Cold River - Carla Neggers [85]
“Latte,” Beth said.
“I see she went for the pumpkin muffin, too. Scary.”
Elijah had that same look Grit had seen in April right before their helicopter went down in an isolated Afghan mountain pass. That hadn’t been a good night. Elijah’s eyes got dark. “Grit…”
He looked at Beth. “I’ll have a small coffee, too.” While she filled his order, he dug out a few bills and left them on the counter, operating under the assumption he would have to make a fast getaway with two Secret Service agents a few yards from him and Myrtle’s errand to complete. “I’m going for a pleasant morning drive in Vermont.”
“Grit,” Elijah said, “we need to talk.”
“Tell Jo and her boss they can meet me at my cabin later. They can search it if they want. Just have them put a log in the stove.”
Elijah backed off, and Grit gave Beth a friendly smile as she handed him his muffin and coffee to go. Since he took his coffee black, all he had to do next was walk out of there and be on his way to Rutland and the roadside motel where, as far as he knew, Conor Neal was waiting to deliver his message from his cousin Charlie, the vice president’s son. It was called plausible deniability.
Francona and Jo intercepted him before he got the café door open.
Jo said, “Let’s try not to let in the cold air. Why don’t you come sit with us?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?” Francona asked. He was in his early forties, a straight-backed type with a peculiar sense of humor.
“I’m taking a drive.” Grit didn’t mention it was in Jo’s car. “I want to see some Vermont winter vistas.”
Elijah winced behind his fiancée and Francona and mouthed, “Vistas?”
Jo’s eyes narrowed in a way that probably fired up Elijah but didn’t do much for Grit. She said, “You’d tell us if you were contacted by a Secret Service protectee, wouldn’t you, Grit?”
“You bet.”
“Because,” Francona said, “we’re all on the same page here. We all want the same thing. Right?”
“If by the same thing you mean spring,” Grit said, “yes, sir. We are definitely on the same page.”
Grit opened the door. His left shoe felt tight and achy. That hadn’t happened in a while. He had a left shoe but not a left foot. He figured the phantom pain had something to do with the two unsmiling Secret Service agents with him. Jo, a native Vermonter, didn’t look cold. Francona, who probably wasn’t a native of anywhere, didn’t look cold, either. He just looked as if he wanted to shoot someone.
Not much of a sense of humor this morning.
They didn’t stop Grit as he walked out of the café onto Main Street. The sun glinting off the snow hurt his eyes. He put on his sunglasses and got behind the wheel of Jo’s car. He had a bite of his muffin, which didn’t taste like pumpkin pie at all, and a sip of his coffee, and stared past the quaint town common. He called Myrtle on his cell phone.
She picked up on the first ring. “The Secret Service is about to gang up on me,” she said. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not good with cops unless it’s a First Amendment issue.”
Meaning she’d cave if it meant saving her ass. “I’ll break you out of jail.”
“What a champ,” she said, and disconnected.
Grit found the motel with no trouble. It was on the road to the massive Killington ski area, and when he pulled into the parking lot, he was pretty sure no one had followed him. He didn’t know if Myrtle had broken, though, and was on high alert in case state cops and feds were about to pour out of the mountains and nail him.
He spotted a fair-haired teenager who resembled Prince Harry at sixteen making waffles at the free breakfast bar. It wasn’t Conor Neal. It was Charles Preston Neal, son of the vice president of the United States.
Big surprise.
Charlie appeared to be alone.
Grit hated being unarmed with a high-value target right in front of him. What if bad guys had followed Charlie last night and were already in the breakfast room?
Charlie motioned for Grit to join him at the waffle iron.
“Thanks for coming,” the kid said.
Grit smelled waffles and coffee. “I thought I told you not to pull this