Northern Lights

he used his own tracks to run back toward the front of the cabin.
    Shouts and shots sounded behind him as he cracked through the ice of the stream, scrambled through the frigid water and leaped toward the front of the house.
    He barreled onto the sagging porch and kicked open the door.
    He had both weapons pointed at his man—and part of him, most of him, wanted to cut loose with them. Drop him, drop him cold, as he had the murdering bastard in Baltimore. The murdering bastard who'd killed his partner and ripped his own life to pieces.
    "Red." In the shambles of the cabin, the man looked at him. His lips trembled into a smile. "Your blood's red." And dropping the gun, he fell to the filthy cabin floor and wept.
    • • •
     
     
    HIS NAME WAS Robert Joseph Spinnaker—a financial consultant from L.A., and a recent psychiatric patient. He had claimed multiple alien abductions over the past eighteen months, stated that his wife was a reproduction, and attacked two of his clients during a meeting.
    He'd been listed as missing for nearly three months.
    Now he slept peacefully in a cell, reassured by the color of the blood on Nate's face and Peter's arm.
    Nate had done little more than lock him up before he'd rushed back to the clinic so he could pace the waiting room.
    He went over the entire event a hundred times, and each time he saw himself doing something different, just a little different that kept Peter from being hurt.
    When Ken came out, Nate was sitting, his head in his hands.
    He jerked up immediately. "How bad?"
    "Getting shot's never good, but it could've been a hell of a lot worse. He'll be wearing a sling for a while. He's lucky it was bird shot. He's a little weak, a little groggy. I'm going to keep him a couple more hours. But he's good."
    "Okay." Nate let his knees give way and lowered to the chair again. "Okay."
    "Why don't you come back, let me clean those cuts on your face."
    "Just some scratches."
    "The one under your eye's more of a gash. Come on, don't argue with the doctor."
    "Can I see him?"
    "Nita's with him now. You can see him after I treat you." Ken led the way, gestured for Nate to get on an exam table. "You know," he said as he cleaned the cuts, "it'd be stupid for you to blame yourself."
    "He's green. He's grass, and I took him into an unstable situation."
    "That's not showing much respect for him or the job he signed on to do."
    Nate hissed in a breath at the sting under his eye. "He's a baby."
    "He's not. He's a man. A good man. And you taking on the weight lessens what happened to him today—and what he did."
    "He got up, broke cover and got to the door after me. He could barely keep his feet, but he came to back me up."
    Nate met Ken's eyes as Ken fixed on a butterfly bandage. "His blood was on my hands but he came through the door to back me up. So maybe I'm the one who can't handle himself."
    "You did handle yourself. I got most of it from Peter. He thinks you're a hero. If you want to pay him back for what happened, don't disillusion him. There." Ken stepped back. "You'll live."
     
     
    HOPP WAS IN THE WAITING ROOM when Nate came out, along with Peter's parents and Rose. They all stood, began talking at once.
    "He's resting. He's fine," Ken assured them. And Nate kept walking.
    "Ignatious." Hopp hurried out after him. "I'd like to know what happened."
    "I'm walking back."
    "Then I'll walk with you, and you can tell me. I'd like to get it straight from you rather than the various accounts blowing around town at this point."
    He told her, briefly.
    "Would you slow down? Your legs are longer than my whole body. How'd your face get hurt?"
    "Tree shrapnel. Flying bark, that's all."
    "Flying because he was shooting at you. For God's sake."
    "The fact my face got cut up is probably why both Spinnaker and I are still standing. Fortunately I bleed red."
    So does Peter, he thought. He'd bled plenty of red today.
    "The State Police coming to get him?"
    "Peach is contacting them."
    "Well." She drew a breath. "He's been out and about being crazy for three months. Squatting out there God knows how long. He could be the one who killed poor Yukon. He could be the one who did that."
    Nate found his sunglasses in his pocket and put them on. "He could be, but he's not."
    "Man's crazy, and it was a crazy thing. He could've thought Yukon was some alien in a dog suit. It makes sense, Ignatious."
    "Only if you believe this guy happened to sneak into town, hunt up an old dog, brought the dog outside