Northern Lights

Charlene pulled tight against him so her cheek was pressed right up against his. Max had mugged his way in from behind the couch, but she'd cut off the top of his head.
    But the one who sat on the other side of her father, his head turned slightly as he smiled at someone across the room, was clear.
    As was the silver Maltese cross dangling from his ear.

 
     
     
    THIRTY-ONE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    "IT 'S NOT PROOF, Meg, not a hundred percent."
    "Don't give me that cop bullshit, Burke." As he drove, she sat with her arms folded tight at her waist, as if holding in pain.
    "It's not bullshit. It's circumstantial. It's good, but it's circumstantial." His mind worked back, forward, covering the ground. "The earring was handled by at least two people before it came to me. No forensics. It's a common design, probably thousands of them out there during that time. He could have lost it, given it away, borrowed it himself. The fact that he wore it in a photograph taken more than sixteen years ago doesn't prove he was on that mountain. A brain-dead defense attorney could smash it in trial."
    "He killed my father."
    Ed holds a grudge. Hopp had told him that, after the run-in with Hawley.
    All those connecting lines. Galloway to Max, Galloway to Bing, Galloway to Steven Wise.
    You can add more. Woolcott to Max—the concerned old friend helping the widow with the memorial. Woolcott to Bing—implicating the man who might know, who might remember a casual conversation from sixteen years before.
    Hawley's slashed tires and spray-painted truck—payback for the wreck, disguised as childish vandalism.
    Money. Ed Woolcott was the money man. What better way to hide a sudden cash windfall than your own bank?
    "That bastard Woolcott killed my father."
    "That's right. I know it. You know it. He knows it. But building a case is a different thing."
    "You've been building a case since January. Piece by step by layer, when the State basically closed it up. I've watched you."
    "Let me finish it."
    "What do you think I'm going to do?" She squinted against the sun. She'd walked out of the house without her sunglasses, without anything but her own bubbling need to act. "Walk up to him and put a gun in his ear?"
    Because he heard it in her voice, the dark grief along with the bright rage, he laid a hand over hers. Squeezed. "Wouldn't put it past you."
    "I won't." It took an effort to turn her hand over, to return that connection when it would have been easy to yank it back. Stay alone with the storming emotions. "But I'm going to see his face, Nate. I'm going to be there where I can see his face when you take him in."
    The main street was already lined with people staking their claim on position. Folding chairs and coolers stood on curb and sidewalk, many already occupied or in use as people sat and slurped on drinks in plastic cups.
    The air was already buzzing with noise, shouts and squeals and laughter spearing up through the blast of music from KLUN.
    Trucks offering snow cones, ice cream, hot dogs and other parade food were parked on corners and down side streets. Rainbow bunting waved in the breeze.
    Two thousand people, Nate estimated, and a good chunk of them kids. A normal day in Lunacy, he could've walked into the bank and taken Ed quietly in his office.
    It wasn't a normal day, in any stretch.
    He parked at the station, pulled Meg in with him. "Otto and Peter," he demanded of Peach.
    "Out with the horde where I should be." Irritation marred her eyes as she smoothed a flowing skirt, the color of daffodils, over her ample hips. "We thought you'd be here before—"
    "Call them both in."
    "Nate, we've got over a hundred people already lining up on the school grounds. We need—"
    "Call them both in!" he snapped. He kept walking, one hand on Meg's arm, into his office. "I want you to stay here."
    "No. It's not only stupid and wrong for you to expect that, it's disrespectful."
    "He's got a concealed license."
    "So do I. Give me a gun."
    "Meg, he's already killed three times. He'll do whatever he can to protect himself."
    "I'm not something you can bundle away safe."
    "I'm not—"
    "Yes, you are. It's your first instinct, but get over it. I won't ask you not to bring your work home or complain when it interferes with my life. I won't ask you to be what you're not. Don't ask that of me. Give me a gun. I promise I won't use it unless I have to. I don't want him dead. I want him alive. Rotting. I want him healthy so he rots for a long,