telling our sad stories. We'll just enjoy the show."
They sat in silence in the middle of the street, spindly chairs balanced on the snowpack while the heavens flamed.
The flames sparked something inside him, stroked away the tension headache, settled him on the ridge of wonder where he could breathe.
She glanced toward The Lodge as the noise level grew. The shouts of countdown to midnight began. "Looks like it's just you and me, Burke."
"A better end to the year than I expected. You want me to pretend I'm kissing you because it's tradition?"
"Screw tradition." She grabbed his hair in two gloved hands, yanked him toward her.
Her lips were cold, and there was a strange, powerful thrill in feeling them warm against his. The full-throttle punch of the kiss jolted his sluggish system into drive, churned in his belly, snapped through his blood.
He heard the roar—but it was muffled, dim and distant—when midnight struck. Bells clanged, horns tooted, cheers sounded. And through them he heard, clear as a wish, his own heartbeat.
He dropped the glass in his hand, shoved the blanket away so he could reach her. The hum of frustration in his throat came from the barrier of thick layers of clothing. He wanted that strong, curvy body, the shape of it, the taste and scent of it.
Then the sound of gunshots had him jerking back.
"Celebration fire, that's all." Her breath streamed out in clouds as she tried to draw him back. This man could kiss, and she wanted to hold onto the punch-drunk sensation of having his lips, his tongue, his teeth ravish her.
Who needed cheap champagne?
"Maybe, but . . . I have to check."
She gave a half-laugh, then reached down to pick up their glasses. "Yeah, you would."
"Meg—"
"Go ahead, chief." She gave his knee a friendly pat, smiled into those fascinating, and troubled, gray eyes. "A job's a job."
"It won't take long."
She was sure it wouldn't. A few shots in the air were usual on holidays, at weddings, births—even at funerals, depending on the sentiments toward the dead.
But it didn't seem wise to wait. Instead, she left the chairs, the bottle, the glasses on the front porch. She carried the blanket back to her truck, tossed it in the cab.
Then she drove toward home while the green lights played across the sky. And she knew Hopp was right. Nate Burke was going to be trouble.
SIX
THE LUNATIC
Police Log
Monday, January 3
8:03 A.M. Report of snowshoes missing from porch, residence of Hans Finkle. Deputy Peter Notti responded. Finkle's statement "That [numerous colorful expletives deleted] Trilby's up to his old tricks" could not be verified. Snowshoes subsequently located in Finkle's truck.
9:22 A.M. Advised of vehicular accident Rancor Road. Chief of Police Burke and Deputy Otto Gruber responded. Brett Trooper and Virginia Mann involved. No injuries, other than the stubbed toe Trooper suffered as a result of repeatedly kicking his own mangled bumper. No charges filed.
11:56 A.M. Confrontation between Dexter Trilby and Hans Finkle reported at The Lodge. The argument, which included other various and colorful expletives, was apparently rooted in the earlier snowshoe incident. Chief Burke responded, and after some debate, it was suggested the altercation be settled through a checkers tournament. At press time, it was twelve games to ten, in favor of Trilby. No charges filed. 1:45 P.M. Report of loud music and speeding vehicles on Caribou. Chief Burke and Deputy Notti responded. James and William Mackie found to be racing snowmobiles and playing a recording of "Born to Be Wild" at a loud volume. After a brief, and according to witness reports, entertaining chase, a heated confrontation with the officers ensued, during which the CD containing the offending track was confiscated, and which included James Mackie's claim that "Lunacy's just no damn fun anymore." Both Mackies were ticketed for excessive speed.
3:12 P .M. Report of
They sat in silence in the middle of the street, spindly chairs balanced on the snowpack while the heavens flamed.
The flames sparked something inside him, stroked away the tension headache, settled him on the ridge of wonder where he could breathe.
She glanced toward The Lodge as the noise level grew. The shouts of countdown to midnight began. "Looks like it's just you and me, Burke."
"A better end to the year than I expected. You want me to pretend I'm kissing you because it's tradition?"
"Screw tradition." She grabbed his hair in two gloved hands, yanked him toward her.
Her lips were cold, and there was a strange, powerful thrill in feeling them warm against his. The full-throttle punch of the kiss jolted his sluggish system into drive, churned in his belly, snapped through his blood.
He heard the roar—but it was muffled, dim and distant—when midnight struck. Bells clanged, horns tooted, cheers sounded. And through them he heard, clear as a wish, his own heartbeat.
He dropped the glass in his hand, shoved the blanket away so he could reach her. The hum of frustration in his throat came from the barrier of thick layers of clothing. He wanted that strong, curvy body, the shape of it, the taste and scent of it.
Then the sound of gunshots had him jerking back.
"Celebration fire, that's all." Her breath streamed out in clouds as she tried to draw him back. This man could kiss, and she wanted to hold onto the punch-drunk sensation of having his lips, his tongue, his teeth ravish her.
Who needed cheap champagne?
"Maybe, but . . . I have to check."
She gave a half-laugh, then reached down to pick up their glasses. "Yeah, you would."
"Meg—"
"Go ahead, chief." She gave his knee a friendly pat, smiled into those fascinating, and troubled, gray eyes. "A job's a job."
"It won't take long."
She was sure it wouldn't. A few shots in the air were usual on holidays, at weddings, births—even at funerals, depending on the sentiments toward the dead.
But it didn't seem wise to wait. Instead, she left the chairs, the bottle, the glasses on the front porch. She carried the blanket back to her truck, tossed it in the cab.
Then she drove toward home while the green lights played across the sky. And she knew Hopp was right. Nate Burke was going to be trouble.
SIX
THE LUNATIC
Police Log
Monday, January 3
8:03 A.M. Report of snowshoes missing from porch, residence of Hans Finkle. Deputy Peter Notti responded. Finkle's statement "That [numerous colorful expletives deleted] Trilby's up to his old tricks" could not be verified. Snowshoes subsequently located in Finkle's truck.
9:22 A.M. Advised of vehicular accident Rancor Road. Chief of Police Burke and Deputy Otto Gruber responded. Brett Trooper and Virginia Mann involved. No injuries, other than the stubbed toe Trooper suffered as a result of repeatedly kicking his own mangled bumper. No charges filed.
11:56 A.M. Confrontation between Dexter Trilby and Hans Finkle reported at The Lodge. The argument, which included other various and colorful expletives, was apparently rooted in the earlier snowshoe incident. Chief Burke responded, and after some debate, it was suggested the altercation be settled through a checkers tournament. At press time, it was twelve games to ten, in favor of Trilby. No charges filed. 1:45 P.M. Report of loud music and speeding vehicles on Caribou. Chief Burke and Deputy Notti responded. James and William Mackie found to be racing snowmobiles and playing a recording of "Born to Be Wild" at a loud volume. After a brief, and according to witness reports, entertaining chase, a heated confrontation with the officers ensued, during which the CD containing the offending track was confiscated, and which included James Mackie's claim that "Lunacy's just no damn fun anymore." Both Mackies were ticketed for excessive speed.
3:12 P .M. Report of
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