Cold River

by Carla Neggers

  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.”

  Charlie spoke as if they were all personal friends, but that was the way he was. Grit dipped a finger into a pool of syrup on Charlie’s plate and licked it. “It’s not tupelo honey, but it’s not bad. Yeah. Sean and the Shay brothers are in California. Hannah’s here. So?”

  “Think they’ll see stars? I don’t mean stars in the sky.” Charlie ate another forkful of dripping pancakes. “I mean celebrities.”

  “I need to warn you. You haven’t seen Jo Harper since you shot her in the butt with airsoft pellets. She and the Camerons have had a rough time since then.”

  “I know. My cousin Charlie helped figure out a network of killers was behind Drew Cameron’s death in April.”

  Grit decided it was just as well Charlie kept up the charade that he was his cousin Conor and not the son of the vice president of the United States. He could claim he thought he was talking to Conor Neal. Not that anyone would believe him. But he could. “My point is, Jo’s still a Secret Service agent. Badge, gun, no sense of humor when it comes to your prince-and-the-pauper antics.”

  “Any of my antics,” Charlie said. “Not that I’m always the one responsible. Conor does his share of damage.”

  “What, Charlie, giving up on pretending to be your cousin?”

  He shrugged. “I tried. Agent Harper had no sense of humor even when she was assigned to my sister Marissa. Marissa’s never any trouble. She’s the history teacher who was almost burned to death a few months ago—”

  “An accident. Don’t reach for problems.”

  “You met Marissa, remember?”

  “I do.”

  Marissa was the eldest of Charlie’s four sisters. Grit had run into her in November when he’d dropped her little brother—her only brother—at his private school in northern Virginia, where she taught history. Myrtle had been with him. Neither woman had wanted details on just what all Charlie had been up to out on his own on the streets of Washington. He had, in fact, provided information that had led police to a critical eyewitness to the hit-and-run th
at had killed Ambassador Alexander Bruni.

  Grit hadn’t had a brotherly reaction to Marissa Neal. He’d forgotten about that. It had to be a good sign.

  He stayed focused on Charlie and prompted him. “Southern California.”

  “Marissa is suspicious. I tried to get her to take me to Beverly Hills with her to see the stars. She has an ex-boyfriend in Los Angeles. He’s an actor. He dumped her when our dad was elected vice president. He didn’t want the scrutiny, which I can understand, can’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You really can’t?”

  “I’m not judging. I just don’t understand why you’d dump someone because you didn’t want scrutiny.”

  “That’s because you’ve been through SEAL training.”

  “It’s because I grew up in a swamp,” Grit said. “What do you want?”

  If Charlie was worried about Secret Service agents descending on him, he didn’t show it. He slid a CD case across the table to Grit. “I wanted to give you this information. I told you when we spoke a few days ago. I’ve been doing research.”

  “You could have e-mailed it to me.”

  “I don’t have your e-mail address.”

  “You could have asked for it. You could have set one up for me. You’re a genius. You could have figured out something besides sneaking on a train and checking yourself into a cheap motel.”

  “It’s not that cheap. I paid cash. Conor and I—”

  “Enough.”

  The kid could be a real pain. Grit drank some ice water. Charlie wasn’t chastened at all. It wasn’t how he was wired. “If you’ll recall,” the vice president’s son said, “in November I put an arson investigator named Jasper Vanderhorn on the list of potential victims of our assassins’ network.” He soaked up syrup with a piece of his waffle. “Don’t say it’s not ‘our’ network. I’m not being literal.”

  “Police are investigating any suspicious deaths that even remotely could be connected to these killers.”

  “Vanderhorn died in a fire in Southern California this past June. The fire was supposed to be out, but it wasn’t. It flared up and he was caught in the flames and burned to death. Rose Cameron happened to be in Southern California doing a training session.”

  “Did she participate in a search for Vanderhorn?”

  “Not that I know of, but she was on the scene.”

  “Did she and Vanderhorn know each other?”

  Spots of color appeared high in Charlie’s smooth cheeks. “I don’t know. It’s possible. He’s on my list because his death fit the parameters of my search. Then I found out about Rose, and I learned Sean Cameron and his business partner are smoke jumpers.”

  “Were Sean and his partner at this fire?” Grit asked.

  “I think so. So far Vanderhorn is our only California victim.” Charlie pushed his plate to the center of the table. “Check what I gave you on the CD. It’s nothing the police need to see. I mean, it’s not official evidence.”

  “If it is, I’m turning it over to the authorities.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “If Jo catches me, she’ll peel it off me. She’s tough. She carries a badge. I only have one leg.”

  “You rescued Myrtle Smith from her burning house. You only had the one leg then. You’re a hero, even if—”

  “Myrtle’s the one who gave you up to the Secret Service.”

  “She’s a frustrated mother, don’t you think?”

  “I think she’d rub your face in syrup if she heard you say that. Would you say she was a frustrated father if she were a man?”

  “She’s not a man.”

  “True.”

  Charlie was thoughtful. “Grit—Petty Officer Taylor, I mean. We have a firebug.”

  Grit didn’t say a word. His cell phone rang. The screen indicated it was a private number. He picked up, and a soft female voice said, “Are you with my brother?”

  Marissa Neal. Grit pictured her on the manicured campus of the school where she taught and which her no-account brother and cousin Conor attended.

  No point lying. “Someone who looks just like him is sharing his waffle with me.”

  A sigh of relief. “Thank God.” She sighed again. “I want him back here safe and sound, and I don’t want him to become the butt of media jokes. Do you understand, Petty Officer Taylor?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “Then make it happen.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  “If it doesn’t, I will hold you both responsible.”

  Charlie was mouthing the words “my sister?” Grit nodded, and Charlie said, “She’s threatening to choke you and me to death, isn’t she?” He leaned over the table. “Love to you, too, sis.”

  “Don’t encourage him, Petty Officer Taylor,” Marissa Neal said.

  “Or you’ll choke me to death?”

  “That’d make your day, wouldn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  She gasped and disconnected. Grit pocketed his phone.

  “She won’t rat me out,” Charlie said, confident. “Here they come now.” He motioned toward the window overlooking the parking lot. “Listen. The fire at Myrtle’s house was a professional job. It was made to look like an accidental electrical fire. That took skill. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t Kyle Rigby or Melanie Kendall, either.”

  “Mice chewing the wires?”

  “Our firebug.”

  Grit narrowed his eyes on the boy across from him. He didn’t care if Charlie Neal had a genius IQ, he was still a kid. “There is no ‘our,’” Grit said.

  Charlie ignored him. “I did some more research. Have you run into a stonemason named Bowie O’Rourke in Black Falls?”

  Leaning back in his chair, his shoe no longer feeling tight, his left foot not aching, Grit didn’t respond.

  “Ah,” Charlie said. “You have. O’Rourke pled guilty to simple assault and was sentenced to time served in county jail—sixty days—and a couple years’ probation. The assault occurred in Black Falls, at a bar owned by his cousin who, by the way, is the one who called the police.”

  “I know about the bar fight.”

  “It was a couple weeks before Drew Cameron was killed.”

  “So was April Fool’s Day. What do you have on me?”

  Charlie waved a hand. “It’s not easy to find out about you. Too many top-secret missions. I wouldn’t have that kind of access.”

  Which meant he knew everything.

  The kid didn’t miss a beat. “Sean and Elijah—Sergeant Cameron—were both in Black Falls for the bar fight. Not long after, Drew Cameron visited Ambassador Bruni and Jo in Washington.”

  “Agent Harper,” Grit corrected.

  “Right, right. Agent Harper. Do you think she missed anything when Drew—Mr. Cameron—visited her?”

  “I think she worries about it.”

  “That’s not the same,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “Hannah Shay’s father was an ex-con. Did you know that?”

  “Nope. Makes no difference to me.”

  “It might to her.” He licked the last of his syrup off his fork. “I’m missing something. It’s like I have a two, a four and an eighty-three, and I’m supposed to come up with the formula for a rocket to land on Venus.”

  “You don’t have to do anything but be a kid. Go play basketball or flirt with girls.”

  “Girls still scare me.”

  Grit smiled. At rock bottom, Charlie Neal was just a sixteen-year-old boy. “Girls will always scare you.”

  Myrtle, Jo and Elijah walked into the little free-breakfast room together. If Jo could have taken Charlie Neal and his waffles out of the motel at gunpoint, she probably would have, but she just addressed him through clenched teeth. “Give Elijah the key to your room. He’ll check you out and get your stuff.”

  “It’s good to see you, Special Agent Harper,” Charlie said cheerfully. “I gather you’ve recovered—”

  “On your feet. Let’s go.”

&
nbsp; Charlie remained in his seat and gave Grit a plaintive look. “No wonder my cousin Charlie complains about her. He says she has no sense of humor.” He shifted back to Jo. “Charlie’s a pain, isn’t he?”

  Jo’s eyes darkened but she didn’t speak.

  “He felt bad about the airsoft prank. You know. Shooting you in the butt. Those pellets sting, don’t they?”

  Grit leaned over the table. Charlie wasn’t hoping Jo didn’t recognize him. He was deliberately playing games with her. “I did tell you she’s armed, didn’t I? And her gun is loaded with real bullets? You’re smart. Figure out when you’re beat.”

  “People used to think my cousin and I were identical twins.”

  “You’re not,” Elijah said.

  Jo turned her Secret Service face to Grit. “What are you doing here, Petty Officer?”

  Definitely not in a happy mood. Grit said, “I told Mr. Neal here that I’d listen to what he had to say.”

  “And?”

  “I listened. He’s a kid. He has a lot on his mind.”

  Charlie started to protest, but seeing how he had a 180 IQ, he finally figured out that Jo was looking for an excuse to shoot him. “I’m finished with my waffle,” he said instead, not exactly meek but not argumentative, either. He handed Elijah a key card. “Room 17.”

  Before Elijah could leave, Mark Francona entered the motel. Charlie didn’t wither at all. Francona breathed in through his nostrils before he spoke. “Special Agent Harper and Mr. Neal here can come with me.” He pointed at Myrtle, then Grit, then Elijah. “You three can find your own way home.”

  “Mr. Neal wants me to go back to Washington with him,” Grit said. It wasn’t in him to leave the kid to the feds for such a long trip, even if he deserved it.

  Francona looked at him. “Yeah? I want to read a book by a fire. Neither is going to happen.” He turned back to Charlie. “Let’s go.”

  Charlie got to his feet and put his hand out to Grit. “Thank you,” he said, shaking hands as if he were about to have his last cigarette and go before the firing squad.

  Jo fell in with her boss and the vice president’s son and headed out.

  “Francona’s mad,” Myrtle said after they left.

  Elijah shrugged. “He’s always mad. His sense of humor just covers it up most of the time.”