Cold River - Carla Neggers [60]
Grit waited. The cold didn’t bother him that much. The lake and the surrounding hills were white and shades of gray and evergreen under a clear blue winter sky. It was a nice view. He could stay out here awhile.
“The sister—Rose Cameron—trains and handles search-and-rescue dogs,” Charlie said. “She’s a search management expert. Very experienced. She’s been at the scene of a number of devastating western wildfires.”
Grit was unimpressed. “The Camerons are active types. I’ve been chopping and hauling wood and running and fixing things since I got to Vermont. Jo’s the same. She had me up on the roof of her cabin the other day looking for how bats get in.”
“Bats can squeeze into—”
“Don’t start with me, and forget what you’re thinking.”
“Firefighters are sometimes themselves firebugs. A volunteer firefighter started horrible fires in Australia that killed hundreds. It’s unfortunate, but it happens.” Charlie paused. “Sean Cameron and Nick Martini both are volunteers now.”
“So?”
“So who blew up Melanie Kendall’s car? Who blew up Myrtle Smith’s house?”
“A Cameron didn’t.”
“But maybe someone the Camerons know did.”
“It’s a thought. Keep it to yourself.”
“I’m not telling anyone but you.”
Great. Lucky him. “When’s school start?”
“Couple more weeks. Public school starts up right after New Year’s. Talk to me, Petty Officer. I haven’t actually met Elijah, but we’ve spoken on the phone. He’s a disciplined soldier—”
“Sergeant Cameron. Mr. Cameron. Either one’s okay. Not Elijah.”
“He said I could call him by his first name.”
“I didn’t say you could, and you’re talking to me.”
“He’s a hero. What about Sean and Rose? A.J.?”
“Go back to un-lighting Santa Claus, Charlie.”
“It’s a crèche. Again, private school. You should keep your eyes open.”
“Always, my friend. Always.”
“Sean Cameron, Rose Cameron, Nick Martini, firebugs. I’m telling you. There’s something there.”
Grit disconnected and debated walking down to Elijah’s house and telling Jo that the vice president’s son was back at it, sticking his nose into a criminal investigation. At least Charlie was just speculating and not showing up at a murder scene as he had in November. Everyone in Black Falls was speculating. No harm in that.
Sean Cameron seemed to fit in just fine with his mountain man brothers. The only difference was that he fought fires out west and had a tan and a lot more money. Grit was a warrior sailor whose family made honey in the Florida Panhandle. His idea of having money was a hundred-dollar bill in his pocket.
Grit sighed. What to do on a cold winter day in Vermont?
He could call Admiral Jenkins back. The admiral, whom Grit had heard of but did not know, had left messages six times in the past week. Grit was to get in touch with him. It was an unofficial summons and undoubtedly had to do with the admiral having an idea about a wounded Navy SEAL’s future.
It didn’t do not to return an admiral’s call, but Grit figured he could always blame bad service up here in the boonies.
He decided he’d have breakfast with Jo and Elijah and maybe work Sean and Rose and firebugs into the conversation.
He headed down the trail through the snow. Ever since helping to pinpoint the identity of the killers who’d targeted Drew Cameron and Alexander Bruni and dealing with the mischievous, genius son of the vice president of the United States, Grit had been thinking less and less about his leg. Dealing with it was becoming more routine, more automatic.
He didn’t know if he liked that. He didn’t know if he was ready to leave behind the man he’d been and the life he’d led.
Fifteen
“I dreamed about…you know.”
Devin rubbed a hand over his head, awkward and, in his own way, self-conscious, uncomfortable about sharing his emotions—his vulnerabilities. Hannah sat with him at a small table by the café’s front door. It was early, the café cold as the heat kicked in for the day. Since surviving his ordeal on Cameron Mountain, Devin had insisted he was okay, but he had recurring nightmares, reliving the shots Rigby had fired