Cold Ridge

by Carla Neggers

  "We're going to Gus's, not your cabin. He said he'd have a pot of beef stew waiting." Ty shifted gears and made the turn into the village. It was just a few streets tucked into a bowl-shaped valley surrounded by the White Mountains, its Main Street dominated by a white-clapboard, early-nineteenth-century church and a smattering of storefronts, although it wasn't a big tourist town. "It was the only way I was going to get out of town. I had to promise to bring you by."

  "For what, inspection?"

  "Pretty much."

  Carine groaned, although this development was not unexpected. She and her sister and brother might all be in their thirties, but their uncle, just fifty himself, liked to see them after a crisis, make sure they were intact. They indulged him, not just because they loved him and life was easier if they complied, but because they understood—he'd survived combat in Vietnam only to come home and lose his only brother and sister-in-law on Cold Ridge. If he sometimes was overprotective, he was allowed. But he'd never let his anxiety spill over into irrationally stopping his nieces and nephew from pursuing their interests, taking risks.

  "Al lright," Carine said. "I'm not going to argue. Drop me off at Gus's. Then you can head back to Boston."

  "Not tonight. I need some sleep. Rescuing three kids off a mountain, driving hither and yon, sleeping in my truck—" He glanced at her. "Making love to you. I'm beat."

  "You don't get tired, North, and I wouldn't call what we did making love. We—" She grimaced, remembering. "Well, you know what we did."

  "Sure do."

  "North, I swear—"

  "Relax. Gus'll never be able to tell."

  * * *

  Gus lived in the 1919 village house in which his brother and sister-in-law had planned to raise their three children. It was cream stucco with white trim and had a front porch, a small, screened back porch, dormers, bay windows, leaded glass, hardwood floors and a fireplace. Carine used to think he'd sell it once she and her siblings were off on their own, but he didn't. He hung on to it, redoing the kitchen and bathroom, updating the wiring. At the moment, he was wallpapering the downstairs half bath.

  But he had the worst taste, and when Carine scooted into the half bath, she wasn't that surprised to be greeted by a tropical oasis of parrots, frogs and palm trees. The design was garish and out of place, but neither would bother Gus—or Stump, his big part-black Lab, part-everything-else dog, who'd tried to follow her in.

  When she returned to the kitchen, her uncle was stirring a bubbling pot of stew on the stove. He grinned over his shoulder at her. "Bathroom makes you think you're in the rain forest, doesn't it? I thought it'd be good during March and April, when you're sure you'll slit your throat if you see another snowflake."

  "I wouldn't mind being in the rain forest right now," Carine said, smiling as she hugged him. "I've missed you, Uncle Gus."

  He'd driven down to Boston a few times to visit her and Antonia, but it wasn't his favorite trip, especially if it didn't involve Celtics, Bruins or Red Sox tickets. Antonia barely knew which team played what sport. Now she was married to a senator—Hank Callahan was Manny's friend, too, a tidbit the media hadn't sunk their teeth into since Louis's murder but no doubt would. Carine expected it was only a matter of time.

  Ty had retreated to add wood to the fire, obviously giving uncle and niece a chance to reconnect. Gus nodded in the direction of the front room. "How're you doing with him?"

  "Okay. I thought about shoving him into traffic and being done with him, but—Gus, yesterday was so awful—"

  "I know, honey. I'm sorry you had to go through that." He set his wooden spoon on the counter. "Being back up here'll help you get your bearings, even with North around."

  "I hope you're right." She leaned over his bubbling pot. "Gus, what's that in the stew? The green stuff?"

  "Christ, you sound like you did when you were six, always sticking your nose in my cooking." He picked up his spoon again, stirring gently. "It's okra. You know, that stuff they eat down south. I thought I'd toss some in, see if I liked it."

  "I'm not sure okra's supposed to be in beef stew."

  "It is now. Set the table, okay?"

  They ate in the kitchen. The okra wasn't a big hit with Ty, who left it on the side of his plate and said it looked like something out of a swamp. They'd pulled through a fast-food place on their way to New Hampshire, but Carine hadn't eaten much. She ate two plates of Gus's stew, and after dinner, she brought a stack of Oreos out by the fire. She sat on the floor, her knees up, and when Gus and Ty joined her, she told them everything that had happened to her over the past day and a half, start to finish. About her lunch and how she hadn't thought about photographing wild turkeys, about Louis Sanborn asking her if she wanted a ride and the toddler chasing the pigeons on the Commonwealth Avenue mall—and finding Louis dead, what she saw and heard, how she'd run out of the house and straight into Manny Carrera.

  She left nothing out, except for launching into bed with Tyler North. He knew, she knew and Gus didn't need to know.

  When she finished, her uncle got up and put another log on the fire. "I want you to hear me out on one thing, Carine." He stared into the fire, not at her, and its flames reflected on his lined, lean face. "Don't try to pretend you didn't see a man you know dead in a pool of his own blood."

  "Gus, please—"

  "Don't fight it. Don't hide from it." He shifted his gaze, glancing down at her. "Give it time. You'll learn to live with the memory."

  "I don't have any other choice."

  "That's just it. You do have a choice."

  He brought in more wood while she and Ty did the dishes. Carine washed, dipping her hands into the hot, sudsy water, trying to stay focused on the simple chore, the routines that reminded her of normalcy. She and her sister and brother used to take turns doing the dishes. In his various home improvements, Gus had never seen the need to buy a dishwasher.

  She rinsed a handful of silverware under hot water and set it in the dish strainer. "You've seen dead men," she said. "Men you knew."

  "Yes," Ty said.

  "What do you do?"

  He lifted out the silverware into a threadbare towel. "Focus on the job I'm there to do."

  "That must be when all the years of training pay off. Do you think Manny misses the work?"

  Ty opened a drawer and sorted the dry silverware into their appropriate slots. "I think Manny's eaten up inside."

  After they finished the dishes, Carine put on her barn coat, noticing her reflection in the window. She didn't look as raw-nerved and traumatized as she had earlier, but she was exhausted. "It'll be good to sleep in my own bed tonight."

  "Sorry, toots." Ty shook his head, shrugging on his brown leather jacket. "You don't have a guest room, and I'm not sleeping on your couch. Been there, done that. I don't fit, even without you."

  "Ty—you can't be serious." Once she got to Cold Ridge, she thought she'd be on her own, at most with only Gus's hovering to deal with. "I'm home. I'm safe. It's okay—"

  He wasn't listening. "I have three guest rooms, and there's a pullout sofa in the den. You can have your pick."

  "I'm not in any danger!"

  "Someone broke into your apartment today."

  "We don't know that."

  "You were first on the scene after a murder yesterday. We do know that. And we know the police haven't made an arrest and are, in fact, barking up the wrong tree for their man. So—" he zipped up his jacket "—it's my house or here with the parrots and the okra."

  "Let's not make this Gus's problem."

  "Suits me."

  She was left to choose between bad and worse— staying with Gus and Stump was clearly worse. At least at North's place, if it came to actually staying there, which she hoped it wouldn't, she'd be within short walking distance of her cabin, and there wouldn't be dog hair on her blankets. "All right. Have it your way."

  "I know you're not giving in, Carine," he said cockily. "You're buying time. You think you can talk me out of it before w
e get to my place. Put yourself in my position. What would you do?"

  "Give me a nine-millimeter to put under my pillow."

  "You might be good at flutter kicks, but a gun's a different story."

  "Gus gave us basic firearms instruction when we were kids. I can shoot." But she didn't want a nine-millimeter—she wanted her life back, and she thought North knew it. "You're in your Three Musketeers mood,

  Ty. I'm not going to fight you."

  "Because you don't know what happened yesterday."

  "No, because I do know what happened." Her barn coat, she realized, wasn't warm enough for the dropping nighttime mountain temperatures. "I hope the police don't focus on Manny for too long. Whoever killed Louis—" She swallowed, feeling a fresh wave of uneasiness, even fear. "I don't want anyone else to end up dead. That's all I care about. Just catch whoever killed Louis, and make sure no one else gets hurt."

  Ty nodded. "Fair enough."

  Gus appeared in the kitchen doorway. "You two leaving? Carine, I'm here if you need me. Got that?"

  "I know, Gus. Thanks. I love you."

  "Love you, too, kid." His tone hardened. "North? You'll be wanting Carine looking better tomorrow morning, not worse."

  A neat trick that'd be, Carine thought, but said nothing as she followed her ex-fiancé outside, the night clear, cold and very dark. But without the ambient light of the city, she could see the stars.

  * * *

  By the time they reached his house, Ty noticed that Carine was ashen, sunken-eyed, drained and distant. He'd watched the energy ooze out of her during their ride out from the village, along the dark, winding road to his place, the ridge outlined against the starlit sky, a full moon creating eerie shadows in the open meadow that surrounded the old brick house her ancestor had built.

  He suddenly felt out of his element. What the hell was he doing? Even with the dangers and uncertainties of a combat mission, he would know exactly what was expected of him, exactly what he was supposed to do. Right now, nothing made sense.

  Carine was used to his house—she'd been coming there since they were kids. His mother had given her painting lessons, helped to train her artistic eye and encouraged her to pursue her dream of becoming a photographer. As much as odd-duck Saskia North had been a mother to anyone, Ty supposed she'd been one to orphaned Carine Winter.

  Carine insisted on carrying her tapestry bag to the end room upstairs and said she could make up the bed herself, but North followed her up, anyway. Her room was next to his mother's old weaving room, which he'd cleared out a couple of years after her death. The different-size looms, the bags and shelves of yarns, the spinning wheel—he had no use for any of it and donated the whole lot to a women's shelter. His mother would sit up there for hours at a time. Her room had a view of the back meadow and the mountains, but she seldom looked out the window. She had a kind of tunnel vision when it came to her work, a concentration so deep, Ty could sneak off as a kid and she wouldn't notice for hours.

  He didn't know why the hell he hadn't died up on the ridge. Luck, he supposed. But he'd started to wonder when his luck would run out—how much luck did a person have a right to?

  "It's so quiet," Carine said as she set her bag down on the braided rug. "I never really noticed before I moved to the city. One of those things you take for granted, I guess."

  "It's supposed to be good weather tomorrow. On the cool side, but maybe we can take a hike."

  "That'd be good."

  Ty got sheets out of the closet, white ones that had been around forever, and they made the bed together, but Carine looked like she wouldn't last another ten seconds. "Sit," he told her. "Now, before you pass out."

  "I've never passed out."

  "Don't make tonight the first time."

  "You've got your own medical kit downstairs. What do you call it?" She smiled weakly. "Operating room in a rucksack."

  "Yeah, sure. If you start pitching your cookies, I can run an IV."

  "Is that a medical term? 'Pitching your cookies'?"

  "Universally understood."

  "I'm fine."

  But she sank onto a chair and started shivering, and he tossed her a wool blanket, then threw another one over the bed. He added a down comforter, thinking, for no reason he could fathom, of her and her ab muscles. Flutter kicks. Hell.

  "Tomorrow will be better," he told her.

  She gazed out the window at the moonlit sky. "I didn't win any battles today."

  "No one was fighting with you, Carine."

  "It felt that way. Or maybe I'm just fighting myself—or I just wish I had someone to fight with, as a distraction. I don't know. It's weird to be this unfocused. Last fall, at least we had the police out combing the woods for clues. I heard the bullets. Manny saw the guys, even if he couldn't get a description. This thing— it's like chasing a ghost." She paused, tightening the blanket around her. "What about you? Are you okay? Manny's your friend."

  "Manny can take care of himself."

  "You PJs. Hard-asses. Trained to handle yourselves in any situation, any environment."

  "Carine—"

  She didn't let him argue with her. "I know, just average guys doing their job. Thanks for coming after me." She got to her feet and looked for a moment as if she might keel over, but she steadied herself, grabbing the bedpost. "I think I'll just brush my teeth and fall into bed."

  He wanted to stay with her, but he'd done enough damage for one day. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

  He went back downstairs, hearing her shut the door softly behind her. They'd planned to fix up the place after they were married, turn her cabin into a studio. She was so excited about the possibilities of the house, he'd teased her about falling for him because of it.

  Never. It could burn down tonight and I'd still love you.

  Ty poured himself a glass of Scotch and sat in front of the fireplace, the wind stirring up the acidic smell of the cold ashes. He felt the isolation of the place. Three hours to the south, a man was dead. Murdered. Shot. The police thought Manny had pulled the trigger.

  And he was on Carine duty. Manny was the one in Boston under police surveillance. Whatever he was dealing with, he was doing it on his own. His choice.

  When he finally headed upstairs, Ty walked down the hall and stood in front of Carine's door, listening in case she was throwing up or crying or cursing him to the rafters, although he didn't know what he'd do if it was crying. The other two he could handle. He'd never been able to take her tears, as rare as they were, as much as he told himself she was stronger because she could cry. He remembered coming upon her in the meadow, sobbing for his mother soon after her death, and even then, when he never thought he'd let himself really fall in love with auburn-haired, sweet-souled Carine Winter, it had undone him.

  But he didn't hear anything coming from her room, not even the wind, and he went back down the hall to his own bed.

  Eleven

  Val collapsed into bed early, but she didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. She finally got so frustrated at her racing thoughts, she threw off her blankets and turned on a light, her gaze landing on her wedding picture. Manny was in uniform, so handsome and full of himself. Clean-cut in his maroon beret. Lately, he didn't even shave every day.

  She grabbed the picture and hurled it across the room.

  He hadn't called. Bastard, bastard, bastard.

  But she was so worried about him, it was making her sick. At least Eric was okay. She'd talked to him, and he sounded saner than she did. And her breakfast with Hank and Antonia had gone well—they'd formally offered her the job. An assistant in the Washington, D.C., offices of a United States senator. It sounded exciting.

  "Okay, so you won't stick your head in the oven tonight," she said. "You'll get through this."

  Manny. Damn him. Why wouldn't he talk to her?

  Because he wanted to protect her. Because she couldn't be trusted not to go off the deep end when faced with the truth, even an artful lie.<
br />
  Except neither was true. He hadn't called her because he was in trouble, and he was a proud man, independent to a fault. Even if she hadn't turned into a nutcase, he wouldn't have called. He was Manny Carrera being Manny Carrera.

  Her shrink had suggested she stop referring to herself as a nutcase and playing fast and loose with phrases like "sticking her head in the oven."

  She'd promised she would.

  She stepped on a book she'd tossed on the floor after three pages. Tolkien. Bookworm that she was, she'd never gotten hobbits. But Eric had read the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice, and she'd promised she'd try again.

  So many promises.

  Her laundry was still stacked on the bureau. She'd meant to put it away after she got back from her meeting with the Callahans, but she hadn't gotten around to it. No energy. No focus. She'd heated up leftover Thai food and checked the Internet for Boston newspapers and television stations, trying to get an update on Manny's situation. Not much new. No arrests yet—that was something. At least it meant he wasn't in jail.

  She wandered into the living room and opened the blinds. Damn. Still. Dark. She glanced at the clock—

  4:18. Too early to make coffee.

  With a husband in the military, she was accustomed to being on her own—she didn't get spooked. She lay down on the couch and pulled a throw over her, but knew she was too fidgety to sleep. She turned on the television and watched CNN. Nothing much going on in the world. That was probably good. She flipped over to the Weather Channel and got the weather for Europe. She wanted to go to Spain one day. Paris and London didn't interest her as much. Rome might be fun.

  At six o'clock, with a mug of hot coffee in her and a sketchy plan of action in mind, she flipped through Manny's address book on the computer and found Nate Winter's number in New York.

  He answered on the first ring. She almost hung up, but he was a U.S. marshal and probably the naturally suspicious type. "Nate? It's Valerie Carrera, Manny Carrera's wife. We met at your sister's wedding. Actually, we've met a couple of times—"