Northern Lights

classes, art classes, that sort of thing. Breakup to freeze-up we hold them in the evenings. Otherwise, it's daytime."
    "Breakup? Freeze-up?"
    "Ice breaks up on the river, spring's coming. River freezes up, get out the long johns."
    "Gotcha."
    "What we got is five hundred and six souls within what we'd call town limits, and another hundred and ten—give or take—living outside and still in our district. Your district now."
    It still looked like that stage set to Nate, and far from real. Even farther from being his.
    "Fire department—all volunteer—runs out of there. And here's the town hall." She eased the car to a stop in front of a wide log building. "My husband helped build this hall thirteen years ago. He was the first mayor of Lunacy, and held that post until he died, four years ago next February."
    "How'd he die?"
    "Heart attack. Playing hockey out on the lake. Slapped in a goal, keeled over and died. Just like him."
    Nate waited a beat. "Who won?"
    Hopp hooted with laughter. "His goal tied it up. They never did finish that game." She eased the car forward. "Here's your place."
    Nate peered out through the dark and the spitting snow. It was a trim building, wood frame, and obviously newer than its companions. It was bungalow style, with a small, enclosed porch and two windows on either side of the door, both of them framed with dark green shutters.
    A path had been shoveled out or tromped down from the street to the door, and a short driveway, recently plowed from the looks of it, was already buried under a couple inches of fresh snow. A blue pickup truck was parked on it, and another narrow walking path snaked its way to the door.
    Lights burned against both windows, and smoke puffed out, a gray cloud, from the black chimney pipe in the roof.
    "We open for business?"
    "That you are. They know you're coming in today." She swung in behind the pickup. "Ready to meet your team?"
    "As I'll ever be."
    He got out, found he was just as shocked by the cold this time around. Breathing through his teeth, he walked behind Hopp down the single-lane path to the outer door.
    "This is what we call an Arctic entry up here." She stepped inside the enclosure, out of the wind and weather. "Helps keep down the heat loss from the main building. Good place to stow your parka."
    She pulled hers off, hung it on a hook beside another. Nate followed suit, then dragged off his gloves, stuck them in one of the parka's pockets. Then came the watch cap, the scarf. He wondered if he'd ever get used to outfitting himself like an explorer on the North Pole every time he had to go out a door.
    Hopp pushed through the other door, and into the scent of wood smoke and coffee.
    The walls were painted industrial beige, the floors were speckled linoleum. A squat woodstove stood in the back right corner. On it a big cast-iron kettle chugged steam from its spout.
    There were two metal desks, kissing each other on the right side of the room, and a line of plastic chairs, a low table with magazines arranged on the other. Along the back wall ranged a counter topped with a two-way, a computer and ceramic tabletop Christmas tree in a green that nature never intended.
    He noted the doors on either side of it, the bulletin board where notes and notices were pinned.
    And the three people who were pretending not to stare at him.
    He assumed the two men were his deputies. One looked barely old enough to vote, and the other looked old enough to have voted for Kennedy. Both wore heavy wool pants, sturdy boots, and flannel shirts with badges pinned to them.
    The younger one was native Alaskan, with black, ruler-straight hair falling nearly to his shoulders, deep-set almond-shaped eyes dark as midnight, and a painfully young, innocent look to his fine-boned face.
    The older was wind-burned, crew cut, sagging in the jowls, and was squinting out of faded, blue eyes fanned by deep grooves. His thick build contrasted with the delicacy of his counterpart. Nate thought he might be ex-military.
    The woman was round as a berry, with plump pink cheeks and a generous bosom under a pink sweater embroidered with white snowflakes. Her salt-and-pepper hair was braided into a top-of-the-head bun. She had a pencil sticking out of it and a plate of sticky buns in her hands.
    "Well, the gang's all here. Chief Ignatious Burke, this is your staff. Deputy Otto Gruber."
    Crew cut stepped forward, held out a hand. "Chief."
    "Deputy Gruber."
    "Deputy Peter Notti."
    "Chief