Cold Ridge

by Carla Neggers

  Ty slung an arm over the boy's thin shoulders and maneuvered him to a wall of cross-country skis, sitting down with him on a wooden bench. Carine edged behind a rack of socks to eavesdrop, ignoring Gus's disapproving frown, but she suspected he was as shocked by Eric's news as she was—and wanted the details.

  "We haven't heard anything," Ty said gently. "You want to fill me in? Relax, buddy, okay? Take your time."

  Eric, who seemed to be making an effort to stay calm, coughed again, but with more control. "The police said the dead guy's identity doesn't check out. They don't know who he is. My dad told the police he doesn't know, either."

  "That's what they said on the news?"

  "Yeah. Yes, sir."

  "Eric, is your dad under arrest?"

  He shook his head, sniffling. "The reporter said the police are still not calling him a suspect. I don't know what that means. He's innocent, right, Uncle Ty? He didn't kill anyone?"

  "Your dad's not a murderer, Eric."

  Carine noticed Ty's careful choice of words and felt her abdominal muscles clamp down, a wave of nausea coming out of nowhere as the news sunk in. Louis San-born used a phony name? Why? Then who the hell was he? But she didn't move, didn't say anything.

  "My mom called," Eric said. "She tried not to sound upset, but I can tell. She said if I need her, just say so and she'll come up here. I told her no."

  "You haven't talked to your dad?"

  He shook his head. "Not yet."

  Ty glanced around the dark, quiet shop. Canoes and kayaks hung from the ceiling, but Gus & Smitty's was in winter mode. "Where's your friend who's collecting leaves with you?" But he'd obviously seen through the boy's lie immediately, and when Eric squirmed, Ty cuffed him on the shoulder and got to his feet. "Come on. I'll give you a ride back to school. If you want to come stay with me, we can work something out with the powers-that-be. Okay?"

  "I still have to collect some stupid leaves."

  "We can grab some on our way." He glanced back at Carine, pointing at her as if he'd known all along she was there. "Pick me out a pair of socks while you're at it." There was just the slightest hint of sarcasm in his tone. "I'll meet you at Gus's."

  "North's good with the kid, I'll give him that," Gus said after they'd left. "I like Eric. He's got a lot of guts, coming up here to school. But, Christ, what next? It doesn't look good for Carrera."

  "Something must not add up for the police not to have arrested him yet." Carine grabbed a pair of hiking socks, uneasy, restless. "I should have gone for my run this morning. Ty found a dead bat in my woodstove. I wonder what that means."

  "It means you have bats."

  "Can I take these socks?"

  "Take?"

  "I'm unemployed."

  "You're self-employed. There's a difference."

  She dug in her coat pockets, looking for money. "The police must be putting the thumbscrews to Manny. It's got to be killing Ty not to know what's going on. He doesn't say anything—"

  "He won't. It's not his style. And it'd take more than thumb screws to get Carrera to talk if he doesn't want to."

  "Why wouldn't he want to?"

  "I didn't say he doesn't. Just don't you worry about it. He can take care of himself. I know, I know—so can you." He rubbed his booted toe over Stump's hind end, the dog wagging his tail in appreciation. "Something like this happens, it's like you're a little kid again. I can't help it."

  Carine pulled a few quarters out of one pocket. "It's comforting to know there's someone in my life who cares as much as you do."

  "Honey—"

  "Don't go there, Gus. Ty's been a perfect gentleman. It's okay."

  "Gentleman? Sure. I believe that."

  "I'm handling being around him." She set the quarters on the counter. "I don't have my wallet with me."

  "You can owe me."

  "Do I at least get a discount?"

  He offered ten percent. She argued for thirty and settled for twenty. When she tried to throw in new cross country skis and socks for Ty, he shooed her out the door.

  It was dusk, the sun dipping behind the mountains in a pink glow as Carine made the familiar three-quarter mile walk up the hill to her uncle's house. She smelled smoke from a fireplace in the neighborhood. She kicked through dry, fallen leaves on the sidewalk, and when she got to the house, she sat on the top step of the front porch. She could see herself and Ty as kids up in the maple tree in the side yard, still sweating and panting from raking up the huge pile of leaves under their thick branch. He threatened to push her if she didn't jump on her own.

  Saskia North had never come up to Gus's house. Not once, not even to pick up her son. Ty had been on his own for a long time. It was what he knew, and Carine wondered if she'd been crazy to think he'd ever really let anyone in.

  * * *

  North dropped Manny's son off at school with his bag of leaves and a full head of worries. But there wasn't much Ty or anyone could do to ease the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy who knew his father was in a mess— who knew his father hadn't called to reassure him and probably wouldn't.

  For which Ty could cheerfully strangle his friend. But on one level, he understood. Manny, in his own particular, annoying way, was doing his best to protect his son. He'd put everyone on a need-to-know basis. They could worry, they could get mad, but if he didn't think they needed to know something, he wasn't going to tell them.

  Carine could try her burning bamboo shoots on Manny Carrera, too, but they wouldn't work.

  Carine. Hell, she'd had no idea Louis Sanborn wasn't Louis Sanborn. It'd been obvious from her reaction. The guy she'd found dead—the guy she'd liked—wasn't who he said he was. If Manny had found out, it would explain why he'd headed to Boston to recommend Sterling Rancourt fire him. Rancourt couldn't employ someone who'd lied to him—especially for security.

  "Not to mention screwing the poor bastard's wife," Ty muttered to himself.

  But had Manny known that?

  North turned onto Gus's village street, and although it wasn't even six o'clock, Cold Ridge was already engulfed in darkness. Gus's house was all lit up because Carine was there—otherwise, her uncle would have just the kitchen light on. Ty pulled into the short driveway, his cell phone ringing, and he just barely made out Val Carrera's voice through the static. "You must have some kind of mother radar, Val. I just saw Eric. He's worried about Manny, but he's okay."

  "Is he eating?"

  "Not much from the looks of him, but he had his meds with him. He was coughing, but lungs sounded pretty clear. The house parents at his dorm were waiting for him when we got back—"

  "Got back from where?"

  "Town. We were leaf-collecting."

  "I should—never mind."

  "I know it's hard, Val, but he'll make it through this thing. We all will."

  "What other choice is there?" She was grumbling, worried and out of sorts, but she didn't sound as fragile as she'd been six months ago. "Manny's not talking to you, either, is he?"

  Instinctively, despite his own frustration with his friend, North found himself offering a defense. "Manny doesn't have a lot of room to maneuver."

  But Val wasn't one to cut anyone, herself included, much slack. "How much maneuvering does it take to dial a goddamn phone? Okay, never mind. That's not why I called. Look—I'm driving myself crazy here with the computer. You don't happen to know his password?"

  "Why would I know his password?"

  "I don't know. He tells you things he doesn't tell me. I thought if he knew he might be in deep trouble, he'd maybe clue you in on how you could help him if he really got in over his head."

  "I don't know how to help him, Val. I wish I did."

  "He's hamstrung. He can't do a damn thing except smile at the cops."

  If I can't function…I've got computer files…you'll remember.

  Hell, North thought. Only Manny. "Try I love Val."

  "What?"

  "For the password. Manny said something to me yesterday at the ho
tel. It didn't make sense at the time—"

  "What, that he loves me?" she asked in that wry Val tone.

  "No, that he felt the need to mention it. Christ, Val, you can be irritating."

  He heard her tapping her keyboard. "It didn't work, so there. Wait, let me try—" She gulped in a breath.

  "Bingo! I'll be damned, North, that's it! I used a u for love and one v. I'm in. I-l-u-v-a-l."

  "Val—"

  "I knew you'd know. I wish I'd thought of you ten million failed passwords ago. I'm surprised this thing didn't self-destruct like in Mission Impossible, just start smoking."

  "Val, what's on the screen—"

  But it was as if her mind was inside the computer. "I'll call you back if I find anything interesting. Watch, it'll just be a spreadsheet of how much he's won in the football pool. He loves those damn spreadsheets."

  She clicked off, and Ty could have thrown his phone out the window. He adored Val—everyone did, just like everyone adored Manny. They were straightforward, high energy, fighters. But both of them could drive Ty straight up the wall if he let them.

  I love Val.

  Why hadn't the big oaf just said it was his goddamn password?

  The cop with the PalmPilot, probably. Manny wouldn't want to tip her off. But if he had anything on Louis Sanborn, anything that could help his situation, he needed to be spilling it to the damn police, not making cryptic remarks to a PJ buddy.

  Maybe whatever was in the files didn't help his situation.

  Or maybe there was nothing in his files, North thought, and he and Val were just grasping at straws, trying to help a friend and husband who may have lost it two days ago and blown a man away. It'd been a rough year for Manny. He shouldn't have retired. He needed a couple more years to get Eric out of school, Val back on her feet and in a new job. Starting his own business—it was a different world for Manny Carrera, unfamiliar territory.

  But he hadn't lost it. He hadn't blown Louis San-born—or whoever he was—away in Boston on Wednesday.

  Ty rousted Stump out of a hole he was digging in the backyard and joined the Winters in the kitchen, the uncle and the auburn-haired, blue-eyed niece arguing over butternut squash. Bake or boil. Nutmeg or cinnamon. Real butter or the soft stuff made with olive oil. Boiling won out, because there wasn't enough room in the oven with the clay pot.

  Carine retreated with Stump to the front room to sit by the fire, and Ty wondered if he looked as agitated and frustrated as he was, as ready to get into his truck and charge down to Boston.

  "You were afraid you'd die on her this year." Gus's quiet words caught him off guard. "You knew what kind of missions you had coming up. She'd just had that business with those assholes shooting at her. What happened to her parents up on the ridge is a part of her— you see that. You let it spook you."

  Ty sat at the table; the small kitchen was steamed up, smelling of chicken and baking onions. "Gus, you're off base. I can't do my job if I'm worried about dying. But I'm not going there with you."

  "You're not getting my point. You can't do your job if you know she's back home worried about you dying." Gus glanced up from his cutting board. "That's the devil, isn't it?"

  Ty watched him dump the deep orange squash into a pan of water on the stove. The man had done combat in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. An infantryman. A kid plucked out of the mountains of northern New England and sent off to fight a war he didn't understand. He'd probably thought about his family back home worrying about him.

  But it didn't matter—Ty's relationship with Carine was for them to sort out. "You know you could make soup out of that squash?"

  Gus returned to his cutting board for another chunk of squash. "Butternut squash soup is a favorite at the local inns. They put a little apple in it, sometimes a little curry."

  "I'd rather have apple than curry, wouldn't you?"

  "North…I was out of line." Gus sighed, his paring knife in his hand as he brushed his wrist across his brittle gray hair. "You and Carine—what's between you two is your business."

  Ty grinned. "What have I been saying, huh?"

  Gus pointed his knife at him. "You're going to live to be an old man, North, just to torment the rest of us."

  "And you're going to kill yourself with your own cooking." Ty was on his feet, frowning at the stove. "What the hell's that in the frying pan?"

  "Braised Brussels sprouts with olive oil and a little parmesan."

  "Jesus. I think I've got an extra MRE out in the truck."

  Gus threw him out of the kitchen, and Ty joined Carine in front of the fire. He sat on the couch, and she sat on the floor with her back against his knees, comfortable with him, he thought—and for a moment, it was almost as if he'd never knocked on her cabin door and canceled their wedding.

  Eighteen

  Carine climbed onto her favorite rock on the lower ridge trail and looked out at the valley and mountains, the view that had captivated her since she was a little girl. It was midmorning, the trees, even the evergreens, almost navy blue against the bleak gray sky. If only she could stand here and let her worries and questions float out on a breeze, dissipate into the wilderness.

  She remembered Gus taking her and her brother and sister onto the ridge after their parents died. She'd dreamed about that day for years. She spotted an eagle and swore she saw her mum and dad flying with it in the clear summer sky. The image had been so vivid, so absolutely real to her.

  But, so had her dreams, her images, of her life with Ty. So vivid, so real.

  She half walked, half slid down the curving granite, rejoining him on the narrow, difficult trail. They'd gone far enough. Neither had the attention span for a long hike. They'd loaded up a day pack after breakfast and set out, crossing the meadow, climbing over a stone wall, then walking up a well-worn path to the trailhead. The dirt access road was quiet, the parking lot empty, not atypical of November. It was Saturday, but still early.

  There was a threat of light snow and high winds above the treeline. They weren't going that far, but Carine had gone back to her cabin and dug out her lighter winter layers for the hike. Thermal shirt, windproof fleece jacket, windproof pants, hat, gloves. Her hat and gloves were still in the day pack. She wore her new hiking socks. No cotton—she'd even banned it from her summer hikes.

  Ty had approved of her wilderness medical kit, but he'd raised his eyebrows when she tucked the manual into the pack. "Look at it this way," she told him. "If I fall and hit my head, you won't need the manual. If you fall and hit your head, I'll need the manual."

  "Only if I'm unconscious."

  "Of course, because if you can talk, you'll just tell me what to do."

  "If I'm conscious," he said, leaning toward her in that sexy way he had, "I'll treat myself."

  She told him she had treating blisters down pat. She knew CPR and basic first aid. She'd have done her best if Louis Sanborn had still been alive when she found him. But Antonia was the doctor in the family—Carine didn't like blood and broken bones, people in pain. Not that Antonia, or Ty, did, but they had a calling when it came to medicine that she simply didn't have.

  Of course, Ty's calling also involved guns, diving, fast-roping and the insanity of HALO—High Altitude Low Opening jumping, where he would depart a plane at very high altitudes, with oxygen, a reserve chute, a medical kit and an M16, the bare necessities to survive the jump and get to a crew downed in hostile conditions.

  Not that he thought HALO was insane. Just another tool in his PJ tool bag of skills, he'd say.

  Carine respected his skills and abilities, his nonchalance about them, but she wasn't intimidated, perhaps because they seemed so natural to him, integral to who he was.

  She'd spent an hour last night in his kitchen answering questions from the two Boston Police Department detectives, who had been sent to take possession of the memory disk, camera and camera bag. It hadn't occurred to her to have an attorney present. After they left, her brother called on Ty's hard line, which meant Ty cou
ld listen in on the extension as Nate told her in no uncertain terms to go mountain climbing today. He wouldn't go into detail about anything he'd found out, but Nate wasn't one to overreact. Although he never said so directly, Carine received the strong implication that her brother had talked to his law enforcement sources and had good reason to make sure his friend and his sister stayed out of what was apparently not a simple case of murder.

  After she hung up with Nate, Ty tried to call Manny, got his voice mail and almost threw his phone into the fire. He tried Val Carrera, also without success.

  Carine had her Nikon with her on the hike and took several pictures, anything that struck her eye. Ty had said little all morning. In action, she thought, was getting to him. She knew he wanted to be in Boston, pulling information out of Manny Carrera, a syllable at a time if he had to.

  She slipped the camera into an outer pocket of the day pack, strapped to his back. "Hiking can be a substitute for my run," she said.

  "Nope. You hike, then you go back and do your run."

  "Says who?"

  He grinned over his shoulder at her. "That's something we hear a lot in the military. 'Says who?'"

  He was teasing her, a good sign his mood had improved. "Fortunately, I'm not in the military. I'm just a simple photographer who wants to run a mile and a half in ten minutes and thirty seconds or less."

  "You can do it. How close are you?"

  "Twelve minutes. Well, once, anyway. I'll get there. I told you, it's the swimming that kills me. I always get water up my nose." She zipped up the compartment and patted him on the hip. "Tell you what, Sergeant, if you run with me, I'll do my mile and a half after we get back."

  "Think I can't?"

  "I think you need to burn off more excess energy than this little hike of ours will accomplish. You're not sleeping, Ty. You were up at dawn again this morning."

  "Dawn's not that early in November."

  "You're preoccupied, worried about Manny—and Val—"

  "Having you down the hall isn't the greatest sleep-inducer, either."