by Nora Roberts
“Red.” In the shambles of the cabin, the man looked at him. His lips trembled into a smile. “Your blood’s red.” And dropping the gun, he fell to the filthy cabin floor and wept.
HIS NAME WAS Robert Joseph Spinnaker—a financial consultant from L.A., and a recent psychiatric patient. He had claimed multiple alien abductions over the past eighteen months, stated that his wife was a reproduction, and attacked two of his clients during a meeting.
He’d been listed as missing for nearly three months.
Now he slept peacefully in a cell, reassured by the color of the blood on Nate’s face and Peter’s arm.
Nate had done little more than lock him up before he’d rushed back to the clinic so he could pace the waiting room.
He went over the entire event a hundred times, and each time he saw himself doing something different, just a little different that kept Peter from being hurt.
When Ken came out, Nate was sitting, his head in his hands.
He jerked up immediately. “How bad?”
“Getting shot’s never good, but it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. He’ll be wearing a sling for a while. He’s lucky it was bird shot. He’s a little weak, a little groggy. I’m going to keep him a couple more hours. But he’s good.”
“Okay.” Nate let his knees give way and lowered to the chair again. “Okay.”
“Why don’t you come back, let me clean those cuts on your face.”
“Just some scratches.”
“The one under your eye’s more of a gash. Come on, don’t argue with the doctor.”
“Can I see him?”
“Nita’s with him now. You can see him after I treat you.” Ken led the way, gestured for Nate to get on an exam table. “You know,” he said as he cleaned the cuts, “it’d be stupid for you to blame yourself.”
“He’s green. He’s grass, and I took him into an unstable situation.”
“That’s not showing much respect for him or the job he signed on to do.”
Nate hissed in a breath at the sting under his eye. “He’s a baby.”
“He’s not. He’s a man. A good man. And you taking on the weight lessens what happened to him today—and what he did.”
“He got up, broke cover and got to the door after me. He could barely keep his feet, but he came to back me up.”
Nate met Ken’s eyes as Ken fixed on a butterfly bandage. “His blood was on my hands but he came through the door to back me up. So maybe I’m the one who can’t handle himself.”
“You did handle yourself. I got most of it from Peter. He thinks you’re a hero. If you want to pay him back for what happened, don’t disillusion him. There.” Ken stepped back. “You’ll live.”
HOPP WAS IN THE WAITING ROOM when Nate came out, along with Peter’s parents and Rose. They all stood, began talking at once.
“He’s resting. He’s fine,” Ken assured them. And Nate kept walking.
“Ignatious.” Hopp hurried out after him. “I’d like to know what happened.”
“I’m walking back.”
“Then I’ll walk with you, and you can tell me. I’d like to get it straight from you rather than the various accounts blowing around town at this point.”
He told her, briefly.
“Would you slow down? Your legs are longer than my whole body. How’d your face get hurt?”
“Tree shrapnel. Flying bark, that’s all.”
“Flying because he was shooting at you. For God’s sake.”
“The fact my face got cut up is probably why both Spinnaker and I are still standing. Fortunately I bleed red.”
So does Peter, he thought. He’d bled plenty of red today.
“The State Police coming to get him?”
“Peach is contacting them.”
“Well.” She drew a breath. “He’s been out and about being crazy for three months. Squatting out there God knows how long. He could be the one who killed poor Yukon. He could be the one who did that.”
Nate found his sunglasses in his pocket and put them on. “He could be, but he’s not.”
“Man’s crazy, and it was a crazy thing. He could’ve thought Yukon was some alien in a dog suit. It makes sense, Ignatious.”
“Only if you believe this guy happened to sneak into town, hunt up an old dog, brought the dog outside Town Hall and sliced his throat—having previously stolen the buck knife. That’s a little too broad for me, Hopp.”
She took his arm so he’d stop. “Maybe because you’d rather believe otherwise. Maybe because believing otherwise is giving you something to get your teeth into. More than breaking up a few fights or keeping Drunk Mike from freezing his sorry ass. Did it ever occur to you that you’re tying all this together, looking for a killer among us because you want it to be so?”
“I don’t want it to be so. It is so.”
“Damn stubborn . . .” She set her teeth, turned to the side until she controlled her temper. “Things won’t settle down around here if you keep stirring them up.”
“Things shouldn’t settle down around here until they’re resolved. I’ve got to go write up my report on this.”
NATE SPENT THE NIGHT in the station, most of it listening to Spinnaker’s earnest reports of his alien experiences. To keep him calm, if not quiet, Nate sat outside the cell, making notes.
And was deeply thrilled to see the State Police arrive the next morning to relieve him of his prisoner.
He was also surprised to see Coben on the detail.
“Maybe you should consider renting a room down here, Sergeant.”
“I figured this would be an opportunity to touch base on other matters. If we could take a minute in your office.”
“Sure. I’ve got the paperwork on Spinnaker for you.”
He walked into his office, picked up the paperwork. “Assault with deadly on police officers, et cetera. The shrinks will soften that up, but it won’t make my deputy any less shot.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay. He’s young, resilient. It caught him mostly in the meaty part of the arm.”
“Any time you walk away, it’s a good day.”
“There’s that.”
Coben walked over to the board. “Still pursuing this?”
“Looks like.”
“Making any headway?”
“Depends on where you’re standing.”
Lips pursed, Coben rocked back on his heels. “Dead dog? You’re linking that?”
“Man’s gotta have a hobby.”
“Look, I’m not fully satisfied with the resolution of my case, but I’ve got restrictions on me. A lot of it does depend on where you’re standing. We can agree there was an unidentified third man on that mountain when Galloway was killed. Doesn’t mean he killed Galloway or had knowledge thereof. Doesn’t mean he’s still alive, for that matter, as it’s more logical that the individual who killed Galloway also disposed of this third man.”
“Not if the third man was Hawbaker.”
“We don’t believe it was. But if it was,” Coben continued, “it sure as hell doesn’t mean this unidentified third man had anything to do with Hawbaker’s death—or the death of some dog. I’ve got a little wiggle room, unofficially, to confirm the identity of the third man, but it’s not taking me anywhere.”
“The pilot who took them up was killed in unexplained circumstances.”
“There’s no proof of that. I’ve looked into it. Kijinski paid off some debts and made more during the period between Galloway’s death and his own. So that’s hinky, I’ll give you that. But there’s no one to confirm he took them up.”
“Because all but one of them’s dead.”
“There are no records, no flight logs. No nothing. And nobody who knew Kijinski, or will admit to it, who remembers him booking that flight. He may very well have been the pilot, and if so, it’s just as logical to assume Hawbaker disposed of him as well.”
“Might be logical. Except Max Hawbaker didn’t kill three men. An
d he didn’t come back from the grave and slit that dog’s throat.”
“It doesn’t matter what your gut tells you. I need something solid.”
“Give me time,” Nate said.
TWO DAYS LATER, Meg strolled into the station, flipped a wave at Peach and went straight back to Nate’s office.
A glance at his board barely broke her stride. “Okay, cutie, I’m springing you.”
“Sorry?”
“Even thoughtful, dedicated, hardworking cops get a day off. You’re due.”
“Peter’s on inactive. We’re a man short.”
“And you’re sitting here brooding about that and everything else. You need head-clearing time, Burke. If something comes up, we’ll head back.”
“From where?”
“It’s a surprise. Peach,” she called as she started back out. “Your boss is taking the rest of the day off. What do they call it on NYPD Blue? Personal time.”
“He could use some.”
“You can cover it, can’t you, Otto?”
“Meg—” Nate began.
“Peach, when’s the last time the chief took a day off?”
“Three weeks, a little more, by my recollection.”
“Head-clearing time, chief.” Meg grabbed his jacket off the hook herself. “We’ve got a clear day for it.”
He took one of the two-ways. “An hour.”
She smiled. “We’ll start with that.”
When he spotted her plane at the dock, he stopped dead. “You didn’t say this head-clearing time involved flying.”
“It’s the best method. Guaranteed.”
“Couldn’t we just take a drive, have sex in the backseat of the car? I find that’s a really good method.”
“Trust me.” She kept his hand firmly in hers and used her other to brush the cut under his eye. “How’s that feeling?”
“Now that you mention it, I probably shouldn’t fly with a wound like this.”
She cupped his face, leaned in and kissed him, long, slow and deep. “Come with me, Nate. I have something I want to share with you.”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
He got in the plane, strapped in. “You know, I’ve never taken off from the water. Not when the water was . . . wet. There’s still some ice. It wouldn’t be good to run into the ice, right?”
“A man who faces down an armed mental patient shouldn’t be so jittery about flying.” She kissed her fingers, tapped them on Buddy Holly’s lips and began to glide over the water.
“Sort of like water skiing, but not,” Nate managed, then held his breath as she gained speed, kept holding it as the plane lifted off the water.
“I thought you were working today,” he said when he decided it was safe to breathe again.
“I passed it to Jerk. He’ll be dropping off supplies later. We’ve got parade stuff coming in, including a whole case of bug dope.”
“You and Jerk run drugs for insects.”
She slid her eyes in his direction. “Insect repellant, cutie. You survived your first Alaska winter. Now we’ll see how you fare in the summer. With mosquitoes as big as B-52s. You won’t want to walk three feet out of the house without your bug dope.”
“Roger on the bug dope, but I’m not eating Eskimo ice cream. Jesse says it’s made from whipped seals.”
“Oil,” she said on a laugh. “Seal oil or moose tallow. And it’s not bad if you mix in some berries and sugar.”
“I’ll take your word because I’m not eating moose tallow. I don’t even know what the hell it is.”
She smiled again because his shoulders had relaxed, and he was actually looking down. “Pretty from here, isn’t it, with the river, the ice, and the town all lined up behind it?”
“It looks quiet and simple.”
“But it’s not. It’s not really either of those. The bush looks quiet, too, from the air. Peaceful and serene. A harsh kind of beauty. But it’s not serene. Nature will kill you without a minute’s thought, and in nastier ways than a crazy guy with a gun. It doesn’t make her any less beautiful. I couldn’t live anywhere else. I couldn’t be anywhere else.”
She soared over river and lake, and he could see the progress of breakup, the steady march of spring. Patches of green spread as the sun worked on the snow. A waterfall rushed down a cliff side with the sparkle of ice gleaming out of deep shadows.
Below them, a small herd of moose lumbered across a field. Above, the sky curved like a wild, blue ribbon.
“Jacob was here that February.” Meg glanced at him. “I wanted to get that out of the way—maybe off both our minds. He came to see me a lot when my father was gone. I don’t know if my father asked him to, or if it was just Jacob’s way. There might’ve been a couple days here and there I didn’t see him. But not as much as a week at a stretch, not a long enough time for him to have climbed with my father. I wanted you to know that, for certain, in case you needed to ask him to help you.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, and I was a kid. But I remember that. Once I thought back on it, I remembered. I saw more of him than I did of Charlene in those first few weeks after my father left. He took me ice fishing and hunting, and when we had a storm come in, I stayed at his place for a couple of days. I’m telling you that you can trust him, that’s all.”
“All right.”
“Now, look to starboard.”
He glanced right and watched them fly off the edge of the world, over a channel of blue water that seemed entirely too close for comfort. Before he could object, he saw an enormous chunk of that blue-white world crack off and tumble into the water.
“My God.”
“This is an active tidewater glacier. And what you’re watching is called calving,” she said as other boulders of ice broke and fell. “I guess because in the cycle, it’s more a kind of birth than death.”
“It’s beautiful.” He was all but plastered against the windscreen now. “It’s amazing. Jesus, some of them are the size of a house.” He let out a laugh as another shot off into the air and barely registered the shimmy of the plane in a pocket of turbulence.
“People pay me good money to fly them over here to see this, then spend most of their time with their eyes glued to the lens of a video camera. Seems like a waste to me. If they want to see this on a movie, they should rent one.”
It wasn’t just the show, Nate thought, the spectacle of it. It was that cycle—violent, inevitable, somehow mythic. The sights—jagged boulders of blue ice heaving themselves into the air. The sounds of it, creaks, the thunder and the cannon shots. The gushing up of the water on impact, the rising of the white into a shimmering island that streamed along on the churning fjord.
“I have to stay here.”
She guided the plane up, circling so he could watch from another angle. “Here, in the air?”
“No.” He turned his head, grinned at her in a way she rarely saw. Easy and relaxed and happy. “Here. I can’t be anyplace else either. It’s good to know that.”
“Here’s something else that might be good to know. I’m in love with you.”
She laughed as the plane shuddered through rough air; then she punched it through, and bulleted up the channel while ice fell around them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLENE HAD ALWAYS LOVED what passed for spring in Alaska. She loved the way the days kept stretching out, longer and longer until there was nothing but light.
In her office she stood at the window, her work neglected on her desk, and stared out at the street. Busy. People walking, driving, going, coming. Townspeople and tourists, country dwellers in for supplies or company. Fourteen of her twenty rooms were booked, and she’d be at capacity for three days the following week. After that, the strong, almost endless light would draw people in like flies to honey.
She’d work like a dog through most of April, into May and straight through until freeze-up.
She liked to work, to have her place crowded with people, the noise
and the mess they made. The money they spent.
She’d built something here, hadn’t she? She’d found what she wanted—or most of what she wanted. She looked out to the river. Boats were on it now, slipping their way through the melting islands of ice.
She looked beyond the river, beyond to the mountains. White and blue, with green beginning to spread slowly, very slowly at their feet. White at their peaks, forever white in that frozen, foreign world.
She’d never climbed. She never would.
The mountains had never called to her. But other things had. Pat had. She’d felt that call blow through her, a thousand trumpets, when he’d roared into her life. Not yet seventeen, she remembered, and still a virgin. Stuck, hadn’t she been stuck, in those flat Iowa fields just waiting for someone to pluck her out?
The original midwestern farm girl, she thought now, desperate for any escape. Then he’d come, churning up all that dull air on his motorcycle, looking so dangerous and exotic and . . . different.
Oh, he’d called to her, Charlene remembered, and she’d answered that call. Sneaking out of the house on those chilly spring nights to run to him, to roll naked with him on the soft green grass, free and careless as a puppy. And so desperately in love. That burning, blistering love maybe you could only feel at seventeen.
When he’d gone, she’d gone with him, walking out on home, family, friends, speeding away from the world she knew, and into another—on the back of a Harley.
To be seventeen, she thought, and that daring again.
They’d lived. How they’d lived. Going wherever they wanted, doing whatever they liked. Through farmland and desert, through city and tiny town.
And all the roads they’d wandered had led here.
Things had changed. When had they changed? she wondered. When she realized she was pregnant? They’d been so thrilled, so stupidly thrilled about the baby. But things had changed when they’d come here with that seed planted inside her. When she’d told him she’d wanted to stay.
Sure, Charley, no problem. We can stick around awhile.
A while had become a year, then two, then a decade, and God, God, she’d been the one to change. To push and prod at that wonderful, reckless boy, to nag and hound him to be a man, to be what he’d run from. Responsible, settled. Ordinary.
