Northern Lights

by Nora Roberts

  time being." She gulped down coffee. "Two minutes for the face," she said and scooted back into the bathroom.

  "She and Big Mike have their heads together on this behemoth wedding cake. I'm giving her her head there. I like cake. We're tangling about the flowers. I'm not being buried in pink roses, but we've agreed on a few things. Like getting a professional photographer. Snapshots are great, but this is a monumental deal, so we go with a pro. Oh, and she says you have to get a new suit."

  "I already have a suit."

  "She says you have to have a new one, and it has to be gray. Steel gray, not dove gray. Or maybe it was dove gray and not steel gray. I don't know, and I'm tossing you to the wolves on that one, Burke. You argue with her."

  "I can buy a suit," he muttered. "I can buy a gray suit. Do I get to pick out my own underwear?"

  "Ask Charlene. There, done. Let's go, aren't you ready yet? You're holding up the parade."

  She laughed when he made a grab for her and let him chase her down the stairs.

  They were at the door when he stopped, when it clicked into place for him, when that jolt of memory became knowledge. "Snapshot. Goddamn."

  "What?" Meg pushed at her hair as he charged back upstairs. "You want a camera? Men. Jesus.

  And they're always harping about women not being on time."

  She trudged back upstairs, then stared in astonishment while he dragged her albums and boxes of photos from the closet to dump them on the bed.

  "What are you doing?"

  "It's in here. I remember. I'm sure of it."

  "What's in there? What are you doing with my pictures?"

  "It's in here. Summer picnic? No, no . . . campfire shot. Or. . . damn it."

  "Just a minute here. How do you know there's a campfire shot in there or summer picnics or anything else?"

  "I snooped. Scold me later."

  "You can count on it."

  "The earring, Meg. I saw it when I was looking through here. I know I saw it."

  She shoved him aside so she could grab a stack. "Who was wearing it? Who did you see?" She scanned pictures, tossed them out like toy airplanes.

  "Group shot," he murmured, straining to bring it into focus. "Party shot. Holiday . . . Christmas."

  He grabbed the album she reached for and flipped through to the end. "There. Bull's-eye."

  "New Year's Eve. They let me stay up. I took that picture myself. I took it."

  Her hand trembled as she peeled back the plastic, pulled the photograph free. The edge of the tree was in the corner, the colored lights and balls blurry. She'd gone in close, so it was just the faces, nearly only the faces, though she remembered now that her father had his guitar on his lap.

  He'd been laughing, with Charlene pulled tight against him so her cheek was pressed right up against his. Max had mugged his way in from behind the couch, but she'd cut off the top of his head.

  But the one who sat on the other side of her father, his head turned slightly as he smiled at someone across the room, was clear.

  As was the silver Maltese cross dangling from his ear.

  Thirty-One

  "It's not proof, Meg, not a hundred percent."

  "Don't give me that cop bullshit, Burke." As he drove, she sat with her arms folded tight at her waist, as if holding in pain.

  "It's not bullshit. It's circumstantial. It's good, but it's circumstantial." His mind worked back, forward, covering the ground. "The earring was handled by at least two people before it came to me. No forensics. It's a common design, probably thousands of them out there during that time. He could have lost it, given it away, borrowed it himself. The fact that he wore it in a photograph taken more than sixteen years ago doesn't prove he was on that mountain. A brain-dead defense attorney could smash it in trial."

  "He killed my father."

  Ed holds a grudge. Hopp had told him that, after the run-in with Hawley.

  All those connecting lines. Galloway to Max, Galloway to Bing, Galloway to Steven Wise.

  You can add more. Woolcott to Max—the concerned old friend helping the widow with the memorial. Woolcott to Bing—implicating the man who might know, who might remember a casual conversation from sixteen years before.

  Hawley's slashed tires and spray-painted truck—payback for the wreck, disguised as childish vandalism.

  Money. Ed Woolcott was the money man. What better way to hide a sudden cash windfall than your own bank?

  "That bastard Woolcott killed my father."

  "That's right. I know it. You know it. He knows it. But building a case is a different thing."

  "You've been building a case since January. Piece by step by layer, when the State basically closed it up. I've watched you."

  "Let me finish it."

  "What do you think I'm going to do?" She squinted against the sun. She'd walked out of the house without her sunglasses, without anything but her own bubbling need to act. "Walk up to him and put a gun in his ear?"

  Because he heard it in her voice, the dark grief along with the bright rage, he laid a hand over hers. Squeezed. "Wouldn't put it past you."

  "I won't." It took an effort to turn her hand over, to return that connection when it would have been easy to yank it back. Stay alone with the storming emotions. "But I'm going to see his face, Nate. I'm going to be there where I can see his face when you take him in."

  The main street was already lined with people staking their claim on position. Folding chairs and coolers stood on curb and sidewalk, many already occupied or in use as people sat and slurped on drinks in plastic cups.

  The air was already buzzing with noise, shouts and squeals and laughter spearing up through the blast of music from KLUN.

  Trucks offering snow cones, ice cream, hot dogs and other parade food were parked on corners and down side streets. Rainbow bunting waved in the breeze.

  Two thousand people, Nate estimated, and a good chunk of them kids. A normal day in Lunacy, he could've walked into the bank and taken Ed quietly in his office.

  It wasn't a normal day, in any stretch.

  He parked at the station, pulled Meg in with him. "Otto and Peter," he demanded of Peach.

  "Out with the horde where I should be." Irritation marred her eyes as she smoothed a flowing skirt, the color of daffodils, over her ample hips. "We thought you'd be here before—"

  "Call them both in."

  "Nate, we've got over a hundred people already lining up on the school grounds. We need—"

  "Call them both in!" he snapped. He kept walking, one hand on Meg's arm, into his office. "I want you to stay here."

  "No. It's not only stupid and wrong for you to expect that, it's disrespectful."

  "He's got a concealed license."

  "So do I. Give me a gun."

  "Meg, he's already killed three times. He'll do whatever he can to protect himself."

  "I'm not something you can bundle away safe."

  "I'm not—"

  "Yes, you are. It's your first instinct, but get over it. I won't ask you not to bring your work home or complain when it interferes with my life. I won't ask you to be what you're not. Don't ask that of me. Give me a gun.

  I promise I won't use it unless I have to. I don't want him dead. I want him alive. Rotting. I want him healthy so he rots for a long, long time."

  "I want to know what's going on." With her hands fisted on her hips, Peach filled the doorway. "I called those boys back, and now we've got no one out there keeping order. A bunch of high school boys have already run a tie-dyed bra up the flagpole, one of the draft horses kicked a tourist who's probably going to sue, and those lamebrain Mackie boys hauled in a keg of Budweiser and are already skunk drunk."

  Frustration had the words shooting out like machine-gun fire. "They stole a bunch of balloons, too, and are, right this damn minute, marching up and down the street like fools. We've got reporters here, Nate, we've got media attention, and it just isn't the image we want to project."

  "Where's Ed Woolcott?" />
  "With Hopp at the school by now. They're supposed to ride behind those damn horses. What is going on?"

  "Call Sergeant Coben, in Anchorage. Tell him I'm taking a suspect in the Patrick Galloway homicide into custody."

  * * *

  "I don't want to spook him," Nate told his deputies. "I don't want violence or a panic in the kind of crowd we're dealing with. Civilian safety is first order."

  "The three of us ought to be able to take him down pretty quick and simple."

  "Maybe," Nate acknowledged. "But I'm not risking civilian lives on 'maybe,' Otto. He's not going anywhere. At this point, he has no reason to attempt flight. So we contain him. While we have this parade to deal with, at least one of us will have him in visual contact at all times."

  He turned to the corkboard. "We've got Peach's parade route and schedule right here. He comes right after the high school band. That's position six on the program. They'll go from the school into the town proper, down Lunatic and out again. They'll stop here, at Buffalo Inlet, then turn off to come around the back way to the school to off-load. At that point, it won't be as crowded there, and we can take him quietly, with minimal civilian risk."

  "One of us can go back up to the school grounds," Peter put in. "After they've gotten to the far end of town. Clear out the civilians."

  "That's exactly what I want you to do. We take him quietly, at the end of the route. We bring him back here and let Coben know the suspect is in custody."

  "You're just going to turn him over to the State cop?" Otto demanded. "Just here you go, pal, after you've done all the work?"

  "It's Coben's case."

  "Bullshit. State brushed this off. Didn't want the mess and bother and took the easy way."

  "Not entirely true," Nate said. "But regardless, this is how it's done. How it's going to be done."

  He didn't need collars and commendations. Not anymore. He just needed to finish the job. From dark to light, he thought. From death to justice.

  "Our priorities are to maintain civilian safety and take the suspect into custody. After that, it's Coben's game."

  "It's your call. Looks like I'll have to be satisfied to watch Ed shit bricks when you slap the cuffs on him. Bastard killed that poor old dog."

  Otto glanced at Meg, colored a little. "And the others. Pat and Max. Just the dog was most recent, that's all."

  "It's okay." Meg offered a grim smile. "As long as he pays for all of it, it's okay."

  "Well." Otto cleared his throat, stared hard at the maps pinned to the corkboard. "When they go around the back roads, we'll lose visual," he pointed out.

  "No, I'll have that covered. A couple of civilian volunteers." He glanced up as Jacob and Bing walked in.

  "Said you had a job." Bing scratched his belly. "What's it pay?"

  * * *

  Meg waited until he'd dispensed two-ways and sent the men out to take up their initial positions.

  "And where am I in all this?" "With me."

  "Good enough." She'd pulled her shirt out to cover the holstered .38 at the small of her back.

  "They might question why you're not doing the flyby, as scheduled." "Engine trouble," she said as they started out. "Sorry about that." The crowd was full of color and noise and cheers with the smell of grilling meat and sugar filling the air. Kids were running around a streamer-and-flower-decorated maypole erected for the event in front of Town Hall. He saw the doors of The Lodge were open, and Char-lene was doing a brisk business with those who wanted a more substantial lunch than could be had on the street.

  Side streets were barricaded against vehicular traffic. A young couple sat on one of the barricades making out with some enthusiasm while a group of their friends played Hacky Sack in the street behind them. A television crew out of Anchorage was doing a pan of the crowd from the opposite corner.

  Tourists shot videos or browsed the folding tables and portable booths where local crafts and jewelry were sold. Beaded leather bags, dream catchers, elaborate Native masks hung on folding screens. Plain and fancy mukluks and handwoven grass baskets ranged over the folding tables or slabs of plywood set on sawhorses.

  Though it was warm and sunny, caps and scarves made of qiviut, the underwool of the Arctic musk ox, sold briskly.

  The Italian Place sold slices of pizza to go. The Corner Store had a special on disposable cameras and bug dope. A spin rack of postcards stood just outside the door. They ran three for two dollars.

  "An enterprising little town," Meg commented as they drove through.

  "It is that."

  "And after today, a safer one. Thanks to you. Otto nailed that. It's thanks to you, chief."

  "Aw shucks, ma'am."

  She rubbed a hand over his. "You say that like Gary Cooper, but you've got Clint Eastwood—Dirty Harry years—in your eyes."

  "Just don't. . . I'm trusting you."

  "You can." There was an icy calm over the rage now. If there was overflow, if that rage bubbled up and cracked the calm, she'd freeze it up again. "I need to be there, but. . . we can say this is your bear to take down."

  "Okay."

  "It's going to be a beautiful day for a parade," she said after a long breath. "The air's so still, though.

  Like it's waiting for something."They pulled up at the school. "I guess this is it."

  The marching bands were decked out in bright blue uniforms with their brass buttons and instruments gleaming with polish. Horns clashed as different sections practiced, and adults in charge shouted out instructions.

  Drums boomed.

  The hockey team was already loading up, sticks clacking as they herded into position. They'd lead the parade, with their regional champions' banner hiding the rust on Bing's flatbed truck. A test of the recording and speakers had Queen's "We Are the Champions" pouring out.

  "There you are." Hopp, snappy in a suit of hot candy pink, hurried up to him. "Ignatious, I thought we were going to have to run this show without you."

  "Handling things in town. You've got a full house."

  "And an NBC affiliate to document it." Her cheeks were nearly as pink as her suit with the excitement of it. "Meg, shouldn't you be getting up there?" She pointed skyward.

  "Engine's down, Hopp. Sorry."

  "Oh. Well, poop. Do you know if Doug Clooney's got his boat out