Northern Lights

distance.
    The sky was a clear, hard blue that had the white mass of mountains standing against it as if etched with a thin, sharp knife. The temperatures hovered at inhuman, but he saw a couple of kids burst out of The Corner Store with candy bars in their fists just as kids everywhere burst out of doors with candy. Full of greed and anticipation.
    The minute they raced down the sidewalk, hands appeared at the door to turn the Open sign around to Closed.
    More cars and trucks were parked on the street now, and others easing along the snow-packed road.
    It looked like they'd have a full house at the town meeting.
    He felt a quick twist in his gut, one he recognized from his public speaking course in college. A hideous mistake as an elective. Live and learn.
    He enjoyed a reasonable amount of conversation. Give him a suspect to interrogate, a witness to interview, no problem—or it hadn't been once upon a time. But ask him to stand up in front of an audience of some sort and speak in coherent sentences? Flop sweat was already snaking a line down his back.
    Just get through it, he ordered himself. Get through the next hour, and you'll never have to do this again. Probably.
    He stepped inside, into heat and a hubbub of voices. A number of people stood around a lobby area dominated by the biggest fish Nate had ever seen. He was baffled enough to focus on it, wonder if it was, perhaps, some sort of small, mutant whale—and how in God's name someone had caught it much less managed to mount it to the wall.
    The distraction saved him from worrying overmuch about the number of people looking in his direction, and the number already inside the meeting area, sitting on folding chairs and facing a stage and lectern.
    "King salmon," Hopp said from behind him.
    He kept staring at the enormous silver fish that showed its black gums in a kind of sneer. " That's a salmon? I've eaten salmon. I've had salmon in restaurants. They're like this big." He held out his hands to measure.
    "You haven't eaten Alaskan king salmon, then. But truth to tell, this one's a big son of a bitch. My husband caught it. Came in at ninety-two pounds, two ounces. Short of the state record, but a hell of a prize."
    "What did he use? A forklift?"
    She let out her foghorn laugh, slapped him merrily on the shoulder. "You fish?"
    "No."
    "At all?"
    "Got nothing against it, just never have." He turned then, and his brows shot up. She'd decked herself out in a sharp-looking business suit with tiny black and white checks. There were pearls at her ears, and a slick coat of red lipstick on her mouth.
    "You look . . . impressive, mayor."
    "A two-hundred-year-old redwood looks impressive."
    "Well, I was going to say you look hot, but I thought it would be inappropriate."
    She smiled broadly. "You're a clever boy, Ignatious."
    "Not really. Not so much."
    "If I can look hot, you can be clever. It's all presentation. Now why don't we get this show on the road by me introducing you to the town council members. Then we'll do our little speeches." She took his arm the way a woman might as she led a man through a cocktail party crowd. "Heard you dealt with the Mackie brothers already."
    "Just a little disagreement over Westerns."
    "I like those Clint Eastwood movies, myself. The early ones. Ed Woolcott, come over here and meet our new chief of police."
    He met Woolcott, a tough-looking man in his fifties who gave Nate's hand a politician's shake. His hair was gray and full, brushed back from a craggy face. A tiny, white scar cut through his left eyebrow.
    "I run the bank," he told Nate—which explained the navy blue suit and pinstriped tie. "I expect you'll be opening an account with us shortly."
    "I'll have to take care of that."
    "We're not here to drum up business, Ed. Let me finish showing Ignatious off."
    He met Deb and Harry Miner, who ran The Corner Store, Alan B. Royce, the retired judge, Walter Notti, Peter's father, musher and sleddog breeder—all of whom were on the town council.
    "Ken Darby, our doctor, will be along when he can."
    "That's okay. It's going to take a while to keep this all straight anyway."
    Then there was Bess Mackie—a beanpole with a shock of hennacolored hair who planted herself in front of him, crossed her arms over her thin chest and sniffed.
    "You roust my boys today?"
    "Yes, ma'am, you could say that."
    She drew another sharp breath through her thin nostrils, nodded twice. "Good. Next time, you knock their heads together, save me the