Northern Lights

Once we have him loaded, I need you to go back inside, tell Joe and Lara their dog's with me, and where. Go get the camera now."
    He looked up, caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. When he straightened, he saw Meg on the sidewalk, holding his jacket.
    "You forgot this."
    "I don't want you out here."
    "I've already seen what somebody did to that poor dog. Poor old Yukon. It's going to break Lara's heart."
    "Go back inside."
    "I'm going home. I'm going home to my own dogs."
    He grabbed her arm. "You're going back inside, and when I've cleared it, you're going to The Lodge."
    "This isn't a police state, Burke. I can go where I want to go."
    "You're going to do what the hell I tell you. I'm going to know exactly where you are, and it's not going to be alone, five miles out of town. There's ice on the roads, hazardous conditions, flash flooding, and somebody who'd be cold enough to cut this dog's throat from ear to ear. So you get your ass back inside until I tell you otherwise."
    "I'm not leaving my dogs out—"
    "I'll get your dogs. Get inside, Meg. Get inside, or I'll haul you in and lock you in a cell."
    He waited five thrumming seconds with nothing but the crackling hiss of sleet striking the ground. She spun around, stormed back in.
    He waited where he was, outside in the rain, beside a dead dog until Peter came roaring back.
    He took the camera, took several Polaroids, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket.
    "Help me load this dog, Peter. Then you go in, follow the orders I gave you. I want you to tell Otto to escort Meg to The Lodge and see that she stays there until I say different. Is that clear?"
    Peter nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed, but he nodded. "Ah, Ken's inside, chief. I was sitting just behind him during the movie. Do you want him out here now?"
    "Yeah. Yeah, send him out. He can ride with me."
    He shoved his dripping hair out of his eyes while thin fog twined around his ankles. "I'm going to count on you to keep order, Peter. I want you to disperse the crowd inside, send everyone on their way. Advise them to go home, let them know we're taking care of things."
    "They're going to want to know what—what happened."
    "We don't know what happened yet, do we?" He looked back at the dog. "Keep everyone calm. You're good at talking to people. You go in there and talk to your people. And, Peter, pay attention to who's in there. I want you and Otto to make a list of everyone who's inside."
    And, Nate thought, I'll know everyone who isn't.
    They loaded the dog into the vehicle. As Peter hurried back into Town Hall, Nate crouched down by his right rear tire. Beside it, just under the axle, was a pair of bloody gloves.
    He opened the door, dug out an evidence bag. Lifting the gloves by the cuffs, he sealed them.
    They would be Bing's, he thought. As the knife would be.
    A knife and gloves Bing had reported stolen only hours before.

 
     
     
     
    TWENTY-THREE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    "IT WOULD'VE BEEN QUICK." Ken stood over the dog. And scrubbed his hands over his face.
    "The neck wound did it," Nate prompted.
    "Yeah. Yeah. Jesus, what kind of sick son of a bitch does this to a dog? You said, ah, you said the chest wound didn't show much blood. He was gone when whoever did this rammed the knife into the chest. You slice the neck like that, sever the jugular, that's game point."
    "Bloody. Blood would've gushed."
    "Yeah. God."
    "Rain washed away some of it—most of it—but not all. And he was still a little warm when we found him. He'd been dead, what, maybe an hour, if that?"
    "Nate." Shaking his head, Ken took off his glasses, polished them on the tail of his shirt. "This is way out of my league. Your guess on that would be as good, if not better, than mine. But yeah, an hour's about right."
    "Intermission'd been over around an hour. He wasn't there when we went out between movies. And there was too much blood left for him to have been killed somewhere else and dumped. You knew this dog?"
    "Sure. Old Yukon." His eyes went shiny, and he rubbed them dry. "Sure."
    "He give anybody any trouble? Snap at somebody that you know of ? Bite anyone?"
    "Yukon? Barely got enough teeth left to gum up his own food. Friendly dog. Harmless. Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time keeping it together." He turned away for a moment, struggling for control. "Max . . . well, Max was horrible. A human being, for God's sake. But this dog . . . This dog was old and sweet. And defenseless."
    "Sit down for a minute