Colder Than Ice. Maggie Shayne
“So what was really going on down there?” Bryan asked.
Josh tried to focus on his son. “What do you mean?”
“With that woman. First you looked at her like you were seeing a ghost, and then you tried to cover—lamely.”
Josh pursed his lips. “I wasn’t trying to cover. She really does remind me of someone.”
“Yeah, so much you nearly lost your lunch.”
He averted his eyes.
“I mean it, Dad. I thought you were going to blow it out there. I mean, you’re the one who’s supposed to know what you’re doing here, the one who spent three straight days lecturing me on not blowing our cover. So I figure this is something major.”
He forced himself to meet his son’s gaze. “You might be right.”
“Then you know Beth Slocum from somewhere?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you think you might?”
He didn’t say anything, his gaze dragged as if by force to the envelope again.
“Right,” Bryan said. “It’s none of my damn business, anyway. You should have just said so. I’m going out.”
The tone jerked Josh back to the present. “Going out where?”
“Hell, Dad, I don’t know. I’m not sure what my options are around here, so I can hardly answer that one. Around, I guess. I’m taking the pickup.”
“Just be careful. And call if you’re going to be late.”
Bryan didn’t answer, just headed out of the bedroom. He didn’t quite slam the door, but he didn’t shut it any too gently, either.
Josh sighed, wishing to hell he knew how to be a decent father to his son. He probably shouldn’t have let him go, but hell, the boy was almost eighteen. It wasn’t like he needed baby-sitting.
He didn’t know what to do. He knew his son was in pain and acting out in anger, but he didn’t have the first clue what to do about it. And frankly, given the shock he’d just suffered, he was in no state to figure out the answer today.
He sat down on his bed and tore open the envelope. It contained a complete dossier on Elizabeth Marcum, aka Beth Slocum, beginning when she’d awakened from a coma eighteen years ago. When he read the hell she’d been through because of his bullet, he wondered if it might have been better if he had killed her after all.
She’d awakened with no memory, no life, facing years of rehabilitation and physical therapy. She’d lost all of it…because of him.
He was sure of only one thing: he owed her. And this assignment hadn’t come out of the blue. Arthur had chosen him deliberately, knowing he would protect Beth Slocum better than anyone else ever could, because of that debt.
Bryan thought he probably shouldn’t hate his father for keeping secrets from him when secrets were a part of his job. He did hate it, though. He hated just about everything his old man did these days. Every word out of his mouth seemed unreasonably irritating and made Bryan want to snap back, even when it wasn’t altogether warranted.
Bryan wasn’t stupid. It made sense to resent his father for not giving a damn about his mother’s death. Josh hadn’t shed a single tear. And it made sense to hate him for dragging Bryan out of his school, away from his friends, his home, and making him live in an apartment the size of a closet in Manhattan.
He thought maybe Joshua was starting to get that. He thought maybe that was why, when his dad’s former boss from his days in the ATF, days before Bryan was even born, contacted him about this job, he’d accepted so fast. He knew Bryan detested the city. He probably thought this middle-of-nowhere town in Vermont would be better for him.
But Bryan didn’t want to be here, either. He just wanted to go home.
He drove the pickup, which he secretly loved, into the tiny town of Blackberry, which was all of two miles from the old woman’s run-down house. He spent the entire drive trying to locate an alternative or punk station on the radio, with no luck at all. Nothing out here but easy listening, country and talk radio.
God, he was going to die of boredom inside a week. He pulled off when he found a park, walked the entire thing, and found a fountain, a basketball court, a hot-dog stand. He bought a dog and continued on. The town was packed, way more people than could possibly live in a place this small. Must be the tourists his dad had told him were liable to be around. God, there were a lot of them, walking around with cameras, or driving with their heads sticking out the windows, pointing at the trees.
It was pretty here. He had to give it that.
Just at the edge of town there was a library, and he spent a couple of hours there, using their Internet connection and playing video games.
He’d killed the rest of the morning and was working on the afternoon when he pulled into the blacktop square beyond the ornate little sign that read Blackberry Public Parking. It was smack in the middle of a strip of road that was lined on either side with businesses. They all had awnings, and all the awnings were color coordinated—green or white, or green-and-white stripes. The stores—shops, really—had old-fashioned lettering on the windows, and they all looked like something out of one of the Norman Rockwell prints his mother used to have hanging all over their house. If not for the tourists, Bryan would have felt as if he’d walked right into one of them. The barbershop had an actual barber pole.
He pocketed his keys and took to the sidewalk. It was clean, unbroken, no weeds springing up in between the blocks. Oak trees grew from circular holes in the concrete, with red mulch covering their bases. Almost every building had a flag on display—not all of them American flags, though. Some were Canadian, some Italian, and some bore peace signs or rainbows.
He scanned the shop windows. Drugstore, grocery, ice cream “shoppe,” hardware, electronics…“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said.
He went through the swinging doors of the tiny electronics store, nodded hello to the woman behind the counter and started perusing the shelves. There was only one other customer in the place, an absentminded professor type in a baggy suit.
The woman behind the counter said, “Can I help you find something, young man?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for a set of headphones for my MP3 player.” He pulled the tiny device out of his pocket as he spoke and held it up, but as he did, the other customer placed his purchases—a video camera and several tapes—on the counter.
“They’re right over there, son,” she said, pointing at a pegboard right beside the counter, where about twenty different sets of headphones hung.
Bryan went over and began looking for one that would fit his player.
He noticed the guy at the counter taking his purchases and turning to go. A twenty lay on the floor at his feet. As the man walked toward the door, Bryan hurried to grab it. “Excuse me, mister, I think you dropped this.”
The man turned as if surprised, saw Bryan holding out the twenty and smiled. He had thick, unevenly cut black hair that looked as if he’d combed it with an egg beater, thick-lensed glasses with black plastic frames, and the kind of pointy beard you’d expect to see on the villain in an old movie.
His smile was warm, though. He quickly pulled out his wallet and checked his cash. “You’re right, I did drop it. Thank you, young man. That was very thoughtful of you.”
“No prob.”
The guy took the twenty, tucked it into his wallet and tugged out a five. “Here, for your honesty.”
“No, really. It’s okay,” Bryan said, holding up a hand.
“You’re sure?”
He