Northern Lights

over and see Yukon sometimes. I guess that's why I had some trouble with everything last night, too."
    "You could've told me."
    "I just . . . I was just twisted up. Um, chief ? Is that going to be just an open case board now? I mean, should we put copies of notes and other case-related items on the board?"
    "No."
    "But . . . you've got Yukon up there now."
    "That's right."
    "You think what happened to Yukon's related to the others? I feel stupid, but I don't understand."
    "Thinking they're related might be stupid."
    Peter stepped closer. "Why do you?"
    "At this point I've got no clear motive for anyone killing that dog." Nate walked around to his desk, unlocked a drawer and took out the sealed knife and gloves. "These belong to Bing. He reported them stolen yesterday morning."
    "Bing?" Peter's eyes widened. "Bing? "
    "He's got a temper on him. He's got a sheet, and most of it deals with assaults. Violent behavior."
    "Yeah, but . . . God."
    "We've got a few ways to look at this. Bing gets in an argument with Joe somewhere along the line. Or Joe and Lara do something that aggravates him. He stews about it, decides to teach them a lesson. So he decides to kill the dog, reports the knife and gloves as stolen, then goes off after intermission last night, knowing the Wises are inside. He gets the dog, brings him back. Kills him, leaves the knife and gloves figuring he's covered because he'd reported them stolen. Then he goes home and works in his garage."
    "If he was mad at Mr. or Mrs. Wise, why didn't he just punch Mr. Wise in the face?"
    "Good question. Another way we can look at it is, somebody wanted to cause Bing some trouble. He pisses a lot of people off, so that's no stretch."
    He eased a hip onto his desk, his eyes on the board. "They steal his knife and gloves.They use them to kill the dog, leave them where they'll be found. Or . . ."
    He moved to the counter, started a pot of coffee. "We ask ourselves how Galloway's murder, Max's death and the killing of a dog might be connected."
    "That's just it. I don't see."
    "The killer left us one big clue. Cryptic or obvious, depending on which angle you look from. The dog's throat was slit. That's what killed him. But the killer doesn't toss the knife aside. He takes another minute. Had to roll the dog over to do it. To bury the knife in its chest. Why?"
    "Because he's sick and he's mean and—"
    "Put that aside and look at the board, Peter. Look at Galloway. Look at the dog."
    He struggled with it, Nate could see. With looking close at the grisly pictures. Then he let out a little breath, as if he'd been holding it. "Chest wound. They both have a blade of some kind in the chest."
    "Could be coincidence, or maybe somebody's trying to tell us something. Now, take another step. Where's the connection between Galloway, Max and the Wises?"
    "Well, I don't know. Steven and his parents moved here when I was about twelve, I guess. That was after Galloway was gone. But they knew Mr. Hawbaker. Mr. Wise ran an ad in The Lunatic most weeks for his computer servicing. And Mrs. Wise and Mrs. Hawbaker took some classes together. The exercise class at the school and the quilting class Peach has going."
    "Something else connects them. To our knowledge they didn't know Patrick Galloway, but for sixteen years everyone believes Galloway just took off. Now they don't. Why?"
    "Well, because they found him when . . . Steven. Steven's the one who found him."
    "Get away with murder for sixteen years, then some dumbass college boy and his idiot friends screw it up for you." Nate listened to the coffee plop into the glass pot. "A pisser, all right. If they hadn't been up there—that time, that place—odds are things would be fine. Another avalanche—nature's or one the State set off to clear the mountain— that cave could've been buried again. For years. Maybe forever, if your luck held."
    He eased a hip down on his desk while the coffee brewed. "Now you've got to go and kill again. Kill Max, or induce him to kill himself. You'll get away with that, too. You believe that. You have to believe that, but there are cops in Lunacy now. Not just state, but town cops, right underfoot. What do you do about that?"
    "I . . . I can't keep up."
    "You distract them. Vandalism, petty thievery. Little things that keep them occupied, just in case they're thinking about more important things. You pay that dumbass college boy back, and you give the cops something else to worry about at the same time. Two