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  For thirty hours, the snow fell and the wind howled.The world was a cold, white beast that rampaged day and night, fangs bared, claws extended to bite and rake at anyone brave or foolish enough to go out and face it.

  Generators hummed or roared, and communications were reduced to radios. Travel was impossible as that beast stalked its way across the Interior and over southeast Alaska. Cars and trucks were buried, planes grounded. Even the sled dogs waited for it to pass.

  The little town of Lunacy was cut off, a frozen island in the midst of a blind, white sea.

  Too busy to brood, too astonished to curse, Nate dealt with emergencies—a child who'd toppled onto a table and needed to get to the clinic for stitches, a man who'd had a heart attack while trying to dig out his truck, a chimney fire, a family brawl.

  He had Drunk Mike—as opposed to Big Mike the cook—in an unlocked cell sleeping off a bender, and Manny Ozenburger in a locked one, rethinking his position on driving his Tundra pickup over his neighbor's Ski-doo.

  He kept crews hacking away at the snow on the main streets and pushed his way through the canyons of it to The Corner Store.

  He found Harry and Deb sitting at a card table in front of the canned goods, playing gin while Cecil snuggled in his basket.

  "Hell of a blow," Harry called out.

  "No, it's just hell."

  Nate pushed back the hood of his parka, stopped to give Cecil a quick rub. He was out of breath and vaguely surprised to still be alive. "I need some supplies. I'm going to bunk at the station until this is over."

  Deb's eyes gleamed. "Oh? Something wrong at The Lodge?"

  "No." Yanking off gloves, Nate began to hunt up basics to keep body and soul together. "Somebody needs to man the radio—and we've got a couple of guests."

  "I heard Drunk Mike tied one on. Gin."

  "Gin? Damn you, Harry."

  "Tied one on," Nate agreed, dumping bread, lunch meat, chips on the counter. "And staggered around singing Bob Seger songs. Snow removal crew spotted him and hauled him up when he fell facedown in the middle of the damn street." Nate picked up a six-pack of Coke. "They hadn't seen him, brought him in, we might Ve found him by April, dead as Elvis."

  "I'll just run a tab for these, chief." Harry got out his book, noted down the purchases. "And I'm not convinced Elvis is dead. This going to be enough for you?"

  "It'll have to be. Getting it back's going to be an adventure."

  "Why don't you sit a minute, have some of this coffee?" Deb was already getting up. "Let me fix you a sandwich."

  Nate stared at her. It wasn't the way people usually treated cops. "Thanks, but I need to get back. If you need anything, hell, send up a flare."

  He pulled on his gloves, resecured his hood, then hefted his bag of supplies.

  It wasn't any more hospitable out than it had been five minutes before. He felt the teeth and claws slice at him as he used the rope and instinct to drag his way toward the station.

  He'd left every light burning, to give himself a beacon.

  He could hear the muffled rumble of Bing's plow and hoped to sweet God that Bing didn't head his way, running over him accidentally—or purposely. The beast, as he thought of the storm, was doing its best to mock the efforts of the crews, but they'd made a difference.

  Instead of swimming through the snow, he was wading through it.

  He heard gunshots. Three quick reports. He paused, strained to make out the direction, then shook his head and kept going. He sincerely hoped no one was lying in the snow with a gunshot wound, because he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

  He was about ten feet away from the station, concentrating on the haze of light, cheering himself on with the thought of heat when Bing's plow rolled out of the white.

  His heart stopped. He actually heard the thunder of it click off, and the swishing sensation of his blood draining. The plow looked enormous, a mountain of machine avalanching toward him.

  It stopped, maybe a breathless foot from the toes of his boots.

  Bing leaned out, his snow-caked beard making him resemble an insane Santa. "Out for a stroll?"

  "Yeah. Can't get enough of it. You hear those gunshots?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "Nothing. You need a break. The heat's on. We've got sandwich makings."

  "Why you got Manny locked up? Tim Bower drives that damn pis-sant snowmobile around like a goddamn crazy teenager every chance he gets. Public fucking nuisance."

  Since he was freezing, Nate decided to skip the part about destruction of private property and reckless driving. "Tim Bower was on the damn pissant snowmobile at the time Manny flattened it."

  "Got off quick enough, didn't he?"

  Despite everything, Nate found himself grinning. "Dived headfirst into a snowbank. Skinny Jim saw it. Said it looked like a double gainer."

  Bing merely grunted, pulled his head in and backed the plow away.

  Inside, Nate made sandwiches, took one to the disgruntled Manny and checked on Drunk Mike.

  He decided to take his own meal at the radio. He liked hearing Meg's voice, feeling that strange, sexy connection. It had been a long time since he'd had anyone to talk to about his day, since he'd had anyone he'd wanted to talk to. The conversation added a little spice to his plain meal and some comfort to the solitude.

  "Tim's wrecked that snowmobile more times than I can count," she said after he'd told her about its final destruction. "Manny did everyone a favor. Over."

  "Maybe. I think I can talkTim out of pressing charges if Manny pays for it. You planning on coming into town once this is cleared up? Over."

  "I'm not big on plans. Over."

  "Movie night's coming up. I was hoping to sample your popcorn. Over."

  "It's a possibility. I've got some jobs lined up once I'm cleared to fly. But I like movies. Over."

  He drank some Coke and pictured her sitting at the radio, the dogs at her feet and the fire glowing behind her. "Why don't we make it a date? Over."

  "I don't make dates. Over."

  "Ever? Over."

  "Things happen if they happen. Since we both liked the sex, things will probably happen."

  Since she didn't say "over," he assumed she was giving it some thought. He certainly was.

  "Tell you what, Burke, next time things happen, you can tell me your long, sad story. Over."

  He was imagining the red tattoo at the small of her back. "Why do you think I've got one? Over,"

  "Cutie, you're the saddest man I've ever seen. You tell me the story, and we'll see what happens next. Over."

  "If we . . . damn it."

  "What's that noise? Over."

  "Sounds like Drunk Mike's awake and puking it up in the cell. Manny's finding that understandably objectionable," he added as the sounds of sickness and outrage spiked out of the cells. "I have to go. Over."

  "Boy, a cop's life is fraught with danger. Over and out."

  * * *

  Under the circumstances, Nate opted to let both of his prisoners hitch rides home on the plow. Braving the elements, he went out to dump more gas into the generator.

  After a short debate, he carted one of the cots out, set it up near the radio. As an afterthought, he routed through Peach's drawer and found one of her paperback romance novels.

  He settled in with the book—setting a mental alarm so he could put it, with its sexy cover, back where it came from with no one the wiser— a Coke, and the sounds of the storm.

  The book was better than he'd imagined and took him away to the lush, green fields of Ireland in the days of castles and keeps. There was a hefty dose of magic and fantasy tossed in, so he followed the adventures of Moira the sorceress and Prince Liam with considerable interest.

  The first love scene gave him pause as he thought about the maternal Peach reading about sex— between answering calls and handing out sticky buns. But he was caught up.

  He fell asleep with the book open on his chest and the lights still blazing.

  * * *

/>   The sorceress had Meg's face. Her hair, ink black, swirled into the air like wings. She stood on a white hill in brilliant sunlight that streamed through the thin red gown she wore.

  She lifted her arms, slid the gown from her shoulders so that it slithered down her body. Naked, she walked to him. Her eyes were blue ice as she opened her arms and took him in.

  He felt her lips on his, hot. Hungry. He was under her, surrounded by her. When she rose up, wild wind rushed through her hair. When she lowered, the heat of her all but burned him.

  "What do you have to be sad about?"

  Suddenly, through the pleasure was pain—abrupt, searing. He hissed against it, and his body stiffened. The burning insult of bullets into flesh.

  But she smiled, only smiled. "You're alive, aren't you?" She lifted a hand, smeared with his blood.

  "If you bleed, you're alive."

  "I'm shot. Jesus, I'm hit."

  "And alive," she said as his blood dripped from her hand onto his face.

  He was in the alley, smelling blood and cordite. Smelling garbage and death. Damp air from the rain. Cold, cold for April. Cold and wet and dark. It was all a blur, the shouts, the shots, the pain when the bullet dug into his leg.

  He'd fallen behind, and Jack had gone in first.

  Shouldn't be here. What the hell were they doing here?

  More shots, flashes of light in the dark. Thuds. Was that steel hitting flesh? That stunning, obscene pain in the side that took him down again. So he'd had to crawl, crawl over the damp concrete to where his partner, his friend, lay dying.

  But this time, Jack turned his head, and his eyes were red as the blood that pumped out of his chest. "You killed me. You stupid son of a bitch. Anybody should be dead, it's you. Now see if you can live with it."

  * * *

  He woke in a cold sweat, his partner's dream voice still echoing in his head. Nate pushed himself up to sit on the side of the cot. He dropped his head in his hands.

  So far, he thought, he was doing a lousy job of living with it.

  He made himself get up, carry the bunk back to the cell. He thought of the pills he stowed in his desk drawer, but bypassed his office and made himself go out to pour the last of the gas into the generator.

  It wasn't until he was heading back inside that he realized it had stopped snowing.

  The air was perfectly still, perfectly quiet. There was a faint hint of moonlight sprinkling over the mounds and seas of snow, giving the white a pale blue hue. His breath clouded out as he stood, like a bug, he thought, trapped in crystal instead of amber.

  The storm had passed, and he was still alive.

  See if you can live with it. Well, he would. He'd keep seeing if he could live with it.

  Inside, he brewed coffee, switched on the radio. A sleepy voice—who identified himself as Mitch Dauber, the voice of Lunacy—segued into local news, announcements and weather.

  People started coming out, bears crawling out of their caves. They shoveled and plowed. They gathered together for conversation, ate and walked and slept.

  They lived.

  THE LUNATIC

  Police Log

  Wednesday, January 12

  9:12 a.m. A chimney fire in the residence of Bert Myers was reported. Volunteer firefighter Manny Ozenburger and Chief Ignatious Burke responded. The fire was caused by a buildup of creosote.

  Myers suffered a minor burn on the hand while attempting to grab burning logs out of the fireplace. Ozenburger termed this action "dumbass."

  12:15 p.m. Jay Finkle, age five, was injured in a fall from his tricycle inside the bedroom of his residence. Chief Burke assisted Paul Finkle, Jay's father, in transporting the injured boy to the Lunacy clinic. Jay received four stitches and a grape lollipop. The Hot Wheels was undamaged, and Jay states that he will drive more carefully in the future.

  2:00 p.m. A complaint was lodged by Timothy Bower against Manny Ozenburger. Witnesses confirm that Ozenburger crashed his truck into Bower's Ski-doo while Bower was operating same. Though an informal poll indicates that 52 percent believe Bower had it coming, Ozenburger was remanded to jail. Charges are pending. Members of Lunacy's Volunteer Fire Department are organizing a Free Manny all-you-can-eat buffet.

  2:55 p.m. Kate D. Igleberry reported being assaulted by her partner, David Bunch, at their residence on Rancor Road. At the same time, Bunch claims to have been assaulted by Igleberry. Chief Burke and Deputy Otto Gruber responded. Both complainants offered evidence of facial and bodily bruises, and in Bunch's case, a bite mark on the left buttock. No charges filed.

  3:40 p.m. James and William Mackie were charged with reckless driving and excessive rates of speed on Ski-doos. William Mackie contends that "Ski-doos aren't damn cars." As recreational vehicles, he believes they should be exempt from posted limits and plans to bring this matter up at the next town meeting.

  5:25 p.m. Snow removal crews discovered a man walking in a disoriented manner on the roadside near south Rancor Woods. He could be heard singing "A Nation Once Again." Subsequently identified as Michael Sullivan, the man was transported to Lunacy PD and turned over to Chief of Police Ignatious Burke.

  * * *

  Alone in the station, Nate scanned the rest of the log. It continued, with reports of drunk and disorderlies, the loss and recovery of a missing dog, the call from one of the out-of-towners with a serious case of cabin fever claiming wolves were playing poker on his porch.

  Names were printed on each and every item, no matter how embarrassing it might be for the individual. He wondered what it would've been like if The Baltimore Sun, for instance, had been so thorough and merciless in listing the calls, the names and the actions taken by the police force in Baltimore.

  He had to admit, he found it endlessly entertaining.