The third entry to the Nathan Active series. State Trooper Nathan Active has long been caught between identities. Born an Inupiat Eskimo but raised in Anchorage by adoptive white parents, he had little knowledge of his heritage before being assigned to the remote Alaskan town of Chukchi. He only realizes how deeply settled into the local rhythm he is when Grace Palmer, a local beauty queen, goes missing. Active mounts a search that will lead him halfway across Alaska—and give him plenty of time to discover he is in love with Grace. Closing in on the answers, however, he discovers evidence that points to an agonizing conundrum: she is either dead, or she is a cold-blooded killer. Praise for Frozen Sun "No one shows you the ugly side of Alaska the way Stan Jones does." — The New York Times Book Review "What Jones truly excels at is evoking Alaska. Whether it be the brief, fragile arctic spring, the hazardous world of the dead enders on the streets of Anchorage, or the relentless rain of Dutch Harbor, readers will get a strong sense of what Alaska feels like . . . Jones has an easygoing writing style that flows well, an ability to create believable, multi-layered characters, and plenty of good plot ideas." — Fairbanks Daily News-Miner "That rare thing, a deftly plotted mystery that's also an irresistible love story. With it, Jones's Alaska series takes a quantum leap forward." — Kirkus Reviews "Does not disappoint . . . Readers of Dana Stabenow and Mike Doogan will appreciate Jones's take on Alaskan justice." —Library Journal "A subtle, vivid, and effective crime novel that deserves a wide readership." —International Noir Fiction Stan Jones is a native of Alaska. He has worked as an award-winning journalist and a bush pilot. He is the author of five other mysteries in the acclaimed Nathan Active series, including White Sky, Black Ice ; Shaman Pass ; Village of the Ghost Bears ; Tundra Kill ; and The Big Empty . Chapter One   “Beautiful, wasn’t she?”       Nathan Active studied the mural-sized photograph on the wall outside the principal’s office at Chukchi High School. A girl, half Eskimo and half white, stood on a bluff overlooking the lagoon behind Chukchi on a summer day. She held a bouquet of roses and wore an evening gown, a tiara, and a sash that said “Miss North World.” A small brass plate underneath read grace sikingik palmer.       “She was beautiful from the day she was born.” Jason Palmer was in his early fifties, Active guessed. Tall, swept-back silver hair, jeans, hands pushed into the hip pockets. A good-looking face, with a slightly fox-like cast to the eyes and the bridge of the nose. “That’s why I named her Grace. But I doubt she looks like that now.”       Active pulled a notebook from his pocket. “How long since you’ve heard from her?”       “It’ll be ten years this Christmas,” Palmer said. “She started at the university in Anchorage the fall after this picture was made, came home for Christmas, and we never saw her again.”       “She didn’t call? Or write? How about her mother? Did anybody else in the family hear from her?”       “No, but my son Roy crossed her trail when he was in Anchorage for a basketball tournament three years ago this past winter. She was hanging around that bar down there. The Junction.”       Active grimaced. “Whew.”       “You know the Junction.”       “Everybody in Anchorage knows the Junction, sir. It’s a behavior sink.”       “A what?”       “Behavior sink. It means . . . ah, never mind. It’s social worker talk for hell on earth.” He turned back to the picture. “Did Roy just hear about this or did he actually see it with his own eyes?”       Palmer nodded. “He saw her, all right. She . . . She . . .”       His voice broke and he turned away. He pulled a handkerchief from a hip pocket and blew his nose. He walked across the hall to a fountain, bent and drank, then crossed back again.       “She was coming out of the Junction and she was drunh-hunhhunk—” Palmer pulled out the handkerchief and turned away once more, his shoulders shaking.       The misery here was too deep to touch with words. Active waited silently, studying the girl in the black-and-white mural.       The principal of Chukchi High School was right. His daughter was, or had been, a looker. A fine straight nose, high cheekbones, dark almond eyes with a slight tilt and an odd silver gleam at the corners, full lips. Long dark hair and clear dark skin aglow in the summer sun of the photograph. She had inherited some of her father’s looks, especially around the eyes.       Finally the sobs stopped, and Palmer blew his nose again. His face took on an expression of stony resolve and he spoke in a monotone, like the robot voice on an answering machine.       “Roy saw her coming out of the Junction drunk. She was with two men, Roy thought they were soldiers from their haircuts. They were holding her up between them. A black one and a white one.”       Palm