Cold River

by Carla Neggers

  The secretary looked awkward and blushed.

  “Ha,” Grit said. “You did listen at the keyhole.”

  “I did not. I just—I just didn’t remember when the police asked me. I don’t want them to think I’m holding back.”

  “Just tell us what you remember now,” Jo said.

  “Ambassador Bruni was drinking wine, sitting here on the corner of his desk. It was as if I wasn’t here. I think that’s why I didn’t think of it—it seemed so in passing. He was just thinking out loud. Mr. Cameron had come in here specifically to ask him what he thought of Lowell and Vivian Whittaker and Thomas Asher. ‘Who are these people?’ he’d asked.”

  It was Jo who asked the next question. “Did Drew say why he wanted to know?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

  The secretary scrunched up her face, remembering. “Mr. Whittaker had helped him or he had helped Mr. Whittaker. I don’t remember which.”

  “Something about stonework?” Grit asked. “An old foundation, maybe?”

  “An old cellar hole,” Jo said.

  “That’s it. An old cellar hole.” The young woman was clearly pleased with herself. “It’s not a phrase I use. He was interested in old cellar holes in the area. Old stonework. Mr. Whittaker was, too. Mr. Cameron had a project—it was a few months earlier. We’re talking more than a year ago. It can’t be relevant, can it?”

  “We’ll find out,” Jo said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Is that all?”

  “For now.”

  Jo walked out into the hall with Grit. “Drew had his doubts about Lowell Whittaker. Not enough for the police or to tell Rose and the boys.”

  “Maybe Lowell didn’t want the scrutiny and knew Drew would keep digging. He was like that, wasn’t he?”

  “A Cameron. Lowell nipped his questions in the bud. Bruni’s, too.”

  “Yeah,” Grit said, pressing the elevator button. “You call Elijah a boy? Really?”

  “Grit…”

  His comment sparked a smile in her, and that was good. When they got downstairs, Myrtle was out front. She’d come on her own. “I talked to a window washer who remembers Drew from April,” she said. “Useless.”

  “Sometimes there are no worms under the rocks we turn over,” Grit said philosophically.

  Jo was pensive. “I knew Drew had stuff on his mind in the weeks before he died. Elijah. The two of us. But there was more, and we saw the cherry blossoms together and he never told me.”

  Grit shrugged. “He didn’t know what he had would get him killed. He’d stepped on a land mine. It just hadn’t gone off yet.”

  Jo was dialing Black Falls. “Sean and Elijah can’t be freelancing,” she said. “They need to get the police in there.”

  “They armed?”

  “Grit. It doesn’t matter. It’s not a war zone.”

  He and Myrtle looked at each other, but neither said anything.

  Thirty-Two

  January 4—Black Falls, Vermont

  Bowie’s van was unlocked. Hannah had led Poe by the collar up from the pond, and he looked eager to get into the van. She opened up the side door. “In you go, Poe. I’ll see if I can find your master.”

  When she turned around, Lowell Whittaker was there, in a parka, hat, gloves and boots. He must have walked down from the farmhouse on the road, or he’d been in the guesthouse and hadn’t heard her knock.

  He smiled at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Have you seen Bowie?” she asked him. “It’s not like him to leave Poe wandering around by himself.”

  Lowell gestured back toward the house. “He’s taking a look at the chimney in the farmhouse. Vivian thinks there might be a leak. He must have left Poe here.”

  “We’ll be lucky it if gets above zero today. Are you heading back up there? I can give you a ride—”

  “I don’t mind walking. I’m prepared for the cold.” He gestured back toward the guesthouse. “I want to take another look at the color Vivian chose for the kitchen in Nora’s old apartment.”

  “If you see Bowie before I do, will you let him know I’m here and collected Poe?”

  “Of course. You’re welcome to stop by the house yourself.” Lowell tilted his head back, frowning. “You don’t seem yourself, Hannah. Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

  “Just snow in my boots.”

  “Bowie makes Vivian nervous.”

  “I’m not afraid of him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Quite understandable, given your history together. Loyalty is admirable but it can also be a weakness.” Lowell suddenly seemed awkward. “We saw Sean Cameron yesterday. I’m surprised he’s let you out of his sight.”

  Hannah felt her cheeks burn despite the cold. “I won’t keep you.”

  She noticed Poe had collapsed in the van and gone to sleep and left Lowell standing in the snow as she headed to her car. Every bit of heat had gone out of it. She kept her gloves on as she put the key in the ignition.

  She noticed an odd smell and looked over her shoulder into the backseat. Her car blanket was pulled up over something. She hadn’t seen it earlier. Had Dominique or Beth left goodies for her to take to the McBanes?

  The smell wasn’t shepherd’s pie or brownies—or any kind of food.

  Lowell.

  He’d been in the guesthouse when she arrived. He’d let Poe out, or Poe had slipped out on his own.

  She hadn’t locked her car. Lowell would have had time while she was tramping through the snow after Poe to set whatever it was on her backseat and toss the blanket over it.

  A bomb.

  Hannah recognized the smell now. Gunpowder. Black powder.

  The lingering odor of Lowell’s sweat.

  She reacted instantly, pushing open her door and leaping out onto the snowbank. She landed on her stomach and hurled herself over the bank and down the hill, into the soft snow under the branches of a white pine.

  Her car exploded above her, the concussive impact of the blast sucking the air out of her, propelling her farther down the hill. She heard metal ripping apart, smelled the fire—felt it—as she landed hard on her side, striking a boulder that jutted up out of the snow.

  Stifling a moan, she rolled back up onto to her feet. She’d lost her gloves in the snow, but grabbed them even as she reached for her cell phone.

  With a jolt of panic, she realized her phone was still in her burning car.

  She couldn’t call for help.

  Was Lowell telling the truth and Bowie was at the farmhouse? Was Bowie with Vivian? Had they heard the blast?

  Hannah pushed back the assault of questions and, aching with the cold, with fear, headed through the woods along the far edge of the duck pond, toward the river and the Whittakers’ farmhouse.

  Her first job was to keep Lowell from seeing her. He couldn’t know she’d escaped the blast.

  She started to put on her gloves but they’d filled with snow. She shoved them into her jacket pockets and glanced back through the trees, wincing at her trail of boot prints. If Lowell saw them, he’d know she was still alive. He’d be able to follow her.

  Was he inspecting her burning car even now, discovering where she’d leaped free of the explosion into the snow?

  She moved as fast as she could through the knee-deep snow, every step torture. Her head throbbed, and she could smell the smoke from her burning car and glanced back, seeing it rising in the air.

  Where’s Lowell?

  She couldn’t see him through the trees. How long had he been planning to frame Bowie? Days, weeks—months? Lowell had been to Rose’s house several times and would have known Black Falls Lodge was visible from her driveway. He’d just needed binoculars to see Melanie Kendall get in her car at the lodge and a cell phone to trigger the bomb.

  Had he planned, even then, to blame Bowie?

  Hannah didn’t slacken her pace. She had to get to Bowie. She needed him as an ally.r />
  And she needed to warn him that Lowell Whittaker meant to frame him as an accomplice—even a mastermind—to murder.

  Thirty-Three

  Lowell tried to stay close to the old stone wall that ran along the edge of the road that led down from the farmhouse and, ultimately, to Bowie’s place on the river—and the old logging road at the base of Cameron Mountain. A line of Scotch pines a previous owner had planted grew along the wall. The pines were gnarled and overgrown, but they helped block the wind.

  He fought tears, stumbling as he made his way up the road, clutching the cell phone in his bare right hand. His ears were ringing from the blast. He could smell the acrid smoke of the fire but refused to look back to see it, to check if the flames had spread—if Hannah had died instantly.

  Was she in the burning, twisted metal now, fighting for her life?

  He sobbed, his heart pounding. No. She was dead. He would no longer see her lovely face at the café.

  He had no desire to see the results of the simple dialing of a number on a cell phone. He had to make his next move. There was no time to waste. Sean Cameron was besotted with Hannah. How far behind her could he be?

  Lowell choked back more useless emotion. He’d had no choice but to kill Hannah. He didn’t have the base, violent impulses of a Kyle Rigby or a Melanie Kendall. Drew Cameron and Alex Bruni—even Melanie—would be alive now but for the threat they’d posed. Lowell hadn’t killed them out of any deep yearning to commit violence. He’d hoped with each of their deaths that he could avoid the situation he was in now, with his exposure imminent if he didn’t act.

  He was prepared. His plan was airtight. It would confirm everyone’s suspicions about Bowie O’Rourke. The bar fight. Bowie’s combustible anger. His troubled past. He’d been ripe for recruitment by Melanie and Kyle, and after their deaths, he’d gone solo and carried out his own plans in an attempt to exact revenge on those who’d wronged him. His simmering resentment of Hannah Shay and the role she’d played in his arrest, her obvious love for Sean Cameron and her suspicions of his actions in November had all led Bowie to place a bomb in the backseat of her car.

  Bowie was a stonemason and an ex-con. Police would have no trouble believing he was capable of assembling the materials for a bomb and figuring out how to build one. Lowell breathed deeply, not as panicked. Jo Harper and her task force would have their network: Melanie, Kyle and Bowie. There was no mastermind. There were just two professional, clever killers and the local thug they’d recruited. Bowie couldn’t stand the scrutiny of the Camerons and investigators, and he’d realized the New Yorkers who’d hired him—who’d given him a chance—had figured out that he’d helped Melanie and Kyle find Drew Cameron in April. His cabin. The stonework. All of it.

  Sean Cameron would be miserable now that Hannah was dead. Lowell felt a rush of pleasure, but he didn’t indulge it.

  He had another number to dial.

  Bowie would still be upstairs in the farmhouse checking the chimney with Vivian. The man radiated raw masculinity and a palpable, if bridled, capacity for violence. Lowell had noticed how his wife had stood obnoxiously close to the stonemason while he’d explained brick saturation levels and how old brick, if not properly sealed, couldn’t absorb moisture properly and water would just spill out.

  Lowell held his cell phone tight in one hand. He had one more bomb to trigger. He’d placed it carefully early that morning, while Vivian drank tea and read a book in the kitchen.

  She would be dead soon, too. The police would blame Bowie.

  He was surprised at how little emotion he felt. No anger, no fear, no regret. Their children would be grief-stricken, but they’d still have him. They’d turn to him now. They’d see him as he was, not just as Vivian painted him.

  Once the bomb was triggered, he’d have to get rid of the cell phone. He could toss it into the fire. The police would believe that Bowie either killed himself or triggered the bomb prematurely and was caught in the blast.

  It’ll work.

  Then, when it was over, Lowell would rebuild the farmhouse and plant a beautiful flower garden in Vivian’s memory. He’d sell their house in New York and live in Vermont full-time. He didn’t have to continue to arrange killings. He could live here and spend his days chopping wood, walking along the river, watching the snow fall.

  He’d be at peace.

  Vivian jumped back from the chimney in the upstairs hall and gripped her chest, her heart racing. “What was that?”

  “An explosion.” Bowie was already at the end of the hall, looking out the window. It provided a view of the backyard and the river, just beyond a line of trees. “Where’s your husband?”

  Vivian gasped. “He went down to the guesthouse. He can’t—You didn’t…” She couldn’t breathe. “You didn’t just kill him, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. The bomb in Melanie Kendall’s car was triggered by a cell phone. Did you see me make a call?”

  “Bowie.” Vivian hardly breathed now. “What are you saying?”

  “Spare me.” He gazed back out the window. “You’d better hope no one’s hurt.”

  She edged toward the stairs. She had to get out of there. She had to run. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a half whisper.

  “Yeah, you do.” He was calm, steady, but his eyes were narrowed and menacing when he turned back to her. “When did you figure out your husband was behind all these killings?”

  “You’re insane.” Her tone was icy, bitter. She wouldn’t give in to this man. She’d stand her ground. “I’m calling the police.”

  He looked back at her again, his expression tight, angry. “Do that. Where was your husband when Melanie Kendall was killed?”

  Vivian didn’t answer. The question had been plaguing her for days, but she’d kept repressing it until she couldn’t any longer. She’d lain awake last night, as still as a corpse next to her husband. Pieces—scraps of information, memories of looks, scraped knuckles, odd smells—had flown at her, and she’d realized the clues had been there all along for her to see. She’d simply refused to see them. She’d buried her suspicions deep, protecting herself, her children—denying that the passive, cerebral man she’d married was capable of organizing and operating a network of paid killers. She’d become even more determined to see him as not the sort of man who could engage in such acts. To treat him as such.

  Bowie dropped the curtain back in place. “He wasn’t here, was he? He was off blowing up one of his hired killers, trying to cover his own tracks.”

  “Stop,” Vivian whispered, taking another step toward the stairs. “Just stop.”

  Bowie shook his head at her. “You two are a piece of work. He gets on your nerves or you start feeling anxious, and you lace into him.”

  “No—”

  “It’s been going on for years, hasn’t it? Now you find out he’s a killer.”

  Her lips thinned. “You think you’re so superior.”

  “You don’t want him discovered. You’d rather see an innocent man blamed than have people know about your husband’s little side business.”

  Vivian felt sick to her stomach as she experienced an incomparable sadness at what her life had become. Bowie was right. She’d decided that morning. She’d let Lowell get them out of this mess. She’d let him enact whatever plan he had in mind to give the authorities their killer mastermind and take any hint of suspicion off them once and for all. What other choice did she have?

  “He wasn’t here when Melanie Kendall was killed.” Vivian was at the top edge of the stairs now. Her words seemed to be coming from someone else. “He took the car and left. I don’t know where he went. I was raking leaves, mulching the gardens.”

  “When did you know?”

  “For sure? This morning.” She placed a hand on the railing. What did Lowell have in mind for Bowie? Did he need her to keep the stonemason up here, talking? She continued, her voice less strangled. “I remembered how calm he was in November when he came back.�
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  Bowie’s eyes remained almost closed. She felt him zeroing in on her, trying to penetrate some hard outer shell to get inside her, to what she really knew, really believed.

  “What else?” he asked.

  Vivian felt chilled now. “I went into the woodshed out back.”

  “What did you find?”

  She raised her eyes to him. “You already know.”

  “Bomb-making materials.” He added, his tone certain, “A bomb.”

  “Two. There were two bombs.”

  She knew what Lowell meant to do. Her husband. The man she’d married and had loved planned to kill Bowie O’Rourke. Just as he’d killed Melanie Kendall.

  Bowie remained calm, clear-eyed. “We need to get out of here. One of those bombs is meant for us.”

  “Not me—”

  “Yeah, you, too. Lowell’s going to kill us both. You’re an abusive bitch who belittles him night and day. You don’t think he wants you dead?”

  “I’m not an abuser.”

  Panic welled up in her. She pictured Lowell up here in the hall just before Bowie had arrived to investigate the potential leak. Lowell had sent them both upstairs while he went outside.

  Bowie hadn’t found any trace of a leak upstairs.

  Vivian froze. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t speak. It couldn’t be true. Lowell couldn’t be willing to kill her.

  “I have to get out…”

  Bowie was already lunging for her. He scooped her onto his broad shoulders as if she were a ragdoll and ran with her down the stairs. For a moment, she wanted to go limp and just let this strong, competent man rescue her and save himself. She could deny everything she’d just told him. She could exonerate her husband. The police would believe her.

  It was too big a risk. She’d lose everything if authorities could prove that Lowell was responsible for the murders of Drew Cameron, Alex Bruni and Melanie Kendall.

  That he’d arranged other murders.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Lowell’s plan had to work. Bowie O’Rourke had to take the blame.

  He had to die in the explosion.