Page 62 of Raven's Mark
I take a sip of beer and let myself settle into the role.
The minutes stretch the way they always do when the waiting is the work. Every ordinary sound becomes something to catalog. The scrape of a chair, the clink of a glass, the low conversation two tables back. My fingertips trace the rim of the bottle, and my mind drifts where I can't afford to let it go. Jesse's hands cupping my face in the cabin, tilting my head back. The rough certainty in his voice when he told me there was no pulling me back once I walked through Maria's door. And my own voice answering him, steady and sure:You'll find me. I know you will.
The phone buzzes, and I'm grateful for the interruption.
Watcher at coffee shop just made a call. Short. Second vehicle entering from the south end of Main.
Another slow sip. The second vehicle is the relay responding to the confirmation call. They've identified me, and now they're positioning. The operation is moving exactly the way Jesse said it would.
I text back.
How long?
Group moving toward downtown. Give it fifteen minutes, then walk.
Fifteen minutes.
I finish the beer with more patience than I feel, slide off the stool, and drop cash on the bar without counting it. Maria catches my eye as she picks it up, and what passes between us isn't words. She knows I'm walking into something, and she can't do a damn thing about it.
"Stay inside," I tell her quietly and slide the phone toward her. "Here. I’m supposed to give you this."
She takes the phone, her mouth tightening and turns back to her shelves.
The midday heat hits me the moment I push through the door. I turn north and walk, keeping the same unhurried pace as before. The outdoor table at the coffee shop is empty now. The bench outside the bookstore is vacant too. The sedan on the corner is still there, but the engine is running, a faint exhaust shimmer rising in the heat.
The block between Maria's and my truck is the longest stretch of pavement I've covered in recent memory. Every footfall registers, every shift in the ambient noise behind me. A car passes going south, too fast for this block. Somewhere behind me, doors open and close.
The truck comes into view, right where I left it. I reach the driver's side, pull the door open, and climb behind the wheel. I'm sliding the key into the ignition when the sound of an engine closing in fast makes me glance up.
A sheriff’s department truck swings in front of mine and parks at a sharp angle, nose pulled across my front bumper. The move is fast, practiced, and blocks any chance of pullingforward. Sheriff Harlan climbs out just as a dark sedan rolls up from behind and parks tight against my rear bumper. I'm boxed in.
Harlan walks toward my window at a comfortable, unhurried pace, his smile is wide and warm, and completely wrong. Everything about him reads friendly neighbor, small-town sheriff, just stopping by to chat. But his eyes don't match his mouth. They're flat and watchful, scanning me the way a predator sizes up something it's already decided to eat.
He taps on the glass with one knuckle. "Afternoon."
I roll the window down, and he leans in, one arm draped across the frame. "I don't think we've met. You new in town?"
"I'm in town for work." I reach into my back pocket and produce the Sarah Davis identification Uncle Robert supplied. The license is clean, the cover legend intact. "My name is Sarah Davis. I'm doing claims work for an insurance company, assessing land management and property values in the area."
Harlan takes the license, looks at it without particular urgency, and hands it back. "Insurance, huh? Well, there's been a lot of property changing hands lately, so I guess that makes sense." He tilts his head, and his gaze moves over me in a way that stopped being assessment a while ago. "We like to keep track of folks who aren't from around here. It's a small town, you understand."
"Of course." The license goes back in my pocket. I stare him down without blinking.
He glances past me toward the sedan and gives a short nod.
"Why don't you follow me?" The friendly tone is still there, smooth and practiced. "I'd like to ask you a few more questions. Nothing serious."
The passenger door of my truck opens.
A man I've never seen before folds himself into the seat. Heavyset, dark t-shirt, and the gun he's pointing at me is heldlow, angled toward my ribs from across the center console so nobody passing on the street would see it.
My attention shifts from the gun to Harlan.
"Am I under arrest, Sheriff?"
Harlan smiles. The expression reaches his eyes just enough to make it worse. "Something like that."
He turns back toward his truck without another word, as if the matter is entirely settled, because in his experience, it always is. The man in my passenger seat nudges the barrel toward me, a small, economic movement that carries its own message.
