Carla Neggers - Cold Dawn

“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.”