Cold River (18 page)

Whatever romantic disaster Rose had experienced, Hannah doubted the Cameron men had a clue. As much as they might argue, A.J., Elijah and Sean wouldn’t be happy
with any man who had broken their baby sister’s heart, and Rose would know to keep them away from whoever it was.

“When you’re ready, we can talk,” Hannah whispered. “I know it’s torture for you to confide in anyone.”

“Thanks,” Rose said under her breath.

Beth and Dominique either didn’t hear the exchange or pretended not to.

For the next hour, they turned their attention to cupcakes and laughter, as if there were nothing more pressing on their minds than frosting, sprinkles and little silver stars. Hannah welcomed the show of support and friendship. It would make saying goodbye to her brothers in the morning easier knowing she had these women behind her.

And saying goodbye to Sean, she thought. She’d let herself go too far with him when she knew he’d be back in Beverly Hills in twenty-four hours, by his pool, making deals, attacking fires.

Rose left, and Beth and Dominique helped Hannah pick out the boys’ favorite café offerings for a winter smorgasbord and put together goody bags for their trip, then helped carry everything upstairs. Devin and Toby both had their stuff heaped in the living room, their excitement about their upcoming adventure obvious as they greeted the three “sisters.”

“Watch it,” Beth said good-naturedly, “Hannah can turn your bedroom into a sewing room while you’re gone. What if all that winter warmth and sunshine gets to you?”

They just grinned at her. After she and Dominique left, Devin turned serious. “Toby and I have to ask you something before we leave,” he said.

Hannah sank onto the couch. “All right. What’s on your mind?”

Devin remained on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. Toby rubbed his thumb on a scratch on a bike helmet
in his lap. Whatever they needed to talk to her about, it was making them uncomfortable.

Finally Devin plopped down on a chair opposite her. “Hannah, were you and Bowie O’Rourke ever—are you now—you know…” “He squirmed. “Romantically involved?”

Of all the things that had run through her head, that was one of the least intrusive and upsetting. They could, for instance, Hannah thought, have asked her about Sean Cameron. She shook her head. “No. No romance. Never in the past and not now. I haven’t seen that much of Bowie in recent years, but he’s more like an older brother to me than anything else.”

“The Camerons don’t trust him,” Toby blurted, looking up from his helmet.

“The Camerons are hard on everyone,” she said, then added diplomatically, “but they’re hardest on themselves.”

Devin was watching her. It would be a mistake, she knew, to think his slumped posture meant he was disinterested—or satisfied with her answers. Her brother noticed everything. “A.J., Elijah and Sean were all three at O’Rourke’s when Bowie—”

“Yes,” Hannah said, “they were.”

Devin’s pale blue eyes stayed on her. “We’ve heard stories about what happened.”

Meaning stories about what Derek Cutshaw and his friends had said. She’d never discussed the specifics of that night with Devin and Toby and had no intention of doing so now. “People love to tell stories,” she said, rising. “I’ll get dinner on the table while you two finish up in here.”

Both Toby and Devin got to their feet. “Hannah,” Toby said, “Devin and I have talked, and we’ll postpone California if—”

“
No
. No cold feet. I’ll get out there to see you. I have some money saved. I’ll take a break from studying.” She
smiled at them. “Even if Judge Robinson is watching me like a hawk and won’t want me to.”

“I’m glad he doesn’t live far from here,” Devin said.

“Don’t worry about me. After yesterday, I’ll be on Cameron radar for a while.” She suddenly noticed everything in the room that belonged to her brothers and would remind her of them when they were gone. “If you hate California, I’ll get you back here.”

As she headed for the kitchen and unloaded shepherd’s pie, chili, salads and cupcakes, she knew they wouldn’t hate it. Sean had never come back to Black Falls to live once he got out west. Why should her brothers?

Devin and Toby were up at six and on the sidewalk in front of the house before seven. It wasn’t yet light out. They’d set all their stuff in the hall before they’d gone to bed. Devin just had the duffel bag he’d borrowed from Elijah. Toby had all his biking paraphernalia—helmets, gloves, goggles, repair kits—as well as his racing bike, a full-suspension model he’d saved for.

“It’s a good thing Sean’s taking you with him,” Hannah said, grinning at the pile of equipment. “It would have cost a fortune to ship all this out to California with you.”

“I probably would have sold some of it and just bought new out there.” Toby shivered in the frosty air. “I am definitely not going to miss zero-degree weather.”

Their excitement was palpable as Sean and Elijah pulled up to the curb promptly at seven, as promised. They were in the lodge van, Elijah behind the wheel to drive them to the airport where Sean’s plane awaited them. Hannah helped her brothers load up their stuff and didn’t embarrass them by hugging them goodbye.

Sean stood next to her as Devin and Toby climbed into the back of the van. He had his coat unbuttoned, as if he knew he
didn’t have to be out in the cold again for a while. He started to speak, but Hannah jumped in before he could get a word out. “Have a safe flight,” she said quickly, then forced a smile. “Devin and Toby promised to call me when you land.”

His blue eyes narrowed in the gray early-morning light. “It’ll happen.”

Meaning he’d make sure her brothers didn’t get carried away with their excitement about their adventure and forget.

“You have my numbers,” he said. “Call anytime.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant but didn’t ask. “I will. Thanks.”

He hesitated, then got into the front passenger seat next to Elijah. Devin and Toby were laughing now, and they both turned and blew her silly kisses, as they had when they were little boys and barely realized how much older she was.

Hannah laughed and blew kisses back to them.

Then the wind blew, and she groaned at the cold and fought back tears as she ran inside to the warm café kitchen, Beth, Dominique and their work of the morning.

Four days later—January 2—Black Falls, Vermont

G
rit woke up on the second day of the new year to the same dark and cold he’d woken up to on the first day of the new year and the last day of the old year. A.J. and Lauren Cameron had set off fireworks up at Black Falls Lodge, as they did every New Year’s Eve. Elijah had dragged Grit up there. It was minus two outside, but he’d liked looking at the stars in the black Vermont sky.

The fireworks were fine. A couple of guests from the lodge, all bundled up in their Patagonia coats, had heard that he was a SEAL and Elijah a Special Forces soldier and had asked them if the fireworks bothered them. Elijah had politely said he liked fireworks. He hadn’t been home for them in years.

Grit had been tempted to take the head off a nearby snowman and shove it down their pants.

He was in that kind of mood.

“Ah, Moose,” he said aloud, “where the hell are you when I need you?”

Moose didn’t answer, and Grit decided it was okay. Michael “Moose” Ferrerra was at peace.

Grit climbed out of bed, performed his morning routine, which now included cursing the cold, the dark, the killers who were dead, the killers who remained elusive and—most of all—woodstoves.

He’d really come to hate woodstoves.

He was tempted to call Admiral Jenkins back—the admiral’s last message included a threat to send MPs after him—but Myrtle had called two minutes before Grit was fully awake with instructions for his morning.

Per those instructions, he left a note on his bed for Jo and Elijah that he was on an errand. Myrtle hadn’t considered a car. He borrowed Jo’s without her permission—he figured she wouldn’t mind—and drove up to Black Falls Lodge. Myrtle was waiting on the front walk in her new parka.

“Drive me to the village,” she said. “Don’t talk. Why’d you borrow a Secret Service agent’s car? What if it’s bugged?”

Grit grinned at her. “You and the drama. Being up here’s getting to you, too, isn’t it? One of these days we’ll have to go back to Washington and sort out our lives.”

“Let’s just hope we don’t go back in handcuffs.”

Again per her instructions, he drove her into the village. The sun was up. It was a bright, sparkling, bone-chilling morning in the Green Mountain State. Grit parked next to a snowbank. Myrtle complained she couldn’t get out and launched into a tirade about ice, snow, plows and town budgets, and he pulled up a few yards to where someone had shoveled a cutout in the snowbank to the sidewalk.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Grit asked her.

“In my next life, I’m managing a spa. I swear.” She kept her gaze forward. “We’ll talk on the sidewalk. I’m serious about this car.”

She got out, and Grit backed up and parked. He walked on the street up to the cutout and met her on the sidewalk. His leg hurt this morning. He ignored the pain as Myrtle
finally looked at him with her lavender eyes and said, “Charlie Neal’s cousin Conor called my room at Black Falls Lodge thirty minutes ago. He’s in Rutland.”

The cousin. Grit looked across Main Street at the frozen tundra of the pretty town green. “How’d he get to Rutland, Myrtle?”

“He took the train. He got in last night.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s at a roadside motel on Route 4 just outside Rutland.”

“He’s sixteen,” Grit said. “Don’t they check ID?”

“He’s very smart. All the Neals are smart.”

Grit glanced at Myrtle, who was trembling, from nerves or the cold, he didn’t know. She definitely didn’t look happy.

“He says he has a message for you from Charlie.”

“Myrtle.”

“He’s not under Secret Service protection. Conor Neal. The cousin.”

Grit knew better. It wasn’t Conor Neal in Rutland. It was Charlie. He was up to his prince-and-the-pauper tricks again, which Myrtle, being a smart Washington reporter, was pretending she didn’t know about. “Doesn’t mean they’re not watching him,” Grit said.

“No, it doesn’t. The motel’s not busy.”

“What did he do, hitch a ride from the train station?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Up the street, a woman bundled from head to toe was walking a couple of little white dogs. Grit wondered if she had a normal life and decided probably not. What was normal, anyway?

“Let’s go inside for muffins,” Myrtle said. “You can leave me there and go to Rutland. I’ll keep an eye on everyone for you.”

The café was warm and filled with people, including various law enforcement officers. The state trooper that
Jo’s sister, Beth, was dating was adding half-and-half to a mug of coffee.

Jo was already there with Elijah. Also at their table was Jo’s boss, Mark Francona, up from Washington on a frigid New England morning.

That couldn’t be good.

Grit had met Francona in Washington in November and, being an experienced Navy SEAL, suspected the senior Secret Service agent’s presence had something to do with Myrtle’s errand.

“Myrtle,” he said under his breath.

She grimaced. “I see. We walked right into the lion’s mouth. I thought we’d have more time before anyone got here.”

“So the note on my bed and borrowing a Secret Service agent’s car—”

“Shut up, Grit,” Myrtle said.

She went ahead of him to the glass case and put in her order with a frowning Beth Harper.

Elijah, who wasn’t law enforcement, got up from the table with Jo and Francona and ambled over to Grit in such a controlled manner it could only signal the proverbial shit was hitting the fan. “Francona turned up ten minutes ago,” Elijah said. “He flew in from D.C. first thing this morning. He wants to talk to you.”

“Maybe I should have stopped at the gas station for coffee.”

Beth Harper was attractive, and Grit had seen her and her sister running on the lake in skintight leggings, but he kept looking at the women in Black Falls as sisters. Jo, of course. She was Elijah’s woman. But Beth, Rose Cameron, Dominique Belair, Hannah Shay. He’d had the same reaction to each one. They were untouchables.

Grit didn’t like that. It wasn’t like him.

Myrtle took a mug and muffin to a table next to the one with the feds.

Ignoring Elijah for the moment, Grit smiled at Beth and pointed at muffins heaped on a plate inside the glass case. “What kind are those?” he asked.

“Pumpkin,” she said.

“You’re serious? Pumpkin muffins? Do they taste like pumpkin pie?”

“Similar spices. They’re dense. We make them with whole-grain flour.”

“What kind are the ones next to them?”

“Cranberry-walnut.”

“No Krispy Kreme around the corner, is there?”

Beth smiled. “No, Petty Officer Taylor, there is not.”

“I’ll go with the pumpkin.”

“Would you like butter or ricotta cheese with it?”

He stared at her. “Ricotta? You serious? Ricotta goes in lasagna and ravioli. Why would I want it on my muffin?”

“Because it’s a low-fat alternative to butter, and it’s loaded with calcium.”

Grit looked at Elijah, still standing in front of the glass case with him. “This is a strange little town.”

Being an experienced special operations soldier, Elijah wasn’t buying the distraction. “Jo and Francona want to talk to you.”

“They armed?”

“Always.”

“Why don’t they want to talk to Myrtle? Look at her. She’s sitting there by herself with her fluffy coffee and muffin.”

“Latte,” Beth said.

“I see she went for the pumpkin muffin, too. Scary.”

Elijah had that same look Grit had seen in April right before their helicopter went down in an isolated Afghan
mountain pass. That hadn’t been a good night. Elijah’s eyes got dark. “Grit…”

He looked at Beth. “I’ll have a small coffee, too.” While she filled his order, he dug out a few bills and left them on the counter, operating under the assumption he would have to make a fast getaway with two Secret Service agents a few yards from him and Myrtle’s errand to complete. “I’m going for a pleasant morning drive in Vermont.”

“Grit,” Elijah said, “we need to talk.”

“Tell Jo and her boss they can meet me at my cabin later. They can search it if they want. Just have them put a log in the stove.”

Elijah backed off, and Grit gave Beth a friendly smile as she handed him his muffin and coffee to go. Since he took his coffee black, all he had to do next was walk out of there and be on his way to Rutland and the roadside motel where, as far as he knew, Conor Neal was waiting to deliver his message from his cousin Charlie, the vice president’s son. It was called plausible deniability.

Francona and Jo intercepted him before he got the café door open.

Jo said, “Let’s try not to let in the cold air. Why don’t you come sit with us?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?” Francona asked. He was in his early forties, a straight-backed type with a peculiar sense of humor.

“I’m taking a drive.” Grit didn’t mention it was in Jo’s car. “I want to see some Vermont winter vistas.”

Elijah winced behind his fiancée and Francona and mouthed, “Vistas?”

Jo’s eyes narrowed in a way that probably fired up Elijah but didn’t do much for Grit. She said, “You’d tell us if you were contacted by a Secret Service protectee, wouldn’t you, Grit?”

“You bet.”

“Because,” Francona said, “we’re all on the same page here. We all want the same thing. Right?”

“If by the same thing you mean spring,” Grit said, “yes, sir. We are definitely on the same page.”

Grit opened the door. His left shoe felt tight and achy. That hadn’t happened in a while. He had a left shoe but not a left foot. He figured the phantom pain had something to do with the two unsmiling Secret Service agents with him. Jo, a native Vermonter, didn’t look cold. Francona, who probably wasn’t a native of anywhere, didn’t look cold, either. He just looked as if he wanted to shoot someone.

Not much of a sense of humor this morning.

They didn’t stop Grit as he walked out of the café onto Main Street. The sun glinting off the snow hurt his eyes. He put on his sunglasses and got behind the wheel of Jo’s car. He had a bite of his muffin, which didn’t taste like pumpkin pie at all, and a sip of his coffee, and stared past the quaint town common. He called Myrtle on his cell phone.

She picked up on the first ring. “The Secret Service is about to gang up on me,” she said. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not good with cops unless it’s a First Amendment issue.”

Meaning she’d cave if it meant saving her ass. “I’ll break you out of jail.”

“What a champ,” she said, and disconnected.

Grit found the motel with no trouble. It was on the road to the massive Killington ski area, and when he pulled into the parking lot, he was pretty sure no one had followed him. He didn’t know if Myrtle had broken, though, and was on high alert in case state cops and feds were about to pour out of the mountains and nail him.

He spotted a fair-haired teenager who resembled Prince Harry at sixteen making waffles at the free breakfast bar. It
wasn’t Conor Neal. It was Charles Preston Neal, son of the vice president of the United States.

Big surprise.

Charlie appeared to be alone.

Grit hated being unarmed with a high-value target right in front of him. What if bad guys had followed Charlie last night and were already in the breakfast room?

Charlie motioned for Grit to join him at the waffle iron.

“Thanks for coming,” the kid said.

Grit smelled waffles and coffee. “I thought I told you not to pull this stunt again. You and your cousin switching places. It’s not smart.” He frowned. “Secret Service is onto you.”

“No, they’re not. They just think they are. What are they going to do if they find me? Arrest me?”

“I would,” Grit said.

Charlie shivered as steam rolled out of the waffle iron. “It’s cold in here. The heating system is inadequate for the conditions. Do you want waffles?”

“No. It’s cold in Black Falls, too. It’s cold everywhere up here.”

Charlie’s light blue eyes fastened on Grit. “It’s not cold in Southern California.”

Grit said nothing.

“I’ll make a deal,” Charlie said. “You let me tell you about California, and I’ll go back under Secret Service protection.”

“Or what? I don’t let you tell me about California and I put you back under Secret Service protection myself?”

“My way, and no one knows I was ever up here. Your way—”

“It’s not going to be your way. Whatever we do, it’s my way. Understood?”

“Yes, Petty Officer Taylor, I understand.”

A tactical decision. There was nothing meek or humble about Charlie Neal.

“Nobody’s trying to kill me, Petty Officer.”

“I’ll bet a lot of people are thinking about it.” Like Deputy Special Agent in Charge Mark Francona and Special Agent Jo Harper. Probably Myrtle Smith by now. “Call your parents.”

“Why? They think I’m with my cousin. You’ll just get some poor Secret Service agent fired.”

“Maybe some poor Secret Service agent deserves to be fired.”

Charlie lifted the lid on the waffle iron and grinned at the browned waffle inside. “Perfect. Come on. Who can resist fresh waffles?”

Grit’s cell phone rang. He saw Elijah’s number on the screen and knew he had to answer. “You have a bead on me?”

“On Jo’s car.”

“Were you going to shoot out the tires and leave me here in the cold if I didn’t answer?”

“Not me. Jo.”

“You didn’t follow me. You’re good, but I’d have spotted you. Francona have a homing device on Jo’s car?”

“It wasn’t Francona.”

Myrtle. She’d said she’d cave. “Where do we meet?”

“Jo says to sit tight. She likes waffles.”

Grit shut his phone. “Talk fast,” he said. “They’re coming for you.”

Charlie didn’t look perturbed. He pried his waffle loose, put it on a plate and headed to his table. Grit followed him and sat down across from Charlie. He smeared butter on his waffle. “You can’t have too much butter on a waffle.” He glanced up at Grit. “Sean Cameron’s back in Beverly Hills.”

Charlie was such a know-it-all that Grit wasn’t sure if it was a question. “He headed back out there a few days ago.”

“With Devin and Toby Shay. Hannah stayed behind in Black Falls.”