by Nora Roberts
“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 cliché, 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 n
otes 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.
Shine a light on it another way, Nate thought as he printed out the data, and you have a cleanup rather than a mugging. Pilot takes three, brings back two. Couple weeks later, the pilot’s stabbed and stuffed in the garbage.
Made a man stop and think.
With the station quiet around him, Nate uncovered his case board. He brewed more coffee and dug up a can of processed ham from the storeroom to make himself what passed for a sandwich.
Then he sat at his desk, studying the board, reading his notes, reading Patrick Galloway’s last journal.
And spent the long evening hours thinking.
NINETEEN
HE DIDN’T TELL HER about the journal. When a woman ended the day tired and irritable, it seemed unwise to give her one more thing to add to the mix.
He had to give Meg points for shoving up her sleeves and pitching in at The Lodge, and bonus points for rolling out of bed the next morning and handling the breakfast crowd. Especially since the tension between her and Charlene was thick enough to slice up and fry alongside the bacon.
Still, when he took a table, she walked over, coffeepot at the ready. “Hi. I’m Meg, and I’ll be your server this morning. Since I’m looking for a really big tip, I’m going to wait until after you eat to bash this pot over Charlene’s head.”
“I appreciate that. How long before Rose comes back on?”
“Another week or two anyway, and then Charlene’s going to let her set her own schedule until she feels ready for full-time.”
“You gotta say, that’s obliging.”
“Oh, she’s plenty obliging with Rose.” She shot a short and bitter look over her shoulder in Charlene’s direction. “She loves her. It’s me she can’t tolerate. What’ll it be, handsome?”
“If I say the two of you are probably after the same things, in different ways, are you going to bash me over the head with that coffeepot?”
“I might.”
“Then I’ll have the oatmeal.”
“You eat oatmeal?” She wrinkled her sexily crooked nose. “Without somebody holding a knife to your throat?”
“It sticks with you.”
“Yeah, for weeks.”
With a shrug, she walked off to take more orders, top off mugs of coffee.
He liked watching her move. Quick, but not rushed, sexy, but not obvious. She wore the ubiquitous flannel shirt, open over a white thermal. A silver pendant bounced lightly from its chain between her breasts.
She’d slapped some makeup on—he knew because he’d watched her, and slapped was the operative word. Fast, efficient, absent, quick brushes of color on the cheeks, shadowy stuff on the eyes, then careless flicks of mascara on those long, dark lashes.
And when a man noticed how a woman handled mascara, Nate mused, he was sunk.
Charlene came out with an order; Meg went back with her pad. They didn’t acknowledge each other, except for the sudden dip in temperature.
He picked up his coffee, pulled out his notebook to use it as a shield when Charlene headed in his direction. Even a man who was sunk had enough self-preservation to stay out of the middle of two sniping women.
“Want me to top that off for you? She get your order? I don’t know why she can’t be more pleasant to the customers.”
“No, thanks. Yes, she did. And she was pleasant.”
“To you, maybe, because you’re balling her.”
“Charlene.” He caught the unmuffled snickers from the booth where Hans and Dexter habitually sat. “God.”
“Well, it’s no secret, is it?”
“Not anymore,” he muttered.
“Spent the night in your room, didn’t she?”
He set his coffee down. “If that’s a problem for you, I can take my things to her place.”
“Why should it be a problem for me?” Despite his no, thanks, she topped off his coffee in an automatic gesture. “Why should anything be a problem for me?”
To his utter terror, her eyes filled with tears. Before he could think how to handle it, or her, she rushed out of the room, coffee sloshing in her pot.
“Women,” Bing said from the booth behind him. “Nothing but trouble.”
Nate shifted around. Bing was plowing through a plate of eggs, sausage and home fries. There was a sneaky grin on his face, but if Nate didn’t mistake it, a little gleam of sympathy in his eyes.
“You ever been married, Bing?”
“Was once. Didn’t stick.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Thought about doing it again. Maybe I’ll get myself one of those Russian mail-order women, like Johnny Trivani’s doing.”
“He’s going through with that?”
“Sure. Got it down to two, last I heard. Thought I’d see how it works out for him, then look into it.”
“Uh-huh.” Since they were having what passed as a conversation, Nate decided to probe. “Do you do any climbing, Bing?”
“Used to some. Don’t like it much. I got free time, I’d rather go hunting. You looking to recreate?”
“Might be. Days are getting longer.”
“You got city all over you, and a skinny build. Stick with town, chief, that’s my advice. Take up knitting or some shit.”
“I’ve always wanted to macramé.” At Bing’s blank look, Nate only smiled. “How come you don’t have a plane, Bing? Guy like you, likes his independence, knows his machines. Seems like a natural.”
“Too much work. I’m gonna work, it’s gonna be on the ground. Besides, you have to be half crazy to pilot.”
“So I hear. Somebody mentioned some pilot to me, funny name. Six-Toes something.”
“That’d be Two-Toes. Lost three of them on one foot to frostbite or some shit. Now that was one crazy bastard. Dead now.”
“That so? Crashed?”
“Nah. Got himself beat up in a fight. Or no . . .” Bing’s brow wrinkled. “Stabbed. City crime. Teach you to live with that many other people.”
“There you go. Did you ever go up with him?”
“Once. Crazy bastard. Flew a bunch of us out to the bush for caribou. Didn’t know he was higher than the frigging moon until he damn near killed us. Blackened his eye for it,” Bing said with relish. “Crazy bastard.”
Nate started to respond, but Meg came out of the kitchen—and the front door opened.
“Chief Nate!” Jesse flew in, steps ahead of David. “You’re here.”
“You, too.” Nate flicked a finger down the boy’s nose. “David. How’s Rose, and the baby?”
“Good. Really good. We’re giving her a break, having a man’s breakfast here.”
“Can we sit with you?” Jesse asked. “ ’Cause we’re all men.”
“You bet.”
“And the best-looking men in Lunacy.” Meg slid the oatmeal, a plate of wheat toast and a bowl of mixed fruit in front of Nate. “You driving yet, Jesse?”
He laughed and scooted into the booth beside Nate. “No.” He bounced. “Can I fly your plane?”
>
“When your feet reach the pedals. Coffee, David?”
“Thanks. You sure this is all right?” he asked Nate.
“Sure. I’ve missed my usual breakfast buddy here. How’s it feel to be the big brother?”
“I dunno. She cries. Loud. And then she sleeps. A lot. But she held my finger. She sucks on Mom’s boobie to get milk.”
“Really,” was all Nate could think to say.
“Why don’t I get you some milk, in a glass?” Meg poured coffee for David.
“Rose heard you were pitching in for her.” David added sugar to his coffee. “She wanted you to know she appreciates it. We all do.”
“No problem.” Meg glanced over when Charlene came back in. “I’ll get that milk while you decide what to have for your manly breakfast.”
Nate left his truck for Meg and walked to the station. The sunlight was weak, but it was light. The mountains were misted by clouds, the kind he now knew carried snow with them. But the bitter wind and the cold it whipped up had mellowed. The walk warmed his muscles, cleared his head.
He passed familiar faces, exchanged greetings in the absent way people who saw each other almost every day were wont to do.
And he thought, with some surprise, that he was making a place for himself. Not just an escape, a refuge or a stopgap, but a place.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about leaving or just drifting to some other town, some other job. It had been days since he’d had to force himself out of bed in the morning or since he’d sat in the dark for hours, afraid to face sleep and the nightmares that ran with it.
The weight could still come back, into his head, his shoulders, his gut, but it wasn’t as heavy, wasn’t as often.
He looked to the mountains again and knew he owed Patrick Galloway. Owed him enough for cracking open that dark so that he couldn’t and wouldn’t give up trying to find him justice.
He stopped when Hopp swung her four-wheel over. She rolled down her window. “I’m on my way to see Rose and the baby.”
“Give them my best.”
“You ought to pay a call yourself. Meanwhile, couple of things. Feds’ll be setting off a controlled avalanche the day after tomorrow so the road between here and Anchorage is going to be blocked.”