Northern Lights

remember, when he first came. He was a fair climber. And once or twice I flew him and others into the bush for hunting parties, though he didn't hunt. He wrote in his book or took photographs. Other flights for other stories and photographs. I flew him and Carrie to Anchorage both times she was ready to deliver their children. Why?"
    "Curious. He ever climb with Galloway?"
    "I never took them together." Jacob's eyes were intense now. "Why would it matter?"
    "Curious, that's all. And since I'm curious, would you say Patrick Galloway was a selfish man?"
    "Yes."
    "Just yes?" Nate said after a moment. "No qualifications?"
    Jacob continued to drink his coffee. "You didn't ask for qualifications."
    "How'd he rate as a husband, a father?"
    "He was, at best, a poor husband." Jacob finished his coffee, turned to the sink to wash the mug. "But some would say he had a difficult wife."
    "Would you?"
    "I would say they were two people with a strong bond, who pulled and twisted that bond in their individual pursuits of opposing desires."
    "Would Meg be that bond?"
    Carefully, Jacob laid a cloth on the counter and the cup on it to dry. "A child is. They were no match for her."
    "Which means?"
    "She was brighter, stronger, more resilient, more generous than either of them."
    "More yours?"
    Jacob turned back, and there was nothing to read in his eyes. "Meg is her own. I'll leave you now."
    "Does Meg know what happened with Max?"
    "She didn't mention it. Neither did I."
    "She say when she thought she'd be back?"
    "She'll fly the party out the day after tomorrow, weather permitting."
    "You got any problem with me staying out here tonight?"
    "Would Meg?"
    "I don't think so."
    "Then why would I?"
     
     
    HE KEPT COMPANY with her dogs and made use of her fitness equipment. It felt good, better than he'd imagined, to pump iron again.
    He didn't intend to pry into her things, but when he was alone, Nate found himself wandering the house, poking into closets, peeking into drawers.
    He knew what he was looking for—pictures, letters, mementos that pertained to her father. He told himself if Meg had been there, she'd have given them to him.
    He found the photograph albums on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. Above a wardrobe that fascinated him with its mix of flannel and silk. Beside the album was a shoe box crammed with loose pictures she'd yet to organize.
    He sat down with them on the spare bed, opened the red cover of an album first.
    He recognized Patrick Galloway immediately in the snapshots behind the clear, sticky plastic. A younger Galloway than the one he'd seen in the digitals. Long-haired, bearded, dressed in the uniform of bell-bottom jeans, T-shirt and headband of the late sixties and early seventies.
    Nate studied one where Galloway leaned against a burly motorcycle, an ocean behind him, a palm tree to his right—and his hand lifted, fingers veed in the peace sign.
    Pre-Alaska, Nate thought. California, maybe.
    There were others of him alone, one with his face dreamy and lit by a campfire while he strummed an acoustical guitar. More of him with a very young Charlene. Her hair was long and blond and curling crazily, her eyes laughing behind blue-tinted sunglasses.
    She was beautiful, he realized. Seriously beautiful, with a streamlined body, soft, smooth cheeks, a full and sensual mouth. And couldn't have reached her eighteenth birthday by his estimation.
    There were several others—traveling photos, camping shots. Some were of one or both of them with other young people. A few urban pictures where he thought he recognized Seattle. Some, where Galloway was clean-shaven again, were taken inside an apartment or small house.
    Then he came across one with Galloway. The beard was back and he was leaning against a road sign.
     
    WELCOME TO ALASKA
     
    He could track their trail by the photos. Their time in the southeast of the state, working the canneries, he supposed.
    And he got his first glimpse of Meg—so to speak—with the photo of a hugely pregnant Charlene.
    She wore a skimpy halter and jeans cut below her enormous and naked belly. Her hands were cupped on the mound, protectively. She had the sweetest look on her face, a painfully young face, Nate thought, that radiated hope and happiness.
    There were photos of Patrick painting a room—the nursery—others of him building what looked like a cradle.
    Then, to Nate's shock, there were three pages of photos detailing labor and delivery.
    He'd worked Homicide and had