The Evening Wolves by Gregory Ashe

Author:Gregory Ashe [Ashe, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

When they arrived at Auburn’s small harbor the next afternoon, the day was overcast, and the light was a dirty yellow that made the clouds look like cigarette smoke, but Emery felt like a new man. Part of that was the night’s sleep. And part of that was knowing that his daughter was safe with her mother, and his son was safe with Ashley’s parents (who were under strict orders not to let the boys share a room), and his husband looked—well, like John again. The color was back in his cheeks. His eyes were no longer bloodshot. He’d slept almost twelve hours, and then, while Emery worked from home during the day—making phone calls, primarily, trying to turn up anything he could on Vermilya or the other recent victims—John had napped another handful of hours. The only interruption had been a phone call from John’s lawyer, Aniya Thompson, who had informed them of Brey’s death and suggested, in a roundabout way, that various law enforcement agencies would be asking where they had been the night before.

Now, as they parked in the harbor’s small lot, John could have been any other man in this part of the world: his mussed hair tucked under a Cardinals cap, a dark coat, dark jeans, Adidas. Then Emery reassessed that statement; his husband was simply too attractive to pass for anyone else.

John checked the sky, which was already darkening, and frowned. “We should have come earlier.”

“He would have been sleeping, John. He works second shift.”

“We could have asked around about him. Found out what people knew.”

“If we need to, we will.”

“You didn’t have to spend all day pretending to make phone calls so I could sleep.”

“Do you feel the pressing need for an argument?”

John’s grin was quicksilver. “You know what? I don’t.”

“Fantastic.”

They followed the boardwalk past the marina shop, toward a storage facility at the end of the harbor. Ice crusted the rocks along the shore, glinted on ropes and pilings, and had been trampled into a dull, compact layer on the docks. A breeze stirred the gray water into shark’s teeth, disturbing the petroleum sheen left by fuel and motor oil. It sent an old Dairy Queen cup bobbing toward the shore. That same breeze, when it reached land, cut through Emery’s coat as though it weren’t there, and he pushed his fists deeper into his pockets.

He hadn’t spent much time in harbors and marinas; most of what he knew, he knew from reading. Only a few boats bobbed in the water. The majority would be drydocked until the spring. The marina shop flew a miserable-looking American flag, its windows crowded with fishing poles. A single orange-and-black sign said WE RENT. They passed a fish-cleaning station, and Emery caught a whiff of the reek and was grateful for winter. Farther down—past the storage facility—he could see the fuel pumps, and next to them, a pile of life jackets under a skin of ice.

The storage facility was a post-frame building with steel panels for walls and an orange metal roof.

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