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summer.”
    “It’s a terrific area.” Angie said, apparently not referring to the brush and swamp we were passing.
    “Yeah, we like it. Real quiet. We’re expecting our first baby early next spring, and this is the sort of place where we want to raise our family.”
    A stop sign announced the Richardson Highway. Traffic was rushing in both directions. The two lanes on the far side were probably people who lived in Fairbanks but worked at Eielson AFB. Our side was gushing with people who lived out on the highway but worked in Fairbanks. Our host picked a gap in the line of traffic that was actually longer than the pickup, turned right, and burned rubber to join the queue.

Chapter Five
    He dropped us at the corner of Gaffney and Cushman and we hiked two blocks down the dusty sidewalk to the Fairbanks Inn. The stone front creates a medieval castle effect, but behind that is steel and glass. I stopped Angie outside the entrance.
    “Do you mind if we share a room?”
    “Are you kidding? You’re not leaving me alone.” She looked quizzical, wondering why I had asked. It was a sop to my culture, where single men and women who share rooms have ulterior motives. In her culture, whole families, both sexes, and sometimes three generations, share a one- or two-room cabin with no problems. The no-problems part was what I had in mind. We needed to keep an eye on each other and think together. Sharing a room solved a whole spectrum of potential problems.
    The receptionist struck me as a Filipina, dark, wavy hair surrounding a pretty moon face. She was too young but striving to make up for that with an air of ultra sophistication. She’d noticed that we weren’t carrying luggage, and we probably did look as if we’d spent the night barhopping. I would have liked to register under a phony name, but was going to have to use a credit card, so the card and the register should match. I settled for Mr. and Mrs. Alex Price. The receptionist was doing fine until I suggested that we preferred twin beds. That destroyed her view of the world. She flipped a page in her ledger, found a room on the second floor, and handed me a key.
    “We need two keys.”
    She produced a second one. I handed one to Angie. “Food or shower?”
    “Shower, thirty seconds, then that soul’s worth of breakfast you tortured me with.” Stairs led up from the lobby. Our room was halfway down a long, carpeted hall and had a sealed plate glass window overlooking Cushman Street. I don’t know why they call those twin beds. Each was the size of a queen, but with a four-foot aisle between them. We had two chairs, a dresser with a TV bolted on top, a nightstand between the beds with two reading lights and a telephone. A door led to a bathroom where Angie was already running the shower.
    She was out in minutes, wearing towels and carrying her clothes. “Your turn.”
    A hot shower and clean-smelling soap can be life’s greatest pleasures under some circumstances. However, the restaurant was calling. Angie had left me a towel. I dried, flapped my clothes to shake the dust out, and dressed. I took one more swipe at my strange new hairline, and tapped on the door before I opened it. She was dressed, fussing at her hair, and extended a now clean hand. I put my comb in it. She went back into the bathroom for one more minute, and we almost ran to the coffee shop.
    Breakfast was still in progress. I was surprised to notice that it was only eight in the morning. It seemed like the end of a very long day. We must have looked desperate because in two minutes we were served coffee and orange juice, and in five more we were on refills and tucking into our dream breakfasts.
    Angie demolished half an English muffin and seemed to approve of the hollandaise. She blotted her lips and sipped coffee. “What’s the plan, Alex?”
    “My pistol’s in my flight bag at the airport. I’m going to feel a lot better when it’s in my belt. After that?” I shrugged. “Stan mentioned