Cold Dawn

by Carla Neggers

  “He is,” Rose said. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Taking pictures and checking the conditions. I thought I’d get some shots when you all run tubing up here. That’s what you’re doing, right? I was at the lodge earlier and thought that’s what I heard.”

  “My brothers, Jo Harper and Nick Martini are on the way. We want to have everything ready for winter fest weekend.”

  “The place I’m house-sitting is just up the road. I’m out in the woods all the time. I keep thinking…” Brett sat up straight, wincing in pain. “Maybe I will stick around after the daffodils start popping up.”

  Rose laughed. “Maybe you did hit your head.”

  He looked more sheepish and self-conscious than amused. She felt bad about her joke, but he rallied. “It’s not anything I’ll rush into. I know I’m still reacting to the fires. I saw Scott Thorne a little while ago.”

  “Did he want to talk to you?”

  “No, no. I’ve cooperated fully with the police. I meant I saw him drive by. I was already up here on the hill.” Brett’s hands shook visibly. “I saw a deer. It startled me. I think that’s why I missed noticing the ice. Usually I’m pretty careful.”

  Rose stood up. “Which direction was Scott headed?”

  “Up this way.”

  Rose hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t stopped at the lodge as far as she knew. She frowned down at Brett, noticed that his pants were already wet with melting snow. “You don’t want to sit in the cold snow for too long.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You might be hurt worse than you think. Adrenaline can fool you.”

  “I’m okay, really. Sorry for the drama.” He reached for his camera in the snow. “My pants are soaked. I know better, but I was so excited by the prospect of warm weather that I put on a pair of corduroys. Sort of mistake a rookie would make, huh? Elijah would have a fit. You aren’t as tough on people.”

  “I don’t know about that. We both focus on what we have to do.”

  Brett blew snow off his camera. “I don’t think I could do what you do, Rose. I have basic first aid training, but I’ve never dealt with anything more serious than a ski student falling face-first in the snow.”

  “But you could,” Rose said, “and you would if you had to.”

  “Maybe. You Camerons, though. Whenever I think about relocating here permanently, I don’t know. I don’t think I’d ever measure up, never mind fit in.”

  “Make a place for yourself and don’t worry about the rest.”

  Ranger moved to the edge of the rocks and barked. Brett looked slightly panicked. “Careful. There’s a cliff there. It’s hard to see. The Neals will want to avoid this section when they’re here for winter fest.”

  Rose knew the spot well. She felt a breeze blowing through the trees, down the mountain. “The Neals?”

  “Aren’t they coming to winter fest?”

  “They are, but I don’t know that they have plans to hike up to the falls again.”

  “Oh. I thought you would know.”

  “Do you know their plans, Brett?”

  “I’m hoping to be their guide. Actually, I was up here when they hiked up to the falls a couple of weeks ago. Marissa Neal in particular loved it. It’s so quiet this time of year.”

  “It is,” Rose said, edging closer to Ranger.

  Brett was shivering. Every other time she’d run into him, he’d been dressed for the conditions. It was no secret she’d been headed in this direction. Had he rushed to get here ahead of her?

  “Jo Harper will be here for winter fest?” he asked.

  “I would think so.”

  “Marissa Neal must be forever in Jo’s debt for saving her from that fire when she was camping last fall. You heard about that, right?”

  Rose nodded. “It wasn’t widely reported, though. You must be tuned in to the Neals. Did Robert or Derek mention them?”

  “Yeah, probably. I don’t remember. There’s been a lot of talk about them because of Jo and their trip up here.” Brett dug a glove out of the snow and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t bring dry gloves. Another rookie mistake. And here I’m supposed to be a wilder ness expert.”

  Wilderness expert? “I thought you were a ski instructor and photographer.”

  “I am.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s on your mind, Rose? You look nervous. That’s not like you. I don’t scare you, do I?”

  She’d maneuvered herself to where he’d fallen. There was no spring under the snow. No ice. She gave Ranger a subtle hand signal, and he immediately jumped up. “Ranger’s onto something,” she said. It wasn’t true but she wanted to get back down to the road. “I’ll see what he’s up to. Catch your breath.”

  “Aren’t you going to help me?”

  She moved to the edge of the cliff. “If you need help, give a shout. I’m right here.”

  He stared at her. She saw he didn’t believe her. He and Robert were of a similar build. Had it been Brett in the ski mask, Brett who’d shoved Dominique into the cabin and left her to die? Brett who’d killed Robert—and Derek?

  And Jasper Vanderhorn. Was Brett Griffin the clever, elusive arsonist the California investigator had been hunting?

  “Rose.”

  She heard Brett’s undertone of intimidation and anger.

  “It’s okay. I understand,” he said, getting to his feet, wobbling slightly. “You’re afraid given all that’s happened.”

  She had to act. She had no choice. She could stand there and be killed or take her chances and jump. Get away from him. Ranger was already charging down through the trees toward the road. Nick would be there by now. Elijah and Jo would be right behind him.

  Rose pretended to slip and threw her arms up as if trying to regain her balance. She stepped off the edge of the cliff, doing her best to control her half dive, half roll in the deep snow.

  She came to a hard, sharp stop against a tree.

  Under ordinary conditions, she would focus on staying warm and wait for help, not take on the elements, but Brett Griffin would come find her.

  Alive, he could pretend she’d been hysterical and he was innocent.

  Dead, she wasn’t a problem at all.

  Twenty-Six

  North of Los Angeles, Southern California

  Grit entered a large, square room at a remote training site for elite smoke jumpers. Sean Cameron was with him. They approached a good-looking, fair-haired man sitting alone at a cafeteria-style table.

  “Trent Stevens?” Grit asked.

  The man turned sharply. He looked scruffier than in the picture. “No. Don’t call me that. Who the hell are you?”

  “My name’s Ryan Taylor.”

  Two minutes ago, as Grit and Sean had arrived at the training area, Charlie Neal had called with a message that his sister Marissa had finally admitted she’d sneaked off to California last fall to see her ex-boyfriend.

  Trent wasn’t happy about having company. “Damn. You’ve pulled me out of the zone. I’m immersing myself in this world.”

  Sean gritted his teeth visibly. This was his world. He knew the ground, the people, the stakes of the work done here. “You went to see Nick Martini last fall, didn’t you? To ask him how you could go about doing research for a screenplay you’re writing.”

  “Nick? Yeah, sure. I looked him up.” As if they were best friends. “How is he?”

  “Nick’s fine,” Sean said, barely containing his irritation.

  Grit pointed to Sean and said to Trent, “This here is Sean Cameron.”

  “Nick’s partner? No kidding. Wow.” Trent laughed in amazement. “Incredible. Sorry I was abrupt. I get into what I’m doing. What can I do for you?”

  “Even your family doesn’t know where you are,” Grit said.

  Trent shrugged. “No one does. That’s the whole idea. It’s the only way for this to really work.”

  “The police don’t know where you are, either,” Sean said. “They’ve been looking for you. Don’t you read
the papers, listen to the news?”

  “Some but—the police?” Trent frowned, sitting up straight. “What do they want with me?”

  “I found your friend Portia dead the other day,” Grit said.

  “Portia? Dead?” Color drained from the actor’s face. He seemed genuinely shocked. “What happened?”

  Grit didn’t spare him. “She was electrocuted while she was mopping floors at your apartment.”

  Trent turned ashen, clearly horrified. “She was fine last time I saw her.”

  “When was that?” Sean asked.

  “Two weeks ago. I got into this smoke jumping thing. I’ve been up and down California, learning the ground, immersing myself in this life. I didn’t want anyone to know the difference between a real smoke jumper and me. Portia was staying at my place. I swear, she was fine when I saw her.”

  Grit believed him. “Have you been in touch with her since you started playing smoke jumper?”

  Trent didn’t like that. “Playing? That’s insulting. This is research. Actually, it’s more than research.”

  Sean looked ready to throttle the guy. Grit said, “Since you started more-than-researching smoke jumping, then.”

  “No. I haven’t been in touch with Portia at all. That would have taken me out of the zone.” Trent shuddered. “I can’t believe she’s dead. Electrocuted? That’s nuts.”

  “The Secret Service wants to talk to you, too,” Sean said.

  “Why? Because of Marissa Neal? I haven’t seen her in months.”

  Grit thought Trent was on the verge of panic. “Did you talk to her about this smoke jumping thing when she slipped off to see you in October?”

  “You know about that? No. I got her the hell out of my life. Think I wanted to get in trouble with the Secret Service?”

  “Who else knew about her visit?”

  “Portia. That’s it. I swore her to secrecy.”

  “What about Jasper Vanderhorn?”

  “The arson investigator? People talk about him with reverence here, and frustration, because of how he died.” Trent rallied, stretching out his legs. “I’m tuned into everything I hear, see, smell, do. It’s all fodder for the script I’m writing.”

  “Fodder,” Sean said, toneless.

  Trent was oblivious. “Yeah. I got the idea because of Marissa, actually. When I saw her, she was still jumpy about the fire at the camp in the Shenandoahs. You know about that, right? She was grateful to Jo Harper for saving her, but then Jo had to deal with the prank Charlie played on her. Marissa felt guilty because of what her brother did. Little jackass that he is.”

  Grit redirected Trent before he could go too far off course. “So Marissa Neal got you interested in fires?”

  “Yeah, sort of. I broke up with her before the election. Once I got a taste of the Secret Service, I was out of there. I couldn’t function. I know I broke Marissa’s heart, but it’s what had to be. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend I could, not with Secret Service agents crawling all over us. I was honest.”

  “What was your next step?” Sean asked. “Once you decided to learn more about fires?”

  “Actually, I’d decided before Marissa broke free for a day. I’d read about her close call. Then I ran into a wilderness buff who works as a consultant on sets. I figured it was meant to be. Portia introduced us, actually.”

  Grit felt a coolness run through him. “Did this wilderness buff point you in the right direction with smoke jumping?”

  “Yeah. He knew about me and Marissa. He told me about Jo Harper and how she was from this little town in Vermont and a guy she grew up with is a smoke jumper out here.” Trent’s color deepened as he glanced at Sean. “I went to your offices. You weren’t there. Nick was, but I didn’t get to talk to him.”

  “Does your script have anything to do with arson?” Grit asked.

  “No. It’s a tragic love story. Deep.”

  The guy was full of himself, Grit gave him that. “What’s this wilderness buff’s name? Where’s he from?”

  “I don’t know where he’s from. Here, I thought. His name’s Feehan. Robert Feehan.”

  “And he sought you out,” Sean said.

  Trent nodded. “That’s right.”

  “When did you see him last?” Grit asked.

  “It’s been a while.” The actor and would-be screenwriter didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been up here living the life.”

  Grit didn’t let up. “And Portia Martinez? When did you talk to her last? Did you call her, email—”

  “I called her on Monday or Tuesday. I don’t remember which. She said Feehan was there and had asked about me and smoke jumping, if I’d ever talked to Sean Cameron or Nick Martini.”

  “What did she tell him?”

  “That she didn’t know where I was. Which she didn’t. Portia’s impulsive. I can just see her showing up here—” He stopped himself, going pale again. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  Grit figured Trent’s grief wouldn’t last long. “What else did you tell her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nah, come on, Trent,” Grit said. “There’s more.”

  He squirmed in his seat. “I told her I’d heard Nick was on his way East. Other smoke jumpers mentioned it.” Trent’s color quickly returned and he shrugged, proud. In the know. “Everyone here’s tuned in to what went on in Vermont with the bombs and fires and stuff.” He glanced up at Sean. “They know what you did.”

  Sean had lost any patience with Trent Stevens. Grit said, “This guy probably killed Portia that night. You’re lucky he didn’t know where you were and come up here kill you, too.”

  “He’s not a movie set consultant?”

  Grit shook his head. “Nope. Not a movie set consultant. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Probably.”

  Sean produced color printouts of photos Nick had sent him of Derek Cutshaw and Robert Feehan. He handed them to Trent.

  Trent laid out the photos side by side on the table and frowned. “Wow, this is weird. Neither one is Feehan. Who are these guys?”

  “They both were just killed in fires in Vermont,” Sean said.

  “The Feehan I met is about the same age as these two.” Trent suddenly seemed to be a little in shock, trying to absorb the bad turn his morning had just taken. “He’s tall, thin. Quiet. Kind of tentative. I was surprised he knew as much about wilderness skills and firefighting as he did.”

  Sean turned to Grit. “Whoever this guy is, it’s not the Robert Feehan who died yesterday. We need to get in touch with Jo. Marissa Neal’s in danger.”

  Grit nodded. “So is everyone else in Black Falls.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Black Falls, Vermont

  Nick stood next to Rose’s Jeep and squinted up the steep hill at a trail of footprints. Then he saw a streak of gold, and Ranger leaped off a boulder to him.

  “Where’s Rose?” He had no idea what the dog understood and opened up the Jeep, grabbed a scarf she’d left on the front seat and let Ranger smell it. “Find Rose.”

  The dog ran up into the dense woods. Nick grabbed a mallet from the Jeep. It was old, chipped. It had seen a lot of use among the waste-not Camerons. He tucked it in his jacket pocket. The mallet wasn’t a gun but it would do as a weapon if he needed one. He’d talked to Sean on his way out there: “Whoever passed himself off as Robert Feehan had to be close in build and have access to Feehan’s ID, as well as the have the freedom to move around the country.”

  Nick had pulled Robert Feehan’s body out of the burning cabin. He’d been tall and lean, with long hair with a bit of a wave.

  Very much like his and Derek Cutshaw’s quiet friend.

  “We need to find Brett Griffin,” he’d told Sean.

  Nick followed Rose’s retriever. They were off-trail, but footprints led in several different directions. Ranger bolted away from the tracks, down a narrow ravine. The snow was deep, and evergreens predominated. Sunlight didn’t hit this part of Cameron
Mountain often. Nick moved through the still shadows, the golden retriever taking him over the rough ground he and Rose knew so well, as focused on finding her as Nick was.

  He refused to allow his fear to get hold of him. Brett Griffin was house-sitting nearby. His photography work allowed him to go anywhere in Black Falls without anyone thinking twice about running into him. He knew Derek Cutshaw and Robert Feehan, had manipulated them and used their failings to advance his own agenda.

  And Brett had killed them.

  A disorganized, impulsive arsonist was hard enough to track. An intelligent, patient sociopath who chose and planned his operations with detail and care would be damn near impossible.

  Ranger paused, looking back at Nick.

  Snow on a sheer rock face had been disturbed, as if something had rolled down from the top of the cliff. An icicle had broken off, just its base hanging from a chunk of jutting granite.

  Nick didn’t breathe. “Find Rose, Ranger,” he said quietly. “Find her.”

  The dog barked again. Nick realized he was missing something.

  Then he saw it—a glove in the snow under a hemlock. He picked it up.

  A woman’s glove.

  “Rose,” he called. “Where are you?”

  She came around the hemlock then, her face red from cold, snow and exertion, her hair wet, dripping as she shivered. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m not hurt—”

  Nick caught her in his arms. He didn’t want to let her go. Not ever.

  She clung to him. “You’re so warm,” she whispered, but stood back from him. “We have to find Brett before he kills anyone else.”

  “I know,” Nick said.

  “He’s going after Marissa Neal. I’m sure he is. He plans to do it at winter fest. Maybe he still thinks he can pull it off.”

  “He knows how to take over someone’s identity and disappear.” Nick ran the tip of his finger under a scrape on Rose’s forehead. “Did he hit you?”

  “No. It’s nothing. I think I took out an icicle when I jumped from up there.” She glanced up at the rock cliff. “I didn’t have many options. Brett faked a fall to get me to come to him. He didn’t admit anything. He’ll say I’m being hysterical.”