by Nora Roberts
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.
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 12
9:12 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.”
12:15 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.
2:00 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 Volunteer Fire Department are organizing a Free Manny all-you-can-eat buffet.
2:55 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.
3:40 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.
5:25 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 by-line, 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 deta
ils.” 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.
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.”
