Текст книги "Cards on the Table"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Chapter Two

Casper's voice was as smoky and blue as a New Orleans jazz club at two in the morning. They had the karaoke unit out in the living room, practicing for the Elvis concert at Tiny's Place. Casper wasn't singing an Elvis song, though. He was singing that Brook Benton song, «Rainy Night in Georgia.» When he was done, Jesse and Phillip stood up and clapped. «Wow, Casper. That was –«

Travis stood up and pushed past them out of the living room. «I gotta go. Get some sleep before I go on duty tonight.»

Casper nodded and watched him walk out of the room, a frown tugging at his eyes. He turned to Peter and shrugged.

«Okay, here we go.» Jacob turned the screen of his laptop so Jesse could see it. «I think go with a classic fifties Elvis look – 501's and loafers and a white T-shirt. You can roll a pack of smokes in your sleeve and sing 'Hound Dog,' 'Jailhouse Rock,' something like that.»

Phillip reached for Jesse's black hair, ran his fingers through it. «I guess we could slick you up with a little olive oil from the kitchen, give you a ducktail.»

Jesse nodded. «Maybe you're right. We can't sing 'Kentucky Rain,' not with Casper singing a sad, rainy song.» He looked over at Peter. «So Tiny's rule is nobody sings 'Down in the Ghetto'? How come?»

Peter shrugged and held up his hands. «I don't really know, Jesse. It's possible I wasn't listening to Tiny at all, at the last hundred of these I've attended. Like maybe my ears were stuffed with small foam rubber earplugs.»

Casper laughed, and Jesse turned back to Phillip. «We'll have to go for cute ass in tight jeans and hope the audience is full of homeboys.» He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. «And drinking heavily. Who's coming? Me and Phillip, Casper, Peter, Jacob…»

«I'm not going,» Jacob said, back at the computer. He was pulling up lyrics so everyone could practice. «I've got to pack. I'm leaving for the airport about thirty minutes after you guys get back. I'll have just enough time to hear about the winner. Mike, how about you? Think you can sing like Elvis?»

Mike shook his head. It was after six, and he still hadn't shaved or taken a shower, but he came down to get some of the tea Peter set out for the guests, about five ginger scones, crackers with pecan and blue cheese spread, tiny cucumber slices with salmon and dilled sour cream. The teapot was full of Earl Grey. «Sorry I'm not up to much, guys. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more…» He shook his head. «So what's the prize, Peter? For the winner?»

«Grand prize is dinner for two at Tiny's Cafe. He makes a mean meat loaf sandwich, two thick slices of meat loaf with tomato gravy on Texas toast, and you get seconds on the mashed potatoes, gratis. He also has the biggest moose burgers in town, half a pound at least, and…»

«Oh, God! Don't say another word.» Phillip leaned forward, holding his stomach. «I already feel sick, just thinking about it. Okay, who's the ringer?» Peter hesitated. «I really shouldn't…»

«Oh, come on, Peter. You got a local Elvis who's gonna blow us all out of the water?»

«Well, Tiny himself does a mean Elvis. He's got a voice like you wouldn't believe, even better than Casper. He's just gotten a bit big for those costumes. But when he was younger and thinner, he was the most famous Elvis in Alaska. He can still belt out a song strong enough to rattle the windowpanes. But I've got my money on Casper if he can convince the judges to let him sing Brook Benton. Or at least 'Kentucky Rain.' Sad songs about rain are very popular in Alaska.» * * * * *

Peter pulled the hotel's van up to the front door about seven, and Casper, Phillip, and Jesse climbed in, dressed in Levi's and white T-shirts, hair slicked back. Jacob walked down the steps with them, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shearling slippers on his feet.

«I'll be home in time to say good-bye to you, Jacob. Before you have to leave for the airport.»

Jacob nodded and looked off toward the dark waters of the harbor. He was shivering a bit in his T-shirt.

«Go back inside where it's warm.» Peter leaned down and kissed him, hands on his shoulders, watched him walk back into the hotel and close the door behind him.

Tiny's Elvis contest was the monthly social occasion for the island. Elvis impersonators, men and a few women, came from all over the southeastern part of Alaska to eat moose stew and sing like The King.

Tiny greeted them at the door. He was enormous, probably 6'6», with a huge belly unconfined in tobacco brown Carhartt overalls unbuttoned on the sides. His Harley T-shirt didn't cover the wondrous Subic Bay tattoos he'd gotten in the Philippines as a young sailor. With his black beard and crooked teeth and frizzed ponytail, he was the least Elvis-looking person in the room.

Peter waved to Susan, who was conferring with the other two judges – the town librarian who was also the reading teacher at the school and a retired doctor everyone said was hiding out from his kids and ex-wife.

«What? Brook Benton?» Tiny's shout carried across the room. «No fucking way, man. We are 100 percent Elvis.»

Casper was grinning at him. «Come here, Tiny. I've got an idea.» Casper had him by the arm, dragged him across the room.

Jesse and Phillip were giving the room a careful appraisal. «This many sequins and white vinyl jumpsuits should be illegal outside of Las Vegas,» Jesse said finally.

Phillip raised his eyebrows. «If grown men are going to wear eyeliner, they should at least put it on while they're sober. It takes a steady hand. That's all I'm going to say about that.»

«You two look very good,» Peter admitted. The rest of the Elvis contenders were closer to sixty than thirty, with the unmannered hair, stained teeth, and reckless approach to fashion that characterized men from the Alaskan bush. A few Elvises, in the interests of authenticity, were three sheets to the wind, their flasks bulging in their costume pockets. Jesse and Phillip were gorgeous and slender and well groomed and young, and already the lady Elvises were giving them points for being cute and clean.

Tiny climbed up on the stage and picked up the microphone. Casper was working on the CD player attached to the karaoke machine. «Okay, let's get this show on the road. First, the rules: We're tribute artists, honoring The King. Anybody who just came to make fun of Elvis? You'll find your ass full of gravel when you go sliding out the door and across the parking lot behind my foot. Two: Nobody sings 'Down in the Ghetto.' That song belongs to The King alone. Three: You're too drunk to stand up and sing, you can't go sober up and try again. You got to wait until next month. What else?» Tiny looked over at Casper, and Casper waved the mic at him. «Oh, yeah. We're gonna start tonight's contest by raising the bar just a

little.» The music came on, 'Rainy Night in Georgia,' but Tiny didn't leave the stage. He and Casper both had microphones, and they sang together, their voices as rich and dark as bittersweet chocolate. Peter didn't think he'd ever heard anything like it, and the rest of the audience apparently felt the same. Everyone listened, eyes closed or full of tears, and the sound filled the small room with some magic, and some soul. When they finished singing everyone stared at them in silence, stunned, until Peter stood up and started clapping. The whistles and boot-stomping and shouts for an encore went on a good long while, until Tiny took the mic again and told everybody to shut the hell up.

Peter had attended hundreds of these contests since he had lived here, and this one was about par for the course. Jesse and Phillip did a very nice ass-wiggling rendition of 'Hound Dog' that had all the women in the audience rattling the windows with wolf whistles and throwing dollar bills onto the stage. They were listening to 'Kentucky Rain' for about the eighth time when Susan pulled the police radio off her belt. She spoke into it, then stood up and made her way through the crowd. She gestured for Peter to join her. «Peter, I need you.» «Sure, Susan. Let me give Casper the keys to the van.» «Hurry, Peter.»

Susan was already in the police unit when he came out with the lights flashing blue and red across the dim parking lot. «Susan, what's wrong? Is there a fire? Half the fire department is inside.»

She tore out of the parking lot, stomping down on the accelerator. «Somebody out at your place called 911. I don't know what's going on.»

«911? What did they say?» Susan was silent, both hands on the wheel. They were driving very fast, and Peter reached for the dashboard. «Susan, they must have said something. Who called, and what did they say?»

«It was a man,» she said, checking the rearview mirror. «The person who called, he said someone was dead. That's all.»

Peter's chest felt like ice suddenly, frozen and heavy, and he couldn't breathe enough to speak.

«We don't know what's going on,» Susan said again, reluctantly. «They said it was Jacob, Peter. They said that Jacob was dead.»

«No.» He felt a burning panic, like he was choking, his throat suddenly full of acid. «No. That can't be, Susan. There has been a mistake.» Peter could hear the strain in his voice, the odd formality, and he had a sudden picture of Jacob shivering in his T-shirt and slippers, walking away from him, walking back into the hotel and closing the door. He looked over at Susan again. She was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. «Clearly there has been a mistake. Jacob is fine.»

They came screaming into a black nightmare, lit by pulsing red and blue lights, the ambulance, the cop car, solemn men and women in uniforms standing in a cold rain, sorrowful faces, and Peter pushed through their arms and there was Jacob on a gurney, half his body covered in mud, and Peter tried to brush it off his face and that's when he saw the rope around Jacob's neck. It's too tight, how can he breathe? Susan pulled him off. «Don't touch it now, Peter.»

Jacob had bare muddy feet, where are his slippers? «He needs his slippers,» he told Susan. «It's cold out here. He shouldn't be out here without slippers.» And then Tom had his arms around him. Tom was the senior EMT. He had mud on his face; he must have been doing CPR. «Tom, why did you stop CPR? That's Jacob.»

And Tom lifted him up, arms still wrapped around his chest, carried him to the front steps. «Peter. Peter, Travis found him. You need to go help Travis. He's in a bad way.» And Tom pushed him through the front door and closed it behind him.

There was a deputy inside, the other half of the island's law enforcement department, a big, rawboned kid who was sitting on the edge of an armchair, twisting his hat between his hands. Mike was sitting on the couch, his knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them as if

he was holding himself together. Nelson was leaning in the doorway, face blank, his hands in the pockets of muddy overalls, hair frizzed from the rain. Travis was walking back and forth, leaning up against a wall, pushing himself off and walking again. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He was wiping them down his thighs, tucking them beneath his arms, balling his hands into fists, shoving them down into the pockets of his jeans. His clothes were streaked with mud.

He met Peter's eyes, then he closed his tightly, rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes, smeared the mud and overflowing tears.

Peter didn't want to comfort him. He wanted to stay leaning against the wall, but he pushed himself off, went to Travis and folded him up in his arms, let Travis cry hoarse, racking sobs into his shoulder.

«I'm here now, Travis,» Peter said, stroking Travis's back up and down like he was an infant needing soothing. «We'll get this all straightened out. I'm sure there has been some kind of mistake. It can't be Jacob.»

And Travis pulled back out of his arms, confusion on his face, then sorrow. «Oh, Peter. It is. It is Jacob.» * * * * *

«I don't know what happened, Peter. I mean, he was upstairs packing, and he came down looking for his journal. It was in the living room and he picked it up and said something like, 'What are you doing down here?' Then I heard somebody come down and go into the kitchen. I stuck my head in there to look and the door was open a little so I closed it but I didn't lock it, Peter. You come in through the kitchen sometimes and I didn't want to lock it.»

Peter shook his head. «We never lock the kitchen door, Travis. Not until everyone is in for the night. You didn't do anything wrong. What made you want to go outside?»

«I don't know. Something didn't feel right, the sound of the voices in the kitchen, something was off about it, and then that door being open. I went upstairs and Mike was in his room, but not Jacob. His door was open, and his duffel bag was there on the bed, like he was packing, and I looked around but I couldn't find him. So I went outside and he was… His face was down in the mud. I turned him over and tried to do CPR, but I didn't see the rope. The CPR didn't work. I mean, I couldn't get a breath in, the rope…» Travis stopped then, crying, his hands up over his eyes. «I didn't know what to do. I ran back in to call 911, but they say you're not supposed to stop CPR once you start, but it wasn't working, and I…»

Susan interrupted him. She had her small memo book open on her knee and was making notes. There was also a small tape recorder on the table. «When you came back inside, Travis, after trying to do CPR, did you see anyone?»

«Mike was coming downstairs. I guess he heard me screaming. I told him to call 911. I told him it was Jacob. Then I went back outside, and, you know, tried again.» Mike was still curled in a ball on the sofa. «Mike, did you see anyone else besides Travis?»

He shook his head, and Susan pointed to the tape recorder. «No,» he said, wiping the edge of his sleeve across his nose. «I heard someone on the phone, the one on that little table in the hall, and I went out there because I was expecting a call. Jacob was on the phone and he looked, I don't know, pissed off. He said, 'Yeah, okay. Where are you, anyway? I want to see it,' something like that. Then he hung up and took off downstairs.» «What was he wearing?»

Mike blinked and rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and rimmed in red. «Jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, that dark red one. I don't know what else. Maybe those little slippers, the ones that looked like moccasins.»

Peter stopped listening to the words. He could still hear their feelings, though, in the sounds of their voices, horror, sick fury, fear.

Casper came tumbling through the front door with Jesse and Phillip, horror on his face. Jesse was crying, gulping back sobs, and Casper had a big hand on his shoulder. Susan started to explain what was happening, but Peter couldn't listen anymore.

He turned away from them, climbed the stairs to his rooms. He couldn't quite feel his feet. In his bedroom Peter put his face down in the pillow, tried to find Jacob's smell. It was faint, but it was still there, the tiniest bit of him. When Peter turned back around, he saw the cello sitting in the corner of his bedroom.

He sat down in the armchair and held it the way Jacob had held it. Then he pulled it closer, wrapped his arms around it. It was awkward and bulky, the edges hard. The cello didn't feel the same way Jacob had felt in his arms, but he could picture him here. In his mind he held a picture of Jacob, playing for him, his shy smile and the dark lashes on his cheek, so he put his arms around that picture, held Jacob close to him. And sometime during the night, the picture of Jacob in his mind stopped playing, bent over and kissed him sweetly. Peter, I have to go now. He could feel the touch of fingers against his cheek, then Jacob was gone.

Peter touched one of the strings just enough that the faint echo of sound filled the room. When he went back downstairs Casper was behind the desk, and Travis was curled up asleep on the couch, covered by a wine-colored cashmere throw. Travis had his hands tucked up under his cheek, dried tears on his face, and Peter thought he looked just like he had when he was a little boy. «Where's everyone?»

Casper poured him a cup of coffee and passed it across. «Mike's upstairs. He was upset, Peter, shaky. I mean, even more than usual, and I think it was time for his snort. Jesse and Phillip went up to their room, too. Susan went into her office to call the state cops. I'm trying to find Jacob's address. He didn't leave any emergency contact information.»

«He was moving,» Peter said. «He was moving to Montreal. I don't know the name of the man he left behind. All I know is he had bruises on his body, Casper. And he was leaving the man, the relationship. Maybe the bastard followed him. Tried to get him to come back.»

Casper nodded. «It happens, Peter. Probably more than anyone knows. But this is an island. It would be hard to come here completely unnoticed and leave the same way. They'll find him if it was the old lover. Oh, Susan said she's got the volunteer firefighters out checking the harbors and the roads, and a couple of guys at the airport. She's sealed off the island, for tonight, at least.»

Peter nodded, sipped his coffee. He didn't care. He knew everyone was working hard, working together and helping out, trying to find Jacob's killer, but he couldn't muster the energy to care about any of it. It was all very important work but what did it matter in the long run? A light was gone from the world, and would never be replaced. So they would find the bad guy, bring him to justice, but Peter couldn't muster the energy to care about justice. Jacob was gone.

Casper walked around the front desk, clasped his shoulder, then he went to the couch, pulled up a chair next to Travis. He settled there, a cup of coffee in his hands. He looked like he was ready to sit there all night, in case Travis needed him.

Peter went behind the desk, pulled out the satellite phone he kept for emergencies and Sebastian. He stared down at it. Well, he could hardly call Sebastian and beg him to come, could he? Peter was staring down at the phone, wondering what to do. Wondering who he could call. And what would he say, anyway? Help! Somebody help me, my heart is breaking! The phone was ringing in his hands. His fingers had dialed Sebastian's number, but Sebastian wasn't there, no one was picking up, and Peter felt a cold desolation in his belly. What if Sebastian never picked up again? That would be more loss than he could bear.

Chapter Three

Cold drizzle through the short, dark night gave way to a miserable, rainy gray morning. It felt like the sun didn't care enough about starting another day to rise properly.

Peter was in the kitchen baking bread, long, white loaves of Italian bread for sandwiches. The men who had been out last night in the rain, looking for Jacob's killer, would need some food. He had fed them all before, when other disasters had fallen on their town and everyone had come together to help out. They liked their sandwiches thick, stuffed with every bit of food he could shove between a couple of pieces of bread. They liked soup, too, but nothing fancy. Chicken noodle or vegetable beef, and lots of it, in thick, heavy bowls like the ones that Sebastian made.

Peter reorganized the buffet a bit, filled up the big coffeepots and put bowls and spoons and paper plates out, a platter of sliced ham and salami and another of cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, pickles and sliced onions, and a big steaming pot of chicken noodle. Homemade noodles, so the broth was rich and thick.

He turned the police radio on and broadcast that there was breakfast for the volunteers ready at the Heartbreak when they could be relieved. He left the radio on to listen to their chatter, but there wasn't much talk. The last time everyone had gotten together they were

looking for a child, lost while her family was camping, and you could hear the urgency of that mission in the radio comms. There was urgency now, too, but of a different kind. Because it was too late, and the best outcome they could hope for would be the thin, sour taste of revenge.

Just for a moment Peter remembered the taste of Jacob's mouth, so warm and alive, remembered it so clearly he could taste it. Jacob's mouth curved into a smile under his own, as if Peter kissing him made him unbearably happy, made him reach for Peter and pull him closer and closer… The memory rolled through his stomach, then twisted itself into a knot.

It wasn't long before the house was overrun with cold and wet and hungry men. Mike stayed in his room, in bed, clutching the pillow to his chest. Peter brought him some hot, sweet tea, Constant Comment, set it on the bedside table. «Mike, are you okay?»

Mike rolled over and looked at him. «Not really. He was the most inoffensive kid in the world, Peter. Gentle, open, so talented and beautiful… I heard him play yesterday morning, even though I wasn't in the dining room. It was like he was something precious, better than the rest of us. What on earth could Jacob have possibly done to bring this violence down on his head?»

«Is that the way it usually works? I don't know anything about…murder.» Peter almost couldn't get the word out. It felt like his throat was trying to close up, rather than to utter that ugly, violent word.

Jesse and Phillip came downstairs, helped serve soup and sandwiches. Peter could see that they wanted to help, but they were young, too, and couldn't help enjoying the drama just a bit and the milling crowds of grateful and tired firefighters with their brawny shoulders. But when they caught sight of Peter, they remembered Jacob, and the sadness fell over their faces again.

So Peter stayed in the kitchen, wondered what he could cook that would take a lot of concentration, something that tasted as rich as sorrow. Maybe burgundy beef. Sebastian liked that. Maybe he would come, if Peter fixed some of the food he liked.

Sorrow was real, but it was an indulgence, he decided, browning mushrooms and scallions in butter and olive oil. It was rich and flavorful, like pound cake. Sorrow was to sadness what pound cake was to Twinkies. This drizzly gray morning with its wet, cold wind, it wasn't sorrowful. It felt like the sky was throwing a childish tantrum. No, sorrow was like a bright autumn day, Indian summer, the leaves already turning, the sunlight golden and warm as a pumpkin. It was the inevitability of autumn that made it so sorrowful, like the lines of age on Sebastian's face, and his own. But there was nothing inevitable about murder. It was the opposite of inevitable, the sharp hacking cut with an axe down through a life, the future severed and lost like an amputated limb.

Where was that Keats poem about autumn? Peter dried his hands on his apron and crossed into the living room. Where was the Keats? He pulled the book out, opened it to the table of contents. Jacob was like Keats, both young artists who were too fragile for the worlds they lived in. Oh, there it was. «Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…» Those British, they didn't know mists. They ought to live off the coast of Alaska if they wanted to know what mist was. He walked back through to the kitchen door, reading, and didn't hear Susan talking to him until she reached out for his arm and shook it. «What?»

She looked around, then pulled him into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, astonishment on her face, slowly scanned the room. Peter looked, too. Every countertop was covered, copper bowls, measuring cups, bags of bread flour, glass bowls of eggs, blocks of butter. «What? I'm cooking.»

«Okay, Peter.» She looked at him carefully. «Just, you know, checking on you. My friend.» «What's your favorite season?» «Spring, I guess. Maybe winter.» «Which season feels like sorrow to you?» «I don't know, Peter. Maybe this one. Hey. Sebastian's coming.» * * * * *

It was a good thing that pound cake froze well. Peter baked and wrapped twelve loaves of lemon pound cake for the freezer, and kept two out for his guests. And for Sebastian, who didn't appreciate his pound cake, but ate it anyway, ate it like he would eat anything, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich even. Peter went back to the pantry, got a couple of extra jars of that blueberry jam Sebastian liked.

He knew it was him when he heard the commotion out front. Sebastian seemed to carry commotion with him. Maybe he incited it. Maybe it just happened spontaneously when he was near, something in the air around him, some commotion pheromone he gave off. Peter leaned against the doorway to the living room to watch the show.

Jesse and Phillip were sitting on the sofa, very close together and big-eyed, holding hands. Travis was watching from behind the desk. Casper was reclined in the easy chair, taking one of his ten-minute naps. Sebastian stood in the middle of the room like a grizzly, wrapped head to toe in a disreputable collection of frontier furs and ratty brown canvas. He was huge, well over six-five, and looked like Atlas with the earth perched on his big shoulders.

Jesse and Phillip had never witnessed an Alaskan striptease. The fur mittens came off first, dropped onto the floor. Then the scarf and neck gaiter, both fleece. When Sebastian pulled off the silver fur hat, he shook his head and his shaggy black hair fell into place down to his shoulders. He shrugged out of his down coat, dropped it on the pile. Next came the padded ski overalls, black nylon, unbuckled and slid down to his hips. Underneath was a quilted plaid flannel shirt. Jesse's mouth fell open when Sebastian undid the buttons, one by one, dropped the flannel shirt on the pile. He sat down on the edge of the chair, kicked off

his bunny boots, those huge rubber boots the color of vanilla ice cream that Alaskan men wore who worked outside. He skinned out of the overalls, stood up in thermal long underwear – charcoal gray, knit from silk and cashmere yarns and softer than a baby's ass. Peter knew that because he had bought them for Sebastian, three pairs, size XL-Tall.

Sebastian opened his hands like a magician, and he was holding two tiny, squirming puppies, little baby sled dogs, maybe four weeks old. «Oh, let me hold them!» Jesse and Phillip each took a puppy, and the room erupted into yips and squeals and baby talk.

Sebastian pulled off his socks, left everything in a pile on the living room floor, and padded barefoot over to where Peter was standing. Sebastian had the black hair and black eyes of his Athabascan grandmother, and the easy smile of a southern beauty queen.

Peter rolled his eyes and handed him a peanut butter and blueberry jam on homemade white bread, wrapped in a paper towel.

«You got some dry clothes for me? I'm freezing. I got soaked coming over on the ferry.»

Peter couldn't help but notice that Sebastian was freshly shampooed and shaved. He didn't smell like a guy who had just spent six months in a Yukon River fish camp. He smelled like peppermint foot lotion. «And they say live theater is dead!» «Holy shit! Did you see that guy?» It was Jesse in the living room. Sebastian winked and took a big bite out of his sandwich. * * * * *

After Peter closed the kitchen door behind them, Sebastian put his sandwich on the counter and tugged Peter into a big, bruising hug. Peter let himself have a moment or two of comfort, silk and cashmere and Sebastian's big chest under his cheek, brawny arms tugging him close, but he was afraid to stay there too long. Too many people in the house, too much to do. He didn't have time to break down.

Sebastian's big hands stroked his back. «Peter, what the fuck have you done?» Peter felt a frisson of shock. Sebastian was furious. «You know where Susan is?»

«She was here just a minute ago.» He looked around the kitchen as if she might be hiding behind a copper pot. «Sebastian…»

Sebastian picked up the police radio and keyed the button. «Cop-1, Cop-1, what's your twenty?» «I'm in my vehicle. Who wants to know?» «Your brother.» «Stay put. I'll be there in twenty minutes.»

He set the radio down on the counter, turned to Peter. «You got any of my clothes in a box somewhere, Peter?»

Peter turned around, blinking in surprise, a dishtowel in his hand. «Your clothes are where they always are, Sebastian. The bottom two drawers in the dresser.»

Sebastian had his arms crossed over his big chest, shivering. «I thought you might have moved my stuff. To leave yourself some room, Peter.» He rubbed a big hand down his face, and Peter could see the misery. «You fell in love with somebody else. You took a kid into my bed, a new lover. I can't believe it, Peter. And not one word to me.»

Peter shook his head, and the sky outside spit and rumbled in misery. «It wasn't like that, Sebastian. Just a weekend. Something unexpected and…dear.» Peter blinked hard to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes. «I didn't have time to fall in love, but I might have. Jacob was sweet. A cellist, talented and, I don't know, so eager and loving. And really young. You would have fallen in love with him, too. And now somebody's killed him! Here, at the hotel!»

Sebastian nodded. «I know, Peter. Susan told me. Sorry about the puppies. I had to bring them with me.» «Whose pups?» «Queenie.» «What happened?» Queenie was his lead dog, and she was young, only five or six.

«I don't know, Peter. Something fast. I found her in the morning. I've lost all the pups but these two.» «Any other dogs sick? Who's staying with them?»

«I've got a young couple – teenagers, but the girl's pregnant. They want to try, you know, to make it together, so I let them have the cabin for the summer. I'll stay up here. I don't have any other puppies.» «You're staying here with me, aren't you, Sebastian?»

«I will if you want me to, Peter.» Sebastian looked at him carefully. «I don't want to crowd you. I thought I might scout out some land. Maybe…I don't know. We'll see how it goes.»

«Crowd me? Since when? You've been up the Yukon for months! Do the puppies need formula replacement still?»