Northern Lights

scarier than I expected, but interesting."
    "And it's because I love you, and I trust you, that I'm going to show you this."
    He opened the file on his desk. Taking the copied pages of Patrick Galloway's journal, he handed them to her.
    He saw the instant she recognized the handwriting, the way her body went stiff and still, the quick, almost inaudible drawing in of breath. Her gaze flicked up to his once, briefly, then riveted on the pages in her hand.
    She said nothing as she read them. She didn't weep or rage or tremble as another woman might have done. Instead, she picked up her wine again, sipped slowly, and read the pages straight through.
    "Where did these come from?"
    "They're copies from the pages out of a notebook he had inside his parka. Coben gave them to me."
    "How long ago?"
    "Few days."
    There was a little burn in the center of her belly. "And you didn't tell me. You didn't show me."
    "No."
    "Because?"
    "I needed to evaluate, and you needed to settle."
    "Is that part of your edge, chief ? Making unilateral decisions?"
    "It's part of my professional responsibilities, and my personal feelings. You can't discuss this with anyone, until I determine otherwise."
    "You've shown them to me now because in your professional opinion you've evaluated and I've settled."
    "Something like that."
    She closed her eyes. "You take care, don't you? Professionally, personally. It's pretty much the same to you, the caring."
    He said nothing, and she opened her eyes. "No point in tossing a bunch of bullshit out at you when you did what you thought was right. Probably was right."
    Knowing it wouldn't go down easy now, she set the wine aside. "What does Coben think?"
    "It's more what his superiors think at this point. The theory is Max killed Galloway, then killed the third man. When your father's body was discovered, fear of discovery and remorse drove him to suicide."
    "That's how they'll write it up, close it down, whatever the cop-speak for it is."
    "I think so, yes."
    "Poor Carrie." She leaned forward, laid the pages back on his desk. "Poor Max. He never killed Patrick Galloway."
    "No," Nate said and closed the file again. "He didn't."

 
     
     
     
    TWENTY-ONE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    THEY PACKED INTO Town Hall for Max Hawbaker's memorial. It was the only place big enough to hold the crowd. It was interesting to Nate how many showed up—in work clothes or Sunday clothes, in Alaskan tuxedos or bunny boots. They came because he'd been one of them, and his wife and kids still were. They came, Nate thought, whether they thought he was a small-town hero or a murderer.
    And many did believe the latter. Nate saw it in their eyes or heard it in snatches of conversation. He let it go.
    Max was eulogized with warmth and with humor—and the name Patrick Galloway was carefully omitted from any public statement.
    Then it was done. Some went back to work, and some went to Carrie's for what he always thought of as the post-funeral replay.
    Nate went back to work.
     
     
    CHARLENE AMBUSHED MEG as she off-loaded supplies from her plane. She grabbed her arm, tugged her away from Jacob. "I need to see him."
    "Who?"
    "You know who. I want you to fly me into Anchorage, to the funeral home that's holding his body till spring. I have a right."
    Meg studied Charlene's face. "Well, I can't. It's too late to fly to Anchorage today, and I've got jobs booked. Iditarod's under way. People want to fly over the route, get pictures."
    "I've got a right—"
    "What brought this on?"
    "Just because we didn't get married doesn't mean I wasn't his wife. His true wife, just the same as Carrie was to Max."
    "Oh shit." Meg paced out two tight circles. "You know, I thought you showed a lot of class going to the memorial, looking Carrie right in the eye and giving her your condolences. And here you are working up a mad because she got all that attention."
    "That's not it." Or only part of it, Charlene admitted. "I want to see him, and I will. If you won't take me, I'll call Jerk in Talkeetna, pay him to fly me down."
    "You've been stewing about this since Max's memorial, haven't you? Just stewing and churning it around since then. What's the point, Charlene?"
    "You've seen him."
    "Score one for me."
    "How do I know he's gone? How do I know it's him unless I see for myself ? The way Carrie got to see Max."
    "I can't take you."
    "You'd make me go with a stranger?"
    Meg looked back at the river. There'd been some overflow. Cracks and gaps in the shifting