Northern Lights

by Nora Roberts

  "Not sleeping very well. Yet." John marked his page, set the book down. "Can't get the image out of my head."

  "It's tough. You knew Max pretty well. Wrote some articles for his paper."

  "Monthly book reviews, the occasional color piece. Didn't pay much, but I enjoyed it. I don't know if Carrie will keep the paper going. I hope she does."

  "Somebody told me Galloway wrote some pieces for The Lunatic. Back in its early days."

  "He was a good writer. He'd have been a better one if he'd focused on it."

  "I guess that's true of anything."

  "He had a lot of raw talent, in several areas." John glanced over his shoulder, toward Charlene.

  "But he never buckled it down. Wasted what he had."

  "Including his woman?"

  "I'd be biased on that subject. In my opinion, he didn't put much effort into his relationship or much of anything else. He had a couple of chapters of several novels, dozens of half-written songs, any number of abandoned woodworking projects. The man was good with his hands, had a creative mind, but no discipline or ambition."

  Nate weighed the possibilities. Three men, drawn together by location, avocation—the writing—and the climb. And two of the three in love with the same woman.

  "Maybe he'd have turned that around, if he'd had the chance."

  John signaled for Jim to refill his glass. "Maybe."

  "You read his stuff?"

  "I did. We'd sit around over a beer, or two, or some other recreational drug," John added with a half smile. "And discuss philosophies and politics, writing and the human condition. Young intellectuals."

  John lifted his glass in toast. "Who were going absolutely nowhere."

  "You climbed with him?"

  "Ah, adventure. Young intellectuals don't come to Alaska without needing to have them. I enjoyed those days and wouldn't have them back for a Pulitzer." Smiling the way a man does over past glories, he sipped at the fresh whiskey.

  "The two of you were friendly?"

  "Yes. We were friends, on that intellectual level, in any case. I envied him his woman; that was no secret. I think it amused him and made him feel a bit superior to me. I was the educated one. He'd tossed the prospect of a superior education away, yet look what he had."

  John brooded into his drink. "I imagine he'd still be amused that I continue to envy him his woman."

  Nate let that sit a minute, drank coffee. "Did you two climb with a group, or alone?"

  "Hmm." John blinked, like a man coming out of a dream. Memories, Nate thought, were just another kind of dream. Or nightmare. "Groups. There's camaraderie in the insanity. The best I remember was a summer climb on Denali. Groups and solos picking their way up that monster like ants on a giant cake. Base camp was like a little town all of its own and a crazed little party."

  "You and Pat?"

  "Mmm, along with Jacob, Otto, Deb and Harry, Ed, Bing, Max, the Hopps, Sam Beaver, who died two years ago from a pulmonary embolism. Ah, let's see, Mackie Sr. was there, as I recall. He and Bing started to beat the snot out of each other for something, and Hopp— the deceased Hopp—broke it up. Hawley was there, but he fell over drunk and cracked his head. We wouldn't let him climb. And there was Missy Jacobson, a freelance photographer with whom I had a short, intense affair before she moved back to Portland and married a plumber."

  He smiled at that. "Oh yes, Missy, with her big, brown eyes and clever hands. Those of us from Lunacy had put our party together like a holiday. We even had a little flag we were going to stick on the summit for photo ops for the paper. But none of us made it to the top."

  "None of you?"

  "No, not then. Pat did later, as I recall, but on that climb we were plagued with bad luck. Still, that night at base camp we were full of possibilities and goodwill. Singing, screwing, dancing under that wonderful, endless sunlight. As alive as I think any of us had ever been."

  "What happened?"

  "Harry was sick. Didn't know it, but by morning he was running a fever. Flu. He said he was fine, and nobody wanted to argue. He didn't make it five hours. Deb and Hopp got him back down. Sam fell, broke his arm. Missy was getting sick. Another group coming down took her back to base. The weather turned, and those of us who were left pitched tents and huddled down praying for it to pass. It didn't, got worse. Ed got sick, then I got sick. One thing after another until we had to call it and go back. Miserable end to our little town holiday."

  "Who got you back to town?"

  "Sorry?"

  "You have a pilot?"

  "Oh. I remember being stuffed into that plane, everyone sick or pissed or sullen. Can't remember the pilot. Some friend of Jacob's, I think. I was dog sick, that I recall vividly. I wrote about it at some point. Tried for a little humor in a piece for The Lunatic."

  He polished off the whiskey. "I always regretted not hoisting that flag."

  Nate let it go and wandered to Charlene. "Can you take a break?"

  "Sure. When Rose is back on her feet."

  "Five minutes. You're not that crowded yet."

  She shoved her order pad in her pocket. "Five. We don't keep things moving in here, people will start going to The Italian Place. I can't afford to lose my regulars."

  She clipped her way out of the restaurant into the empty lobby. The sound of her heels made Nate think of the tango, and he wondered what sort of vanity would overcome a woman's need for comfort when she was going to be hopping on her feet for a few hours.

  "To your knowledge, Patrick Galloway was going to Anchorage to look for work."

  "We've been through this."

  "Indulge me. If he went there, and got a wild hair to do a climb, who would he most likely hire to fly him to Sun Glacier?"

  "How the hell am I supposed to know? He wasn't supposed to be climbing, he was supposed to be looking for a job."

  "You lived with him for close to fourteen years, Charlene. You knew him."

  "If it wasn't Jacob, and he was in Anchorage, it would probably have been Two-Toes or Stokey. Unless he got that hair when neither of them were around, then he'd have hired whoever was handy. Or more likely have bartered something for the flight. He didn't have any money to spare. I only gave him a hundred out of my household fund. Any more, I knew he'd piss it away."

  "You know where I can find either of those pilots?"

  "Ask Jacob or Meg. They run in that world; I don't. You should have told me they brought him back down, Nate. You should have told me and taken me to see him."

  "There was no point in putting you through that. No," he said before she could object. "There wasn't."

  He nudged her into a chair, sat beside her. "Listen to me. It won't help you to see him that way. It won't help him."

  "Meg saw him."

  "And it ripped her up. I was there; I know it. You want to do something for him, for yourself? You want to find your closure? Make time to go see your daughter. Be her mother, Charlene. Give her some comfort."

  "She doesn't want comfort from me. She doesn't want anything from me."

  "Maybe not. But offering it might help you." He got to his feet. "I'm going out to see her now. Anything you want me to tell her?"

  "You could tell her I could use a hand around here for the next couple of days, unless she's got something more important to do."

  "Okay."

  * * *

  It was full dark when he got back to Meg's. He could see she looked calmer, steadier and more rested. The position of the pillows and throw on the sofa told him she'd had a nap in front of the fire at some point.

  He'd figured out the best way to handle things and handed her a bouquet of mixed mums and daisies he'd picked up at The Corner Store. They weren't particularly fresh, but they were flowers.

  "What's this for?"

  "See, I realized we were working backward, in the traditional sense. I got you into bed, or you got me, so that pressure's off. Now I'm romancing you."

  "Is that right?" She sniffed at them. Maybe it was a cliche, but
she had a weakness for flowers, and men who thought to offer them. "Then the next step would be what, a pickup at a bar?"

  "I was thinking more of a date, dinner, say. But you could pick me up in a bar. That works for me, too. Meanwhile, I'd like you to pack some things and come back with me to The Lodge for the night."

  "Oh, so we can still have sex during this romancing period."

  "You could get your own room, but I'd rather have the sex. You could bring the flowers, too. And the dogs."

  "And why would I leave the comfort of my own home to have sex with you in a hotel room?" She twirled the flowers, watched him over them. "Oh, for the thrill factor in our backward relationship.

  It's stupid enough to appeal to me, Burke, but I'd as soon stay here, and we can pretend we're in some cheap motel room. We can even see if there's any porn on cable."

  "That sounds really good, but I'd like you to come back with me. Someone was skulking around in your woods the other night."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He told her about the tracks.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this when it was light, so I could see for myself?" She tossed the flowers down on the table and headed for her parka.

  "Hold on. It snowed, a good six inches. You won't be able to see anything. Otto and Peter already tromped around in there anyway. I didn't tell you before because you had enough on your plate. This way you had a nap and some quiet time. Pack what you need, Meg."

  "I'm not going to be driven out of my house because somebody walked around in the woods. Even if I want to take a page out of your book of paranoia and conclude he or she was spying or up to some nefarious plan, I wouldn't be driven out. I can—"

  "Handle yourself. Yes, I know."

  "You think I can't?" She spun on her heel, marched into the kitchen.

  When he came in behind her she was yanking a rifle out of the broom closet.

  "Meg."

  "Just shut up." She checked the chamber. To his distress, he saw it was fully loaded.

  "Do you know how many accidents go down because people keep loaded weapons in the household?"

  "I don't shoot anything by accident. Come out here."

  She pulled open the door.

  It was dark, it was cold and he had an irritated woman with a loaded rifle on his hands. "Why don't we just go inside and—"

  "That branch, two o'clock, seven feet up, forty feet out.

  "Meg—"

  She shouldered the rifle, got her bead and fired. The blast of it boomed in his head. The branch exploded, six inches in.

  "Okay, you can shoot a rifle. Gold medal for you. Come inside."

  She fired again, and the six inches of branch jumped on the snow like a rabbit.

  Her breath steamed out as she fired again and obliterated what was left.

  Then she picked up her spent shells, walked back inside and replaced the rifle.

  "A plus on marksmanship," Nate commented. "And though I have no intention of letting it come to that, I will point out that blasting the shit out of a tree branch isn't anywhere near the same level as putting a bullet into flesh and bone."

  "I'm not one of your dainty Lower 48 women. I've taken down moose, buffalo, caribou, bear—"

  "Ever shot a human being? It's not the same, Meg. Believe me, it's not. I'm not saying you're not smart or capable or strong. But I am asking you to come back with me tonight. If you won't, I'll stay here. But your mother could use some help at The Lodge with Rose out. She's overworked and churned up about your father."

  "Charlene and I—"

  "I can't connect with mine, you know. My mother. She barely speaks to me, and my sister stays away from both of us because she just wants to have a nice, normal life. Can't blame her."

  "I didn't know you had a sister."

  "She's two years older. Lives in Kentucky now. I haven't seen her in. . . five years, I guess. The Burkes aren't big on family gatherings."

  "She didn't come to see you when you were shot?"

  "She called. We didn't have a lot to say to each other. When Jack was killed and I was shot up, my mother came to see me in the hospital. I thought, as much as I was thinking, that maybe, just maybe, something would come out of all that horror. I thought we'd work our way back to each other. But she asked me if I'd stop now. If I'd resign from the force before she had to visit my grave instead of my hospital bed. I told her no, that it was all I had left. She walked out without another word. I don't think we've exchanged more than a dozen words since.

  "The job cost me my best friend, my wife, my family."

  "No, it didn't." She couldn't stop herself from taking his hand, lifting it to her cheek. Rubbing it there. "You know it didn't."

  "Depends how you turn it, that's all. But I didn't give it up. I'm here because even at the bottom, it was the one thing I kept. Maybe it's what stopped me from sinking all the way down, I don't know. But I do know you've got a chance to make some sort of peace with your mother. You ought to take it."

  "She could've asked me to give her a hand."

  "She did. I'm just the filter."

  On a sigh, she turned around and gave the under-the-sink cabinet a testy little kick. "I'll chip in some time, but don't look for happy-ever-after on this, Nate."

  "Ever after's too long to worry about anyway."

  * * *

  He dropped her off at The Lodge, then went back to the station.

  He spent some time writing up notes from his conversations with Otto and John, then began a search-and-run on the names of the pilots Otto had given him.

  He found no criminal on Stokey Loukes, nothing more than a few traffic violations. He lived in Fairbanks now and was employed as a pilot for a tour organization called Alaska Wild. Their web page promised to show clients the real Alaska, and help them bag game, reel in enormous fish and capture scenes of The Great Alone all for various package prices. Group rates available.

  Fielding moved to Australia in '93 and died of natural causes four years later.

  Thomas Kijinski, aka Two-Toes was a different story. Nate found several pops for possession of controlled substances, intent to distribute, D&D, petty larceny. He'd been kicked out of Canada, and his pilot's license had been suspended twice.

  On March 8, 1988, his body had been found stuffed in a trash bin on a dock in Anchorage, multiple stab wounds. His wallet and watch had been missing. Conclusion: mugging. The perpetrator or perpetrators had never been identified.