Chapter 4 - COLD HUNT - An Aria Hunt FBI Crime Thriller
- Chase Austin
- Mar 29
- 7 min read
Disclaimer
This is an unedited version of the book and may contain typographical errors, grammatical mistakes, or inconsistencies. If you spot any such issues, please don’t hesitate to report them to contact@thechaseaustin.com. Your feedback is greatly appreciated!
CHAPTER 4
Aria woke before her alarm, as always. Five A.M. light filtering weakly through thin curtains, painting the motel room in shades of gray. She sat up, blinking away fragments of dreams in which she'd been walking through endless snow-covered hallways, opening doors that led nowhere.
The morning chill bit at her skin as she slipped from beneath the covers. She didn't rush to adjust the ancient heater rattling beneath the window. The cold kept her mind sharp, her senses alert. She needed both today.
Her morning routine anchored her in unfamiliar surroundings—the mechanical precision of brushing teeth for exactly two minutes, showering for five minutes, hair brushed with exactly fourteen strokes. The ritual calmed the static that had been building in her mind since arriving in this disorganized town. She chose her outfit carefully: practical dark jeans, layered thermal and flannel shirt, waterproof boots. Lisa Matthews would be professional but not flashy. Forgettable.
She rehearsed potential conversations in her head, mapping out likely exchanges and preparing responses. Social interactions were algorithms with too many variables, but preparation helped. She'd need three variations of small talk about the weather, two deflections about her background, and multiple technical explanations about watershed testing to sound authentic but boring.
From her window, she watched Whitetail slowly come to life. A delivery truck idled outside the general store, exhaust curling like ghostly fingers in the frigid air—the diesel engine's vibration pattern suggested a timing issue in cylinder three. An old man shuffled along the sidewalk, newspaper tucked under his arm—same man as yesterday, same time, same path. Two logging trucks rumbled past each other, drivers exchanging lazy waves—a social ritual that made no practical sense but seemed important to them.
Aria organized her bag with environmental testing equipment, each item arranged in order of anticipated use rather than by size or shape. The precision of the arrangement settled the buzzing discomfort she felt about entering the chaotic social arena of a small town.
The diner across the street flipped its sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
Her stomach tightened with something that wasn't quite anxiety. She recognized it as anticipation.
Time to begin.
PREORDER "HUNTED" (An Aria hunt FBI Crime Thriller)
The diner's bell jangled at a pitch that made Aria's inner ear twitch. Too many conversations overlapped—42 decibels of unintelligible human noise. The smells collided unpleasantly: coffee, grease, perfume, someone's aftershave with artificial pine. All of it registered simultaneously, none of it filtered.
"Honey, our coffee's strong enough to grow hair on a bowling ball, so consider yourself warned."
The waitress—Doris, according to her name tag—set a chipped mug in front of Aria with a wink. She was somewhere north of fifty, with flaming red hair that hadn't come from nature and enough makeup to suggest she'd applied it in dim lighting. The chemical smell of hair dye lingered around her.
"Thank you," Aria said, wrapping her hands around the mug for warmth. The routine response, delivered with exactly the right inflection. People responded well to gratitude, even when it was rehearsed.
"You must be the gal staying at Frank's place," Doris said, leaning against the counter. "Environmental something-or-other, he said."
Of course Frank had talked. In a town this size, privacy was as mythical as unicorns.
"Environmental consultant. Lisa Matthews." Aria took a careful sip of the coffee, struggling not to wince at the bitterness that registered at triple the intensity on her taste buds. "Just a low-paid consultant," she added, remembering to include personal details that neurotypicals seemed to value in exchanges.
"What brings the government all the way out to our little corner of nowhere?" Doris asked, already pouring coffee for another customer without looking. "We in some kind of trouble?"
Two men at the far end of the counter had gone quiet, eavesdropping without pretense. One wore a Blaine Timber cap pulled low over watchful eyes. The second man's breathing pattern suggested recent respiratory illness—probably bronchitis.
"Just routine watershed monitoring," Aria replied, keeping her voice at precisely the middle of her practiced register. "Checking runoff patterns, seasonal variations. Nothing exciting."
"In February?" The man in the Blaine hat swiveled on his stool. "That's a first."
"Winter baseline is essential for comparative analysis." Aria recited the technical explanation she'd prepared, watching the man's eyes glaze slightly at the jargon—exactly the response she'd anticipated.
She took another sip of the bitter coffee and couldn't suppress a grimace, both at the taste and the howl of wind outside. The sound made it difficult to focus on the conversation—another variable to process.
"Truth is, I'm not paid enough to wonder what the government wants with the data. I just collect the samples, file the reports, and pray I can finish before this storm traps me here." She rubbed her hands together for warmth—a gesture she'd observed others making, mimicking it now to seem natural. "Less than eighteen hours in this cold and I'm already dreaming about my apartment back home. I am not used to this biting cold."
She delivered the statement flatly, without the smile that would typically accompany such a comment. Her face rarely cooperated with the expressions expected in casual conversation.
The man opened his mouth to respond when the diner's door swung open, bringing a rush of cold air and sudden silence.
Sheriff Clay Marrick filled the doorway, snow dusting his shoulders and hat. Aria recognized him from the photo.
He was taller than his file photos suggested—six foot one and a half inches, approximately 215 pounds. His beard was fuller than in the photographs, but his eyes—pale blue with a slight heterochromia in the left iris—matched. Those eyes swept the diner in one practiced movement, lingering on her for precisely 2.3 seconds before moving on. Enough to register her presence as unusual but not enough to signal overt suspicion.
"Morning, Sheriff," Doris called, already filling a travel mug. "The usual?"
"Thanks, Doris." His voice was deep, weathered by cigarettes or mountain air or both. "And one of those breakfast sandwiches if you've got 'em ready."
He approached the counter, deliberately taking the empty stool beside Aria. Not a coincidence. She could smell pine and gun oil on his jacket, with traces of dog hair—German Shepherd, most likely.
"Don't believe we've met," he said, stirring cream into his coffee without looking at her. "Clay Marrick. Sheriff's department."
"Lisa Matthews." Aria offered her prepared smile—practiced in front of mirrors to approximate normal human warmth, though she knew it never quite reached her eyes. "Environmental consultant."
The script was playing out as expected. First contact, initial assessment.
"Long way from anywhere, Whitetail is." He blew across his coffee, steam rising between them like a barrier. "What brings the EPA out in the dead of winter?"
So he'd already checked her cover story. Probably called Frank at the lodge after seeing her car last night.
"Watershed assessment," she replied, the lie comfortable after repetition. "The logging operations require regular monitoring."
"Hmm." His eyes met hers directly, and she forced herself to maintain contact for three full seconds before shifting her gaze to the bridge of his nose—her practiced alternative. "Strange timing, with the storm coming."
"Had to get the readings before the system moved through."
Behind the counter, whispers floated like wood smoke: "...up at Lawson's place..." and "...hunting accident..." then "...never known him to be careless..."
The Sheriff's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly—trapezius muscle contracted 4mm, respiration briefly interrupted. He'd heard it too.
"Folks are jumpy," he said quietly. "Had some excitement few days back."
"So I heard. The lodge owner mentioned an accident."
Marrick studied her more directly now, something calculating behind his eyes. The prolonged eye contact made Aria's skin prickle uncomfortably, but she maintained her focal point on the bridge of his nose.
"Hunting accident. Nothing that would affect your water samples."
Doris slid a paper bag across the counter. "Sandwich is on the house, Sheriff. Least we can do, with you handling all that business up at the ridge."
"Just doing my job, Doris." But his fingers drummed once, twice against the counter-top—a tell. Discomfort. The inconsistent tapping pattern suggested agitation rather than habit.
"Speaking of which, better get to it."
He stood, nodding to Aria. "Ms. Matthews. If you need anything while you're in town, office is just down the street. Though with the storm coming, might want to consider postponing your field work."
"I've worked in worse conditions."
"Suit yourself." He adjusted his hat, voice dropping slightly. "Just stay on the main roads. GPS gets unreliable once you're out in those woods. People get lost easy out there."
The warning carried weight beyond its words.
Aria watched him leave, noting how conversations resumed only after the door closed behind him. The pattern of sound in the room shifted—volume increased by 7 decibels, pitch lowered by approximately 15 hertz. Collective relief.
"Ready to order, honey?" Doris had returned, notepad in hand.
"Just toast and eggs. Scrambled." Aria glanced toward the men at the counter. "What happened up at the ridge? Sounds serious."
Doris lowered her voice, leaning closer—17 inches from Aria's face, close enough that the woman's perfume became overwhelming. Aria fought the urge to pull back.
"Old man who lived out there alone. Thomas, I think. Military type. Cleaning his rifle and it went off." She shook her head. "Real tragedy."
"Wasn't no accident," the man in the Blaine hat said loudly. "Tom Lawson knew guns like the back of his hand."
"Hush, Earl," Doris hissed. "Sheriff said it was an accident, so it was an accident."
Earl snorted. "Sheriff says a lot of things."
Interesting. Dissent among the locals. Not everyone bought the official story.
While eating her breakfast—eggs rubbery, toast barely warm, both textures registering as unpleasant but tolerable—Aria observed the diner filling with the morning crowd. Mill workers mostly, Carhartt jackets and steel-toed boots still crusted with yesterday's sawdust. They spoke in the shorthand of people who'd worked together for years, inside jokes and half-finished sentences that needed no completion. The ambiguity of their exchanges made them difficult to parse.
She paid her bill with exact change plus a precisely calculated 18% tip—enough to seem generous but not memorable. As she stood to leave, Earl caught her eye.
"Might want to test that water up near the old mine," he said quietly. "If you're really checking the watershed."
Before she could respond, he turned back to his coffee, conversation over.
First lead, offered unexpectedly. The old mine. She filed it away and stepped out into the cold.
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PREORDER "HUNTED" (An Aria hunt FBI Crime Thriller)
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