Hudson frowned, but Jericho cut him off before he could ask. “I’ll spring for pizza.”
Hudson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers smudged with grease. “Only if it’s takeout. I’m buried in work. I just got back from the Eagle’s Nest. They’re installing the new boiler, but I got a call from Malachi and apparently the generator is acting up again. He’s worried about the blizzard. We don’t have many guests right now, but the last thing we want is for them to freeze to death.”
“Yeah, for some reason death always nets a negative review.”
Hudson offered a grim smile. “Listen, feel free to pick up a wrench.”
His phone buzzed, and it saved him, really. He wasn’t the family handyman.
He pulled out his phone. A text from Sheriff Deke Starr.
Need you at the office. Now.
“I’ve got to run. Don’t burn the place down.”
“Five minutes back and you’re already bossing me around.” Hudson walked over to the sink. “That was a fine piece of venison.”
Jericho couldn’t tell if his little brother might be kidding. “I’ll be back. Maybe with pizza—”
“It’s okay.” He glanced at Jericho. Then at Orlando. Wore an expression that Jericho couldn’t interpret. “I don’t have time to eat.”
Sounded like his father, really, once upon a time.
“We’ll see if you have time when I come home with a Starlight meat lovers.”
He finally got a full grin out of Hudson. Jericho patted his leg. Orlando stepped up, then followed him out.
The sun had started a slow melt into the granite-white mountains to the west, a molten puddle across the darkening horizon. He drove to the sheriff’s office, a small former house on Main Street, its weathered clapboard siding painted a faded gray.
The floor creaked under his boots as Jericho stepped inside, Orlando on his tail. A couple desks cramped the area behind a long reception desk, and beyond that sat Deke’s windowed office. A coffee maker gurgled in the corner, burning the contents that had probably turned to sludge in the pot.
A couple stale donuts sat on a plate, turning to stone, he guessed.
“Hey Shasta,” he said to the dispatcher. She was in her mid-twenties, had her dark hair pulled back. She wore street clothing, so not a cop, but stood up when he entered. “Oh.”
Oh?“I’m here to see Deke.”
“He’s in the conference room.” She gestured to the closed door. “Um...”
Um?He frowned at her.
She offered a smile, but it wavered on the sides.Weird.
“Thanks.” He headed through the swinging gate and down the hall, his boots thudding on the creaky floorboards. Through the windowed door at the end of the hall, he spotted a guy in agrimy jacket in one of the two holding cells in the back. Maybe that accounted for her expression?
Jericho didn’t bother to knock as he pushed the door open.
A larger room held three tables set up in a U-shape. At the front, maps scattered over a corkboard—red pushpins marking the last known sightings of the Sons of Revolution.
The air smelled of more stale coffee, and a cracked window let in the crisp scent of pine. Sheriff Deke Starr stood by the map, his broad shoulders filling out a tan uniform. At thirty-four, same as Jericho, Deke carried the weight of the job in the lines around his eyes. He turned as Jericho came in and walked up. His handshake was still firm, his voice a low rumble. “Glad you made it.”
At the board, a woman stood with her back to them. She studied the map, her long blond hair spilling in waves over a black coat, the collar turned up against the chill.
She turned.
Jericho’s breath caught.
What? No ...What?