Cold River (22 page)

January 3—Washington, D.C.

T
he inside of Jo Harper’s ground-level Georgetown apartment was more or less what Grit had expected from the outside—small, efficient and a notch above a hotel room in personality. She was a Secret Service agent. She didn’t count on staying in one place for long.

She’d had a call about Hannah Shay’s discovery of the Three Sisters Café’s empty petty-cash jar in the cellar. The cops were all excited, which showed Grit just how desperate everyone was getting.

Then again, who was looking for a firebug based on a tip from a genius kid?

“Your plants died,” Grit said, pointing to a couple of dead-looking houseplants in the window over the sink. There were dead plants in her window box outside, too.

Jo gave the drooping former greenery a cursory glance. “They were dead before I left for Vermont in November.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Just a fact.”

Grit turned and leaned back against the sink. He’d never been one to care much about where he was, provided he
could get done what he had to do. That wasn’t looking too good at the moment. Charlie’s CD was filled with stuff he’d pulled off the Internet and scanned about firebugs, smoke jumpers, search-and-rescue dogs, open arson investigations and such. Charlie had added charts and his own analysis. Grit figured he’d be a hundred by the time he went through it all.

He looked at Jo. She wasn’t in a cheery mood, either. “I thought I might find pictures of mountain valleys and moose on the walls,” he said.

She frowned at him. “Why?”

“Reminders of home.”

“What do you have on your walls, Grit?”

“Paint and a couple of flies I smooshed.”

“What color paint?”

“What do you mean ‘what color?’ Who cares? It’s paint. Beige, I think. Maybe it’s white that’s turned beige. It’s not a great apartment.” He nodded as he took in her place, its furnishings tidy and a lot more modern than anything he’d seen in her string of cabins on the lake in Vermont. “This place is in a good location.”

“I pay for location in no space and no light.” She pushed a palm through her copper hair. “You see Elijah here, Grit?”

“Nope.”

“You could have hesitated.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “To make me feel good. Everything’s happened so fast with Elijah and me.”

“Fast? It’s been fifteen years.”

“Most of which we spent apart.”

“Love’s not enough for you two?”

“It wasn’t fifteen years ago, was it?”

“Well. Here’s what I see. If you want Elijah to move to Washington, you’ll need an apartment that doesn’t
have such low ceilings. If you two want kids, more space would be good.”

She got a pained look, as if she were longing for something she believed deep down would always remain just out of reach. Grit saw the dark circles under her eyes and the strain at the corners of her mouth. “Kids, Grit,” she said. “How can I think about kids when I don’t even know where I’ll be living in a month?”

“Takes nine months to have a kid, Jo. And the kid doesn’t care where you live.”

“If I’m—”

“Jo. You’re overthinking. Vermont and Washington are both good bases for you and Elijah. Army’s not done with him yet. He just doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s ready to chop wood and pull hikers off Cameron Mountain.”

“His father…” Jo breathed out at the ceiling. “Drew came here right before Elijah was wounded. He asked me to go see the cherry blossoms with him. I did, and he told me he’d been having visions of the children Elijah and I would have had if we’d stayed together. They felt so real to him.”

“Maybe they were real. Maybe those kids he saw are still waiting to be born.”

Jo looked at him. “You don’t see the world the same way other people do, Grit, do you?”

“I just see the world as I see it. Come on. Myrtle’s summoned us to her house.”

Jo pulled some fuzzy brown rotted leaves off a plant and dropped them in the sink. “Your leg, Grit.” She spoke without looking at him. “Do you ever think about what your life would be like if you could go back in time and…” She shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’m saying. Never mind.”

“Go back in time and what, get shot in the head and die instantly?”

She made a face at him. “No. I told you—”

He interrupted her. “Yeah, actually, I do think about that. What about you, Agent Harper? Do you think about where you’d be if Charlie Neal hadn’t shot you in the butt with airsoft pellets?”

“It was in the hip, Grit.” She rinsed bits of the dead gunk off her fingers. “I wouldn’t have been in Black Falls when Alex Bruni was killed here in D.C. and his daughter took off onto Cameron Mountain by herself.”

“Elijah would have had to handle those killers by himself, which probably he could have done, but he also wouldn’t have had sex in a rickety old cabin, and that I doubt he’d have wanted to do without—”

“Grit.”

He gave her an innocent look. “Am I supposed to pretend you two aren’t having relations?”

She grinned at him. “Relations? Who says
relations
anymore? Myrtle?”

“Me. Speaking of Myrtle, she’s waiting for us.”

“All right, let’s go.” Jo paused and glared at him. “Bring up my sex life again, and I
will
shoot you in the head.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Something about his expression must have gotten to her, because she stopped abruptly, winced with regret. “Grit…I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay. I have good days and bad days. Today’s not one of the good ones.”

They went back outside and got in her car. He and Myrtle had driven it down from the frozen north. Jo had flown with Francona. She sat behind the wheel.

Grit eyed her. “Don’t you need directions to Myrtle’s house?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “No.”

Grit settled into his seat. “You Secret Service agents know everything, don’t you? Do you know where I live?”

“In a crummy apartment with beige-white walls and dead flies.”

“Roaches, too.” He closed his eyes. “I hate roaches.”

“Rats?”

“Myrtle says probably.”

“What is it with you two?”

“Kindred spirits. She’s like a tough, crazy aunt. Don’t tell her that.”

“You didn’t know her before November?”

“Nope.” He opened one eye and looked over at Jo. “Is this an official interview? Should I call you Agent Harper?”

“I’m just making conversation.”

She’d been in a tight, tense mood since she’d faced Charlie Neal making waffles in Vermont. The kid could fry her career. He almost had. But it was also having Elijah there and seeing him go Special Forces soldier with the vice president’s son. She’d realized he wasn’t the same kid she’d fallen for in high school and had the reality hit her that he had spent the past fifteen years as a highly professional soldier.

They drove up Massachusetts Avenue and onto a side street of attractive brick houses. Myrtle’s had fit right in until her office had caught on fire. It was in the front of the house. She’d told Grit she’d picked that room for the view of the rhododendrons in the spring.

He truly hadn’t figured out yet if she’d been kidding him about the rhodies.

Myrtle was outside inspecting the boarded-up fire damage from her plush yard when he and Jo headed up the front walk. “I could make it livable while they work on it. I just haven’t bothered.”

“Denial,” Grit said.

She scoffed and stepped in among evergreen shrubs for a better look. “How can I deny a burned-out office? Give me a break.” She pried back a prickly branch. “I look reality
square in the eye every day, and what I see isn’t pretty. When I arrived back in Washington, I felt as if I’d arrived home from exile. But Vermont has its charms.”

“Do you want me to give you a boost up to the window?”

She gave him a cool glance over her shoulder. “No, Grit, I do not.”

His cell phone trilled. He wanted to ignore it, but he had a feeling it was Charlie Neal. Mark Francona personally had the kid buttoned up, but that didn’t mean anything. Grit flipped open his phone, and Charlie said, “Alex Bruni was a difficult personality.”

“Like you or different?”

“Different, although he was intelligent.”

Charlie, Grit realized, was just stating the facts, not bragging.

“He was more arrogant. I’m not arrogant. I know I seem arrogant to some people because—well, I just do.”

“Because of the one-eighty IQ.”

“That’s an approximation. Regardless, Ambassador Bruni often rubbed people the wrong way, but he didn’t care. He blows off Drew Cameron in April. Two weeks later, Mr. Cameron’s dead. Seven months later, Ambassador Bruni’s dead, too.” Charlie paused for a breath. “Something about Drew Cameron’s visit in April clicked with Ambassador Bruni, and he became a danger to the killers.”

“You’re speculating,” Grit said.

“I know. Ambassador Bruni had to feel guilty for stealing his best friend’s wife, don’t you think?”

“Maybe it wasn’t stealing. Maybe it was just one of those things.”

“Then his best friend goes and falls for a much younger woman, and his daughter freaks out. Then
he’s
run over.” Charlie paused. “Sometimes you just have to ask the right questions.”

The kid disconnected.

Jo frowned at Grit. “Do I want to know?”

“Nope.”

A straight-backed, gray-haired man—medium height, medium build—got out of a dark blue sedan and headed up Myrtle’s walk. He was in a khaki naval officer’s uniform. Grit noticed the four silver stars on the collar, designating a high-ranking admiral.

Had to be Jenkins.

“You look fit and able, Petty Officer Taylor,” the admiral said.

“Thanks, sir. Admiral Jenkins, right? That really was you calling?”

“Correct. Think there’s another Admiral Jenkins?”

“Could have been a prank.”

“Wasn’t.” Jenkins nodded to Jo and Myrtle, and Grit introduced them. The admiral was polite but kept his attention on what he’d come there to do. “I have a job at the Pentagon for you. I’m making it happen.”

“I have to find a firebug for the vice president’s son.”

“Vice president of what?”

“U.S.”

A muscle worked in Jenkins’s jaw. “You in trouble, Petty Officer?”

“Not me. No, sir. Never.”

He glared past him at Myrtle. “She’s the one whose Russian friend was poisoned.”

It wasn’t a question, but Grit said, “Yes, sir.”

“He was a reporter. She’s a reporter. I believe in free speech but that doesn’t mean I like reporters.”

“I heard that,” Myrtle said. She smiled at him. “I like admirals.”

Jenkins ignored her. “You have forty-eight hours to clean up whatever mess you’re in the middle of,” he told Grit.

“Sir, I’m not out of PT yet.”

“I know. I checked. Time to decide. Medically retire or come back to work.”

Grit didn’t explain about how he’d been assigned light duty at the hospital while undergoing treatment, until this thing with the killers. Jenkins would know.

The admiral nodded to the two women, about-faced and left.

Jo shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Feels good to be back in D.C. with all the reporters and military brass running around.”

“Secret Service agents, too,” Grit said. “That’s not why you’re back here, though. You’re back because you have to know you didn’t miss anything when Drew Cameron came to D.C. in April.”

“I did miss something, Grit,” Jo said. “That’s why he’s dead.”

“He’s dead because those two killers made sure he froze on Cameron Mountain.”

“We all missed things,” Myrtle said, ever the wet blanket. “Come on. Let’s go for crab cakes and bourbon.”

“We’ll stop by Bruni’s office in the morning,” Jo said.

Neither Grit nor Myrtle argued with her.

January 3—Black Falls, Vermont

V
ivian wrapped herself in a cashmere throw and sat cross-legged in front of the fire. She’d been unsettled ever since Sean Cameron’s visit. He’d seemed to look right through her and didn’t give her and Lowell so much as a goodbye glance over his shoulder on his way out. The man was on a tear, and she suspected it involved Hannah Shay.

Lowell busied himself topping off the wood box. He wore thick canvas work gloves that came up to his elbows; Vivian thought they looked ridiculous. “This whole business will bite us in the end,” she said, unable to feel truly warm even this close to the fire.

“What business, Vivian? The killings?” He adjusted several logs on his woodpile, as if their arrangement mattered. “It’s been weeks. The Camerons are just frustrated.”

“My only concern is protecting us. You and me. Our family, our finances, our reputation. They mean nothing to you and everything to me. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Maybe that’s good, Vivian. Maybe we need to be less trusting.”

“What are you saying?” She barely spoke in a whisper.
“No. Never mind. I can’t stand the thought of all of this backfiring and hurting
us
. Please don’t do anything stupid and land us in the middle of something that could ruin me and our children.”

“What about me?”

“You, too. Of course. That’s what I meant when I said me. I think of us as a unit.”

“Ah.”

“We believed Kyle Rigby was an experienced mountain rescuer. We believed Melanie Kendall was an interior decorator who was in love with Thomas Asher.”

“Everyone did, Vivian.”

She tightened her throw around her as she stared at the fire, obsessed with the thought of the killers in her home. Kyle Rigby and Melanie Kendall had sat here in front of the fire pretending not to know each other.

“You can go back to New York,” Lowell said.

Just the sound of his voice irritated her. “I won’t leave you here alone. We’ll both leave soon. And how would I feel safer by myself in New York?”

“We could hire bodyguards—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He peeled off his work gloves and set them on top of the wood box. “Are you warming up to the idea of having a dog?”

“No.”

“You could be right. Rose Cameron’s golden retriever is extraordinary, but she has the time, skill and patience to train him. I wouldn’t want an adult dog—I’d want a puppy. I don’t know that I could train one to turn out like Ranger.”

“You couldn’t.” She looked up at Lowell as he dusted bits of bark off his hands. “You just like the idea of a dog. Having a golden retriever trailing behind you here in Vermont fits your image of yourself as a country gentleman.”

“Ranger
is
a beautiful animal.”

She returned her gaze to the fire. “What if we’re a loose end for these killers? What if we know something and don’t realize it?”

“It’s been a long day. Come have a drink.”

“What if your precious Hannah is involved?” Vivian didn’t move, just drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her throw around them. “What if she and Bowie O’Rourke are working together? She’s tried to put her past behind her, but what if she can’t? What if he knows something about her that she doesn’t want the rest of us to know, and he’s using that to manipulate her? Or vice versa. She knows something about him.”

“This is all a matter for the police,” Lowell said patiently. “We’re not from Black Falls. We weren’t close to Drew Cameron or even to Alex Bruni and the Ashers, for that matter. We certainly weren’t close to Melanie Kendall or Kyle Rigby. We were just being hospitable.”

Vivian hardly heard her husband’s words. He just wasn’t a fighter. “Sean Cameron will take care of Hannah. I have no one who will take care of me.”

“We’re out of coffee and we need milk,” Lowell said.

Of course he wouldn’t reassure her. She watched red-hot coals fall from a burning log. “Lock the door on your way out.”

As he drove down the winding road along the river, Lowell turned up the heat full blast and flipped on the seat warmer. The snow squalls had covered the road with an inch of fresh powder, but the sanders had been out. His car’s headlights were all that penetrated the darkness. There was no moon. The dark mountains loomed around him, and somehow the stars seemed farther away than they did in New York—when they could be seen at all—but they were also brighter, sharper against the black night sky. He and Vivian had talked about taking a class in astronomy and learning the constellations.

More lights appeared as he came to the village. Christmas lights still lit up the town green. He pulled into a space in front of the library and looked across Main Street to Sean Cameron’s brick house and the café.

The café was lit up, and he could see Zack Harper, Beth Harper, Scott Thorne, Dominique Belair—he whispered their names as if they were his friends. He was only forty-eight, but he suddenly felt old. Vivian would say she wanted to meet people in Black Falls and be involved in the community, but she also recognized that they were destined to remain apart from them. “They’ll never let us in,” she’d say, “and that’s not what we want, anyway.”

Yet Lowell longed to walk over to the café and be a part of relationships formed in childhood. He and Vivian and their children and friends lived in a bigger, more open world than this one small, insular Vermont town. He didn’t romanticize Black Falls. He knew its shortcomings. He didn’t care—he wanted this simple life made up not of people scattered across the country, even the globe, but who lived nearby, who had to deal with each other because who else was there?

His heart jumped when Hannah came into the front window. She was smiling, laughing. She was so delicate, so vulnerable—and she had fire and grit. She knew from experience that being passive and hoping for the best never worked.

He shuddered as the heat went out of his car. There were those he’d hired and who’d hired him over the past fifteen months who would be anything but passive. They weren’t ones who hoped for the best. They made it happen, and they’d deal with him should he fail.

He’d covered his tracks well, but it would only take one person, one mistake, to undo him.

He had to make certain that didn’t happen.

Then Sean Cameron slipped in next to Hannah in such a proprietary way that Lowell cringed, his stomach twisting
in real, not just emotional, pain. Vivian would be disgusted with him and remind him how incompetent he was compared to any of the Cameron brothers.

If she could lust after them, why couldn’t he lust after Hannah?

It was more than lust, Lowell thought as he started his car again. His feelings for Hannah Shay were as pure as any he’d ever known.

They didn’t mean he couldn’t do what he knew he had to do. He understood when a situation demanded caution and restraint, and when one demanded boldness and action.

He headed down Main Street. He would drive up Cameron Mountain Road to the ridge. If anyone saw him, he would say he was looking at the stars. But he wasn’t worried.

No one would see him.