Northern Lights

by Nora Roberts

  "I'll say."

  Sinking a little lower, he tipped back his head. And the northern lights filled his vision. "Oh, man. Do you ever get tired of it? Even used to it?"

  She mirrored his pose, enjoying the way the cold streamed into her face while the heat saturated her body. "Used to it in a way that makes you proprietary. Like they belong to me, and I just share them with a few lucky others.

  "I go out most nights, just to look. There's nobody out, and everything's quiet. And yeah, then they belong to me."

  There were shimmers of lavender tonight, swirls of deep blue, hints of red. The music she'd chosen this time had Michelle Branch singing passionately about the light shining in the dark.

  Stirred, he found her hand in the heat of the water, linked fingers. "I guess this is perfect," he murmured.

  "Seems like."

  He soaked himself in the lights and the music, in the heat and the music. "Are you going to get weirded out if I fall in love with you?"

  She didn't speak for a moment. "I don't know. I might."

  "I might. That's a revelation for me. That I'd have enough left inside to head in that direction."

  "I'd say you've got plenty left. On the other hand, I don't know as I have enough to begin with to walk that way."

  He looked at her then, smiled. "Guess we'll find out."

  "Maybe you should just focus on the moment, enjoy it for what it is. Live that."

  "Is that what you do? Live for the moment?"

  The red was deepening, overpowering the softer, sweeter lavender. "Sure."

  "I don't buy it. You can't run your own business without looking ahead, building for the future."

  The movement of her shoulders ripped the water. "Business is business. Life is life."

  "Uh-uh. Not for people like you and me. Work is life. That's part of our problem or one of our virtues. Depending on how you look at it."

  She was studying his face now, frowning. "Well, that's some hot tub philosophy."

  He glanced over as she did, toward the sound of the dogs barking fiercely in the woods. "They always carry on like that?"

  "No. Might be they flushed a fox or a moose." But her brow remained creased until the dogs quieted. "Too early in the season for bear. And Rock and Bull can handle almost anything. I'll call them back in a minute."

  * * *

  He'd brought a couple of hunks of fresh meat. The dogs knew him, so he wasn't worried. But it was best to be prepared. He was here, surveying the house from the shelter of the trees because he believed in being prepared.

  He wasn't sure what it meant that the cop and the daughter of his old friend were frolicking in the hot tub. Maybe it was good. An affair would keep them both occupied.

  In any case, he didn't think much of the cop. Just a kind of figurehead who hauled in drunks or broke up fights. Nothing much to worry about there.

  Then again, he'd stopped worrying the body would be found. He'd stopped thinking about it and had put the whole ugly business out of his mind years ago. It had happened to someone else. It had never happened.

  It would never be a problem.

  But now it was.

  He would deal with it.

  He was older now, calmer now. He was more careful now.

  Loose ends to snip. If one of them turned out to be Meg Galloway, he'd be sorry. But he had to protect himself.

  He supposed it was best if he began to do so right away.

  He shouldered his rifle and left the dogs gobbling up the last of the meat.

  * * *

  He'd prepared everything. Standing in the darkened office, he saw nothing, thought of nothing he'd missed. They'd need to talk, of course. It was only right, only fair. He was a fair man.

  Still, it was dangerous for him to be here at this time of night. If he was seen, he'd need reasons, excuses. Plausible deniability, he thought with a half smile.

  It had been so long since he'd done anything dangerous. So long since he'd been the man who climbed mountains and lived large. The taste of it awakened that old excitement.

  That's why they'd called him Darth once. For his ruthlessness and love of dark deeds. It's what had pushed him to do the reckless and the sublime. It's what had urged him to kill a friend.

  But that had been a different man, he reminded himself. He'd remade himself. What he did now wasn't for pleasure or for curiosity. It was to protect the innocent man he'd become.

  He had the right to do that.

  So when his old friend came through the back door, he was waiting quietly. Calm as ice.

  Max Hawbaker jolted when he saw the man sitting behind the desk. "How'd you get in?"

  "You know you leave the back open half the time." He rose, movements relaxed and easy. "I couldn't stand around outside waiting for you. Someone might have seen me."

  "All right, all right." Max dragged off his coat, tossed it aside. "It's crazy meeting here at the paper in the middle of the damn night. You could have come to the house."

  "Carrie might hear. You never told her any of this. You swore."

  "No, I never told her." Max swiped a hand over his face. "Mother of God, you said he'd fallen. You said he went crazy and cut the rope. That he'd gone down in a crevice."

  "I know what I said. I couldn't tell you the truth. It was horrible enough, wasn't it? You were banged up and delirious when I got back to you. I saved your life, Max. I got you down."

  "But—"

  "I saved your life."

  "Yes. All right, yes."

  "I'll explain everything. Get out that bottle you keep in your drawer. We need a drink."

  "All these years. All these years, he's been up there. Like that." He did need a drink and grabbed two coffee mugs, then the bottle of Paddy's out of his drawer. "What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do?"

  "He tried to kill me. I can still hardly believe it." Plausible deniabil-ity, he thought again.

  "Pat? Pat tried to—"

  "Luke—remember? Skywalker, the Jedi knight. The more drugs he took, the crazier he got. It stopped being a game. When he reached the summit, he wanted to jump, and damned near dragged us both off."

  "My God. My God."

  "He said it was a joke, after, but I knew it wasn't. We were coming down, rappelling down the face, and he took out his knife. Christ God, he started sawing at my rope and laughing. I barely got to the ledge when he cut it through. I took off."

  "I can't believe it." Max swallowed whiskey, poured more. "I can't believe any of this."

  "I couldn't believe it when it was happening. He'd lost his mind. The drugs, the altitude, hell, I don't know. I got to the ice cave. I was panicked. I was furious. He came after me."

  "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

  "I didn't think you'd believe me. I took the easy way out. You'd've done the same."

  "I don't know." Max dragged a hand through his thinning hair.

  "You did take the easy way. When you thought he'd fallen, you agreed to keep your mouth shut. You agreed not to say anything at all, to anyone. Patrick Galloway took off, parts unknown. End of story."

  "I don't know why I did it."

  "Three thousand came in handy for your paper, didn't it?"

  Max flushed, stared into his glass. "Maybe it was wrong to take it. Maybe it was. I just wanted to put it all behind me. I was trying to start something here. I didn't know him that well, not really, and he was gone. We couldn't change that, so it didn't seem to matter. And you said, you said how there'd be an investigation if we told anyone we'd been up there, that he'd died up there."

  "There would've been. The drugs would've come out, Max, you know it. You couldn't afford another drug bust. You couldn't afford to have the cops wondering if you—if either of us—had been responsible for his death. However he died, that's still true, isn't it?"

  "Yes. But now—"

  "I had to defend myself. He came at me with the knife. He came at me. He said the mountain needed a sacrifice. I tried to get
away; I couldn't. I grabbed the ax and . . . " He cupped his hands around the mug, pretended to drink. "Oh, God."

  "It was self-defense. I'll back you up."

  "How? You weren't there."

  Max gulped down whiskey as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "They're bound to find out we went up there. There's an investigation. Cops are involved now, and we can't avoid it. They'll backtrack. Maybe they'll find the pilot who took us up."

  "I don't think so."

  "It looks like murder, and they'll dig. Dig enough and they'll identify us. People saw us with him in Anchorage. They might remember. It's better to come forward now, to give them the whole story, explain what happened. Before they charge one or both of us with murder. We've got reputations, positions, professions. Jesus, I've got Carrie and the kids to think of. I need to tell Carrie, to explain all this to her before we go to the police."

  "What do you think will happen to our reputations, our positions if this comes out?"

  "We can weather it, if we go to the police and tell them everything."

  "That's the way you want to play it?"

  "It's the way we have to play it. I've been thinking about this since they found him. I've been working it all out. We need to go to the cops before the cops come looking for us."

  "Maybe you're right. Maybe you are." He set the mug down, rose as if to pace back and forth behind Max's chair. He drew a glove out of his pocket, slid it onto his right hand. "I need a little more time.

  To think. To put things in order in case . . . "

  "Let's take another day." Max reached for the bottle again. "Give us both time. We'll go to Chief Burke first, get him behind us."

  "You think that'll work?" His voice was soft now, with a hint of amusement in it.

  "I do. I really do."

  "This works better for me." From behind, he grabbed Max's right hand, clamped his own over it on the butt of the gun. And hooking his left around Max's throat, jammed the barrel to his temple. His old friend reared back in shock, gulped for air. And he pulled the trigger.

  The explosion was huge in the small room and sent his hand to shaking. But he made sure to press Max's limp finger to the trigger. Fingerprints, he thought, his mind bell-clear even as he shuddered.

  Gun powder residue. He released his hold so Max's head fell to the desk and the gun clattered to the floor beside the chair.

  Carefully, with his gloved hand, he turned on the computer, and brought up the document he'd written while waiting for his friend to meet him.

  I can't live with it any longer. His ghost has come back to haunt me. I'm sorry for what I did, for everyone I hurt.

  Forgive me.

  I killed Patrick Galloway. And now I'll join him in Hell.

  Maxwell Hawbaker

  Simple, clear-cut. He approved it and left the computer on. The light from the screen and the flare from the desk, lamp shone on blood and gray matter.

  He stuffed the soiled glove in a plastic bag, pushed that into the pocket of his coat before putting it on.

  He donned fresh gloves, his hat, scarf, then picked up the coffee mug—the only thing in the room he'd touched without gloves.

  Walking into the bathroom, he poured the whiskey down the sink, rinsed the sink with water. He wiped the mug clean, then carried it back to the office and set it down again.

  Max's eyes stared at him, and something about it forced bile up into his throat. But he swallowed it down, forced himself to stand and study the details. Satisfied he'd overlooked nothing, he left the way he'd come in.

  He took the side streets, making sure his scarf was over his face, his hat low on his head in case some insomniac looked out a window.

  Above him, the sky streamed with the northern lights.

  He'd done what he'd had to do, he told himself. Now it was over. When he got home, washed away the scent of cordite and blood that clung to him, he had a single short whiskey as he watched the old glove burn up in the fire.

  There was nothing left now, so he put it all cleanly out of his mind.

  And slept the sleep of the innocent.

  Thirteen

  Carrie stopped by The Lodge on the way to the paper to pick up a couple of bacon-and-egg sandwiches. She'd been surprised, then a little annoyed to find Max gone when she'd wakened. Not that it was the first time he'd gone back to the paper at night, and ended up sleeping there. Or left early in the morning before either she or the kids were awake.

  But he always left her some sweet or silly note on his pillow when he did.

  There'd been no note that morning, and no answer when she'd called the paper.

  It wasn't like him. But then, he hadn't been himself for the last several days. That was starting to annoy her, too.

  There was a huge story brewing, what with Patrick Galloway's body being discovered. Allegedly Pat Galloway's body, she reminded herself. They needed to decide how to handle the story, how much space they'd want to devote to it—and if they should get their butts down to Anchorage when the body was finally brought down.

  She'd already dug through her old snapshots and had culled several of Pat. They'd want to run his picture along with the story.

  And pictures of the three boys who'd found him. She wanted to interview them, certainly Steven Wise, who was a hometown boy. Rather she wanted Max to do so, as he was better at interviewing than she was.

  Max wouldn't talk about it. Why, he'd even snapped at her once when she'd brought it up.

  Time for him to go in to the clinic and get himself a physical. He tended to get a delicate stomach when he wasn't eating or sleeping right. Which he hadn't been, come to think of it, since news came down about the Galloway business.