Cold Ridge

by Carla Neggers

  "They should be Popsicles," Val grumbled.

  Instead it was Hank Callahan and the PJs to the rescue, although Val was of the opinion that someone else could have done the job. But that wasn't the way it was with Manny, North or Callahan, not when they were right there and could do something.

  Now the Rancourts were returning the favor, helping Manny establish his credentials in their world. And the big dope fell for it. He didn't see that they were ingratiating themselves—he didn't see that he should have stayed in the air force, teaching a new generation of young men how to be pararescuemen.

  But Manny hadn't listened to her in months, and, depending on her mood, Val didn't blame him.

  She sank back in her chair at her small, round table in what passed for an eating area. The kitchen wasn't much bigger than a closet, and the bedroom was just big enough for a double bed and a bureau. She hadn't slept that close to Manny in years. Fortunately, she was a petite woman herself—black-haired, brown-eyed and, at thirty-eight, still with a good future ahead of her. If she stopped screwing up her life.

  The living room was kind of cute—it had a large paned window shaded by a gorgeous oak tree, its leaves a rich burgundy color now that it was November. A one-bedroom apartment on a noisy street in Arlington was the best she and Manny could find—and afford—on short notice. At least it was clean and bug-free. If he made a go of his business and they decided to stay in the Washington area, they'd start looking for a house.

  Their son was doing well, and she was off antidepressants.

  Remember your priorities, she told herself.

  She folded up the paper and called Manny on his cell phone, getting his voice mail. "Hi, it's me. I heard about what happened. Sounds hideous. Call me when you can and let me know you're all right."

  There. That was nice. She hadn't yelled anything about being his wife and having a goddamned right to know. For all she knew, he could be in jail.

  She doubted he'd call back. He'd given her six months to get her shit together. He'd stick it out with her until then. If she stayed on her current track, he was gone. That was five months ago, and she was doing better. Manny was the same. He was a bossy, stubborn SOB and refused to recognize his own stress reaction to the utterly crappy time they'd had of it lately, but Val couldn't control what he did—she'd finally figured that one out after months in psychotherapy. Twenty years of sleeping with him hadn't quite done it.

  But Manny wasn't responsible for the allergies and asthma that had come so close—so very close—to taking their son's life. Neither was she, but that had taken more months of therapy to sort out, because she'd wanted someone to blame. Otherwise—why? What was the point of a thirteen-year-old boy almost dying from eating a damn peanut? Coughing and choking just trying to breathe?

  She didn't want her son having to struggle for the rest of his life with a chronic illness. She wanted her son to have a chance to be a PJ like his dad if that was what he chose.

  She wanted the Manny Carrera she'd married back— smart, funny, sexy, self-aware.

  And she wanted herself back, the tough Val, the Val who didn't take shit from anyone.

  But Manny was struggling, although he wouldn't admit it, and she was struggling, and Eric would never be a PJ, his choices limited by asthma and allergies so severe he had to wear a Medic Alert bracelet and carry an inhale rand a dose of epinephrine wherever he went. He was on daily doses of four different medications. Even with the promise of new treatments and desensitization shots, he'd never be accepted into PJ indoc—it just wasn't going to happen.

  None of it was anyone's fault. It just was.

  And Eric was doing fine, with a long, good life ahead of him. He would say to her—"Mom, Dad could never be a ballet dancer or a calculus teacher. That's okay, right? Then it's okay that I can't be a PJ."

  Val debated calling him at his prep school in Cold Ridge, but decided Manny should be the one to talk to their son about whatever had gone on in Boston. Whatever was still going on. It wasn't easy having Eric away at school, but it was what he wanted—and, after weeks fighting it, she could see it was what he needed at least right now. Between a scholarship and scraping together what they had, she and Manny were managing the tuition. Just managing.

  She'd been such a trooper through those early days of diagnosis and treatment. Supermom. She'd done it all. Manny's work was demanding, his paycheck not optional. When Eric went into anaphylactic shock the first time, last spring, Manny's paramedic skills had saved his life. But he wasn't around for all the late-night asthma attacks, the trips to the emergency room, the ups and downs as Eric's illness got sorted out and brought under control. Val quit her job as a bookstore manager and devoted herself one-hundred percent to restoring her son's health.

  But even when Eric was on his feet, she didn't back off and return to her job at the bookstore near the base where Manny was stationed. She became a total nutcase, a control freak, suffocating Eric—suffocating herself. And Manny. He was caught in the cross fire.

  Not that he'd done anything to help the situation. He was oblivious, content to let her handle all the details, the doctors, Eric's volatile emotions—do it all, until it started affecting him.

  Last fall in Cold Ridge hadn't helped matters. Manny had put everything on the line to sneak around in the woods after Carine Winter was shot at, then traipsed after a couple of rich people in trouble—Val knew he was just doing what he did, but what about her? Why the hell couldn't he be there for her?

  That was when she'd started on antidepressants. Manny dug in, finally threatening to kick her butt out the door if she didn't get her act together.

  She smiled ruefully to herself and folded up the newspaper. Well, that was her version of events, anyway.

  Manny would say he'd been at his wit's end with her inability to rebound and had enough to cope with himself. He'd say he understood perfectly well that depression was an illness—that wasn't what bugged him. He'd say he'd done the best he could. She supposed it was true—they'd all done their best. Anger, blame, fear and exhaustion weren't a good mix. On a good day, sparks tended to fly between the two of them. They liked it that way—it worked for them. But they hadn't had very many good days since their son had nearly died.

  Now the ass had retired and moved her to Washington, D.C., so he could play around with rich guys like Sterling Rancourt, and what did he get for his trouble? A dead guy at his feet, the police on his case.

  Val groaned to herself, heading to the bedroom to get dressed. "No wonder Eric wanted to go to school in New Hampshire. Get away from his parents."

  Ten minutes later, she was standing on the sidewalk in front of her building as Hank Callahan pulled up. She jumped into his pricey rented car and grinned at him. "What, no police escort? I expected something a little fancier now that you're a senator."

  "Senator-elect," he corrected. He was in a subdued gray suit with a pale blue tie, as handsome as ever. "Thanks for getting up early to join us. Antonia'll meet us at the restaurant."

  "Are you sure you want to hire me, Major Callahan?"

  He smiled. "Just Hank is fine, Val. When did you ever stand on ceremony?"

  "Senators scare me even more than majors do. All that pomp and circumstance."

  "You've never been intimidated by anyone or anything."

  She tried to smile but couldn't. "I should have been an astronaut like my mother wanted." Both her parents had worked for NASA; they were retired now in Houston. "I got to pick what I wanted to be. I'm lucky that way. Hank—I don't know. I've worked in bookstores for the last ten years. For most of the past year, I've been a nutcase."

  "I haven't changed my mind. Neither has Antonia. The job's still yours, if you want it."

  Joining the staff of a United States senator—Val loved the idea, although maybe not as much as having her own bookstore. "I didn't vote for you. I'm not a Massachusetts resident. I didn't even know the Callahans were a hot-shit Massachusetts family until your wedding last month."


  Hank pulled out onto the street, and two stoplights later, Val realized he wasn't going to mention Manny's situation. He was too polite. She'd have to do it. "Hank, you know about Carine and Manny, don't you? What happened yesterday at the Rancourts' house in Boston? And Antonia? She knows, right?"

  He nodded but kept his gaze pinned on the road. "Antonia almost stayed in Boston last night. She stopped by to see Carine. I gather she's in rough shape."

  Val winced. "I can imagine."

  "Have you talked to Manny?"

  "Are you kidding? I had to read about his goings-on in the morning paper. Do you know anything about this Louis Sanborn, the man who was killed?"

  "Just what you know from the paper."

  "I don't understand why the Rancourts hired Manny if they already had this guy Sanborn and the other guy, the one who hired him—"

  "Gary Turner," Hank supplied.

  "Right. So, what, are the Rancourts paranoid? Are they afraid of something? I don't get it. Why do they need Manny to teach them how to tie off a bleeder? Jesus, call 911 like the rest of us." Val tried to stifle a sudden pang of fear, recognized it as her habitual anxiety reaction to everything these days—fear, foreboding, a palpable sense of gloom. "Hank, do you think something's going on with the Rancourts that Manny doesn't know about? What if they're holding something back?"

  Hank shrugged, no sign he was experiencing the same kind of apprehension she was. "I haven't heard of anything. I think they just like hanging around people who do this kind of work."

  "Manny's not hired muscle. He—"

  "I know, Val. Manny's one of the best at what he does."

  "He's demeaning himself, working for those phonies. He should be training new PJs," she said half under her breath, then sighed. "Just what Manny needed, a couple of wannabe types sucking him in. What the hell's the matter with him?"

  "Val."

  She glanced over at the pilot-turned-senator, the man whose skill and quick thinking as a Pave Hawk pilot had saved more than one life in his air force career. He said he wanted to work toward the common good as a senator. Hank Callahan had steel nerves and a kind heart, but right now, Val could sense his uneasiness. "What is it, Hank?"

  "Manny should call you—"

  "Manny's not going to call me. He won't want me to worry."

  Hank sighed. "Val, the police think he's their man. You need to prepare yourself if he's arrested."

  She couldn't take in his words. "What?"

  Hank said nothing.

  She absorbed what he'd said, then made herself stop, breathe and think, not let her first physical reaction get out of control, suck her in to the point where she couldn't function. It was as if all her nerve endings had been rubbed raw by the months of stress over Eric, how close she'd come to losing her son—and now that he was okay, she could let her emotions run wild. She had to work to keep them in bounds.

  There was no way Manny had committed murder. He was a lot of things, but not a murderer. If the police thought they had their man, they were wrong.

  It was that simple.

  She glanced over at Hank. "Are you reading the tea leaves, or do you know?"

  "I know."

  He was a senator, and he was a Callahan. He knew everyone, had contacts everywhere. If he said he knew, he knew. "Carine Winter?"

  "Innocent bystander."

  "Manny—should he get a lawyer?"

  "He has one."

  Val sank back in her seat, her coffee crawling up her throat. Manny Carrera was her husband. He was in Boston facing a possible murder charge. So much had happened, and all she knew, she'd learned from the newspaper and her friend the senator-elect from Massachusetts.

  That bastard.

  She cleared her throat, summoning her last shreds of dignity. "Thank you for telling me."

  "Val—"

  "Manny's a big boy. He can take care of himself. If he needs me, he'll be in touch." She stared out her window and saw that they were on one of the prettier streets of Arlington now, the last of the autumn leaves glowing yellow in the morning sun. "Let's go see your beautiful bride and have breakfast. I'm starving."

  Five

  Carine tried sleeping late, but that didn't work, and she finally got up and made herself a bowl of instant oatmeal that tasted more like instant slime. She downed a few spoonfuls, then drank a mug of heavily sugared tea while she pulled on her running clothes. When she didn't pass out doing her warm-up routine, she decided she might be good for her run.

  She did a quarter mile of her one-and-a-half-mile route before she collapsed against a lamppost, kicking it with her heel in disgust. Aquartermile? Pathetic. She was determined to do one-and-a-half miles in under ten minutes and thirty seconds. It wasn't the distance that got to her— she could run ten miles—it was the time, the speed. But running a mile and a half in ten-and-a-half minutes or less was one of the fitness requirements for the PJ Physical Abilities and Stamina Test, which, if passed, led to a shot at indoctrination. She'd pulled the PAST off the Internet.

  Of course, she was a woman, and women didn't get to be pararescuemen. But she didn't want to be a PJ— she just wanted to pass the initial fitness test. It was the challenge that drove her. The test included the run, plus swimming twenty-five meters underwater on one breath—she'd damn near drowned the first time she tried that one. Then there was swimming one thousand meters in twenty-six minutes…doing eight chin-ups in a minute…fifty sit-ups in two minutes… fifty push-ups in two minutes…fifty flutter kicks in two minutes. Technically, she was supposed to do the exercises one after another, all within three hours, but she had to cut herself some slack. She was thirty-three, not twenty.

  Normally, it was the swimming that killed her. And she hated flutter kicks. Who'd invented flutter kicks? They were torture. But this morning, after yesterday's shock, she suspected everything on the list would do her in.

  She decided to be satisfied she'd been able to keep down her oatmeal.

  She trudged back to her apartment, pausing to do a few calf stretches on her porch before heading inside to shower and change clothes. She made short work of it— jeans, sweater, barn coat, ankle boots, camera bag. She doubted she'd be taking any pictures today, but she wanted to go back to the Rancourt house. Provided the police no longer had it marked off as a crime scene, she thought it might help her to see the library again, although it wouldn't, she knew, erase the memory of Louis. After the incident last fall, she'd returned to the boulder on the hillside and touched the places where the bullets had hit. Real bullets. No wonder she'd been scared. Going back had helped her incorporate what had happened into her experience, accept the reality of it and find a place for it in her memories so it didn't float around, popping up unexpectedly, inappropriately.

  But she'd had Ty with her that day.

  She'd parked her car, an ancient Subaru Outback sedan, down the street. She'd gone to the trouble of changing her plates from New Hampshire to Massachusetts and getting a new license, just so she could get a Cambridge resident's sticker—otherwise, parking was a nightmare. But she didn't like driving into Boston and took public transportation whenever she could, picking up the Red Line in Central Square, which was a fifteen-minute walk from her apartment. It could be her exercise for the day.

  She stopped at a bakery for a cranberry scone and more tea. Her mind was racing with questions and images,butshepushedthembackandtriedtofocusonher scone, her tea, the brisk morning and the other people on the streets. Kids, workers, bag ladies, students. She passedanurseryschoolclassofthree-andfour-year-olds hanging on to a rope to keep them together, their young teacher skipping along in front of them like the Pied Piper. The kids were laughing, making Carine smile.

  She got a seat on a subway car and shut her eyes briefly, letting the rhythms of the rapid-transit line soothe her as the train sped over the Charles River, then back underground. She got off at the Charles Street stop and walked, peeking in the shop windows on the pretty street at the base of Beacon Hill, giving a
wistful glance at the corn stalks and pumpkins in front of an upscale flower shop. They reminded her of home.

  When she turned down Beacon Street and her cell phone rang, she almost didn't answer it, then decided if it was Gus and she ignored him, she risked having him send in the National Guard. She hit the receive button and made herself smile, hoping that'd take any lingering strain out of her voice when she said hello.

  Gus grunted. "Where are you?"

  "Just past the corner of Beacon and Charles."

  "Boston?"

  "That's right," she said. "What's up, Gus? How's the weather in Cold Ridge?"

  "Gray. Why aren't you home with your feet up?"

  "I'm on my way to the Rancourt house. I want to see—"

  "Carine, for chrissake, they can't possibly need you today. Why don't you drive up here for the weekend? Or jump on the train and go visit your brother or your sister for a couple days. They'd love to have you."

  "I'm fine, Gus. I've been thinking about it, and I just need to go back there."

  "For what, closure? Give me a break." But he sighed, and Carine could almost see him in his rustic village shop, amid his canoes and kayaks, his snowshoes and cross-country skis, his trail maps and compasses and high-end hiking clothes and equipment. "The police haven't arrested anyone for this guy's murder. You know what that means, don't you? It means whoever did it is still on the streets."

  "I'll be careful. Besides, the police and reporters are still bound to be there—and if not them, the Rancourts, their security chief—it'll be okay."

  "You thought it'd be okay yesterday before you walked into the library, didn't you?"

  "Gus—"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Nothing I can do. But I don't have to like it."