Cold Pursuit - Carla Neggers [111]
But she kept running.
“Stop. Now, Nora.”
She fell onto her knees in the snow. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, covering her head with her hands. “It’s all my fault. I should have left well enough alone.”
Jo caught up with her and crouched next to her. She said gently, “It’s okay, Nora. Come on, kiddo. We’re safe. Let’s go back into the cabin. Storm’s over. We can get out of here.”
She dug her fingers into her hair and seemed to try to rip it out as she cried. “I want my mom, but she doesn’t care about me.” She raised her head, dropping her arms as tears flowed down her pale cheeks and she shook uncontrollably. “I’m so scared. My dad—what if he’s involved in whatever’s going on? He’s so caught up in Melanie.”
“First things first, Nora.”
She glared up at Jo. “What if he did something stupid, and now he’s ruined his life? What if he’s being blackmailed?”
There was no way Jo was going into all that right now. “We’ll get everything sorted out. You knew something was wrong, and you were right. You trusted your instincts.”
“I never thought anyone wanted to kill me. I wouldn’t have come up here. I’m so stupid.” As she spoke, she started shivering. “I’m so cold. Jo…”
“You survived. You did what you had to do.”
“Don’t patronize me.” With a sudden burst of anger, Nora shook off Jo’s offer of a hand and stalked back toward the cabin. But she stopped short of the front door, lurched toward a felled tree and vomited in the snow.
Jo hung back and said nothing. When Nora finished, she just silently returned to the cabin.
Elijah stepped out from the spruce trees and stood next to Jo. “Rigby had his chance to get out of here and disappear. Interesting that he didn’t.”
Jo nodded grimly. “He knew he had to succeed up here. Failure wasn’t an option.”
“Yeah.”
“We need to get these kids off this mountain. How much time do you figure before the cavalry arrives?”
“My guess is they’re close enough to have heard the shots.”
“I can go down the trail and meet them.”
“No.” Elijah shook his head and brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “We stick together.”
Thirty-Two
Grit stood outside the revolving doors of the hotel where Ambassador Bruni had been killed and watched the passersby. It was almost noon and cloudy, but other people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Last night, Myrtle had said to meet her there. She’d added a little something to her coffee and was in a maudlin mood when they’d parted, the kind that indicated she had layers and secrets and dark corners that she didn’t like to look in.
He had a bad feeling about Myrtle.
Just down the street a fair, buff teenage boy in a navy Georgetown University cap, hooded sweatshirt and tan chinos was staring at the spot where Bruni was hit.
The pants were neatly pressed.
Well, well, Grit thought, and eased in next to the kid. “Hello, Charlie.”
He looked startled. “That’s not my name.”
“Sure it is. You know a friend of a friend of mine. Jo Harper.”
“The Secret Service agent in the video?”
All innocent. Grit narrowed his eyes. “What’re you doing here, Charlie?”
“What makes you—”
“Prep-school pants. And the hat and the sweatshirt both Georgetown? Come on.”
He reddened some, but not much. “I have a trombone lesson around the corner.”
“You don’t play trombone.”
The kid stared at the asphalt and said calmly, “A doctor’s appointment would have worked better?”
“No,” Grit said.
“Who I am is none of your business.”
“I’m a caring citizen.” But Grit figured Charlie Neal, being a genius as well as sixteen, already knew who he was. “There are no Secret Service agents strong-arming me right now, so that means you gave them the slip somehow. What did you do, hide yourself in a suitcase?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. You obviously have me confused with someone else. I’m just a kid.”
Grit studied him thoughtfully and considered his research into the life and times of Charles Preston Neal, the only son and youngest child of the current vice president of the United States. “Your cousin,” he said finally, “Conor Neal. You two are the same age.