Northern Lights

toward Meg's plane, then across where her woods began.
    He tried to picture Ed Woolcott—pompous, but tough—skulking around the woods on snowshoes.

 
     
     
    TWENTY
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    THE MOOSE WAS the hot topic for most of the week. Nate was razzed or congratulated on his moose dispersing technique, depending on the source.
    Nate considered the moose a kind of blessing. It took people's minds off murder and death, at least for a little while.
    He'd considered going back to speak with Carrie, and some strategies for getting past the probability she'd slam the door in his face and refuse to see him. The notification that the body had been released and cremated—and that Meg was flying Carrie into Anchorage to pick up the ashes—decided him.
    "I'm going to need to come with you," he told Meg.
    "Look, chief, it's going to be hard enough to deal with coming and going without you there to rub the circumstances in her face."
    "I don't intend to do any rubbing. I'm going to go see her now. We'll meet you at the river."
    "Nate." She finished dragging on her boots. "Maybe you think the Lunacy PD has to be represented here, for whatever cop reason, but send Otto or Peter. Fair or not, you're the last person Carrie wants to see today."
    "We'll meet you at the river." He was halfway to the door of the room they were temporarily sharing, when it struck. He turned, grinned. "Rock and Bull. I'm slow, but I just got it. Must be all the moose talk. Rocky and Bullwinkle."
    "You are slow. Or you had a deprived childhood."
    "No. I just figured they were macho names, like, I don't know, boxers. The Rock, Raging Bull, whatever."
    Her lips tipped up at the corner. Why was it he could charm her even when she was annoyed with him. "The Rock's a wrestler."
    "Close enough. See you in an hour."
    He'd already informed his staff—who had the same pessimistic attitude as Meg—that he'd be making the trip to Anchorage that morning. So he drove straight to Carrie's.
    The door swung open before he was halfway up the walk. She stood in a black sweater and pants, blocking the door. "You can just turn around and go back to your car. I don't have to talk to you, and I don't have to let you into my house."
    "I'd like five minutes, Carrie. I sure as hell don't want to stand out here shouting what I have to say to you through a closed door. I don't think you'd like that either. It'd be easier on both of us if you give me that five minutes inside, especially since I'm going to be on the plane with you in an hour."
    "I don't want you with me."
    "I know that. If you still feel that way after you hear what I have to say, I'll send Peter instead."
    He could see the struggle on her face. Then she turned, walked away, leaving the door open to him and the brisk cold.
    He walked in, shut the door. She stood in her living room, her back to him, her arms folded against her chest tight enough that he saw her knuckles whiten against her own biceps.
    "Are your kids here?"
    "No, I sent them to school. They're better off with the routine, with their friends. They need some normal. How can you come here like this?" She whirled around. "How can you come here and harass me on the day I'm going to bring my husband's ashes home? Don't you have any heart, any compassion?"
    "I'm here officially, and what I'm going to say to you is confidential."
    "Officially." She all but spat it. "What do you want? My husband's dead. He's dead and he can't defend himself against the terrible things you say about him. You won't say those things in his house. This is Max's house, and you won't say those horrible lies about him here."
    "You loved him. Did you love him enough to give me your word that what I do say here won't be repeated? To anyone. Anyone, Carrie."
    "You'd dare ask me if I loved—"
    "Just yes or no. I need your word."
    "I've got no interest in repeating your lies. Say whatever you have to say and get out. I'll promise to forget you were even here."
    It would have to do. "I believe Max was on the mountain with Patrick Galloway at the time of Galloway's death."
    "Go to hell."
    "I also believe there was a third person with them."
    Her mouth trembled open. "What do you mean, a third person?"
    "Three of them went up, two of them came down. I believe that third person is responsible for Galloway's murder. And I believe he killed Max or induced Max to kill himself."
    While she stared, her hand groped out, fumbled its way to the back of a chair. Her body seemed to sink