Northern Lights

he continued, "they know that either I or one of two deputies is going to come out and talk to them, to help resolve the situation. And I'm going to know, after some more time on the job, who needs assistance when the calls come in. It won't just be a name on a file, it'll be a person I know. I think this will add another level of satisfaction to the work I do."
    It surprised him to realize he'd spoken the pure truth, without fully realizing it had been there.
    "You hunt?"
    "No."
    "Fish?"
    "Not so far."
    Max pursed his lips. "Hockey? Skiing? Mountain climbing?"
    "No. Peter's teaching me how to snowshoe. He says it'll come in handy."
    "He's right about that. What about hobbies, leisure-time activities, interests?"
    The job hadn't left him much room. Or, he corrected, he'd allowed the job to consume all his time. Isn't that why Rachel had looked elsewhere? "I'm keeping my options open there. We'll start with the snowshoeing, see what happens next. How'd you end up out here?"
    "Me?"
    "I'd like to know something about the guy asking the questions."
    "That's fair," Max said after a moment. "Went to Berkeley in the sixties. Sex, drugs and rock and roll. There was a woman—as there should be—and we migrated north. Spent some time in Seattle. I hooked up with this guy there who was into climbing. I caught the bug. We kept migrating north, the woman and I. Antiestablishment, vegetarians, intellectuals."
    He smiled, an overweight, balding, middle-aged man, who seemed amused by who he'd been, and who he was now. "She was going to paint; I was going to write novels that exposed man's underbelly, while we lived off the land. We got married, which screwed up everything. She ended up back in Seattle. I ended up here."
    "Publishing a newspaper instead of writing novels."
    "Oh, I'm still working on those novels." He didn't smile now, but looked distant and a little disturbed. "Once in a while I pull them out. They're crap, but I'm still working on them. Still don't eat meat, and I'm still a greenie—environmentalist type—which irritates a lot of people. Met Carrie about fifteen years ago. We got married." His smile came back. "This one seems to be working out."
    "Kids?"
    "Girl and a boy. Twelve and ten. Now, let's get back to you. You were with the Baltimore PD for eleven years. When I spoke with Lieutenant Foster—"
    "You spoke to my lieutenant?"
    "Your former lieutenant. Getting some background. He described you as thorough and dogged, the kind of cop who closed cases and worked well under pressure. Not that any of us should mind having those qualities in our chief of police, but you seem overqualified for this job."
    "That would be my problem," Nate said flatly. "That's about all the time I can give you."
    "Just a couple more. You were on medical leave for two months after the incident last April during which your partner, Jack Behan, and a suspect were killed and yourself wounded. You returned to duty for another four months, then resigned. I have to assume the incident weighed heavily in your decision to take this position. Is that accurate?"
    "I gave you my reasons for taking this position. My partner's death doesn't have anything to do with anyone in Lunacy."
    Max's face was set, and Nate saw he'd underestimated the man. A reporter was a reporter, he reminded himself, whatever the venue. And this one smelled a story.
    "It has to do with you, chief. Your experiences and motivations, your professional history."
    "History would be the operative word."
    " The Lunatic may be small-time, but as publisher I still have to do my homework, present an accurate story and a complete one. I know the shooting incident was investigated and it was found you fired your weapon justifiably. Still, you killed a man that night, and that has to weigh heavy."
    "Do you think you pick up a badge and a gun for sport, Hawbaker? Do you think they're just for show? A cop knows, every day, when he picks up his weapon that it might be the day he has to use it. Yeah, it weighs heavy."
    Temper licked at him, turned his voice as cold as the January wind that rattled against the windows. "It's supposed to weigh heavy—the weapon and what you might have to do with it. Do I regret deploying my weapon? I do not. I regret not being faster. If I'd been faster, a good man would still be alive. A woman wouldn't be a widow, and two children would still have their father."
    Max had edged back in his seat, and he'd moistened his lips several times. But he stuck.