Chapter 3
Hudson walked into the cold with his collar up, hands in his pockets, and let his lungs remind him what they were. Three counts in, four out.
The hotel was six blocks behind him, the station seven blocks ahead. And in between, Aurora Cove was mostly still asleep.
Snow had been packed down hard on the road, tires cutting grooves that had frozen overnight. His boots found the edges of them without thinking.
A woman crossed the road with a dog straining at the end of its lead. She looked at him a beat too long, then kept walking.
Hudson checked the street automatically. Habit. Nobody followed her.
He kept walking.
The smell of Benji’s hit him before the sign did. Coffee and caramelized apples, pushed out into the cold air as he strolled past. Years ago he’d come here at six in the morning after a night that had started at Wyatt’s and ended up here, and he’d eaten pie because it was the only thing ready.
He didn’t slow.
The sheriff’s station sat at the corner of Main and Second, low and square. He’d come up from the south end, which meant he’d walked the long way around to get here. He pushed through the door at seven forty-five.
The deputy behind the front desk was Black, maybe thirty, and looked up with the expectant attention of someone who’d already been told he was coming. Her name tape said R. Statton. “Deputy Marshal Kane?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She’s ready for you.”
Nothing he hadn’t expected.
Statton walked him down a short hallway past another deputy, W. Godrevy on his name tag. His gaze moved over Hudson once, head to boots. Statton tapped once on an open door. “Sheriff.”
“Thanks, Rochelle.”
Hudson stepped in.
Sarah was behind the desk with a mug in her hand and a file open in front of her. She didn’t stand or smile.
Her office was small and functional—maps pinned to one wall, a whiteboard half-filled with notes that had been wiped and rewritten too many times, a second chair stacked with paperwork she hadn’t had time to deal with yet.
She looked at him like she had across the bar last night—like a problem that hadn't finished happening yet.
"Deputy Marshal. Sit." She pointed to the beaten chair on his side of the desk.
He took the seat.
He'd known she'd grow up but he hadn't expected Sheriff Meyer. The badge suited her. The office did too.
Damn.
He hadn't anticipated spending this meeting reminding himself to pay attention to the case instead of the woman sitting behind the desk.
The office smelled of coffee. Her coffee, not his. There was no second mug on the desk.
She added sugar from a small bowl on the corner of the desk. One. Two. Three. Stirring without looking. Three sugars. Same as always. Fifteen years vanished in a single turn of the spoon.
Fuck.
He watched her hand move, then looked away. He did not need to be noticing that. Her hair was a darker blonde than he remembered. It suited her.
“We’ll do this on the record,” she said. “Walter will type it up—start with last night. State your purpose at the Rusty Anchor.”
“I was making inquiries.”
“Regarding?”
“A fugitive.”
“Name?”
He didn’t answer.
Sarah sighed. “You’re not refusing because you can’t tell me.” She met his eyes. “You’re refusing because you don’t want to.”
“I’m protecting an active investigation.”
“You’re in my jurisdiction.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She held his gaze another second, measuring the line between cooperation and obstruction. Then she made a note in the margin. “Continue.”
He told her about the bar. The questions. Kincaid.
She wrote steadily, saying nothing. He’d known her as a girl who’d outrun every boy in Aurora Cove. The sheriff didn’t run. Problems came to her.
She finished writing and set her pen down. The professional part of the meeting, the part that had a form, was over. The silence was hers to break.
“How are your folks?” Courtesy. Her mother had raised her to ask.
His gaze dropped briefly. “Both gone,” he said. “Mom, four years ago. Dad two.”
When he looked back up, there was a tightness around her mouth and eyes—a place where something had moved and then been put away.
“I’m sorry.”
He believed her. “Thank you.”
She nodded once and looked back down at the file.
“Yours?” He waited.
“Good. Dad’s restoring a ‘92 Polaris.” She circled two fingers at her temple. A small, exasperated huff. “Nearly took his leg off last month. Mom won’t let him near it without a radio on him now.” She tapped the paperwork laid flat in front of her. “Anyway. Hudson?—”
She stopped, closed her eyes for the smallest fraction of a second. “Deputy Marshal.”
He didn’t react, but his heart stammered a beat.
She cleared her throat. “Deputy Marshal.” She clicked her pen. “Does Wyatt know you’re in town?”
“Sure.” Just not today.
He wasn’t here for that. He wasn’t here for anything permanent.
She adjusted the file so that it faced her more squarely. “The photograph,” she said at last. “The one you were showing around last night. I’d like to see it.”
He’d known this was coming. He hesitated anyway. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across her desk.
She studied the photograph for a long time.
It was a clean shot. A man in his late forties, half-turned, coming out of a doorway in a city that was not Aurora Cove. Hudson had looked at it often. He knew what it held—and what it didn’t.
Her face didn’t change. She understood it hadn’t been taken by a friend.
She slid the photograph back across the desk. “I ran you last night.”
“I assumed you would.”
“Your credentials are real.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“You’re an active Deputy United States Marshal.”
Her eyes flicked to his. “Chicago Field Office.” She lifted her coffee. “What I don’t have is any record of coordination with this office. No courtesy notification. Nobody called ahead.”
She sipped her coffee, giving him space.
“My supervisor knows exactly where I am.”
“Then why doesn’t mine?”
“Because the fewer people who know I’m here, the better my chances of finding the man I’m looking for.”
Her jaw did a small thing, but she didn’t push it. “If you find anything, you tell me before you act.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean that.”
“I know you do.”
She held his eyes a second longer than needed, then closed the file with a snap. “We’re done for now.”
He was almost at the door when he turned. “Sarah?—”
“Deputy Marshal.” The pen on the desk didn’t move this time.
Hudson turned back toward the door. His hand was on the handle when his phone rang. He checked the screen.
Owen Alcott.
He stepped into the hall before answering. “Tell me.”
“You’re welcome,” Owen said. “I’ve been earning my salary on your behalf all morning.”
“Owen.”
“Your guy.” A pause that meant Owen had something real. “I finally got his employment records released. False name. Jake Mercer. Seasonal work this year. May through August.”
Hudson waited.
“Morrow Bay Cannery. Out on Morrow Point. Up the coast from that cozy town you’re hanging out in right now.”
Hudson turned the information over. Loading docks. Ocean access.
“That’s your location,” Owen said. “If he’s moved anything through Aurora Cove, that’s where it went.”
“Got it.”
“Hudson.” Owen’s voice shifted, dropping a register. “My neck is only so long out here. Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t.” He hung up and turned.
Sarah was already pulling on her coat and not looking at him. Her hat went on next, her badge catching the fluorescent light.
She glanced up, met his eyes, and went back to her buttons. “Morrow Bay Cannery.”
He stared at her. “You heard that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.” She picked up her keys. “Walter.”
Godrevy appeared in the hallway behind Hudson. He looked at Hudson with an expression that had been calibrated to communicate an unfavorable opinion. “Boat’s fueled and ready. Is the federal guy coming?”
Sarah turned. “Mmm.”
Hudson glanced toward the window. Gray water. Low cloud. The familiar tightening touched his chest before he pushed it aside. Distance. Wind. Water temperature. His brain ran the calculations automatically. “No road?”
“Morrow Point is only accessible by plane or boat.” Her mouth set in a flat line.
Walter handed Sarah a set of keys. “No cell service worth mentioning either.”
Sarah shot Walter a look. “Helpful.”
Walter ignored her. “Just making sure the federal guy knows where he’s going.”
Hudson looked between them. “Plane?”
“Technically.” Sarah zipped her coat. “If you’ve got one.”
“You don’t?”
“Deputy Marshal,” Sarah raised her eyebrows. “This is a sheriff’s office, not the Air Force.”
She called over her shoulder. “Walter.”
“Yeah?”
“Find the Deputy Marshal a proper waterproof jacket to borrow.”
Hudson lifted his lapel. “I have one.”
“Not for Alaska.” She walked past him. “You coming, or are you going to stand there?”
Walter looked as if he’d vote for the second option.
Hudson followed them outside.