CHAPTER NINE
The morning sun had the brittle clarity that only comes towards the end of northern winters — the kind that makes even frost look polished.
Kate drove north out of Portland with the heater humming, a takeaway coffee cooling in the cup holder and an unmarked folder on the passenger seat.
Frost clung to the trees like icing sugar.
The sky was pale, eggshell blue, and the fields on either side of the road glimmered faintly where the ground had frozen in shallow ruts.
She’d flown back from NYC the night before, and left her tiny Portland apartment just before dawn, without telling anyone.
That was the point. Marcus thought she was back at the field office, working up an authentication case on a batch of four-hundred-year-old land deeds.
Winters thought she was taking a few days’ personal leave to “recalibrate.”
Only one person knew where she was going — Charles Day, Governor of Sherborne Federal Penitentiary. And even he didn’t know why.
Kate wasn’t sure she knew, either. She told herself it was follow-up work, the necessary housekeeping of unfinished business. But deep down, she knew it was something darker: curiosity, or compulsion, or the simple need to stare again into the hole Cox had left in the world.
The prison was fifty miles northwest, squatting in the hills above a shuttered logging town.
The last stretch of road wound through pine forest, the trees packed tight, their needles edged in ice.
Kate rolled down the window an inch, letting in the air — sharp, clean, and carrying the faintest tang of woodsmoke, like bacon frying miles away.
She tried to focus on the road, but her mind kept circling back to the lie she’d told the Governor.
The first lie, she’d better call it, since she felt certain it would have siblings before the day was out.
Small, strategic, necessary — but a lie all the same.
And once you started the line between necessity and obsession blurred fast.
She told herself Cox had forced her hand. That was always the justification: he’d made her doubt what she knew, who she could trust. He’d made her build a wall around her own investigation, because every time she let someone in, he found a way through.
The road crested a ridge, and she caught her first glimpse of the prison — a massive, low complex of concrete and wire, the colour of weathered bone.
Beyond it, the Atlantic shimmered faintly, miles away but visible in the clean air.
The sunlight gave everything a false warmth, like a photograph of summer printed in winter ink.
She slowed as she approached the checkpoint. The guard recognised her name on the list and waved her through without comment. That was good. She wanted to be invisible here — just another Bureau visitor, nobody worth gossip.
Inside the outer fence, the landscape turned to gravel and razor wire. Watchtowers stood like chess pieces, their windows flashing in the light. She parked outside the admin block, switched off the engine, and took a moment before getting out.
She hadn’t been back here since the escape, a little over three months ago.
The memory still carried a sour, metallic taste — grappling with Cox in the forest, the sirens, the sight of Marcus in the hospital bed, his skin an unnatural, chemical puce, a whole kraken of tubes and leads keeping him alive.
Charles Day looked exactly as she remembered him: tall, lean, immaculately shaved, a man whose uniform always seemed to come with its own starch supply. His hair seemed to contain even more silver now, but his eyes were unchanged — the colour of a cold shower.
“Agent Valentine,” he said, holding the door. “Or should I say… Special Agent? I never know the rank protocols with you Bureau types.”
“Kate’s fine.”
He smiled thinly. “You’re early.”
“I left before the traffic.”
“Wise. Portland’s a nightmare when it freezes.”
They shook hands. His was dry and strong, meant to assert boundaries.
“I appreciate you making time,” she said.
“For you, always. Though I must admit, I was surprised by your call. Given our… history.”
She nodded. “It was never anything personal, Governor.”
During the official enquiry into Cox’s escape, the prison and Day’s management of it, had come in for heavy criticism, some of it directly from Kate.
But he was still in his job, and apparently instituting a raft of improvements, so she had no wish to sour relations.
The Bureau needed strong, co-operative relationships right across the field, or its agents couldn’t do their jobs.
He gestured for her to follow him down the corridor. The air smelled of disinfectant and floor wax.
They walked past a series of frosted-glass offices, each one labelled with black stencils: ADMINISTRATION, LEGAL, SECURITY. Somewhere deeper in the building, a buzzer sounded and a door clanged shut.
“I hear you’re keeping busy,” Day said. “The Bureau’s been in the news again — an historic land-swindle, isn’t it?”
Kate was surprised; she’d expected him to mention Brennan’s murder, make the inescapable link to Cox. In that instant, she realised, or rather, remembered, that the world kept turning, people listened to other news. “That’s right,” Kate said lightly. “Our Portland field office’s handling that.”
He looked at her sidelong. “But you’re clearly not.”
“I’m on a different assignment.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Unofficial?”
She smiled without answering.
They reached his office — a neat, windowless room that managed to be both spotless and claustrophobic. On the wall behind his desk hung a framed quote in serif type: Discipline is the bridge between goals and success.
He caught her glance and smiled. “Motivational gifts from the Bureau of Prisons. They send one every Christmas.”
“Does it work?”
“Rarely.” He sat down, motioning for her to take the chair opposite. “So. You want to talk to Cox’s sewing circle.”
“To be honest, it was a stab in the dark,” Kate said, referring to the email she’d sent the Governor yesterday. “But men like Cox need followers. They need them like people need air. And you said there were a few who fit the bill?”
“A couple,” the Governor corrected her. “Derren Kowalski and Tray Purvis.”
“The YouTubers. Otherwise known as Mole Crew.”
He gave a small, dry laugh. “Yes. Urban explorers. Fancied themselves as the next generation of gonzo journalists until they broke into a former restricted weapons facility and nearly killed a guard.”
“Accidentally.”
Day’s mouth twitched. “The guard’s still in a coma.”
“I just wanted to talk to them about Cox.”
“Is he alive?”
“Possibly,” she said carefully. “But that’s strictly confidential.”
He studied her for a moment, fingers steepled. “Confidential.”
“Yes.”
“When I last spoke to your boss, Agent Valentine, she seemed to be of the view that I couldn’t be trusted to boil a kettle.”
“Tensions were running high at the time of Cox and the man who claimed to be Father Santos escaping. Things were said which…” She took a breath, started afresh. “Governor, I can assure you that the Bureau has complete faith in you. And your staff.”
“So if I rang your boss, Deputy Director Winters, she would confirm that, would she?”
“She would. Except that, between you and me, this visit isn’t happening.”
“It isn’t?”
“It embarrasses me to say so, but we’re investigating the possibility of a leak within the Bureau.” She sat back, cringing. So many lies before lunchtime.
Day also leaned back in his chair. “A leak, you say? Interesting. So now you understand what it’s like on my side of the fence. You can’t trust everyone under your own roof.”
Kate gave him a tight smile. “I do understand that, yes.”
“I have to admit,” he went on, “it’s oddly satisfying hearing that from you. You were rather hard on us after the escape.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Me too.”
The silence between them was brief, but pointed. Then he sighed and stood. “Alright. Let’s put that behind us. I’ll make the arrangements. The interview room on the east block is free. You can have an hour. I’ll make sure the guards stay out of earshot.”
“Thank you.” She meant it. Charles Day was a decent man. Which, of course, made all her lies worse.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, opening the door. “They’re not the easiest pair to talk to. Especially Purvis.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
The visiting room smelled of coffee and old wood polish. Frost laced the window bars, turning the light into a cold lattice across the floor. Kate sat at a metal table, her notebook open, her badge discreetly tucked away.
The door buzzed. Two guards entered, followed by the prisoners.
Tray Purvis came first — tall, wiry, with hair bleached to the colour of straw and a half-grown beard that gave him a look of unintentional piety. Derren Kowalski followed, shorter and heavier, his expression cautious, almost apologetic.
Both wore standard, outsized orange uniforms, but Purvis had somehow managed to roll his sleeves to the elbow and angle his collar like a man being photographed.
Kate waited until they were seated. “Thank you for agreeing to talk.”
Purvis smirked. “Didn’t have a choice, did we?”
Kowalski shot him a glance. “Don’t start, Tray.”
Purvis ignored him. “You’re the one who caught Cox, right? Before he got away again?”
“I’m one of them,” Kate said evenly.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So what’s this about? You trying to find him? Or just trying to figure out why he’s smarter than you?”
Kate didn’t flinch. “I’m here because you both spoke to him before he escaped. I want to know what he said to you.”
Purvis laughed softly. “Said? He didn’t say things. He revealed them.”
Kowalski rolled his eyes. “Jesus, not this again.”
Purvis turned on him. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand. Listen. He knew things about me. Things I’d only ever mentioned in my prayers. He knew.”
Kate let the silence stretch a moment, then said quietly, “Oh I know. So you think he was a prophet.”