of snow. “Been here long?”
“Few minutes.”
“Your blood’s still too thin to handle this cold. Let’s go inside.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, here and there. Picked up a party a few days ago. They’ve been
shooting caribou—photographically.Took them back to Anchorage today.
Just in time,” she added with a glance toward the sky. “Got a storm
coming in. Air was getting very interesting.”
“Do you get scared up there?”
“No. But I’ve gotten pretty interested from time to time.” Inside the
entry, she pulled off her parka.
“Ever crash?”
“I’ve had to, we’ll say, put down abruptly.” She yanked off her boots,
then taking a towel out of a box, squatted down again to wipe off her
dogs’ feet. “Go on in. This’ll take a minute, and it’s crowded with the
four of us in here.”
He stepped inside, closing the inner door as he’d been taught to keep
the heat in.
The windows were pulling in the last hints of sun of the short day, so
the room was mixed with light and shadows. He could smell flowers—

not roses, but something more primitive and earthy. It was mixed with
dog and a hint of wood smoke in a strange and appealing combination.
He’d expected rustic and saw even in the half-light he’d been well off
the mark.
In the spacious living area, the walls were a pale yellow.To mimic the
sun, he supposed, and keep the dark at bay. The fireplace was built of
polished stone in golden hues so that simmering logs glowed inside its
frame. She had squat candles on the mantel in deeper yellows and dark
blues. The long sofa picked up the blues and was decked with the toss
pillows women insisted on having everywhere. A thick throw, with her
key colors bleeding into each other, was draped over the back.
There were lamps with painted shades, gleaming tables, a patterned
rug and two big chairs.
Watercolors, oil paintings, pastels, all of Alaskan scenes, decorated
the walls.
To his left, stairs led up, and he found himself grinning at the newel
post carved into a totem.
The door opened. The dogs led the way, each prancing over to the
chairs and jumping up on one.
“Not what I expected,” he commented.
“Too much expected leads to boredom.” She crossed the room,
opened a big carved box and hauled out split logs.
“Let me get that.”
“Already got it.” She bent, set the logs, then turned to him, keeping
the fireplace at her back. “You want food?”
“No. No, thanks.”
“Drink?”
“Not especially, no.”
She crossed over, switched on one of the lamps. “Sex, then.”

“I—”
“Why don’t you go ahead up? Second door on the left. I just want to
put out food and water for my dogs.”
She strolled out, leaving him standing there with the dogs staring at
him out of crystal eyes. He’d have sworn they were smirking.
When she came back, he was standing in exactly the same spot.
“Can’t find the steps? Some detective you are.”
“Listen, Meg . . . I just drove out to . . .” He dragged a hand through
his hair, realizing he didn’t have a clue. He’d left town feeling that black
hole gaping in front of him, and sometime during his game with the
dogs, it had closed up again.
“You don’t want sex?”
“I know a trick question when I hear one.”
“Well, while you’re thinking about how you’re going to answer it, I’m
going upstairs and getting naked.” She shook her hair off her shoulders
and behind her back. “I look really good naked, if you’re wondering.”
“I figured that.”
“You’re a little on the thin side, but I don’t mind that.” She walked to
the steps, angled her head. Smiled and crooked her finger. “Come on,
cutie.”
“Just like that?”
“Why not? No law against it, yet anyway. Sex is simple, Nate. It’s
everything else that’s complicated. So let’s be simple for now.”
She headed up the steps. Nate glanced back at the dogs, blew out a
breath. “Let’s see if I remember how to be simple.”
He walked up, paused by the first door. The walls were a sizzling red,
except the one that was mirrored. On the wall opposite the mirrors was
a shelf unit holding a TV, DVD player, stereo components. Between
them was what he recognized as state-of-the-art exercise equipment.

An elliptical cross-trainer faced the TV, the Bowflex and rack of free
weights lined up with the mirror.
He imagined the mini-fridge held bottles of water, maybe some
sports drinks.
The room told him the body he was about to see naked got plenty of
serious workouts.
She’d left the bedroom door open and was crouched in front of another
fireplace, lighting the kindling. There was a big, whopping sleigh
bed, all curves and dark wood. More art, more lamps accented the
shades of green and ivory.
“I saw your equipment.”
She sent a slow smile over her shoulder. “Not yet.”
“Ha. I meant your personal fitness center next door.”
“You work out, chief ?”
“Used to.” Before Jack. “Not so much lately.”
“I like the sweat, and the endorphin rush.”
“So did I.”
“Well, you’ll have to get back to it.”
“Yeah. This is some place you’ve got here.”
“Took me four years to get it done. I need space, or I get twitchy.
Lights on, lights off ?”When he didn’t answer, she straightened, glanced
over her shoulder again. “Relax, chief. I’m not going to hurt you—unless
you ask for it.”
She walked to the nightstand, pulled open a drawer. “Safety first,”
she announced and tossed him a condom in a foil pack.
“You’re thinking too much,” she decided when he stood, looking a bit
bewildered. And, she thought, adorable with all that messy roastedchestnut
hair, those wounded-hero eyes. “I bet we can fix that. Maybe
you need a little atmosphere. I don’t mind that either.”

She lit a candle, wandered the room, lighting others. “A little music.”
Opening a cabinet, she switched on the CD player inside, adjusted the
volume to low. It was Alanis Morissette this time, with her strangely
appealing voice singing about the fear of bliss.
“Maybe I should’ve gotten you a little drunk first, but it’s too late for
that now.”
“You’re an original,” Nate murmured.
“You bet your fine ass on that.” She tugged her sweater over her head,
tossed it into a chair. “Thermal underwear makes the striptease a little
less than erotic, but the payoff should make up for it.”
He was already brick hard.
“You plan to shed any of those clothes, or do you want me to take
care of that for you?”
“I’m nervous. Saying that makes me feel like an idiot.”
Oh, yeah, she thought again. Seriously adorable. Honesty in a man
always was.
“You’re only nervous because you’re thinking.” She dropped her
trousers, stepped out of them. Sitting on the bed, she pulled off her
socks. “If it hadn’t been for the call of duty New Year’s Eve, we’d have
ended up in bed.”
“You were gone when I came back.”
“Because I started thinking. See, it’s deadly.” She pulled back the
comforter and sheets.
He laid his shirt over her sweater.When he took his cell phone out
of his pocket, set it down, he shrugged. “I’m on duty.”
“Well, let’s hope everyone behaves themselves.” She pulled off her
thermal top. Every muscle in his body bunched into a fist.
She was porcelain—delicate white skin carved into curves. But there

was nothing fragile. Instead it was all drama and confidence, a photograph
in black and white with light playing gold over it.
And he saw, with a surprised jolt of lust when she turned to switch
off the light, to leave only the candles and fire burning, the little tattoo
of spreading red wings at the small of her back.
“Half the thoughts in my head just evaporated.”
She laughed. “Let’s take care of the other half. Lose the pants,
Burke.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He unbuckled his belt, then his fingers went numb as she peeled off
the rest of the thermal. His mouth was dry as dust. “You were right.You
look really good naked.”
“I’d like to say the same, if you ever get those clothes off.” She slid
onto the bed, stretched out. “Come on, cutie. Come get me.”
She trailed a fingertip down her breast as he undressed. “Mmm, not
bad, upper body wise. Nice muscle tone for somebody who hasn’t been
getting regular workouts. And . . .” She grinned, propped up on her elbows
when he stripped off his pants. “Well, well, you really did stop
thinking. Dress that soldier, and let’s go to war.”
He complied, but when he sat on the bed, he simply brushed his finger
over her shoulder. “Give me a minute to plan my battle strategy first.
I’ve never seen skin like yours. It’s so pure.”
“Can’t judge a book by its cover.”
Balancing herself, she reached up, grabbed a hank of his hair and
dragged him down to her. “Give me that mouth. I didn’t have nearly
enough of it before.”
It swept through him in a rush, all the needs, the desperation, the
frantic urges that coalesced into blind lust. The taste of her exploded in-

side him, the ripe, greedy heat of her fired in his blood. His mouth
bore down on hers, fed from hers until hungers he’d forgotten burst to
life again.
He couldn’t get enough, her mouth, her throat, her breasts. Her gasps
and moans and cries were like lashes against his naked need, driving
him to take more.
He clamped a hand between her thighs, crazed to feel the wet, the
warmth, and pushed her so quickly, so violently to peak, they both
shuddered.
It was like climbing a quiet, green hill and having it turn into a volcano.
That was inside of him, she realized. The dangerous surprise under
the injured calm. She’d wanted him, those sad eyes, that quiet
manner. But she hadn’t known what he would give her when the mask
was yanked away.
She arched up, stunned, as he raked heat through her body. And
when she cried out, it was with mindless pleasure. She rolled with him,
digging with her nails, nipping with her teeth, her hands eager and possessive
as they raced over slickened skin.
Her lungs burned with every panting breath.
He wanted to devour, to ravish and rule. He drove into her, would
have buried his face in her hair, but her hands came up to his face. And
she watched him, her eyes wild and blue as he thrust inside her, as he lost
himself inside her.Watched him until he’d emptied himself inside her.

[Dalyia]

he’d been hulled out

until his skin was nothing but a husk with
air inside it. He couldn’t remember what it was to feel that dragging,
drawing weight that closed down over his mind and so bloated his body

it made just getting out of bed in the morning an exercise in will and
control.
He was blind and deaf and replete. If he could have floated the rest
of the way to oblivion, just as he was, he wouldn’t have uttered a murmur
of complaint.
“No falling asleep while still engaged.”
“Huh? What?”
“Reverse thrusters, cutie.”
He wasn’t blind after all. He could see light, shadow, shape. None of
it made any sense, but he could see it. Obviously he could hear, because
the voice—her voice—was there drifting through the mild buzzing in
his head.
And he could feel her, yielding under him—that soft, tight, curvy
body, damp with the sweat they’d worked up, and smelling of soap and
sex and female.
“Better give me a shove,” he said after a moment. “I may be paralyzed.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” But she planted her hand on his shoulder,
and put some effort into pushing him over. Then took a long,
whistling breath—in and out—and said,

“God!”

“I think I saw Him, just a faint outline for a second. He was smiling.”
“That was me.”
“Oh.”
She couldn’t work up the energy to stretch, so yawned instead.
“Somebody was

very pent up. Mmmm. Lucky me.”
The circuits in his brain were starting to connect again. He could
almost hear them sizzle as contact was reestablished. “It’s been a while
for me.”

Curious, she tipped onto her side. She saw the scars her fingers had
played against. Puckers of wounds, bullet wounds, she knew, on his side,
on his thigh.
“Define ‘a while.’ Like a month?” His eyes stayed closed, but his
mouth curved. “Two months? Jesus, more? Three?”
“We’d be closing in on a year, I guess.”
“Holy crap! No wonder I saw stars.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“Maybe not, but I sure as hell used you.”
Deliberately, she traced a finger on the scar snaking down his side. He
didn’t flinch, but she felt him tighten and decided to keep it light for now.
“I’d say we used each other, and so well, so thoroughly, everyone in
a hundred-mile radius of this bed is lying back right now, smoking a
cigarette.”
“You’re okay with it?”
“You got short-term-memory syndrome, Burke?”Now, she stretched
and gave him a quick jab with her elbow on the back end of the move.
“Whose idea was this?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I was married for five years. I was faithful.
The last two years of the marriage were rocky. Actually, the last year
of it sucked completely. Sex became an issue. A battleground. A weapon.
Anything but a natural pleasure. So I’m rusty, and I’m not altogether
sure what women are looking for in this area.”
Not so light then, she mused. “I’m not women. I’m me. Sorry your ex
jerked you around by the dick, but as I can attest that appendage is still
in good working order, maybe it’s time to get over it.”
“Long past.” He shifted, working his arm under her. He felt her
stiffen a little, and the hesitation in her body before she relaxed again

and let him settle her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want this to be the
end of it. Between us.”
“We’ll see what we think about that next time.”
“I wish I could stay, but I have to get back. Sorry.”
“I didn’t ask you to stay.”
He turned his head so he could see her face. Her cheeks were still
flushed, her eyes still sleepy. But he was too good a cop to miss the wariness
just under the ease. “I wish you’d ask me to stay, but since I’d have
to say no, that’s a waste of a wish. But I’d like to come back.”
“You can’t come back tonight. This storm hits and you make it out
here—which you wouldn’t—you’d be stuck. Could be days.That wouldn’t
suit me.”
“If it’s going to be that bad, come back into town with me.”
“No. That

really wouldn’t suit me.” Relaxed again, she walked her
fingers up his chest, along his jawline and into his hair. “I’m fine here.
Plenty of supplies, plenty of wood, my dogs. I like a good storm, the
solitariness of it.”
“And when it clears?”
She moved her shoulder, then rolled away. Rising, she walked naked
to the closet, the firelight playing over her white skin and that flashy
spread of red wings, before she pulled out a thick flannel robe. “Maybe
you’ll give me a call, and if I’m around, you could bring me out a pizza.”
She pulled on the robe, smiled as she belted it. “I’ll give you a really
good tip.”

[Dalyia]

the first flakes fell

as he drove back to town. Fat and soft,
they didn’t look particularly threatening. In fact, he found them picturesque.
They reminded him of the snows of his childhood, the ones that
fell during the night and kept falling in the morning, so when you
looked out your bedroom window, excitement sizzled in your blood.

No school!

It made him smile to think of it, to remember the days when snow
was a thrill instead of a burden or a hazard. Maybe it would pay him to
bring some of that childhood awe back inside himself.
To look around, see those oceans and rivers of white and consider the
possibilities. He was learning to snowshoe, so maybe he’d learn to ski.
Cross-country skiing might be interesting. Besides, he’d lost too much
weight over the last few months. That sort of exercise, added to the regular
meals that were always being put in front of him, would help build
him back up again.
Maybe he’d buy one of those Ski-doo things and race around in the
snow for the hell of it. Have some fun, for Christ’s sake. And he’d see
some of the countryside from something other than a car.
He paused to watch a small herd of deer wind their way through the

trees to his left. Their coats were shaggy and dark against snow that
came to their knees. If deer had knees.
It was a whole new world for the city boy, he decided, whose rural
adventures until now had consisted of a couple of summer camping
trips to western Maryland.
He parked in front of the station, remembered to plug his engine
block heater into the outlet, then watched Otto and Pete string a knotted
rope line along the sidewalk about waist high. Pulling his thick
gloves back on, he walked over to join them.
“What’s going on here?”
“Rope guide,” Otto said, and wound it around a lamppost.
“For?”
“Man can lose himself a foot out the door in a whiteout.”
“Doesn’t look that bad.” Nate glanced out at the street and missed
the look Otto and Pete exchanged. “How much are they calling for?”
“Could get four feet.”
Nate turned back sharply. “You’re shitting me.”
“Wind’s coming with, so drifts could be two, three times that.”There
was obvious pleasure in Otto’s tone as he worked the rope. “This ain’t
Lower

48 snow.”
He thought of Baltimore, and how six inches of the white stuff could
slow the city to a crawl. “I want these parked vehicles off the street and
the snow removal equipment checked.”
“People mostly leave their cars where they sit,” Pete told him. “Dig
them out after.”
Nate considered following the when-in-Rome theory, then shook
his head. They were paying him to establish order, so by God, he’d establish
some order.
“Get them off the street. Anything still parked on this route in an

hour gets towed. Alaska or Lower

48, it’s still four feet of snow on the
street. Until we’re clear, we’re on call twenty-four/seven.None of us leave
the station without a two-way. What’s the policy on out-of-towners?”
Otto scratched his chin. “Isn’t any.”
“We’ll have Peach go down the list, contact all of them. We make
arrangements for shelter for anyone who wants to come in.”
This time, he caught the exchanged glance. Peter smiled gently. “Nobody’s
going to.”
“Maybe not, but they’ll have a choice.” He thought of Meg, six miles
out and essentially cut off. She wouldn’t budge, that much he already
knew of her. “How much of this rope do we have?”
“Plenty. People generally string their own guides.”
“We’ll make sure of it.” He went inside to put Peach to work.
It took him an hour to organize procedure, and another ten minutes
to deal with Carrie Hawbaker when she blew in with her digital camera.
Unlike her husband, she seemed sharp and brisk, merely waving at
him to go on about what he was doing so she could get candids.
He let her snap her pictures and talked to Peach about the inprogress
snow emergency plans. He didn’t have time to worry about it
or to think about how his interview with Max had gone.
“Did you contact everyone outside of town?” he asked Peach.
“Twelve more to go.”
“Anyone heading in?”
“Not so far.” She ticked off her list. “People live out, Nate, because
they like it out.”
He nodded. “Contact them anyway. Then I want you to go on home
and call me when you get there.”
Her pudgy cheeks popped out with her smile. “Aren’t you the
mother hen.”

“Public safety is my life.”
“And chirpier than you’ve been.” She took the pencil out of her bun,
wagged it at him. “It’s good to see.”
“I guess a blizzard brings out my inner songbird.”
He glanced toward the door, amazed when it opened again. Didn’t
anyone in Lunacy stay home in a snowstorm?
Hopp fluffed at her hair. “Pouring in now,” she announced. “Heard
you’re clearing cars off the street, chief.”
“Snow plow’ll be doing the first sweep of the mains shortly.”
“It’s going to take a lot of sweeps.”
“I guess it will.”
She nodded. “You got a minute?”
“Just about.” He gestured toward his office. “You should be home,
mayor. If we get that four feet, you’ll be wading in it up to your armpits.”
“I’m short, but I’m hardy, and if I don’t get out and about a bit during
a storm, I get cabin fever. It’s January, Ignatious.We expect to get
hammered.”
“Regardless, it’s five above, dark as the inside of a dead dog, and we’re
already heading toward the first foot, with winds gusting at thirty-five.”
“Keeping your finger on the pulse.”
“Lunacy Radio.” He gestured toward the portable on his counter.
“They promise to broadcast twenty-four hours a day while it blows.”
“Always do. Speaking about media—”
“I gave the interview. Carrie took the pictures.”
“And you’re still pissed off.” She bobbed her head at him. “Town gets
its first official police department and brings in a chief from the Outside.
It’s news, Ignatious.”
“No argument there.”
“You were tap-dancing around Max.”

It was actually more of a two-step. I just learned how.”
“Whatever the choreography, I stopped the dancing. And my
method of doing so crossed a line. I apologize for it.”
“Accepted.”
When she held out her hand to shake on it, he surprised her by giving
it a friendly squeeze. “Go home, Hopp.”
“I’ll say the same.”
“Can’t do it. First I get to live out a childhood dream. I’m going riding
on a snowplow.”

every breath was like

inhaling splinters of ice.Those same splinters
managed to spear around his goggles and into his eyes. Every inch
of his body was double or triple wrapped, and he was still breathlessly
cold.
It didn’t seem real, any of it. The outrageous wind, the ear-pounding
engine of the snowplow, the white wall the headlights could barely penetrate.
Now and then he could see the glow of a lamp against a window,
but most of the world had fined down to the half a foot of light jittering
in front of the canary-yellow blade.
He didn’t attempt conversation. He didn’t think Bing wanted to talk
to him anyway, but the noise made the subject moot.
He had to admit, Bing handled the machine with the precision and
delicacy of a surgeon. It wasn’t the swipe and dump Nate had expected.
There were routes and disposal sites, curbside excavations, driveway detours,
all executed in near whiteout conditions and at a speed that had
Nate, continually, swallowing a protesting yelp.
He had no doubt Bing would love to hear him shriek like a girl, and
so he gritted his teeth against any sound that could be mistaken as such.

[Dalyia]

After dumping another load, Bing took the brown bottle he’d wedged
under the seat, unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. The smell that
blew into Nate’s face was potent enough to make his eyes water.
Since they were sitting, contemplating the growing mountain of
snow, Nate decided to risk a comment. “I heard alcohol lowers body
temperature,” he shouted.
“Fucking propaganda.” To prove it, Bing took another pull from the
bottle.
Considering they were alone in the dark, in a blizzard, and that Bing
outweighed him by around seventy pounds and would, Nate was sure,
like nothing better than to bury him in the mountain of removed snow
until his cold, dead body was found in the spring thaw, he decided not
to argue the point. Or mention the law against carrying open containers
of alcohol in a vehicle or the dangers of drinking while operating
heavy machinery.
Bing turned his massive shoulders. Nate could see nothing but his
eyes, squinting between watch cap and scarf. “See for yourself.” He
shoved the bottle into Nate’s hand.
It didn’t seem like the moment to mention he wasn’t much of a
drinker. More politic, he decided, and companionable to take a slug.
When he did, his head exploded and his throat and stomach lining
burned to cinders.
“Merciful Mother of God.”
He choked and, when he inhaled, swallowed shards of flame rather
than ice. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear laughing. Unless
the sound was the howl of some giant, maniacal wolf.
“What the fucking fuck is that?” He continued to wheeze while tears
streamed out of his eyes and froze on his face. “Battery acid? Plutonium?
Liquid fire of hell?”

Bing took the bottle back, took a chug, and capped it. “Horse turd
whiskey.”
“Oh perfect.”
“Man can’t handle his whiskey ain’t no man.”
“If that’s the criteria, I’ll be a woman.”
“I’ll take you back, Mary. Done all can be done for now.”
“Praise the tiny Baby Jesus.”
There was a crinkling of the skin around Bing’s eyes that could have
indicated a smile. He reversed, turned around. “I got twenty in the pool
says you’ll be packing your bag before the end of the month.”
Nate sat still, his throat burning, eyes stinging, his feet like icebergs
despite two pair of thermal socks and boots. “Who holds the pool?”
“Skinny Jim, works the bar at The Lodge.”
Nate merely nodded.
He didn’t know where Bing got his sense of direction but decided the
man could’ve guided Magellan. He zipped the machine along in the
blinding snow and arrowed it straight to the curb at The Lodge.
Nate’s knees and ankles wept when he jumped down. The snow on
the sidewalk reached those frozen knees, and the wind blew it rudely in
his face as he gripped the rope guide and pulled himself toward the door.
The heat inside was almost painful. Clint Black rolled out of the juke
and replaced the humming in his ears. There were a dozen people
seated at the bar or at tables, drinking, eating, holding conversations as
if the wrath of God wasn’t blowing on the other side of the door.
Lunatics, he thought. Every one of them.
He wanted coffee—blistering hot—and red meat. He’d cheerfully
eat it raw.
He nodded as people called out to him and was fighting with snaps
and zippers when Charlene hurried over to him.

“Why you poor thing! You must be frozen solid. Let me help you
with that coat.”
“I’ve got it. I—”
“Your fingers will be all stiff.”
It was too weird, too surreal, to have the mother of the woman he’d
bedded that afternoon undoing his snow-coated parka.
“I’ve got it, Charlene. Could use some coffee though. Appreciate
that.”
“I’ll get it for you myself, right away.” She patted his cold cheek. “You
just sit right down.”
But when he’d managed to strip off everything but his shirt and
pants, he walked to the bar. He pulled out his wallet, signaled to the
man they called Skinny Jim. “Here’s a hundred,” he said in a voice loud
enough to carry. “Put it in the pool. It says I’m staying.”
He stuck his wallet back in his pocket, then sat beside John. “Professor.”
“Chief.”
Nate angled his head to read the title of the current book. “

Cannery
Row. Good one. Thanks, Charlene.”
“Don’t you mention it.” She set his coffee down. “We’ve got a nice
stew tonight.Warm you right up. Unless you want me to take care of
that for you.”
“Stew would be great. Have you got rooms if some of these people
need to stay here tonight?”
“We always got room at The Lodge. I’ll dish you up that stew.”
Nate swiveled on his stool, sipping coffee as he checked the room.
Someone had plugged an old Springsteen into the juke, and The Boss
was singing about his glory days while pool balls thudded into pockets.
He recognized all the faces—regulars, people he saw nearly every night.

He couldn’t see the pool players from his angle but made out the voices.
The Mackie brothers.
“Any of these people going to get drunk, then try to get home?” he
asked John.
“Mackies might, but Charlene would talk them out of it. Most will
clear out in an hour or so, and the die-hards will still be here in the
morning.”
“Which camp would you be?”
“That depends on you.” John lifted his beer.
“Meaning?”
“If you take Charlene up on her offer, I’ll be heading on up to my
room alone. If you don’t, I’ll be heading up to hers.”
“I’m just here for the stew.”
“Then I’ll be staying in her room tonight.”
“John. Doesn’t it bother you?”
John contemplated his beer. “Having it bother me doesn’t change the
way things are. The way she is. The romantics like to say you don’t have
a choice who you love. I disagree. People pick and they choose. This is
my choice.”
Charlene brought out the stew, a basket with chunks of fresh bread,
and a thick wedge of apple pie.
“Man works out in this weather, he needs to eat. You do justice by
that now, Nate.”
“I will. You hear from Meg?”
Charlene blinked as if translating the name from a foreign language.
“No. why?”
“Just thought you two might’ve gotten in touch with each other.”To
let the stew cool a little, he started with the bread. “Seeing as she’s out
there on her own in this.”

“Nobody knows how to handle herself better than Meg. She doesn’t
need anyone. Not a man or a mother.”
She walked away, letting the kitchen door slap shut behind her.
“Sore spot,” Nate commented.
“Tender as they come. Bigger bruise yet if she thinks you’re more interested
in her daughter than in her.”
“I’m sorry to be the cause of that, but I am.” He sampled the stew. It
was loaded with potatoes, carrots, beans and onions, and a strong,
gamey meat that couldn’t have come from cow.
It slid warm into his belly and made him forget about the cold.
“What’s this meat in here?”
“That’d be moose.”
Nate spooned up more, studied it. “Okay,” he said, and ate.

it snowed all night,

and he slept like a stone through it. The
view out his window when he woke was like the static on a television
screen. He could hear the wind howling, feel it pressing against the
windowpane.
The lights didn’t work, so he lit candles, and they made him think
of Meg.
He dressed, studying the phone. It was probably out, too. Besides,
you didn’t call a woman at six-thirty in the morning just because you’d
had sex with her. There was no need to worry about her. She’d lived up
here her entire life. She was tucked inside her house with her two dogs
and plenty of firewood.
He worried anyway as he used his flashlight to guide himself downstairs.
It was the first time he’d seen the place empty. Tables were cleaned

off, the bar was wiped down. There was no smell of coffee brewing, bacon
frying.No morning clatter or conversation.No little boy sitting at a
table looking up at him with a quick smile.
There was nothing but dark, the howl of the wind and . . . snoring.He
followed the sound and shined his light over the Mackie brothers. They
lay, toe to nose, on the pool table, snoring away under layers of blanket.
He worked his way into the kitchen and, after a hunt, found a muffin.
Taking it with him, he pulled on his gear.With the muffin stuffed
in his pocket, he pulled open the door.
The wind nearly knocked him over. The force of it, the shock of it,
the bitter snow that flew into his eyes, his mouth, his nose as he fought
his way through the door.
His flashlight was next to useless, but he aimed it out, followed the
line of the rope in its beam. Then he stuffed the light in his pocket,
gripped the rope with both hands and began to pull himself along.
On the sidewalk, the snow was up to his thighs. He thought a man
could drown in it, soundlessly, even before he died of exposure.
He managed to fight his way to the street, where thanks to Bing’s
plow, and horse-turd whiskey, the snow was no more than ankle deep,
unless you ran into a drift.
He’d have to cross the street damn near blind, and without the guide,
to get to the station. He closed his eyes, brought the image of the street,
the location of the buildings into his head. Then lowering his shoulders
to the wind, he let go of the rope, grabbed the flashlight again and
started across.
He might as well have been in the wilderness instead of in a town
with paved streets and sidewalks, with people sleeping behind board
and brick. The wind was like a storm surf in his ears, one that kept trying
to shove him back as he bulled his way through it.

[Dalyia]

People died crossing the street all the time, he reminded himself. Life
was full of nasty risks, nastier surprises. A couple of guys could walk out
of a bar and grill, and one of them could end up dead in an alley.
An idiot could walk into a blizzard, try to cross the street and end up
wandering aimlessly for hours until he dropped dead of exposure three
feet from shelter.
He was cursing when his boots bumped something solid. Picturing
the curb,Nate waved his arms out like a blind man, and found the guide.
“For our next amazing feat,” he muttered, hauling himself onto the
buried sidewalk. He dragged himself along until he found the cross
rope, then changed angles and plowed his way to the outer door of the
station.
Wondering why he’d bothered to lock up, he fished out his keys, used
his flashlight to help him find the locks. In the entry, he shook himself
off, but kept his gear on. As he’d suspected, the station was frigid. Frigid
enough, he noted, that the windows were frosted on the inside.
Someone with more forethought than he had stacked wood by the
stove. He fired it up, stood holding his hands, still gloved, to the flame.
When he had his breath back, he closed the stove door.
He got candles, a battery-operated lamp, and considered himself in
business.
He found the battery radio, tuned in to the local station. As promised,
they were on the air, and someone with a twisted sense of humor
was spinning the Beach Boys.
Seated at his desk, he kept one ear on KLUN, the other on Peach’s
call radio and, mourning the lack of coffee, ate his muffin.
By eight-thirty, he was still on his own. A reasonable hour, he decided,
and settled down at the ham radio. He’d gotten a basic lesson
from Peach on operation and decided to take his first flight.

“This is KLPD calling KUNA. Come in, KUNA. Meg, you there?
Pick up or sign on or whatever you call it.” He got static, buzzing, a couple
of squeals. “This is KLPD calling KUNA. Come on, Galloway.”
“This is KUNA responding. You got a license to operate that radio,
Burke? Over.”
He knew it was ridiculous, but relief simply blew through him at the
sound of her voice. Right on its heels was pleasure. “I’m C of P. Comes
with the badge.”
“Say over.”
“Right, over. No, you okay out there? Over.”
“That’s affirmative.We’re nice and cozy.Tucked up here listening to
the taku. You? Over.”
“I survived a hike across the street.What’s taku? A rock group? Over.”
“It’s a mean bastard wind, Burke. The one shaking your windows
right now.What the hell are you doing in the station? Over.”
“I’m on duty.” He glanced around the room, noted he could see his
own breath. “Your power out?”
She waited a beat. “I’ll say ‘over’ for you. In this, sure it’s out. Generator’s
up.We’re fine, chief. You don’t have to worry. Over.”
“Check in once in a while, and I won’t. Hey, you know what I had
yesterday? Over.”
“Besides me? Over.”
“Ha.” God, this felt good, he thought. He didn’t care if it was cold
as the ice of hell. “Yeah, besides. I had horse turd whiskey and moose
stew. Over.”
She laughed, long and loud. “We’ll make a sourdough out of you,
Burke. Gotta go feed my dogs and my fire. See you around.Over and out.”
“Over and out,” he murmured.
It was warm enough now to shed the parka, though he kept on his

hat and thermal vest. He was poking through the files, looking for busy
work when Peach pushed through the door.
“Wondered if anyone was crazy enough to come in today,” she said.
“Just me. How the hell did you get here?”
“Oh, Bing brought me in on the plow.” She dusted one hand over the
baby-blue fleece of her sweater.
“Snowplow as taxicab. Here, let me get that.” He hurried over to take
the big sack she carried. “You didn’t have to come in.”
“Job’s a job.”
“Yeah, but . . . coffee? Is this coffee?” He dug the thermos out of
the sack.
“Wasn’t sure you’d have the generator up yet.”
“Not only don’t I have it up, I don’t know if I can find it. And since
mechanics aren’t my strong point, I wasn’t sure I’d know what to do with
it if I did find it. This

is coffee. Marry me, have many, many children
with me.”
She giggled like a girl, slapped at him with her hand. “You be careful,
throwing out offers like that. Just because I’ve been married three
times already doesn’t mean I won’t go for four. You go ahead and have
some coffee and a cinnamon bun.”
“Maybe we could just live together in sin.” He set the sack on the
counter, and immediately poured coffee into a mug. The scent hit him
like a beautiful fist. “Forever.”
“You smile like that more often, I might just take you up on it.Well,
look what the taku blew in,” she added when Peter stumbled in.
“Holy cow. That’s a whopper out there. Talked to Otto. He’s on
his way.”
“Bing bring you in, too?”
“No, me and my dad mushed it.”

“Mushed.” Another world, Nate thought. But Peach was right, a job
was a job. “All right then. Peter, let’s get the generator going. Peach, get
ahold of the fire department. Let’s get a crew together and clear off the
sidewalks as soon as it’s light enough, so people can get around if they
need to. Priorities are around the clinic and the station.When Otto gets
here, tell him the Mackies are passed out on the pool table at The
Lodge. Let’s make sure they get home in one piece.”
He pulled on his parka as he worked down his mental checklist.
“Let’s see if we can get an ETA on when power’s going to be back
on. People are going to want to know. Phones, too.When I get back in,
we’ll work up an announcement, have the radio run it, about what we
know when we know it. I want people to know we’re here if they need
help.”
And that, too, Nate discovered, felt good.
“Peter?”
“Right behind you, chief.”

journal entry

. February 18, 1988

Nearly lost Han in a crevice today. It happened so fast.We’re climbing,
pumped up, a few hours from the summit. Cold, hungry, edgy, but
pumped. Only a climber understands the juice of that combination.
Darth’s in the lead, the only way to keep him from pitching another
shitfit, then Han, and I’m bringing up the flank.
But I forgot yesterday. The days are starting to blur now, one cold,
white door opening to the next cold, white door.
I was lost in the rhythm of my own pounding head, in the spell of the
climb, in the rise of white.We crawled and grunted our way up a rock
pitch, moving well, aiming for heaven.

I heard Darth shout,

Rock! And the cannonball of the boulder he’d
dislodged spat out from that long chimney, whizzing by Han’s head. I
had an instant to think, no, I don’t want to go this way, smashed by some
fist of God, sucker punched off the mountain. It missed me, as it had
Han, by inches, flying by in a finger snap of time, and crashing, bringing
a quick and jagged rain of other rocks with it.
We cursed Darth, but then we curse one another over anything and
everything now. Most of it in companionable good humor. It helps
surge the adrenaline as we get higher, and the air’s so thin that breathing
is an exercise in pain and frustration.
I knew Han was flagging, but we pushed on. Pushed on, driven by
obsession and Darth’s relentless insults.
His eyes look mad behind his goggles. Mad and possessed.While I
think of the mountain as a bitch when I’m driving into her belly with ax
and frozen fingers, she’s a bitch I love. I think for Darth she’s a demon,
and one he’s hell-bent to conquer.
We bedded down that night by tying ourselves into pitons with the
black world beneath us and the black sky above.
I watched the lights, a dazzle of liquid jade across that mirror of black.
Again today Darth took the lead. Being first seems to be another obsession,
and arguing wastes time. In any case, I was concerned enough
about Han to see the value of taking the flank, keeping the weakest of
us in the middle.
So it was Darth’s need to be first, and my position in the rear, that
saved the life of one of our trio.
We’d packed the rope away. I’d said already that it was too cold for
rope, didn’t I? Again, we were moving well, moving up in the bright
sparkle of the short day with even our curses whipped away by the roar
of the wind.

Then I see Han stumble and start to slide. It was like the ground disappeared
under him.
A moment’s carelessness, a patch of windslab snow, and he was tumbling
toward me. I don’t know, I swear, if I caught him or if he sprouted
wings and flew. But our hands locked, and I slapped my ax into the ice,
praying it would hold, praying the bitch wouldn’t belch us both into the
void. For eternity I was on my belly, holding his hands while he dangled
over the edge of nothing.We’re screaming, both of us, and I’m trying to
dig in with my toes, but we’re slipping, sliding. Another few seconds
and it would’ve been let him go or both of us are gone.
Then Darth’s ice ax cleaved into the ground beside me—an inch
from my shoulder, and the pistoning of my heart cranked up to jackhammer.
He used it for purchase, and reached down to grab Han’s arm.
Some of the weight lifted from my screaming muscles, and I was able to
dig in, belly back. Bellying back, the two of us, pulling Han up with the
blood boiling in our ears and our hearts slamming in our chests.
We rolled back from the edge, lay there on the snow, shaking under
that cold, yellow sun. Shaking for what seemed hours, feet away from
death and disaster.
We can’t laugh about it. Even later none of us have the energy to
make that short nightmare into a joke.We’re too shaken up to climb,
and Han’s ankle is messed up. He’ll never make the summit, and we all
know it.
We have no choice but to chop out a platform and camp, divvy up
food from our dwindling supplies while Han pops painkillers. He’s
weak, but not so weak his eyes don’t roll with fear as the wind slams its
killing fists at the thin walls of our tent.
We should go back.
We should go back. But when I floated that trial balloon, Darth went

off, berating Han, shrieking at me in a voice shrill as a woman’s. He
looks half mad—maybe more than half—hulking in the dark, ice clinging
to his stubbly beard and eyebrows, bitter lights in his eyes. Han’s accident
has cost us a day, and he’ll be damned if it’ll cost him the summit.
He has a point, I can’t deny it.We are within striking distance of the
goal. Han may be able to make it after a night’s rest.
We’ll climb tomorrow, and if Han can’t manage, we’ll leave him, do
what we came to do, and pick him up on the way back.
It’s insanity of course, and even with the drugs, Han looks wrecked
and scared. But I’m caught in it. Past the point of no return.
The wind’s howling like a hundred rabid dogs. That alone could
drive a man mad.

[Dalyia]

for thirty hours,

the snow fell and the wind howled. The world
was a cold, white beast that rampaged day and night, fangs bared, claws
extended to bite and rake at anyone brave or foolish enough to go out
and face it.
Generators hummed or roared, and communications were reduced
to radios. Travel was impossible as that beast stalked its way across the
Interior and over southeast Alaska. Cars and trucks were buried, planes
grounded. Even the sled dogs waited for it to pass.
The little town of Lunacy was cut off, a frozen island in the midst of
a blind, white sea.
Too busy to brood, too astonished to curse, Nate dealt with emergencies—
a child who’d toppled onto a table and needed to get to the
clinic for stitches, a man who’d had a heart attack while trying to dig out
his truck, a chimney fire, a family brawl.
He had Drunk Mike—as opposed to Big Mike the cook—in an unlocked
cell sleeping off a bender, and Manny Ozenburger in a locked
one, rethinking his position on driving his Tundra pickup over his
neighbor’s Ski-doo.
He kept crews hacking away at the snow on the main streets and
pushed his way through the canyons of it to The Corner Store.

He found Harry and Deb sitting at a card table in front of the
canned goods, playing gin while Cecil snuggled in his basket.
“Hell of a blow,” Harry called out.
“No, it’s just hell.”
Nate pushed back the hood of his parka, stopped to give Cecil a
quick rub. He was out of breath and vaguely surprised to still be alive. “I
need some supplies. I’m going to bunk at the station until this is over.”
Deb’s eyes gleamed. “Oh? Something wrong at The Lodge?”
“No.” Yanking off gloves, Nate began to hunt up basics to keep body
and soul together. “Somebody needs to man the radio—and we’ve got a
couple of guests.”
“I heard Drunk Mike tied one on. Gin.”
“Gin? Damn you, Harry.”
“Tied one on,” Nate agreed, dumping bread, lunch meat, chips on
the counter. “And staggered around singing Bob Seger songs. Snow removal
crew spotted him and hauled him up when he fell facedown in
the middle of the damn street.” Nate picked up a six-pack of Coke.
“They hadn’t seen him, brought him in, we might’ve found him by
April, dead as Elvis.”
“I’ll just run a tab for these, chief.” Harry got out his book, noted
down the purchases. “And I’m not convinced Elvis is dead. This going
to be enough for you?”
“It’ll have to be. Getting it back’s going to be an adventure.”
“Why don’t you sit a minute, have some of this coffee?” Deb was already
getting up. “Let me fix you a sandwich.”
Nate stared at her. It wasn’t the way people usually treated cops.
“Thanks, but I need to get back. If you need anything, hell, send up a flare.”
He pulled on his gloves, resecured his hood, then hefted his bag of
supplies.

It wasn’t any more hospitable out than it had been five minutes before.
He felt the teeth and claws slice at him as he used the rope and instinct
to drag his way toward the station.
He’d left every light burning, to give himself a beacon.
He could hear the muffled rumble of Bing’s plow and hoped to sweet
God that Bing didn’t head his way, running over him accidentally—or
purposely. The beast, as he thought of the storm, was doing its best to
mock the efforts of the crews, but they’d made a difference.
Instead of swimming through the snow, he was wading through it.
He heard gunshots. Three quick reports. He paused, strained to
make out the direction, then shook his head and kept going. He sincerely
hoped no one was lying in the snow with a gunshot wound, because
he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He was about ten feet away from the station, concentrating on the
haze of light, cheering himself on with the thought of heat when Bing’s
plow rolled out of the white.
His heart stopped. He actually heard the thunder of it click off, and
the swishing sensation of his blood draining. The plow looked enormous,
a mountain of machine avalanching toward him.
It stopped, maybe a breathless foot from the toes of his boots.
Bing leaned out, his snow-caked beard making him resemble an insane
Santa. “Out for a stroll?”
“Yeah. Can’t get enough of it. You hear those gunshots?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Nothing. You need a break. The heat’s on. We’ve got sandwich
makings.”
“Why you got Manny locked up? Tim Bower drives that damn pissant
snowmobile around like a goddamn crazy teenager every chance he
gets. Public fucking nuisance.”

Since he was freezing, Nate decided to skip the part about destruction
of private property and reckless driving. “Tim Bower was on the
damn pissant snowmobile at the time Manny flattened it.”
“Got off quick enough, didn’t he?”
Despite everything, Nate found himself grinning. “Dived headfirst
into a snowbank. Skinny Jim saw it. Said it looked like a double
gainer.”
Bing merely grunted, pulled his head in and backed the plow away.
Inside, Nate made sandwiches, took one to the disgruntled Manny
and checked on Drunk Mike.
He decided to take his own meal at the radio. He liked hearing
Meg’s voice, feeling that strange, sexy connection. It had been a long
time since he’d had anyone to talk to about his day, since he’d had anyone
he’d wanted to talk to. The conversation added a little spice to his
plain meal and some comfort to the solitude.
“Tim’s wrecked that snowmobile more times than I can count,” she
said after he’d told her about its final destruction. “Manny did everyone
a favor. Over.”
“Maybe. I think I can talk Tim out of pressing charges if Manny pays
for it. You planning on coming into town once this is cleared up? Over.”
“I’m not big on plans. Over.”
“Movie night’s coming up. I was hoping to sample your popcorn.
Over.”
“It’s a possibility. I’ve got some jobs lined up once I’m cleared to fly.
But I like movies. Over.”
He drank some Coke and pictured her sitting at the radio, the dogs
at her feet and the fire glowing behind her. “Why don’t we make it a
date? Over.”
“I don’t make dates. Over.”

“Ever? Over.”
“Things happen if they happen. Since we both liked the sex, things
will probably happen.”
Since she didn’t say “over,” he assumed she was giving it some
thought. He certainly was.
“Tell you what, Burke, next time things happen, you can tell me your
long, sad story. Over.”
He was imagining the red tattoo at the small of her back. “Why do
you think I’ve got one? Over.”
“Cutie, you’re the saddest man I’ve ever seen. You tell me the story,
and we’ll see what happens next. Over.”
“If we . . . damn it.”
“What’s that noise? Over.”
“Sounds like Drunk Mike’s awake and puking it up in the cell.
Manny’s finding that understandably objectionable,” he added as the
sounds of sickness and outrage spiked out of the cells. “I have to go.
Over.”
“Boy, a cop’s life is fraught with danger. Over and out.”

under the circumstances,

Nate opted to let both of his prisoners
hitch rides home on the plow. Braving the elements, he went out
to dump more gas into the generator.
After a short debate, he carted one of the cots out, set it up near the
radio. As an afterthought, he routed through Peach’s drawer and found
one of her paperback romance novels.
He settled in with the book—setting a mental alarm so he could put
it, with its sexy cover, back where it came from with no one the wiser—
a Coke, and the sounds of the storm.

[Dalyia]

The book was better than he’d imagined and took him away to the
lush, green fields of Ireland in the days of castles and keeps. There was
a hefty dose of magic and fantasy tossed in, so he followed the adventures
of Moira the sorceress and Prince Liam with considerable interest.
The first love scene gave him pause as he thought about the maternal
Peach reading about sex—between answering calls and handing out
sticky buns. But he was caught up.
He fell asleep with the book open on his chest and the lights still
blazing.

the sorceress had

Meg’s face. Her hair, ink black, swirled into

the air like wings. She stood on a white hill in brilliant sunlight that
streamed through the thin red gown she wore.
She lifted her arms, slid the gown from her shoulders so that it slithered
down her body. Naked, she walked to him. Her eyes were blue ice
as she opened her arms and took him in.
He felt her lips on his, hot. Hungry. He was under her, surrounded
by her.When she rose up, wild wind rushed through her hair.When she
lowered, the heat of her all but burned him.
“What do you have to be sad about?”
Suddenly, through the pleasure was pain—abrupt, searing. He hissed
against it, and his body stiffened. The burning insult of bullets into flesh.
But she smiled, only smiled. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” She lifted a
hand, smeared with his blood. “If you bleed, you’re alive.”
“I’m shot. Jesus, I’m hit.”
“And alive,” she said as his blood dripped from her hand onto his face.
He was in the alley, smelling blood and cordite. Smelling garbage
and death. Damp air from the rain. Cold, cold for April. Cold and wet
and dark. It was all a blur, the shouts, the shots, the pain when the bullet
dug into his leg.
He’d fallen behind, and Jack had gone in first.
Shouldn’t be here.What the hell were they doing here?
More shots, flashes of light in the dark. Thuds.Was that steel hitting
flesh? That stunning, obscene pain in the side that took him down
again. So he’d had to crawl, crawl over the damp concrete to where his
partner, his friend, lay dying.
But this time, Jack turned his head, and his eyes were red as the
blood that pumped out of his chest. “You killed me. You stupid son of a
bitch.Anybody should be dead, it’s you.Now see if you can live with it.”
he woke in a cold sweat,

his partner’s dream voice still echoing

in his head.Nate pushed himself up to sit on the side of the cot. He
dropped his head in his hands.
So far, he thought, he was doing a lousy job of living with it.
He made himself get up, carry the bunk back to the cell. He thought
of the pills he stowed in his desk drawer, but bypassed his office and
made himself go out to pour the last of the gas into the generator.
It wasn’t until he was heading back inside that he realized it had
stopped snowing.
The air was perfectly still, perfectly quiet. There was a faint hint of
moonlight sprinkling over the mounds and seas of snow, giving the
white a pale blue hue. His breath clouded out as he stood, like a bug, he
thought, trapped in crystal instead of amber.
The storm had passed, and he was still alive.

See if you can live with it.

Well, he would. He’d keep seeing if he could

live with it.
Inside, he brewed coffee, switched on the radio. A sleepy voice—who
identified himself as Mitch Dauber, the voice of Lunacy—segued into
local news, announcements and weather.
People started coming out, bears crawling out of their caves. They
shoveled and plowed. They gathered together for conversation, ate and
walked and slept.
They lived.
the lunatic
Police Log
Wednesday, January

a.m. A chimney fire in the residence of Bert Myers was reported.

Volunteer firefighter Manny Ozenburger and Chief Ignatious Burke responded.
The fire was caused by a buildup of creosote. Myers suffered a
minor burn on the hand while attempting to grab burning logs out of
the fireplace. Ozenburger termed this action “dumbass.”

p.m. Jay Finkle, age five, was injured in a fall from his tricycle inside

the bedroom of his residence. Chief Burke assisted Paul Finkle,
Jay’s father, in transporting the injured boy to the Lunacy clinic. Jay received
four stitches and a grape lollipop. The Hot Wheels was undamaged,
and Jay states that he will drive more carefully in the future.

p.m. A complaint was lodged by Timothy Bower against Manny

Ozenburger.Witnesses confirm that Ozenburger crashed his truck into
Bower’s Ski-doo while Bower was operating same. Though an informal
poll indicates that

52 percent believe Bower had it coming, Ozenburger

was remanded to jail. Charges are pending. Members of Lunacy’s Vol-
unteer Fire Department are organizing a Free Manny all-you-can-eat
buffet.

p.m. Kate D. Igleberry reported being assaulted by her partner,

David Bunch, at their residence on Rancor Road. At the same time,
Bunch claims to have been assaulted by Igleberry. Chief Burke and
Deputy Otto Gruber responded. Both complainants offered evidence of
facial and bodily bruises, and in Bunch’s case, a bite mark on the left
buttock. No charges filed.

p.m. James and William Mackie were charged with reckless driving

and excessive rates of speed on Ski-doos.William Mackie contends that
“Ski-doos aren’t damn cars.” As recreational vehicles, he believes they
should be exempt from posted limits and plans to bring this matter up
at the next town meeting.

p.m. Snow removal crews discovered a man walking in a disoriented

manner on the roadside near south Rancor Woods. He could be heard
singing “A Nation Once Again.” Subsequently identified as Michael
Sullivan, the man was transported to Lunacy PD and turned over to
Chief of Police Ignatious Burke.

alone in the station,

Nate scanned the rest of the log. It continued,

with reports of drunk and disorderlies, the loss and recovery of
a missing dog, the call from one of the out-of-towners with a serious
case of cabin fever claiming wolves were playing poker on his porch.
Names were printed on each and every item, no matter how embarrassing
it might be for the individual. He wondered what it would’ve
been like if

The Baltimore Sun, for instance, had been so thorough and

merciless in listing the calls, the names and the actions taken by the police
force in Baltimore.
He had to admit, he found it endlessly entertaining.
Max and Carrie must have put the paper together and gone to print
the minute the storm was over, he thought. Pictures of the storm and
the aftermath were damn good, too.And the story on it, with Max’s byline,
was almost poetic.
He didn’t mind the story on himself as much as he’d thought he
would. In fact, he was going to keep his copy, along with his first two
issues of

The Lunatic.

Whenever he could get out to Meg’s again, he’d take her one.
A week after the storm blew in, the roads were clear enough. Dropping
by her place to take her a paper couldn’t be considered a date.
Giving her a call just to make sure she was there and not flying
around somewhere couldn’t be considered plans.
It was just being practical.
Expecting his staff to come in any moment, Nate tucked the newspaper
in a desk drawer and started out to put some fuel in the woodstove.
Hopp pushed through the outside door.
“We’ve got trouble,” she said.
“Is it bigger than four and a half feet of snow?”
She shoved back her hood. Under it her face was bone white. “Three
missing boys.”
“Give me the details.” He backed up. “Who, when and where they
were last seen.”
“Steven Wise, Joe and Lara’s boy, his cousin Scott from Talkeetna
and one of their college friends. Joe and Lara thought Steven and Scott
were down in Prince William for winter break. Scott’s parents thought
the same. Lara and Scott’s mother got together on the radio last night
to pass the time and catch up, and it came out some of the things each
of the boys had told them didn’t jibe. They got suspicious, enough that
Lara tried calling Steven at college. He’s not back—neither is Scott.”
“College where, Hopp?”
“Anchorage.” She passed a hand over her face.
“Then they need to notify the Anchorage PD.”
“No. No. Lara got hold of Steven’s girlfriend. Those idiot boys are
trying a winter climb up the south face of No Name.”
“What’s No Name?”
“It’s a damn mountain, Ignatious.” Fear was jumping in her eyes.
“A goddamn big mountain. They’ve been gone six days. Lara’s out of
her mind.”
Nate strode to his office, yanked out his map. “Show me the
mountain.”
“Here.” She jabbed a finger. “It’s a favorite with the locals, and a lot
of climbers from Outside use it for entertainment or a kind of training
ground for a try at Denali. But trying a climb in January’s just bone stupid,
especially for three inexperienced boys.We need to call Search and
Rescue. Get planes in the air at first light.”
“That gives us three hours. I’ll contact S and R. Get on one of those
two-ways, call Otto, Peter and Peach in here. Then I want to know who
all the pilots are, other than Meg, in the area.”
He scanned the phone numbers Peach had neatly listed. “What are
the chances they’re still alive?”
With a two-way in hand, Hopp sat heavily. “They need a miracle.”
five minutes after

she got the call, Meg was dressed and loading

up gear. She was tempted to ignore the radio call from Lunacy PD,
but decided it might be an update on the lost climbers.
“This is KUNA responding. Over.”
“I’m going with you. Pick me up by the river on your way. Over.”
Irritation rippled through her as she stuffed extra medical supplies in
her bag. “I don’t need a co-pilot, Burke. And I don’t have time to waste
showing you the sights. I’ll contact you when I find them. Over.”
“I’m going with you. Those boys deserve another pair of eyes, and
mine are good. I’ll be ready when you get here. Over and out.”
“Damn it. I hate heroes.” She hauled up the pack and, with the dogs
beside her, went out. She grabbed the rest of the gear and, using the
flashlight, trudged down to the lake in snowshoes.
She’d made two runs since the all clear to fly and thanked God
she didn’t have to take an hour now to dig out her plane. She didn’t think
about the boys, dead or alive, on the mountain. She simply took the steps.
She pulled off the wing covers, stowed them. It was work, but less
work than scraping the frost from uncovered wings. After draining the
water traps in the bottoms of the wing tanks, she climbed up to check
the gas level by eye.Topped off the fuel.
Making a circuit, she checked flaps, tail feathers, every part of the
plane that moved to make certain everything was secure.
Lives had been lost, she knew, due to a loose bolt.
Her mind focused only on the safety check, she turned her prop several
times to remove any pooled oil.
Swinging into the plane, she stowed the gear, then strapped in.

[Dalyia]

She hit the starter, switched on the engine. The prop turned, sluggishly
at first, then the engine fired with a belch of exhaust.While the
engine warmed, she checked gauges.
She was in control here, as much as she considered anyone was in
control of anything.
It was still shy of dawn when she released the brakes.
She set the flaps, the trim tab for takeoff, gave the controls a shove
and yank as she looked out to be sure the ailerons were moving, if the
elevators responded. Satisfied, she straightened in her seat.
She kissed her fingers, touched them to the magnetized photo of
Buddy Holly stuck to the control board. And rammed the throttle
forward.
She hadn’t yet decided whether to head to Lunacy or not. As she circled
the lake, building speed for takeoff, she let the decision hang.
Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t.
She nosed up, rising into the air just as dawn began to break in the
east. Then with a shrug, aimed that nose toward Lunacy.
He was where he’d said he’d be. Standing on the edge of the ice with
a mountain of snow at his back. He had a pack slung over his shoulder.
She could only hope someone had told the cheechako what to bring as
emergency gear. She saw that Hopp was with him, and her stomach
sank when she recognized the other figures as Joe and Lara.
It forced her to think of what might be. Of the bodies she’d transported
before. Of the ones she might transport today.
She set down on the ribbon of ice, waited with the engines running
for Nate to cross it.
The prop wash blew at his coat, his hair. Then he was climbing in,
stowing his pack, strapping in.
“Hope you know what you’re in for,” she said.
“I haven’t got a clue.”
“Maybe that’s better.” She kissed her fingers, touched them to Buddy.
Without looking at the terrified faces to her right, she pushed to take off.
Using the hand mike, she contacted control in Talkeetna and gave
them her data. Then they were up, over the trees and veering east,
northeast into the pale rising sun.
“You’re eyes and ballast, Burke. If Jacob wasn’t in Nome visiting his
son, I wouldn’t have settled for you as either.”
“Got it.Who’s Jacob?”
“Jacob Itu. Best bush pilot I’ve ever known. He taught me.”
“The man you shared your popcorn with at the town meeting?”
“That’s right.” They hit a pocket of air, and she saw his hand fist
against the bumps. “You get airsick, I’m going to be really unhappy.”
“No. I just hate flying.”
“Why’s that?”
“Gravity.”
She grinned as they continued to bump. “Turbulence bothers you,
you’re going to have a really bad day. There’s still time to take you back.”
“Tell that to the three kids we’re going after.”
The grin vanished. She watched the mountains, the fierce rise of
them, while the ground below blurred with speed and low-lying clouds.
“Is that why you’re a cop? Saving people’s your mission?”
“No.” He said nothing as they shuddered through another patch of
rough air. “Why does a bush pilot have a picture of Buddy Holly in her
cockpit?”
“To remind her shit happens.” As the sun speared up, she took sunglasses
out of her pocket and put them on. Below, she saw the snake of
dogsled trails, spirals of chimney smoke, a wedge of trees, a rise of land.
She used the landmarks as much as her gauges.
“Binoculars in the compartment there,” she told him. And made a
small adjustment in the propeller pitch, eased the throttle forward.
“I brought my own.” He unzipped his parka, pulled them out from
where they hung around his neck. “Tell me where to look.”
“If they attempted a climb up the south face, they’d’ve been dumped
off on the Sun Glacier.”
“Dumped off ? By who?”
“That’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Her jaw set. “Some yahoo too interested
in money to blow them off. A lot of people have planes, and a lot of
people fly them. It doesn’t make them pilots.Whoever it was didn’t report
them when the storm came through and sure as hell didn’t pick
them back up.”
“Fucking crazy.”
“It’s all right to be crazy, it’s not all right to be stupid. And that’s the
category this falls into. Air’s going to get rougher when we hit the
mountains.”
“Don’t say hit and mountain in the same sentence.”
He looked down—a slice of trees, an ocean of snow, a plate of ice
that was a lake, a huddle of perhaps six cabins all appearing, disappearing
through clouds. It should have seemed barren, stark, and instead it
was stunning. The sky was already going that deep, hard blue, with the
cruel elegance of the mountains etched over it.
He thought of three boys trapped in that cruelty for six days.
She banked, sharp right, and he had to reach deep inside for the grit
just to keep his eyes open. The mountains, blue and white and monstrous,
swallowed the view. She dipped through a gap, and all he could
see, on either side, was rock and ice and death.
Over the whine of the engines, he heard something like thunder.
And saw a tsunami of snow burst from the mountain.
“What the—”
“Avalanche.” Her voice was utterly calm as the plane began to shake.
“You’re going to want to hold on.”
It gushed, white over white over white, an iced volcano erupting,
charging the air with the roar of a thousand runaway trains while the
plane ping-ponged right, left, up, down.
He thought he heard Meg curse, and what sounded like antiaircraft
fire beat against the plane. The storm that vomited out of the mountain
spewed bits of debris over the windscreen. But it wasn’t fear that rushed
into him. It was awe.
Metal pinged and rang as bullets of ice and rock struck the plane.
Wind dragged at it, yanked at it, pelted it until it seemed inevitable they
would crash into the cliff face or simply be smashed apart by shrapnel.
Then they were cruising between walls of ice, over a narrow, frozen
valley and into the blue.
“Kiss my ass!” She let out a whoop, threw her head back and laughed.

“

That was a ride.”

“Awesome,” Nate agreed, and twisted in his seat, trying to turn
enough to see the rest of the show. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Mountains are moody. You never know when they’re going to take
a shot.” She slid her gaze toward him. “You’re pretty cool under fire,
chief.”
“You, too.” He settled back in his seat. And wondered if his pounding
heart had broken any of his ribs. “So . . . come here often?”
“Every chance I get. You can start making use of those binocs.We’ve
got a lot of area to cover, and we won’t be the only ones covering it. Keep
a sharp eye.” She fixed on headphones. “I’ll be in communication with
control.”
“Where do I aim my sharp eye?”
“There.” She lifted her chin. “One o’clock.”
Compared to Denali, it seemed almost tame, and its beauty somewhat
ordinary beside The Mountain’s magnificence. There were smaller
peaks ranging between what they called No Name and Denali, and
there were larger, rolling back, spearing up, all in a jagged, layered wall
against the sky.
“How big is it?”
“Twelve thousand and change. A good, challenging climb in April or
May, trickier, but not impossible in the winter. Unless you’re a group of
college kids on a lark, then it’s next to suicide.We find out who transported
three underage kids, dumped them out in January, there’ll be hell
to pay.”
He knew that tone of voice—flat, emotionless. “You think they’re
dead.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“But you’re here anyway.”
“Won’t be the first time I’ve looked for bodies—or found them.” She
thought of the supplies and gear in the plane. Emergency rations, medical
supplies, thermal blankets.And prayed there would be cause to use them.
“Look for debris. Tents, equipment—bodies. There are a lot of
crevices. I’ll get as close as I can.”
He wanted them to be alive. He’d had enough of death, enough of
waste. He hadn’t come to look for bodies, but for boys. Frightened, lost,
possibly injured, but boys he could return to their terrified parents.
He scanned through his field glasses. He could see the bowelloosening
drops, the skinny ledges, the sheer walls of ice. There was no
point in wondering why anyone would be compelled to risk limb or life,
brave hideous conditions, starve and suffer to hack his way to the top.
People did crazier things for sport.
He registered the buffeting winds, the uneasy proximity of the little
plane to the unforgiving walls, and shut down the fear.
He searched until his eyes burned, then lowered the glasses to blink
them clear. “Nothing yet.”
“It’s a big mountain.”
She circled, he searched, while she continued to detail coordinates to
control. He spotted another plane, a little yellow bird swooping to the
west, and the sturdy bulk of a chopper. The mountain dwarfed everything.
It no longer looked small to him, not with everything he had focused
on it.
There were shapes that made its shape—plates of rippling ice, fields
of snow, fists of black rock that were punched out of cliff walls and were
streamed with somehow delicate rivers of more ice, like glossy icing.
He saw shadows he imagined the sun never found and vicious drops
to nothing. From one a beam of light shot back at him, like sun bouncing
off crystal.
“Something down there,” he called out. “Metal or glass. Reflective.
In that crevice.”
“I’ll circle around.”
He lowered the binoculars to rub at his eyes, wishing he’d brought
his own sunglasses. The glare was murderous.
She climbed, banked, and as she circled, Nate caught a flicker of
color against the snow.
“Wait. There. What’s that? About four o’clock? Jesus, Meg, four
o’clock.”
“Son of a bitch. One of them’s alive.”
He saw it now, the bright blue, the movement, the vaguely human
shape, frantically windmilling arms to signal. She dipped the wings,
right then left, right then left, as she arrowed back.
“This is Beaver-Niner-Zulu-Niner-Alfa-Tango. I’ve got one,” she said
into her headset. “Alive, just above Sun Glacier. I’m going in for him.”
“You’re going to land?” Burke asked when she’d repeated the call and
relayed coordinates. “On that?”
“You’re going one better,” she told him. “You’re going out on it. I
can’t leave the plane—crosswinds are too risky, and there’s no place, and
no time to tie down.”
He stared down, saw the figure stumble, fall and roll, tumbling, sliding
before it lay still, nearly invisible now in the white surf.
“Better give me a lesson and make it quick.”
“I put down, you get out, climb up, get him, bring him back.Then we
all go home and have a really big beer.”
“Short lesson.”
“No time for much more. Make him walk. If he can’t, drag him. Grab
some goggles.You’ll need them.There’s no fancy work here. It’s just like
crossing a pond and climbing a few rocks.”
“Just doing it several thousand feet above sea level. No big deal.”
She showed her teeth in a grin as she fought minor little wars to keep
the plane steady. “That’s the spirit.”
The wind tore at the plane, and she fought back, dragging the nose
back up, leveling the wings. She angled toward her approach, dropped
the gear, cut back the throttle.
Nate decided not to hold his breath since inhaling and exhaling
might not be an option very shortly. But she slid the plane onto the glacier,
between the void and the wall.
“Move!” she ordered, but he was already yanking off his safety belt.
“It’s probably twenty below out there, so you make it quick. Unless I
have to take off again, don’t try to give him any medical assistance until
we’ve got him back in the plane. Just get him, haul him, dump him in.”
“I’ve got it.”
“One more thing,” she shouted as he shoved open the door and the
wind roared in. “If I do have to lift off, don’t panic. I’ll come back for you.”
He leaped onto the mountain. It wasn’t the time to question, to overthink.
Cold cut into him like knives, and the air was so thin that it sliced
his throat. There were hills rising up out of hills, rippling seas, acres of
shadow, oceans of white.
He pushed himself across the glacier, settling for a lumbering jog instead
of the sprint he’d hoped for.
When he hit rock, he went by instinct, pulling his way up, clattering
like a goat, then sinking nearly to his knees when the short wall was scaled.
He heard engines, the wind and his own laboring breath.
He dropped down beside the boy and, despite Meg’s instructions,
felt for a pulse. The kid’s face was gray, with rough patches of what
looked like dried skin on his cheek, his chin.
But his eyes fluttered open. “Made it.” He croaked out the words.
“Made it.”
“Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“They’re in the cave. Couldn’t make it, couldn’t make it down. Scott’s
sick, Brad—think his leg might be broken. I came for help. I came—”
“You’ve got it. You can show us where they are once we’re back in the
plane. Can you walk?”
“Don’t know.Try.”
Nate fought the boy up, took his weight. “Come on, Steven. One
foot in front of the other. You’ve come this far.”
“Can’t feel my feet.”
“Just lift your legs, one at a time. They’ll follow. You’ve got to climb
down.” He could already feel the cold eating through his gloves and
wished he’d thought to double up. “I’m not good enough at this to carry
you. Hold on to me, and help me climb down.We’ve got to get down to
help your friends.”
“I had to leave them, to get help. Had to leave them with the
dead man.”
“It’s all right.We’re going back for them.We’re climbing down now.
Ready?”
“I can do it.”
Nate went first. If the kid fell, fainted, slipped, he’d break the fall. He
kept shouting at him as they picked their way down. Shouting to keep
the boy steady and conscious, demanding answers to keep him alert.
“How long since you left your friends?”
“I don’t know.Two days. Three? Hartborne didn’t come back. Or . . .
I think I saw, but then I didn’t.”
“Okay. Nearly there. You’re going to show us where your friends are,
in just a couple minutes.”
“In the ice cave, with the dead man.”
“Who’s the dead man?” Nate dropped down on the glacier. “Who’s
the dead man?”
“Don’t know.” The voice was dreamy now as Steven slithered and
slumped into Nate’s hold. “Found him in the cave. Ice man, staring. Just
staring. Got an ax in his chest. Spooky.”
“I bet.” He half dragged, half carried Steven toward the shuddering
plane.
“He knows where the others are.” He pushed, then climbed in to pull
Steven into the plane. “He can show us.”
“Get him in the back, under the blankets. First-aid kit’s in the bag.
Hot coffee in the thermos. Don’t let him drink too much.”
“Am I still alive?” The boy was shivering now, his body quaking from
the cold

“Yeah, you are.”
Nate laid him on the floor between the seats, then covered him with
blankets while Meg lifted off.
He heard the wind and engines screaming, and he wondered if they’d
be ripped to pieces now after all.
“You need to tell us where your friends are.”
“I can show you.”With his teeth chattering, he tried to take the cup
of coffee Nate poured.
“Here, let me do it. Just sip.”
As he sipped, tears began to leak out of his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d
make it. They’d die up there because I couldn’t make it down, to the
plane.”
“You did make it.”
“Plane wasn’t there. He wasn’t there.”
“We were.We were there.” Doing his best to brace himself against
the jolts of the plane, Nate carefully lifted the coffee again.
“We almost got to the top, but Scott was sick, and Brad fell. His leg’s
hurt.We got to the cave, we found the cave and got in before the storm
hit.We stayed in there. There’s a dead man.”
“So you said.”
“I’m not making it up.”
Nate nodded. “You’ll show us.”

.

[Dalyia]

nate hated hospitals

. It was one of the triggers that shot him
back into the dark. He’d spent too much time in one after he’d been
wounded. Enough time for the pain and grief and guilt to coalesce into
the gaping void of depression.
He hadn’t been able to escape it. He’d longed for the emptiness of
sleep, but sleep brought dreams, and dreams were worse than the black.
He’d hoped, passively, that he’d die. Just slide soundlessly away. He
hadn’t considered killing himself. That would have taken too much effort,
too much activity.
No one had blamed him for Jack’s death. He’d wanted them to, but
instead they’d come with their flowers or sympathy, even their admiration.
And it had weighed on him like lead.
Talk of therapy, counseling, antidepressants barely penetrated. He’d
gone through the motions, just to get doctors and concerned friends off
his back.
He’d gone through the motions for months.
Now he was back in a hospital and could feel the soft and sticky fingers
of hopelessness plucking at him. Easier, so much easier to give in,
to just let go and sink into the dark.

“Chief Burke?”
Nate stared down at the coffee in his hand. Black coffee. He didn’t
want it. Couldn’t quite remember how it had gotten there. He was too
tired for coffee.Too tired to get up and throw it away.
“Chief Burke?”
He glanced up, focused on a face. Female, mid-fifties, brown eyes
behind small, black-framed glasses. He couldn’t quite remember who
she was.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Steven would like to see you. He’s awake and lucid.”
It swam back slowly, like thoughts oozing through mud. The three
boys, the mountain. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s young and healthy. He was dehydrated, and he may lose a couple
toes, but he may keep them all. So, he’s lucky. The other two are on
their way in. I’m hoping the same goes.”
“They got them. Off the mountain.”
“That’s what I’m told. You can have a few minutes with Steven.”
“Thanks.”
As he followed her, the sounds and smells of the ER penetrated.The
voices, the pings, the fretful crying of an infant.
He moved into an exam room and saw the boy on a bed. He had
some color under the patches on his cheeks. His hair was matted and
blond, his eyes clouded with worry.
“You got me off.”
“Nate Burke. New chief of police in Lunacy.” Since Steven held out
a hand, Nate took it, careful to avoid pressing on the IV needle. “Your
friends are on their way in.”
“I heard. But nobody’ll tell me how they are.”
“We’ll find out when they get here. They wouldn’t be on their way if.

you hadn’t given us the location, Steven.Nearly makes up for being stupid
enough to go up there in the first place.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He tried a wan smile. “Everything
went wrong. And I think something happened to Hartborne.We
only gave him half the money, just to be sure he’d come back.”
“We’re checking into it. Why don’t you give me his full name, any
other information on him.”
“Well, Brad knew him. Actually, Brad knew a guy who knew him.”
“Okay.We’ll talk to Brad.”
“My parents are going to kill me.”
Oh, to be twenty, Nate thought, and be as concerned with parental
wrath as with a near-death experience. “Count on it. Tell me about the
dead man in the cave, Steven.”
“I didn’t make it up.”
“Not saying you did.”
“We all saw him.We couldn’t leave the cave, not with Brad’s leg.We
decided I’d go back down, meet Hartborne, get help. They had to stay
in there with him.With The Ice Man. He was just sitting there, staring.
The ax in his chest. I took pictures.”
His eyes widened as he struggled to sit up straighter. “I took pictures,”
he repeated. “The camera. It—I think it’s in the pocket of my insulated
vest. I think it’s still there. You can see.”
“Hold on a minute.” Nate moved over to the pile of clothes, pawed
through and came up with the vest. And in the inside zippered pocket
was one of those small digital cameras, hardly bigger than a credit card.
“I don’t know how to work this.”
“I can show you. You have to turn it on, and then—see—the viewer
here? You can call up pictures from the memory. The last ones I took
were of the dead guy. I took like three, ’cause I wanted— there!”

Nate studied the facial close-up in the little viewer. The hair might’ve
been black or brown, but it was covered with frost and ice that silvered
it. Longish, nearly shoulder-length hair, with a dark watch cap pulled
low over it. The face was narrow, white, slashed by ice-crusted brows.
He’d seen death often enough to recognize it in the eyes. Wide and
blue.
He recalled the previous picture.
There was the body of a man, age between—at his rough guess—
twenty and forty. He sat with his back to the ice wall, legs splayed out.
He wore a black and yellow parka and snow pants, climbing boots,
heavy gloves.
What appeared to be a small ax was buried in his chest.
“Did you touch the body?”
“No. Well, I kinda poked at him—it. Frozen solid.”
“Okay, Steven, I’m going to need to take your camera. I’ll get it back
to you.”
“Sure. No problem. He could’ve been up there for years, you know?
Decades or something. It creeped us out, let me tell you, but it sort of
took our minds out of the shit we were in. Do you think they know anything
about Brad and Scott?”
“I’ll find out. I’ll go get the doctor. I’m going to need to talk to you
again.”
“Anytime, man. Seriously, thanks for saving my life.”
“Take better care of it.”
He headed out, slipping the camera into his pocket. He’d have to
contact the State Police, he thought. Homicide in the mountains was
out of his jurisdiction. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make some
copies of the pictures for his own files.
Who was he? How had he gotten there? How long had he been

there? Why was he dead? The questions got him through the ER and to
the nurse’s station just as the rescue team brought in the other two boys.
He decided the best place for him was out of the way, and when he
spotted Meg swing in behind the team, he crossed to her.
“It’s their lucky day,” she said.
Nate caught a glimpse of one of the boy’s faces, shook his head.
“That’s debatable.”
“Any day the mountain doesn’t kill you is lucky.” And bringing them
back alive when she’d expected to find bodies, pumped her. “They’re
probably going to lose a few digits, and the kid with the broken leg is in
for some serious pain and physical therapy, but they’re not dead.We’ve
lost the light, and I don’t see any reason to head out this late.We won’t
be flying back tonight. I’m going to get us a room at The Wayfarer.
Rates are reasonable, and the food’s good. You ready?”
“I’ve got a couple of things to do. I’ll find you.”
“You’re longer than twenty minutes, you’ll find me in the bar. I want
alcohol, food and sex.” She gave him a suggestive smile. “More or less in
that order.”
“Sounds reasonable. I’ll be there.”
She zipped up her coat. “Oh, that reflection you caught? Plane wreck.
Probably the guy who took those kids up. Mountain got one after all.”

he was closer to ninety

than twenty minutes, and he found
Meg, as promised, in the bar.
It was wood-paneled, smoky and decorated with animal heads. She
was passing the time at her table with a beer and a bump, and a plate of
something that looked like nachos. She had her feet up on the second
chair, but shifted them off when Nate stepped up to the table.

“There you are. Hey, Stu? Same for my friend.”
“Just the beer,” Nate corrected. “These any good?” he asked as he
pried up a nacho.
“They fill the hole. When we’re suitably buzzed, we’ll go have a
steak. Did you stay back to keep an eye on those boys?”
“That, and a couple of other things.” He dragged off his hat, scooped
a hand through his hair. “Rescue team didn’t go into the cave?”
“Boys dragged themselves out when they heard the air support.” She
scooped up cheese, meat, salsa with a chip. “Priority was to get them
down for medical assistance. Somebody’ll go up, eventually, for the gear
they left behind.”
“And the dead guy.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You bought that story?”
“Yeah, I did. Added to that, the kid took pictures.”
She pursed her lips, then pried up another loaded chip. “No shit?”
“Beer’s up,” came the call from the bar.
“Hold on,” she said to Nate. “I’ll get it.”
“You want another round, Meg?” Stu asked her.
“We’ll let him catch up some first.” She snagged the brown bottle,
brought it back to the table.
“He took pictures?”
Nate nodded, took a gulp of beer. “Digital camera, which he had in
his pocket. I talked this guy at the hospital into printing them out for
me.” He tapped his fingers on the manila envelope he’d tossed on the
table. “I had to turn the camera over to the State boys. Maybe they’ll
keep me in the loop, maybe not.” He shrugged.
“You want to be in the loop?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged again, tapped his fingers again. “I don’t
know.”

Oh, he wanted to be in the loop, she thought. She could all but see
him making some sort of mental list. Some sort of cop list. If that’s what
it took to turn those sad, gray eyes sharp, she hoped the State boys let
him play.
“He probably hasn’t been up there very long.”
She lifted her glass. “Why do you say that?”
“Somebody would’ve found him.”
She shook her head, sipped whiskey. “Not necessarily. Cave like that
can get buried in a storm, drowned under in an avalanche or overlooked
by climbers.Another avalanche, oh look, there’s a cave. Then it depends
on where he was in the cave. How deep. Could’ve been up there for a
season or for fifty years.”
“They’ll get forensics either way. They’ll be able to date him, hopefully
ID him.”
“Already working on solving the case.” Amused, she gestured toward
the envelope. “Let me see. Maybe we’ll be like Nick and Nora Charles.”
“It’s not the movies, and it’s not pretty, Meg.”
“Neither is gutting a moose.” She chomped another nacho, then
drew the envelope over to open it. “If he’s a local, maybe somebody’ll
recognize him. Though you get plenty of Outsiders on No Name in any
given year. The kind of gear he’s wearing should . . .”
He saw her color drain, her eyes glaze—and cursed himself. But
when he started to take the printout from her, she jerked back, shoved
at his arm with her free hand.
“You don’t need to look at that. Let’s just put it away.”
She needed to look. Maybe the air was trapped in her lungs, and
maybe her stomach had pitched down to her feet. But she needed to
look. Deliberately she took the rest of the photos out, lined them up on
the table. Then she picked up the whiskey, downed it.

[Dalyia]

“I know who this is.”
“You recognize him?” Without thinking, Nate scooted his chair
closer to hers so they stared at the photos together. “You’re sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It’s my father.”
She shoved away from the table. Her face was very pale, but she
didn’t quiver. “Pay for the drinks, will you, chief ? I’m going to have to
put a hold on that steak dinner.”
He moved fast, scooping the printouts back in the envelope, digging
out bills to drop on the table, but she was already through the lobby and
at the top of the steps when he caught up.
“Meg.”
“Back off a minute.”
“You need to talk to me.”
“Come up in an hour. Room

232. Go away, Ignatious.”
She kept climbing, didn’t allow herself to think, didn’t allow herself
to feel. Not yet, not until she was behind a locked door. There were
things she didn’t believe in sharing.
He didn’t follow. Part of her brain registered that, and gave him
points for restraint and maybe sensitivity. She went into the room where
she’d already dumped spare gear, locked the door, added the chain.
Then she walked directly into the bathroom and was miserably and
violently ill.
When she was done, she sat on the chilly floor, her forehead braced
on her knees. She didn’t weep. She hoped she would, hoped she could
cry at some point. But not now. Now she felt raw and shaken and—
thank God—angry.
Someone had killed her father and left him alone. For years. For
years when she’d lived without him. When she’d believed he’d walked
away from her without a second thought. That she wasn’t good enough

or important enough. Smart enough, pretty enough.Whatever enough
seemed to fit at any given time when the missing of him was a hole in
her belly.
But he hadn’t walked away from her. He’d gone to the mountain,
something as natural for him as breathing. And died there. The mountain
hadn’t killed him. She could have accepted that as fate, as destiny.
A man had killed him, and that couldn’t be accepted. Or forgiven. Or
left unpunished.
She rose, stripped, and running the water cold, stepped into the
shower. She let it stream over her until the fuzziness in her head cleared.
Then she dressed again to lie down on the bed, in the dark, and think
about the last time she’d seen her father.
He’d come into her room where she’d been pretending to study for a
history test. As long as she was pretending to study, she didn’t have to
do her chores. She’d been sick of chores.
She remembered, even now, that quick lift in the heart when she saw
it was her father rather than her mother coming to check on her. He

never

nagged about chores or studying.
She thought he was the most handsome man in the world, with his
long dark hair and his fast grins. He’d taught her everything she believed
really important. About the stars and climbing, about survival in the wild.
How to build a campfire, how to fish—and clean and cook the catch.
He’d taken her flying with Jacob, and it was their secret that Jacob
was teaching her to fly.
He looked at the book open on her bed where she was flopped on her
belly. And rolled his eyes. “Boring.”
“I hate history. I have a test tomorrow.”
“Bummer.You’ll do okay.You always do.” He sat on the bed, gave her
ribs a quick tickle. “Hey, kid, I gotta take off for a while.”

“How come?”
He lifted a hand, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
“How come we need money now?”
“Your mom says we do. She’s the one who knows.”
“I heard you fighting this morning.”
“No big deal. We like to fight. I’ll pick up a couple of jobs, make
some moola. Everybody’ll be happy. A couple of weeks, Meg. Maybe
three.”
“I don’t have anything to

do when you’re gone.”
“You’ll find something.”
And she could tell, even as a girl of thirteen she could tell, he was already
gone in his head. His pat on the head was absent, like an uncle’s.
“We’ll go ice fishing when I get back.”
“Sure.” And she was sulking, ready to shrug him off before he could
shrug her off.
“See you later, cupcake.”
She had to force herself not to spring up, to rush after him, hold tight
before he strolled away.
A hundred times since that afternoon, she’d wished she’d given in,
given them both that one last contact.
She wished it now, even as she rode that last memory in the dark.
She stayed where she was until she heard the knock on the door. Resigned,
she got up, switched on lights, ran her hand through the hair
that hadn’t quite dried from the shower.
When she opened the door to Nate, he was carrying a tray and had
another sitting on the floor outside the door.
“We need to eat.” Maybe he’d hated it when people had pushed food
or whatever cure or comfort on him during the worst of his own misery.
But it worked, and that was the bottom line.

“Fine.” She gestured toward the bed, the only surface big enough in the
room to double as a dining table.Then she bent and hefted the second tray.
“If you want to be alone after, I can get another room.”
“No point.” She sat cross-legged on the bed and, ignoring the salad
on her tray, cut into the steak.
“That one’s mine.” He switched trays. “They said you went for
bloody. I don’t.”
“Don’t miss a trick, do you? Except you brought up coffee instead of
whiskey.”
“You need a bottle, I’ll get you one.”
She sighed, cut into the meat. “Bet you would. How’d I end up sharing
a steak dinner in Anchorage with a nice guy?”
“I’m not, particularly. I gave you an hour so you could pull yourself
together. I brought you food so you’d keep yourself together while you
tell me about your father. I’m sorry, Meg, it’s a hard hit. After you talk
to me, we’re going to have to take this to the detective in charge.”
She cut another bite, forked down into one of the soggy steak fries.
“Tell me something. Back where you came from, you were a good cop?”
“It’s about the only thing I was ever good at.”
“You handle murders?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll talk to whoever’s in charge, but I want you looking into this
for me.”
“There’s not that much I can do.”
“There’s always something. I’ll pay you.”
He ate contemplatively. “A hard hit,” he repeated. “Which is why I’m
not going to slap at you for that insult.”
“I don’t know that many people who find money insulting. But fine. I
want someone I know looking for the son of a bitch who killed my father.”

“You barely know me.”
“I know you’re good in bed.” She smiled a little. “Okay, a guy can be
an asshole and still be a stallion. But I also know that you keep your
head under pressure and are dedicated or stupid enough to climb out on
a glacier to save a kid you’ve never met. And you think ahead enough to
remember to ask down in the restaurant how Meg likes her steak. My
dogs like you. Help me out here, chief.”
He reached out and touched her hair, a little stroke over the damp
black. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“February

1988. February sixth.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“He said to pick up some work. Here in Anchorage, I figured, or up
in Fairbanks. He and my mother had been fighting about money and a
variety of other things. That was typical. He said he’d be gone a couple
weeks or so. He never came back.”
“Your mother file a missing person’s report?”
“No.” Then her brow creased. “At least I don’t think so.We assumed,
everyone assumed, he’d just taken a hike. They’d been fighting,” she
continued, “maybe more than usual. He was restless. Even I could see
it. He wasn’t the salt of the earth, Nate. He wasn’t a responsible sort,
though he was always good to me, and we never went without anything
important. It wasn’t enough for Charlene, and they argued.”
She steadied herself, kept eating because it was there. “He drank, he
smoked dope, he gambled when he felt like it, worked when he felt like
it and fucked off when he felt like it. I loved him—maybe because of all
that. He was thirty-three when he left that afternoon—and using the
wisdom of hindsight and maturity, I can see it was freaking him out to
be thirty-three. To be the father of a half-grown girl and hooked up
with the same woman year after year. Maybe he was at a kind of cross-

roads, you know? Maybe he decided to take that winter climb as a kind
of last idiocy of youth—or maybe he was never coming back anyway.
But somebody made the decision for him.”
“He have enemies?”
“Probably, but nobody I could say would cause him harm. He’d piss
people off, but nothing major.”
“What about your stepfather?”
She gave her salad a couple of pokes with her fork. “What about him?”
“How soon after your father disappeared did Charlene get married?
How’d she work the divorce?”
“First, she didn’t need a divorce. She and my father weren’t married.
He didn’t believe in the legal boundaries of marriage, and blah blah. She
married Old Man Hidel about a year after—a little less. If you’re thinking
Karl Hidel climbed up No Name and carved an ice ax in my father’s
chest, you can forget it. He was sixty-eight and fifty pounds overweight
when Charlene hooked him.”
As an afterthought she picked up the salad bowl and ate. “Smoked
like a chimney. He could barely climb the stairs much less a mountain.”
“Who would have climbed with your father?”
“Jesus, Nate, anybody. Anybody who wanted the rush. You know
those kids today? Give them a little time, and they’ll talk about what
happened up there as if it was one of the most exciting events of their
lives. Climbers are crazier than bush pilots.”
When he said nothing, she let out a little breath, ate some more
salad. “He was a good climber, had a solid rep there. Maybe he had
taken a job guiding a group up on a winter climb. Or he hooked up with
a couple of buddies and like-minded morons and decided to fart into
the face of death.”
“He ever do anything stronger than pot?”