Northern Lights

sky he imagined was the redhead's work. Framed pictures of the kids, and other family shots, on the tables, along with the everyday mess from an average home.
    "They were married about fifteen years, I think. He used to work for a paper in Anchorage but relocated and started his weekly here. She worked with him. It was pretty much a two-man operation, with some—what do you call it—stringers? They published articles from locals, some photographs, and picked up stories from the wire services. Older kid's about twelve, a girl. She plays the piccolo. Younger son, ten, is a hockey freak."
    "You've picked up a lot in the few weeks you've been here."
    "I picked up more since this morning. First marriage for her, second for him. She's been here a couple of years longer than him. Moved up on one of those teacher programs. Gave it up to work with him when he got the paper started, but she still substitutes if they call her in."
    "Why'd he move here?"
    "I'm working on that." He shut down when Ginny started back down, her arm draped around Carrie's shoulder.
    "Mrs. Hawbaker." Coben stepped forward, voice sober. "I'm Sergeant Coben with the State Police. I'm very sorry for your loss."
    "What do you want?" Her gaze riveted, hard and bright, on Nate's face. "We're in mourning."
    "I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions." Coben glanced at Ginny. "Would you like your friend to stay with you?"
    Carrie shook her head. "Ginny, would you stay with the kids? Would you keep them back there, away from this?"
    "Of course. You just call me if you want me."
    Carrie went into the living room, sank into one of the chairs. "Ask what you need to ask, then go. I don't want you here."
    "First I want to tell you we'll be taking your husband's body back to Anchorage, for autopsy. He'll be released to you again as soon as possible."
    "Good. Then you'll find out he didn't kill himself. Whatever he says," she added with a quick, resentful glance at Nate. "I know my husband. He'd never do that to me or his children."
    "May I sit down?"
    She shrugged.
    Coben sat on the couch facing her, his body angled slightly in her direction. It was good, Nate thought. He was keeping it between the two of them, keeping it sympathetic. He started her on the standard questions. After the first few, she drew back.
    "I told him all this already. Why do you have to ask me again? The answers aren't going to be any different. Why don't you go out there and find out who did this to my Max?"
    "Do you know anyone who wished your husband harm?"
    "Yes." Her face lit up with a kind of horrible pleasure. "Whoever killed Patrick Galloway. I'll tell you exactly what happened. Max must have found something out. Just because he ran a small-town weekly didn't mean he wasn't a good reporter. He dug something up, and someone killed him before he could decide what to do."
    "Did he discuss any of this with you?"
    "No, but he was upset. Worried. He wasn't himself. But that doesn't mean he killed himself, and it doesn't mean he killed anyone else. He was a good man." Tears began to track down her cheeks. "I slept beside him for almost sixteen years. I worked beside him every day. I had two children with him. Don't you think I'd know if he was capable of this?"
    Coben changed tacts. "Are you sure about the time he left the house last night?"
    She sighed, flicked at tears. "I know he was here at ten-thirty. I know he was gone in the morning. What more do you want?"
    "You stated that he kept the gun in the glove compartment of his truck. Who else would have known that?"
    "Everybody."
    "Did he keep the glove compartment locked? The truck locked?"
    "Max couldn't remember to close the bathroom door half the time, much less lock anything. I keep the guns we have in the house locked up, and I keep the key because he was absentminded about that sort of thing. Anybody could have taken that gun. Somebody did."
    "Do you know the last time he used it?"
    "No. Not for certain."
    "Mrs. Hawbaker, did your husband keep a diary or a journal?"
    "No. He just wrote things down when they came to him on whatever was handy. I want you to go now. I'm tired, and I want to be with my children."
    • • •
     
     
    OUTSIDE, COBEN PAUSED beside the car. "Still some loose ends there I'd like tied up. Be a good idea to take a look through his things, his papers, see if there's anything regarding Galloway."
    "Such as motive?"
    "Such as," Coben agreed. "Any reason you couldn't work on tying