Northern Lights

lifted his shoulders. "So, logically, it would have to have been someone else. Let me think . . ."
    He picked up a silver pen, tapped it absently against his desk blotter. "When we climbed with Jacob, as I recall, he sometimes used—what was his name—Vietnam vet, Lakes . . . Loukes. That's it. Then there was this maniac. Two-Toes, they called him. Do you think I should call this Coben and tell him?"
    "Couldn't hurt. I should get back." He rose, held out a hand. "I hope we're square now, Mr. Woolcott."
    "Ed. And we are. Damn auger. I paid too much for it, so it's a double annoyance. It's insured, so are the rods, but it's the principle."
    "Understood. Listen, I'll take a ride out to your ice shack, take a look around."
    Satisfaction settled over Ed's face. "Now, I appreciate that. I put a new lock on. Let me get you the keys."
     
     
    SINCE MOOSE AND APOPLECTIC deputy mayors had been dealt with, Nate swung by to see Rose. He made what he hoped were appropriate noises over the baby, who looked like a black-headed turtle swaddled in a pink blanket.
    He called in, let Peach know he was taking a run out to the lake to run another check of Ed's ice shack. On impulse, he stopped by the dog run at The Lodge, sprang Rock and Bull, and took them with him so they could have an hour of free rein.
    It was a nice ride, with the radio turned from Otto's choice of countrywestern to Nate's preference for alternative rock. He drove to the lake to the bouncy beat of blink182.
    Ed's shack sat alone on a rippled plate of ice. It was, Nate estimated, about the size of two generous outhouses stuck together and was fashioned out of what he thought might be cedar shakes. A little more upscale than he'd expected, with the sides silvered by weather and topped by a peaked roof.
    And set well apart from the huddle of other shacks.
    He decided it looked like the manor house and the peasant village, amusing himself.
    The dogs raced over the ice like a couple of kids on school holiday, while Nate slipped and slithered his way across.
    The quiet was amazing—like a church—with a kind of musical hush from that light wind through the snow-drenched trees. The sun dog shimmered in the icy blue sky and had the frozen lake gleaming.
    The sense of silence and solitude was so strong that he jumped, reached for his weapon when he heard the long, echoing call overhead.
    The eagle circled, gold-brown and gorgeous against the heavy sky. The dogs bumped each other playfully, then dived into the bank of snow at the edge of the lake.
    He could see Meg's plane from here, he realized. The red flash of it just at the long curve of the frozen water. And other little snips of civilization if he cared to look. There, a stream of smoke from a chimney, a glimpse of a house through the thick trees, his own breath streaming out.
    He let out a short laugh. Maybe he should give this ice-fishing business a shot. There had to be something to be said for the primitive rush of dropping a line through a hole in the ice and sitting in the quiet on a plate of frozen water.
    He crossed to the shack and saw the sloppy spray-painted DICK SHIT! spewed across the door in virulent yellow.
    Another sign of civilization, Nate thought as he fished out the keys.
    Ed had bolted on two new padlocks, each with a fat, shiny chain.
    He dealt with them, stepped in.
    The graffiti artists had been at work inside. Obscenities squirreled around the walls. He adjusted his annoyance with Ed. He'd have been royally pissed, too, to find this sort of thing in one of his sanctuaries.
    He could see the rack where the rods had been, as well as the utter tidiness under the disorder the vandals had caused.
    The tackle, the Coleman stove, the chairs hadn't been touched, but a cabinet he suspected had held the scotch—Glenfiddich, according to Otto's report—and some food supplies was empty and open.
    He found cleats that snapped on boots and made a mental note to buy some for himself. He found a first-aid kit, extra gloves, hat, an old, worn parka, snowshoes and a couple of thermal blankets.
    The snowshoes were hung on the wall, just over a screaming yellow ASSHOLE. If they'd been used recently, Nate couldn't tell.
    There was fuel for the stove, a fish scaler and a couple of wickedlooking knives. A number of magazines, a portable radio. Extra batteries.
    Nothing, he supposed, that you wouldn't expect to find in an icefishing shack in Alaska.
    When he walked out again, he circled around. He looked down