Cold Dawn

by Carla Neggers

  Half to himself, Grit said, “Doesn’t seem like almost a year.”

  “Nope,” Elijah said, “seems like ten years.”

  Grit almost laughed as he turned back to his friend. “What’re you up to today?”

  “Painting Myrtle’s woodwork.”

  “She won’t say so, but she’s afraid to come back here. She almost got her butt burned up in her own damn house. If I hadn’t come along and saved her, who knows.”

  “That’s not her version,” Elijah said.

  “She’s a reporter. You trust her version?”

  “She says she’d have saved herself.”

  “Ha.” But if that was what she needed to believe, Grit didn’t care. “It’d help if we knew who set the fire. You know my theory. Myrtle was onto Whittaker’s network. He ordered her house torched but he didn’t strike the match himself.”

  “It was an electrical fire. No match.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  Elijah grinned. “‘Metaphorically’?”

  Grit nodded out the window. “Look, pansies. See them? They must have reseeded. We didn’t plant them. I like pansies. They’re like little smiling faces.”

  “Grit, you worry me.”

  “Projection. You worry yourself. What’s on your mind? Jo?”

  “Jo’s fine. She won’t stay here and won’t let me stay with her until she gets herself straightened out with her job.”

  “You two—”

  “She’s at work now. What about you? You going in?”

  “The Pentagon and Admiral Jenkins await. You want me to corral some general, get you a job?”

  Elijah dropped his feet to the floor. “No need. I’ve been called in to do some intel work and analysis.”

  “Ah. Involve toting a gun?”

  “A.J.’s talked about having me back at the lodge.”

  It wasn’t a direct answer, but Elijah would know that. Grit let it go. “With Jo down here working for the Secret Service?”

  “She doesn’t have to stay in Washington.” A twitch of a smile from Elijah. “She and Myrtle could open a quilt shop in Black Falls.”

  It was a ray of humor from Elijah, anyway. Grit wasn’t a contemplative sort. “The dead guy in Vermont’s on your mind. He would be even if your sister and this Nick Martini hadn’t found him. It was a kerosene lamp fire. Do those happen much up there?”

  “We have electricity in Vermont, Grit.”

  “Was it Lowell Whittaker’s lamp?”

  “I don’t know.” That thought clearly didn’t sit well with Elijah. “Lowell might not be stupid, but I can see him putting the wrong fuel in the lamp. This guy sees it and figures he doesn’t need to waste his flashlight batteries.”

  “Strike a match, and poof.”

  Elijah stood up. He was tall, but Jo Harper liked to say she could take him in a fair fight. Grit wasn’t sure how she defined fair. She was another native Vermonter, in love with Elijah since high school—but he was the bad boy and she was the police chief’s daughter. Grit had spent enough time in Vermont in recent months to work out who was who in little Black Falls.

  “At least it wasn’t the woodstove,” Grit said. “I hate woodstoves.”

  “What’s to hate?”

  “Wood boxes, smoke, ashes. Every time I ran out of wood in my cabin up there, it was icy and snowy out.”

  “It’s winter, Grit. What did you expect?” Elijah walked over to the sink and rinsed out his mug. “Rose didn’t need this.”

  Grit turned from the pansies and bird feeders. “She picks through rubble for survivors of disasters. She finds lost little kids. She can handle herself.”

  Elijah gave Grit a hard-assed Cameron look. “You aren’t thinking about asking her out, are you?”

  “No. She’s like a sister to me.”

  “She is my sister.”

  “That’s why you don’t see her as one of you.”

  Elijah frowned. “Grit, that makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. What’s with this Nick Martini character?”

  “I’ve met him a few times out in California, but I don’t know him well. Sean trusts him.”

  “Vivian Whittaker trusted her husband, and turned out he was running a network of paid assassins out of their study for fun and profit. You’ll talk to Sean between coats of paint?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grit started for the utility room, which led to Myrtle’s tidy garage. “Say hi to Jo for me. You know, three’s a crowd. If I stayed at her apartment in Georgetown and she stayed here—”

  “Won’t work that way.”

  Grit didn’t pursue the subject, because he had a feeling if he did, Elijah would shoot him—not to kill, just to wing him and shut him up.

  Or maybe to kill him, after all. Elijah and Jo had reunited under stressful conditions, and fast. They had stuff to work out. Not the big stuff. The little stuff that could eat away at a relationship.

  Not, Grit thought, that he knew from experience. He’d never found anyone he’d been tempted to marry. He wasn’t sure now he ever would, not specifically because he was missing his lower left leg—it had more to do with the ambush, watching a friend die. He’d watched himself become more and more distanced from everyone he knew. He realized what was happening, but as can-do as he was, he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

  He went out to the garage and got into Myrtle’s second car, a 1989 Buick that she’d inherited from some dead uncle in South Carolina. The interior smelled faintly of cigars.

  Grit was almost at Massachusetts Avenue when his cell phone jingled next to him on the passenger’s seat. He picked up.

  “Where are you?”

  He recognized the voice of Charlie Neal, the sixteen-year-old son of the vice president of the United States. “Stop sign,” Grit said. “I’m driving. I threw caution to the wind and answered the phone. Aren’t you in school?”

  “On my way. I have a calculus test today. So boring.”

  “You aren’t taking one for your coconspirator cousin Conor, are you?”

  “Conor took a test for me. I didn’t take one for him. He did terrible.”

  The two look-alike cousins had done prince-and-the-pauper switches so that Charlie could get out from under his Secret Service detail. They both were in trouble with their parents, the Secret Service, Elijah Cameron and Grit Taylor.

  Grit pulled over into the shade. He wasn’t that used to driving again, and he’d learned to give any conversation with Charlie and his 180-IQ his full attention. “What do you want, Charlie?”

  “Our arsonist is back.”

  Grit wasn’t that surprised by Charlie’s comment. Cars zipped past him on the residential street that ran perpendicular to the one he was on. The Buick was warm, the morning temperature almost springlike, but he didn’t roll down his window. The car wasn’t bugged—he’d checked. The Secret Service was onto his friendship with Charlie Neal. Jo Harper didn’t like it, but Charlie’s dad, the vice president, had decided Grit was someone the incorrigible teenager would listen to.

  A positive influence, Grit thought. Him.

  Preston Neal probably hadn’t thought Grit and Charlie would be talking pyromaniacs again. Charlie had figured out a network of paid killers was at work back in November, before anyone else. He didn’t need such nice-ties as evidence. He remained convinced a serial arsonist had been one of Lowell Whittaker’s contract killers and was still on the loose.

  “Whose phone are you on?” Grit asked him.

  “A friend’s.”

  Defensive, vague. Grit knew better than to try to get specifics out of him. Charlie would be ten questions ahead by now. Being direct with the kid was his only chance. “The Secret Service know?”

  “I have to be in class in one minute forty-eight seconds.”

  “Any candidates for who this firebug is?” Grit asked.

  “I have a list of names.”

  Charlie would. Grit regretted his question. “‘Firebug’ c
an mean anything.”

  “Serial arsonist, then.”

  “Go take your calculus test.”

  “I told you my sister Marissa has an ex-boyfriend in L.A., right? An actor. He writes screenplays, too. He dumped Marissa when Dad was tapped as veep.”

  Marissa Neal was the eldest of Charlie’s four sisters and a history teacher at his northern Virginia private high school. She was also beautiful, and she didn’t think Grit was such a positive influence on her brother.

  “The only connection—and I use the word loosely—between your sister and this guy is an ex-boyfriend in California?”

  Charlie was undeterred. “Jasper Vanderhorn was a California arson investigator.”

  “Do you know how many millions of people there are in California?”

  “He was based in Los Angeles County. The ex-boyfriend’s in Beverly Hills. Well, maybe not quite. On the border. Close.”

  “You’re a genius, Charlie. Do the math on the odds—”

  “Nick Martini is a smoke jumper, and he was with Rose Cameron when she found the victim of yesterday morning’s fire in Black Falls.”

  “Charlie.”

  “I asked Jo about it. She wasn’t that nice.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re missing the nuances.”

  Grit felt the sun hot on the back of his neck. “I’m not good with nuances.”

  “The ex-boyfriend and Marissa broke up eighteen months ago. Last June, Jasper Vanderhorn, the arson investigator, died in a suspicious wildland canyon fire north of Los Angeles. Sean Cameron and Nick Martini tried to get to him but they were too late. At the same time, Rose Cameron was nearby, searching for an eleven-year-old boy who’d wandered off when his family had to evacuate.”

  “So? I’m not connecting the dots here, Charlie.”

  Charlie ignored him. “Jo was assigned to protect Marissa then.”

  “Special Agent Harper,” Grit said, not letting it go this time.

  “Right. Special Agent Harper. Then last October, Marissa was almost killed when a gas stove blew up at a place she rented with friends in the Shenandoah Mountains. Jo—Agent Harper—saved her.” When Grit didn’t respond, Charlie took a breath. “Then in November, we had the fire at Myrtle’s.”

  “Miss Smith or Ms. Smith.”

  “She said I could call her Myrtle.”

  Grit was silent.

  “Miss Smith could have been killed. The same day as that fire, we had the improvised explosive device in Vermont that killed Melanie Kendall. Then in January, we had the two IEDs that almost killed Hannah Shay, Sean Cameron and Bowie O’Rourke—and Vivian Whittaker, too, but I’m not sure I want to count her. Awful woman.”

  Grit tried not to let himself get sidetracked by Charlie’s pinball-machine of a mind. “We don’t know who set Myrtle’s house on fire, but the bombs were Lowell Whittaker’s doing.”

  “With the help of one of his hired killers, who happens also to be a serious pyromaniac,” Charlie said with absolute certainty. “I have a list of other fires around the country he could have started.”

  “Could be a she.”

  “Eighty percent of arsonists are men.”

  Grit knew better than to doubt, never mind argue with, Charlie Neal’s information. “I know you’re working hard on this, Charlie. Your sister’s fire was an accident.”

  “What if it just looked like an accident?”

  “Your one minute forty-eight seconds are up. Good luck on the calculus test.”

  “I’ll get a ninety-six. I’ve already decided where I’ll shave off the points. It’s obnoxious to get a hundred all the time. I stopped doing extra credit in fifth grade.”

  “There’s no hiding you’re smart, Charlie.”

  The kid was already gone. Grit finally rolled down his window. He thought he could smell lilacs in the air, but it was still too early for lilacs. He turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, again thinking about tupelo honey. His folks had told him he could come home if he decided to quit the navy. “There’s always a place here for you here,” his mother had said.

  Good to know, given what he was thinking.

  Charlie texted him a name: Trent Stevens, Beverly Hills.

  Marissa Neal’s actor ex-boyfriend.

  Grit tossed his phone back onto the seat next to him. Charlie Neal was playing with a fire of his own.

  By the time he arrived at the Pentagon, Grit had formulated the bones of a plan. Admiral Jenkins had been after him to go to San Diego to meet with some experts or some such out there—Grit hadn’t paid attention and didn’t care about the particulars. Charlie wanted him in L.A. to check out the actor.

  Grit figured he’d found a way to make everyone happy.

  Seven

  Black Falls, Vermont

  Rose stayed in a small room on the second floor of the main part of the lodge, its dormer windows looking out on Cameron Mountain. It was one of her favorite rooms. She and her mother had picked out the cheerful blue-and-white fabrics and colorful autumn prints.

  She’d slept fitfully, waking up sweating, heart racing, from nightmares she couldn’t remember but knew had been bad. At first light, she grabbed Ranger and went for a run, sticking to Ridge Road. At Four Corners, she waved to the McBanes, the elderly couple who lived in the old tavern directly across from the cemetery. They were sanding their walk and filling their bird feeders. Sean had quietly bought the place, making them life tenants.

  Rose continued a half mile past the partially collapsed barn on the opposite corner before turning back, Ranger trotting comfortably at her side. A few guests were up at the lodge, but she didn’t see Nick as she helped herself to a muffin and coffee and slipped up to her room for a hot shower. She changed into warm, dry clothes, brushed Ranger and headed back down to the lobby. She and Lauren had agreed to meet at the old sugar shack in an hour.

  Both Scott Thorne and Zack Harper were in the lobby. Rose didn’t detect any awkwardness between the two men given Scott’s sudden breakup with Beth. Rose suspected the trauma of the past year had taken a toll on both of them, but neither would admit it. They were professionals. They weren’t supposed to fall apart. At least, according to Hannah, it had been an amicable split. Beth and Scott, who hadn’t grown up in Black Falls, had always done well as friends.

  “Hey, Rose,” Zack said, cider doughnut in hand. He looked so much like his two older sisters, but his eyes were a darker turquoise, his hair a darker copper. He was one of a handful of full-time firefighters in the town’s otherwise volunteer department. “Quiet morning.”

  “I ran five miles first thing. I can feel it in my legs.”

  “Running off your stress?” Scott asked.

  Rose doubted he was teasing her. She smiled. “Running to run.”

  Nick came in from the dining room, moving easily, as if he’d slept well and didn’t have a care in the world. He had on a thick, soft-looking sweater, canvas pants and boots. “While you were running,” he said, “I was helping myself to the breakfast buffet. They’re serious about breakfast here.”

  Rose was aware of Scott and Zack observing her with obvious interest and hoped her face hadn’t turned red, despite the rush of heat she felt at Nick’s presence. “What would you have had at home?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not good for you.”

  Nick grinned at her. “Pancakes, sausage, butter and maple syrup are?”

  “You can have whole-grain pancakes, turkey sausage and not overdo the butter and syrup. Nothing, though…you need to jump-start your engine in the morning.”

  “I do. I have coffee when I get to work.”

  “You’re on California time. It’s still early there.” Ranger, who had been sitting beside her, lay down and put his head on her feet, as if he understood how ridiculously self-conscious she was all of a sudden. She turned to Scott. “Are you here on official business?”

  “Just stopping by,” he said, not giving a direct answer.

  “I’ve been thinkin
g about yesterday,” she said. “It had to be a hot, sudden fire for Derek to have been killed. He must not have had any serious chance to put out the flames. How does a kerosene lamp basically turn itself into a bomb?”

  “Different possibilities,” Scott said.

  Zack dusted cinnamon sugar off his hands. “We’re not getting into them with you, Rose.”

  “White gas would do it,” Nick said, leaning against the back of a chair in front of the stone fireplace. “It’s highly refined petroleum that burns very fast and very hot. It’s great in camp stoves for just that reason. Kerosene burns at a slow, steady rate, even under pressure. Put white gas under pressure in an old lamp and light it, and you’ve got what we saw yesterday.”

  Zack didn’t look annoyed at Nick’s explanation, but Scott did. Rose felt Ranger warm on her feet. “White gas is easy to find, easy to transport, easy to store.” She reached for a cider doughnut on a sideboard. “Anyone could get their hands on it. Derek could have had it for a camp stove and just not realized it was the wrong fuel for the lamp. It’s the simplest explanation, isn’t it?”

  “Simplest doesn’t matter,” Scott muttered. “Right matters.”

  “Did you find a camp stove in Derek’s things? A container of white gas?” She didn’t expect an answer and bit into her doughnut as she considered where she was going with this. “Was a kerosene lamp in the shed after Lowell’s arrest and no one ever looked to see what was in it?”

  “We’re checking,” Scott said curtly.

  “Even if there was, it doesn’t mean Lowell filled the lamp with white gas himself, or if he did, that he meant for it to explode. The white gas just could have been a mistake. If the lamp wasn’t in the shed, then either Derek brought it with him, which seems unlikely, or someone put it there. A killer would have to have known Derek would be there and would light the lamp.”

  “That sums it up,” Zack said.

  Rose kept her gaze on Scott. “Does anyone suspect Derek had anything to do with Lowell’s network of killers? Could he have been targeted by one of them—one who got away?”