"I'm sorry?"
"It's seven o'clock, in the morning. Bet you could use some breakfast."
"Takes a while to get used to it." She nodded toward the dark windows. "It'll lighten up for a while, in a few hours. Why don't you have a seat. I'll bring you coffee to start you off."
He'd slept around the clock, and didn't know whether to be embarrassed or delighted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten more than four or five patchy hours of sleep.
He dumped his outer gear on the bench of a booth, then decided to make an effort at community relations. Walking over to Jesse's table, he tapped the back of a chair. "This seat taken?"
The boy took a slow, under-the-bangs peek, and shook his head. With his tongue caught between his teeth, he continued to color as Nate sat down.
"Pretty cool purple cow," Nate commented, studying the current work-in-progress.
"Cows don't come in purple 'less you color them that way."
"I heard that. You take art in high school?"
Jesse's eyes rounded. "I don't go to school yet 'cause I'm only four."
"You're kidding. Four? I figured you for about sixteen." Nate eased back, winked at Rose as she brought him a thick, white mug and poured coffee into it.
"I had a birthday and we had cake, and a million balloons. Right, Mom?"
"That's right, Jesse." She laid a menu beside Nate's elbow.
"And we're having a baby really soon. And I've got two dogs, and—"
"Jesse, let Chief Burke look at his menu."
"Actually, I was going to ask Jesse to give me a recommendation. What's good for breakfast, Jesse?"
"Short stack!"
"Short stack it is." He handed the menu back to Rose. "We're fine."
"If that changes, you let me know." But she was pink in the cheeks with pleasure.
"What kind of dogs?" Nate asked, and was entertained with the exploits of Jesse's pets throughout breakfast.
A plate of pancakes and a charming young boy were a much better way to start the day than a recurring nightmare. His mood improved, Nate was on the point of calling Hopp when she came through the door.
"Heard you were up and around," she said, and tossed back her hood. Snow showered from her parka. "You look some sturdier than you did yesterday."
"Sorry I faded on you."
"No problem. Got yourself a good night's sleep, decent breakfast, good company," she added with a grin for Jesse. "You up for a tour?"
"Sure." He got up to pile on his outdoor gear.
"Skinnier than I expected."
He looked over at Hopp. He knew he looked gaunt. A man dropped more than ten pounds from a tuned-up one-sixty on a five-ten frame, gaunt was the usual result. "Won't be, I keep eating short stacks."
"Lot of hair."
He pulled on his watch cap. "It just keeps growing out of my head."
"I like hair on a man." She yanked open the door. "Red hair, too."
"It's brown," he corrected automatically, and pulled the cap lower.
"All right. Get off your feet awhile Rose," she called back, then trudged out into the wind and snow.
The cold struck him like a runaway train. "Jesus Christ. It freezes your eyeballs."
He jumped into the Ford Explorer she'd parked at the curb. "Your blood's thin yet."
"It could be thick as paste, and it'd still be fucking cold. Sorry."
"I don't blush at frank language. Of course it's fucking cold; it's December." With her blasting laugh, she started the engine. "We'll start the tour on wheels. No point stumbling around in the dark."
"How many do you lose to exposure and hypothermia in a year?"
"Lost more than one to the mountains, but those mostly tourists or crazies. Man called Teek got himself stupid drunk one night, three years ago this January, and froze to death in his own outhouse, reading Playboy magazine. But he was an idiot. People who live here know how to take care of themselves, and cheechakos who make it through a winter learn—or leave."
"Cheechakos?"
"Newcomers. You don't want to take nature casually, but you learn to live with it, and if you're smart, you make it work for you. Get out in it—ski, snowshoe, skate the river, ice fish." She shrugged. "Take precautions and enjoy it, because it's not going anywhere."
She drove with steady competence on the snow-packed street. "There's our clinic. We got a doctor and a practical nurse."
Nate studied the small, squat building. "And if they can't handle it?"
"Fly to Anchorage. We've got a bush pilot lives outside of town. Meg Galloway."
"A woman?"
"You sexist, Ignatious?"
"No." Maybe. "Just asking."
"Meg's Charlene's daughter. Damn good pilot. A little crazy, but a good bush pilot's got to be, in my opinion. She'd've brought you in from Anchorage, but you were a day later than we'd hoped, and she had another booking, so we called Jerk in from Talkeetna. You'll probably see Meg at the town meeting later."
And won't that be fun, Nate thought.
"The Corner Store—got everything you need, or they'll find a way to get it. Oldest building in Lunacy. Trappers built it back in the early 1800s, and Harry and Deb have added to it since they bought the place in 83.
It was twice as big as the clinic, and two stories. Lights were already gleaming in the windows.
"Post office runs out of the bank there for now, but we're going to break ground for one this summer. And the skinny place next to it's The Italian Place. Good pizza. No deliveries outside of town."
"Pizza parlor."
"New York Italian, came up here three years back on a hunting trip. Fell in love. Never left. Johnny Trivani. Named it Trivani's at the start, but everybody called it The Italian Place, so he went with it. Talks about adding on a bakery. Says he's going to get himself one of those Russian mail-order brides you hear about on the Internet. Maybe he will."
"Will there be fresh blinis?"
"We can hope. Town newspaper runs out of that storefront," she said, pointing. "The couple who run it are out of town. Took the kids to San Diego for the school break right after Christmas. KLUN—local radio—broadcasts from that one there. Mitch Dauber runs it almost single-handed. He's an entertaining son of a bitch most of the time."
"I'll tune in."
She circled around, headed back the way they'd come. "About a half mile west of town is the school—kindergarten through twelfth. We've got seventy-eight students right now. We hold adult classes there, too. Exercise 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 sho
rt 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 parkas 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 Burke."
Something in the hesitant smile rang a bell. "Deputy, are you and Rose related?"
"Yes, sir. She's my sister."
"And last but not least, your dispatcher, secretary and bearer of cinnamon buns, Marietta Peach."
"Happy you're here, Chief Burke." Her voice was as southern as a mint julep sipped on a veranda.
"Hope you're feeling better."
"Fine. Thank you, Ms. Peach."
"I'm going to show the chief the rest of the station, then I'll leave you all to get acquainted. Ignatious, why don't we take a look at your . . . guest quarters."
She led the way through the door on the right. There were two cells, both with bunk-style cots. The walls looked freshly painted, the floor recently scrubbed. He smelled Lysol.
There were no tenants.
"These get much use?" Nate asked her.
"Drunks and disorderlies, primarily. You have to be pretty drunk and disorderly to warrant a night in jail in Lunacy. You're going to see some assaults, occasional vandalism, but that one's mostly from bored kids. I'll let your staff give you the lowdown on crime in Lunacy. We don't have a lawyer, so if somebody wants one bad enough, they have to call down to Anchorage or over to Fairbanks, unless they know one somewhere else. We do have a retired judge, but he's more likely to be off ice fishing than answering legal questions."
"Okay."
"Boy, you going to keep talking my ear off?"
"I never could learn to keep my mouth shut."
With a half-chuckle, she shook her head. "Let's take a look at your office."
They cut back through the main area where everyone was pretending to work. On the other side of Ms. Peach's counter, just through the doorway, stood the weapons cabinet. He counted six shotguns, five rifles, eight handguns and four wicked-looking knives.
He tucked his hands in his pockets, pursed his lips. "What? No broadsword?"
"Pays to be prepared."
"Yeah. For the coming invasion."
She only smiled and walked through the door next to the cabinet. "Here's your office."
It was about ten feet square with a window behind a gray metal desk. The desk held a computer, a phone and a black gooseneck lamp. Two file cabinets were shoved against the side wall with a short counter running beside them. It held a coffeemaker—already full—and two brown stoneware mugs, a basket with packaged creamer and sugar. There was a corkboard—empty—two folding chairs for visitors and pegs for hanging coats.
The lights mirroring against the black window glass made it seem all the more impersonal and foreign.
"Peach loaded up your desk, but if you need anything else, supply cabinet's down the hall. John's across from it."
"Okay."
"Got any questions?"
"I've got a lot of questions."
"Why don't you ask them?"
"All right. I'll ask this one, since the rest fall down from it anyway. Why'd you hire me?"
"Fair enough. Mind?" she said as she gestured to the coffeepot.
"Help yourself."
She poured mugs for both of them, handed him one, then sat in one of the folding chairs. "We needed a chief of police."
"Maybe."
"We're small, we're remote and we pretty much handle our own, but that doesn't mean we don't need structure, Ignatious. That we don't need a line between the right and the wrong and somebody to stand on that line. My man worked for that a lot of years before he