Killer View (23 page)

The sound of the snowmobile was suddenly louder. Closer...

He’d heard the two talk about spotting a cow elk by the salt lick. That meant game, which meant a game trail to follow. Out back, he briefly risked the flashlight, the moon having hidden behind the fast-moving clouds overhead. He couldn’t find the salt lick. The unbroken snow that formed an apron beyond the shed trapped him as neatly as a fence.

Leaving any tracks would give him away.

And there, in the flashlight’s beam, came his answer: two woodpiles, one for the split logs, neatly stacked very high, and, beyond it, a pile of ten or twelve massive tree trunks, ready for cutting and splitting. Small animals had greatly disturbed the snow in and around the logs; his tracks wouldn’t be easily noticed. By daylight, they might spot his route, but, if he hurried, he could be far gone by then.

He struggled up the pile of stacked wood, winded and weak. He fumbled his way over it and fell to the other side. Next, he took two great leaps in succession and reached the pile of felled trees. He clambered over this pile as well, the whine of the snowmobile fast approaching.

In all, he’d left but two prints in the deep snow, between the stacked wood and felled trees, both hidden by the woodpile itself. He crept under a tree’s snow-laden branches and out to the other side. Crawled under the branches of the next tree, to hide his tracks. He was at least twenty yards from the shed now.

The snowmobile’s engine coughed to silence. Coats shouted: “Fuck this! He can’t be far!”

Aker strapped on the snowshoes. His pursuers searched the far side of the cabin first, buying him precious time.

He found a rhythm in a half-speed run, leaning forward slightly to compensate for the added weight of the backpack. The adrenaline was back, and, with it, some needed energy.

He had no compass and no idea where he was. But he was no stranger to the outdoors and he knew where he was headed: as far away as he could get.

SUNDAY

WALT STRUCK THE BRASS KNOCKER SHARPLY AGAINST THE plate on the front door. Despite a career of getting used to it, he was put off by the grandeur of the farmhouse and generational wealth it represented.

Brandon stomped his boots on the porch, trying to feel his feet.

“You sure about this, Sheriff ? It’s almost three in the morning.”

“We’re not driving back over here tomorrow.”

“No offense, but you don’t smell so good.”

Walt smacked the door knocker—a brass cowboy boot—against the door again.

Standing beneath the porch roof, they didn’t see a light go on in a second-story window, but the snow behind them lit up from the glow, and Walt stepped back.

The door rattled and opened.

Senator James Peavy wore a pair of blue jeans with a sweater turned inside out. He squinted into the brightness of the porch light. His head of wispy white hair was thin on top, a fact usually hidden by the ubiquitous Stetson.

“Sheriff ?” Astonishment. “Deputy?”

“We need a minute of your time,” Walt said.

“You come in here smelling like that, obviously you must,” said Peavy, waving them inside. “Come in.”

The parlor could have been from a homesteading museum. Peavy motioned for them to sit. Walt wanted to stand, but he took a seat on a blue velvet love seat with ruby piping. Brandon took the end of the piano bench, facing into the spacious room. Sheer curtains hung on the windows of air-bubbled, imperfect glass.

Peavy remained standing, an act that infuriated Walt. Perhaps sensing this, the rancher then sat down on the edge of a blue-and-white-crocheted slide rocker. He moved gently forward and back.

“So?”

“Why would Lon Bernie burn fifty head of sheep? And why in the dead of night?”

Peavy’s life in politics mixed with time spent in the great outdoors afforded him a wonderfully expressive face, gracious and kind and handsome. Even half awake, he possessed the countenance of a minister and the composure of a therapist.

“You want to talk about Lon Bernie’s sheep?” he said.

“I’d rather not dance around the issue. Mark Aker’s life is in play. Something’s going on here, and before I tear the lid off this thing I wanted to give you a chance to break it to me gently.”

“So you’re here out of thoughtful consideration, are you? At three in the morning?”

“This was a convenient time.”

“Not for all of us.”

“Radiation contamination,” Walt said.

Peavy scowled, an expression impossible to read as anything but surprise. “Jesus, what is that smell?”

“Help me out here, James,” Walt said. “What’s going on?”

“This is your party.”

“The invitation for me to go to Washington. That was your doing. Why?”

“Because I think you’re underrated, Walt. Sometimes we control the timing of the events in our lives, sometimes not. The vice president is eager for you to serve on a national level. Don’t think this was just me. You have more friends than you’re aware of.”

“One of them’s dead. Another’s missing.”

An uneasy silence. The piano bench squeaked under Brandon’s weight.

“You called Mark to take care of your sheep.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“I thought it was the hay or grain. Mad cow, or something like that. Come to find out, it’s the water.”

Peavy asked to speak with Walt privately, and Walt told Brandon to stay where he was. He wanted a witness to anything discussed and he said so. Peavy winced, part disgust, part concession.

“Sheriff, if you have a crime to charge me with, please do so. Otherwise . . .”

“Senator . . .”

“I understand your concern over Mark Aker. I share it. I know nothing about his disappearance. Do you hear me, Walt? Nothing. As for your suggestion, this other subject, I can tell you this: there is a good deal of money involved when a rancher loses a head or two of livestock. What you’re reporting with Lon, twenty-five, fifty head, that’s not just a backbreaker, it’s a
bank
breaker. That’s forty-five thousand, plus the loss of the ewe producing for you. Probably a hundred grand, all told. On our margins, that’s your operation, or damn near. Think about that, Walt. Consider that very carefully. It isn’t entered into lightly. You’re assuming the invitation to Washington somehow benefited me. But what if it’s me, or people in high places, trying to protect you? What if that’s how wrong you’ve got this?”

“If there’s a crime, then you’re a victim—Lon Bernie’s a victim. Why won’t you come forward? How can you not come forward?”

The senator arched his brows. “Your explanation, not mine.”

“Then what’s yours?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t need one.”

“Mark came out to these ranches because of sick sheep. He discovered radiation poisoning in the water. He kept his work away from his office because he understood the politics. He tried to warn me about the politics.”

“And you’re not listening.”

“This can’t be you talking, Senator. We’ve known each other forever. I consider us friends,” Walt said.

“If I knew anything about Mark Aker, I’d help you. But I don’t.”

The two men’s eyes met.

“No one is going to help you. I’m trying to protect you, Sheriff. Take the trip to Washington.”

“Protect me?” Walt’s face was scarlet, his voice too loud for the room.

“The Lon Bernies of this world make their own laws. You and I both know a badge doesn’t mean much in this valley. Ironic since we’ve both served the law ourselves. But it’s different over here. You know that. If it wasn’t for the vehicles, it could be a hundred years ago.”

“Maybe they buy off the local sheriff, but I’m not the local sheriff.”

“Worth taking note of.”

Walt stood, took a menacing step toward an unreasonably calm James Peavy, and caught himself, as Brandon rose off the piano bench.

Peavy said, “Maybe by finding Mark Aker you find your answers, I don’t know. But by looking for him, you put yourself at risk, Walt. Hear me on this. Hear me good. This valley isn’t a safe place for you. Go home. Keep to your side of the mountains. You’ll find nothing but trouble over here.”

“But if you’re a victim, why not report it?” Walt repeated, now exasperated. “Since when can someone intimidate James Peavy?”

Peavy didn’t speak again. His expression suggested not resignation but determination, which confused Walt.

He walked to the door and opened it for them. As cold a night as Walt could remember.

THE OUTSIDE OF THE ENVELOPE BORE HIS NAME, HANDWRITTEN in a lovely script, although Walt couldn’t actually touch the envelope, as it was sealed in thick, red-tinted plastic. BIOHAZARD was printed on the front in large letters.

The desk sergeant explained that the envelope—hand delivered to the office by Fiona Kenshaw—had tripped the electronic sniffer used on all incoming mail.

Contaminated.

He was working on forty-five minutes of sleep. He’d showered, shaved, changed his uniform, and had eaten the scrambled eggs Lisa prepared for him. She’d slept on the couch, and had let the girls brush her hair and put it into a ponytail, so that she looked somewhat disheveled, as she washed dishes while Walt ate. It felt weird having her in the house. He hadn’t thanked her. Hadn’t said much at all. They’d met eyes at one point during the morning confusion, just before she’d left. Her eyes had said something about feeling sorry for him while all he felt was impossibly guilty. He’d driven the girls to school, because this was their routine. They’d played a word game on the way—the animal game—and Walt found himself not wanting to stop. Maybe just keep driving, his eyes on the two faces in his rearview mirror. When he’d let them out, he’d run around the car to hug them. Both girls appeared embarrassed by the gesture, though neither complained.

“Radiation?” he asked his desk sergeant.

“No! It was indicated as only biohazard,” she said. “The machine doesn’t get specific. If an item alerts for radioactivity, it goes in that box they gave us. Biohazard gets the red bags.”

After 9/11, the Blaine County Sheriff’s Office had received a threatening letter containing a white substance that eventually came back as arsenic but had been believed to be anthrax. The feds had required the installation of the sniffer—a fifteen-thousand-dollar machine subsidized by the federal government—and it had been SOP ever since to test each piece of mail arriving at the office. The letter, bearing Fiona’s unmistakable handwriting, had been the first ever to trip the sensors, and the desk sergeant seemed more excited than frightened by the event.

“You want me to issue a BOLO?” asked the desk sergeant.
Be on lookout
.

“I’m not arresting her,” Walt said. “She works for us.”

The desk sergeant held her tongue, but her eyes reminded him it was procedure to arrest anyone suspected of attempting to contaminate the offices. It was also procedure to involve the postal inspectors.

He answered that look of hers. “This wasn’t sent through the mail. It wasn’t an intentional contamination, and my guess is, it’s one big misunderstanding. Before we call anyone, I’m going to clear this up.”

“And what do I do with this?” she said, lifting the red bag by one corner.

“Give it to me,” he answered, accepting the bag.

WALT HELD a morning meeting with his two lieutenants, during which he passed along the day-to-day so he could continue working on Aker’s abduction. Nancy called Fiona, and, when Fiona arrived, Walt led her outside, and they walked around the block, circumnavigating the former courthouse and city hall, a grand, three-story brick building built in the late 1800s. It now housed the DMV and county records. He didn’t bother with a jacket; it was already in the upper forties. The early bite of winter seemed to be mitigating, at least at the lower altitudes.

He produced the red baggie from his coat pocket.

“I didn’t want to discuss this in the office. But can you please tell me why you left me an envelope that tripped our biosensors? You might have warned me.”

She stopped abruptly.

“My letter’s a
biohazard
?”

“I thought you’d given it to me because you knew it was contaminated, that it was related to Mark’s work somehow.”

She told him then about being picked up by Sean Lunn at Hillabrand’s. About spotting the dried mud on the Escalade’s step rail. About how the unusually pale color had reminded her of the dried mud on the rape victim’s clothing.

Walt unsealed and opened the plastic bag, as she explained its contents. He tore open the envelope and saw that it contained both a note and a small amount of a pale brown dirt.

“Roger Hillabrand?”

“The mud was on his car. I was going to suggest that you have the lab compare this to what we found on the girl’s shoes.”

“That’s certainly available to us.”