Northern Lights

the frozen blood shone red, red, red, over the black parka.
    And his heart tipped when he understood he hadn't come for peace after all, but for duty.
    How would he carry the body down? How could he bear the weight of it on that long, vicious journey back to the world? He didn't know the way. He didn't have the skill or the tools or the strength.
    As he walked toward the body, the walls and columns of the cave hurled the reflections at him. A hundred of him, a hundred dead. Everywhere he looked, death joined him.
    The ice began to crackle. The walls began to shake. A thunderous sound roared as he pitched to his knees at the foot of the body. The dead face of Galloway turned up to his, teeth bared in a bloody grimace.
    And it was Jack's face—and Jack's voice that spoke as the ice columns tumbled, and the floor of the cave heaved. "There's no way out, for either of us. We're all dead here."
    He'd wakened as the cave swallowed him.
    • • •
     
     
    MEG WASN'T SURPRISED to find Nate gone. It was after eight when she surfaced, so she imagined he'd gotten bored or hungry waiting for her to wake up.
    She was grateful to him, for the companionship and the straightforward manner wrapped around compassion. He'd let her deal with shock and grief—and whatever else she was feeling—on her own terms. She considered that a valuable asset in a friend or a lover.
    She was pretty sure they were both.
    She was going to have to keep dealing—with herself, her mother, with everyone in town. With the cops.
    She didn't see the point in dwelling on it now. There'd be enough dwelling when she got back to Lunacy.
    She figured she'd find Nate or he'd find her before it was time to head back. Meanwhile, she wanted coffee.
    The dining room was set for breakfast, with plenty of takers. Cheap lodgings, good food appealed to a lot of the pilots and guides who used Anchorage as a launch pad. She saw a scatter of familiar faces.
    Then she saw Nate.
    He sat alone at a rear corner booth. Since that was a prized spot, it told her he'd been there for some time. He had a mug of coffee and a newspaper. But he wasn't drinking; he wasn't reading. He was off somewhere, in his own thoughts. Bleak and sorrowful thoughts.
    Looking at him from across the busy room, she knew she'd never seen anyone so alone.
    Whatever his long, sad story was, she thought, it was going to be a killer.
    As she started toward him, someone called her name. While she an swered it with a wave, she saw Nate draw in. She watched him bring himself back, deliberately pick up his coffee and settle himself before he looked over. Smiled at her.
    An easy smile, secret eyes.
    "You got a good night's sleep."
    "Good enough." She slid in across from him. "You eat?"
    "Not yet. Did you know people used to commute from Montana to work in the canneries around here?"
    She glanced down at the newspaper and the article. "Actually, I did. It's good pay."
    "Yeah, but not exactly a daily battle with rush hour. I figured you lived in Montana because you wanted to raise horses or cattle. Or maybe start a paramilitary camp. Okay, gross generalization, but still."
    "You're a real East Coast boy. Hey, Wanda."
    "Meg." The waitress who looked to be about twenty, and perky, set down another mug of coffee, pulled out her pad. "What can I get you?"
    "Couple eggs, over easy, Canadian bacon, hash browns, wheat toast. Jocko?"
    "Ditched him."
    "Told you he was a loser. What do you want, Burke?"
    "Ah . . ." He searched around for his appetite, then decided the sight and smell of food might help him locate it. "Ham-and-cheese omelette, and the wheat toast."
    "Gotcha. I'm dating this guy named Byron," she told Meg. "He writes poetry."
    "Can only be an improvement." Meg turned back to Nate as Wanda walked away. "Wanda's parents were one of the seasonals when she was a kid. Used to spend her summers here when they worked in the canneries. She liked it, moved up permanently last year. Habitually dates assholes, but other than that, she's okay. What were you thinking about before I came over?"
    "Nothing, really. Just passing the time with the paper."
    "No, you weren't. But since you did me a favor last night, I won't push it."
    He didn't deny; she didn't press. And she didn't, though the urge scraped at her, reach over and stroke his cheek. When she had a brood going, she didn't want comfort. So she gave him the same courtesy she expected for herself.
    "Is there anything else we have to do here before we head back? If