Cold Dawn (28 page)

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

G
rit 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

N
ick 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."

"Is he armed?"

"I don't think so. He didn't have a pack with him. He could have hidden one, though."

"Elijah and Jo are right behind me. They'll have talked to Sean by now. He and Grit Taylor found Trent Stevens, the missing actor."

"Alive?"

Nick nodded. Ranger barked, the ridge of hair on his spine standing up. He growled, uncharacteristically. Nick saw the branches of another hemlock stir and immediately put himself between Rose and whoever was coming around the tree.

"Nick," she said, getting Ranger back to her side.

He eased the mallet out of his pocket. "I see."

Brett Griffin emerged from behind the hemlock, stumbling--pretending to--in the snow. "Rose, thank heaven. Are you all right? What happened?"

"Keep your hands where I can see them, Griffin," Nick said, raising the mallet. He wondered what this murderous pyromaniac had on under his jacket, in his pants, his gloves, his shoes. He'd want to get them close and then make his move. "I'm a real firefighter. I'll nail you in a heartbeat if you so much as breathe wrong."

Brett seemed mystified. "What did Rose tell you? I took a tumble and she was kind enough to come help me. Then she fell and I came down here to help her."

Rose was having none of it. "You bastard, you came down here to make sure I'd bashed my head against a rock and wouldn't get in your way anymore. Were you going to set me on fire if I wasn't dead?"

Brett straightened, wincing as if he were in pain. "I think I banged my knee pretty good. Rose, yeesh. What's got into you? I thought you were dead. You're damn lucky you're not. Was it something I said?"

Nick pointed the mallet at him. "Just stay still."

"Rose is hysterical." Brett sniffled as if he were winded. "I can see now that my friendship with Robert and Derek has finally come back to haunt me. I was afraid it would. I never should have come back to Black Falls."

"You can tell your story to the police," Nick said.

"Fine, I will. I'm not even insulted. Tell them I'll meet them at my house."

Nick couldn't detect any odor of gas in the crisp air. "You're good, Griffin. Jasper said you were. He said you know how fire works."

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Fire moves to find oxygen. It's like it's alive, isn't it?" Out of the corner of his eye, Nick noticed that Ranger had eased off into the woods, back down toward the road, undoubtedly on Rose's command. "To control fire and make it do what you want it to do takes real skill."