Dandy's panicked expression hardened. "Okay, Jim." He all but saluted and piled in.

"Give her as smooth a ride as possible," Jim said to Dan, closing the door behind him. "I don't know how long those bandages are going to last, and you don't want to jolt them off and have her start bleeding again."

"Okay, Jim," Dan said. He, too, had benefited from the snapped orders. The Explorer's engine turned over and the vehicle inched forward down the track and disappeared almost immediately into the trees.

Jim climbed the stairs to the cabin. It was cold inside, and he pushed the door closed, not without some difficulty, because of the rubble in the way. Everything that had been on a shelf anywhere in the cabin was off it, books, mugs, dishes, pots and pans, cans of food, sacks of flour and sugar and rice, flatware, decks of cards, the top hat token from a Monopoly game, a cribbage board. He took photographs from the door and then picked his way across the debris and took more pictures of Dina's body.

This was the worst part of living where you worked, especially when you worked in law enforcement. Acts of violence were almost always committed against someone you knew, and what was sometimes worse, by someone you knew. He closed his eyes briefly. What if he was wrong? What if Dan O'Brian, contrary to every instinct Jim had, innate or developed on the job, had assaulted the two women? He'd been a practicing police officer for long enough to realize that anyone can kill, given the right motivation.

Dina had been a crusty old broad with a salty tongue, a ribald sense of humor, and a fount of stories that reflected no good on anyone elected or appointed to public office since Alaska had become a state. Jim had spent more than a few hours sitting at a Roadhouse table with Dina Willner, listening to those tales, tales that went all the way back to the first days of Camp Teddy, and even further back to her days as a WASP in World War II, first in Texas and then in Florida. She had forgotten more about flying than he would ever learn, and she was willing to share. He had liked her. He had liked her a lot, and now someone had killed her. It made him angry, the way murder always made him angry. There, he thought, there was motivation for you.

He righted the couch and placed Dina's body on it. Her limbs were loose—rigor had not set in—which meant that the killer was not long gone. He thought of Dan, jolting down the hill in the back of the Explorer. He found in a heap behind the couch a homemade quilt that looked like something the four aunties would make. He spread it over her, then stood silently before her for a few moments.

A draft of cold air made him shiver, and he looked around, noticing for the first time that the back door was open, too. He unbuckled the flap of his holster and stepped to it. Unlike the front door, this one was solid wood, no window, no line of sight. He pushed it open cautiously with his left hand, his weapon drawn and held next to his thigh. The bottom of the door scraped over packed-down snow. There was no movement beyond it. He stepped out on the porch.