Cold Heart by Chandler McGrew Read Free Book Online Page A

local quartz, polished by hand.
    Her trademark.
    The piece had been commissioned by a buyer in Anchorage. Micky wasn't expected to turn out an exact replica of what the owner wanted—an overhead view of salmon spawning—but an artist's rendition, and that was what the owner was getting.
    She put the finishing touches to her soldering and studied the shards of glass remaining on the table. Several were cut to fit but never used. Others lay farther from her hand, different shades and variations of the swirling interior colors, uncut, in case she chose to replace one of the pieces. One lay by itself, exiled. Its hue and the distinct coloration had been exactly what she wanted.
    It irritated her that she had not been paying attention when she cut it.
    Usually a piece of glass broke along the fault lines created with the scribe or allowed itself to be nibbled with her special cutting pliers. But sometimes, for myriad reasons—pressure of the tool, inconsistent force from her hands, or just the unpredictable obstinacy of an inanimate object—the glass would not break cleanly. Instead, it fractured through the layer of glass itself, creating microthin, jagged edges that were sharper than razors.
    She called pieces like that scalpel glass.
    She'd recut it and use it somewhere else.
    The spring light through her windows was perfect for stained-glass work. In early May the sun hung over the Kuskokwim Mountains like a light peeking over the top of a miner's helmet, shining golden onto her table. Although at this time of year the sun came up officially sometime after five in the morning and didn't set until ten at night, the high, snowcapped mountains on three sides bathed McRay in almost perpetual twilight.
    In the bush, the light and the weather were king.
    Although spring was capable of flooding the narrow valley with verdant life, it was just as likely to bury it under a sudden snow squall or flood the plains below with weeks of torrential rain that turned the wide, placid, Kuskokwim River into a snarling deluge of ferocious power. Snow could bury the mountains in a night and then the next day the sun and warm Chinook winds could melt it all. Or send it roaring downhill in deadly destructive avalanches that ripped gaping wounds in the forest.
    Outside, jays screeched at the ravens, fighting over the leavings of last night's dinner. Micky knew she shouldn't be throwing food so close to the cabin. But the birds were so thick this time of year that they'd clean up every scrap before a grizzly could get wind of it. Besides, the big bruisers were just starting to come out.
    There was a scratching cry as one of the birds chased another away from its food, and then silence.
    It was as though the entire world had taken a deep breath.
    She rested both hands on the table and waited for the birds to begin squabbling again.
    It had taken her a long time to become accustomed to thesilence in McRay. There was a world of difference between hearing the traffic outside your bedroom window and listening to the low soughing of a night wind under your eave. Of being accustomed to the wail of sirens and hearing nothing more for hours on end than a willow ptarmigan flapping through the brush.
    Was it even quieter than usual?
    It was four years since Houston. The temperature range was an average of sixty degrees lower and the population was a few million less.
    But it was the quiet that had taken the most getting used to.
    Micky finished fitting the stone and set the iron back down in the coals of the woodstove. The window was finished. Of course there were always areas to improve. She would keep retouching and polishing forever if she didn't force herself to say enough. Over the past weeks she had removed and replaced dozens of pieces of glass, searching for just the right balance of color and light. Chasing the perfection she saw only in her head.
    But Cary at the Mendenhall Gallery was getting antsy. Clive Cabel had stopped by yesterday with a phone