Killer Weekend (11 page)

   He thought back to Brandon's comment about running against him in the primary, and he saw it on a whole new level. His deputy was doing his ex-wife. Stealing the best thing in his life. Never mind that it had to end, it didn't have to end like this, and for a brave moment Walt considered confronting them both.

   Then he drove on, in a daze of confusion, a lump like a piece of coal rammed down his throat.

   He did his best to control his voice and summoned his patrols over the radio. But a bear had been reported tearing up trash cans midvalley and his two available cars had responded. He headed to Sun Valley, alone and afraid in a way he'd not felt. His father's sarcastic sting about the nature of crime in the valley—his job—echoed uncomfortably in his mind. Gail had moved on. It was all but unthinkable—but think about it he did.

   He checked in at the inn's front desk, not wanting Sun Valley security mistaking him for a prowler.

   The Bavarian woman behind the desk said no one was to enter the banquet rooms until morning.

   He touched his sheriff 's badge, pinned to his uniform. "I'm not asking. I'm just letting you know I'm here. If you'd like, I'd be happy to wake Larry Raffles." Walt pulled out his cell. Raffles managed the resort.

   She declined, though a little frostily, dangled a set of keys, and led Walt down a walnut-paneled corridor. She unlocked a set of doors for him and accompanied him inside. A geometric shape of light flooded across lavishly decorated tables and . . . sand.

   The young woman found some lights. Enough to navigate.

   "I'll make sure it's locked when I leave. And I'll stop by the desk, so you know I've left." He thanked her. The door clunked shut behind her.

   The room was shaped like a shoebox, with Walt in the center of one of the long sides. He faced the elevated riser from where Liz Shaler would give her talk. It currently held six potted palm trees. Gift boxes sat at each place setting. Envy nibbled at Walt—that Cutter, or anyone, should have this kind of disposable income.

   He dragged his feet through the thick sand wishing he could take his boots off. He reached the riser, knee height and rimmed with a navy blue skirt.

   Through his grief, frustration, and fatigue, something tugged at him. He'd come to respect such sensations. He stood absolutely still, blood thumping past his ears, his throat dry. Wishing for more light, he spotted a bank of dimmer switches forty feet away. Almost automatically, he unsnapped his holster, felt the cool of its gnarled grip. Moved silently, sweat breaking out all over him.

   The bank of light switches was too far. He felt drawn to his right, and he followed his instinct.

   His boots moved absolutely silently in the sand. He passed one table after another, looking left, right, ahead, and behind.

   The tablecloths cascaded down to seat height, screening the area beneath the tables, leaving fifty hiding places to search.

   His radio, clipped to his waist, spit with static. "Sheriff, what's your twenty?"

   A blur to his right. A man's form raced for an exit, slammed a door open, and vanished before Walt got a decent look at him.

   Running now, Walt reached for his radio's handset and called out the code for a suspicious person, "Ten-one-oh-seven. In pursuit on foot. Sun Valley Inn. Request backup." His belt snagged a tablecloth and dragged it off to the sound of exploding wineglasses.

   He burst into a service hallway that was pitch black. He reached down and silenced his radio.

   Took two steps forward. Smashed into a food dolly, tripped, and went down on one knee. Jumped to his feet, his eyes stinging to pierce the dark. The suspect had disappeared.

T
revalian, hidden behind a meal cart, kept his back to the wall.

He knew the quickest way out: the service hallway to the load

      ing platform. He knew he'd be exposed for several seconds if he ran. But a moving target, at least. The sheriff was less than ten feet away—unmoving, barely breathing. More professional, more careful than he'd have thought.

   With his back literally against the wall, he once again calculated the time and distance to the end of the hall. He walked himself through the sharp left turn to the loading dock. He had no desire for confrontation. Only escape.

   He hesitated only briefly. Then he shoved the food cart and ran.

W
alt drew his weapon as the cart smashed into the wall. He didn't remember grabbing his flashlight, but there it was, held with the gun as if a single piece.

   The dark shape of a man juked right and left, zigzagging down the hall, and was gone.

   Walt turned left at the end of the hall and broke through hanging ribbons of sheet plastic used as a cold barrier. He jumped off the loading dock, lost his balance, and fell forward. As he came to his feet, the suspect was now twenty yards ahead of him. A very fast runner.

   Walt holstered the gun at a full sprint. He wasn't going to shoot only to find it was a high school kid, or the wayward son of a hotel guest. He followed out onto the first fairway of the Sun Valley golf course, and heard the
tick-tick-tick
of lawn sprinklers before he felt the first cold shower. Within seconds he was soaked through, his boots slogging through the spongy grass.

   He trailed the suspect by twenty yards as he followed him through a wall of towering evergreens and out into a back parking lot. The man ran well and showed no signs of slowing, having increased the gap between them. Beyond the lot loomed a field of white tents that Walt recognized as the Sun Valley Art Show. Closed for the night, the tents covered two acres and offered the suspect a place to get lost.

   He disappeared there, Walt several long seconds behind.

   Walt slowed to a walk, catching his breath, listening for the man. He was soaked through, his boots squishing with each step. The vendors had lowered the walls of the tents. He took his weapon back in his hand, aimed the flashlight tent to tent. Yanking back flaps and peering inside, he worked down the row. The man was here.

   Walt leaned forward for the next tent, when a sharp snap of fabric turned him around in time to see the darkened figure take off and disappear around a corner. Walt cut through between tents, arriving in the adjacent aisle. He saw a tent jerk and wiggle as his quarry caught a foot on a rope.

   Walt crashed through into the next aisle. He spotted the man to his right just rounding a corner. Walt took off at a sprint, hugging the same corner.

   The other man jumped out and connected with Walt, shoving him and using his momentum to lift him off his feet. Walt was catapulted into a tent across the aisle, crashed into and through the front wall of canvas, and took out the legs of a portable table. He rolled, came to his feet, tripped over a horse saddle, and went down hard.

   A harsh beam of light filled his eyes.

   "Sheriff? That you? What the hell?" The voice belonged to a Sun Valley Company security man.

   Out of breath, Walt coughed out, "A guy . . . running . . ." He pointed. "After him!"

   The security man just stood there, confused. "What guy?"

   Walt pushed past the man into the aisle. Empty.

   "What guy?" the guard repeated.

   "Where'd you come from?" Walt asked. "How could you not have seen him?"

   "Didn't see no one. Heard you crashing around over here. Came running."

   "Get on the radio. I don't want any cars leaving the main lot. Anyone with wet hair gets detained."

   "Wet hair. Yes, sir."

   Walt took off toward the lodge. The hit man was here to kill Liz Shaler, he had no doubt now. Given the element of surprise, the man could have done far worse to him. Stabbed him. Broken his neck. Taken his gun. But he'd attempted none of these and instead of making him an amateur it marked him a pro: He'd done the minimum required to get cleanly away. Intentional or not, the man had delivered a message.

   And whether Dryer chose to or not, Walt intended to listen.

O
ver the incessant din of the Weather Channel, Danny Cutter heard the telephone system's unique ring tone that signaled an arrival at the front door of his brother's compound. He continued on the elliptical as he used the television remote to view a fish-eye image of Ailia Holms, dressed in a two-color, gray, zippered shell, white iPod wires in her ears. She stared up toward what was supposed to be a hidden camera. She mouthed, "Hello . . ." Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, her cheeks red with the cool morning air.

   Danny resentfully disembarked the trainer, punched a button on the phone, and told her, "Be right there."

   The gym occupied the upper floor of the swimming pool barn. He navigated his way back through the series of renovated barns to the front door—a two-minute, brisk walk.

   A towel draped around his neck, he answered the door.

   "Hey there," Ailia said, stepping inside without invitation.

   Danny eased the door shut.

   "Sleep well?" She used her vixen voice, the voice of the woman who had seduced him the night before.

   "He's not here," Danny said. "He's up at the lodge. The rest of the guests all arrive before noon."

   She touched his cheek. "Hot and sweaty. Just how I left you last night."

   "You could try his cell."

   "I'm taking a run out Adam's Gulch," she explained. "You want to come with?" Patrick's compound abutted state forest land. Aspen- and evergreen-shrouded mountains were braided together with interlocking bike and foot trails.

   "I'm just wrapping up," he said, declining. "There's coffee, if you want."

   "Staff arrives at eight, isn't that right?" She checked her watch and cozied up to him. "We could put that twenty minutes to good use."

   "Rain check," he said.

   She complained, "It doesn't rain much here, Danny. You know that." She stepped away and looked around the room. "You'd never guess there were a hundred people here last night."

   She had a sultry walk as she prowled the room. He felt himself stir. He wanted none of that, already resenting the night before. "Can I leave a message or something?"

   "Or something," she said.

   "Allie . . ."

   She turned to face him. "Come on, Danny, I'm just kidding around." They both knew differently. "Why so serious? I've got news for you. Good news for a change. The least you could do is pretend you're glad to see me."

   "We talked about this."

   "Not really. I don't remember talking all that much."

   He fought back an urge to just walk away and leave her before it got out of hand again.

   "I've arranged a meeting between you and Stu."

   He felt his breath catch. "I expressly asked—"

   "You can thank me now, if you like." She checked her watch. "We've still got eighteen minutes." She closed to within an arm's reach. "You know how
hard
it was to set up a meeting given his conference schedule?"

   Danny felt his face flush.

   "Don't gush with thanks all at once. I can take it in little bits. Or little bites, or whatever."

   "I asked you to leave it alone."

   "You know me, Danny: I'm impulsive."

   He took her by both wrists and backed her up several feet against a couch.

   "Shit, Danny, that hurts."

   He drove himself against her, pelvis against pelvis. "Is this what you want, Allie? Nice and rough. You want it on the couch? On the kitchen counter? Where?"

   "You're hurting me," she gasped.

   "You love it."

   "Fuck you!"

   "You wish."

   He let go of her, stepped back.

   Panting, she inspected her wrists.

   "Shit, Danny. I think you bruised me. How am I going to explain that?"

   "I'm sorry!"

   "Sorry?" she said, rubbing her forearm. "You obviously don't know Stu very well."

   "I told you I have to do this m
yself ,
" he scolded. "I don't want Paddy's help, or yours, or anybody else's."

   She was still rubbing her forearm. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Long sleeves in July? Are you kidding me?"

   "I didn't mean to hurt you."

   "What's happened to you?" she mumbled. "You're fucked up, Danny."

   "I was fucked up," he said. "Not anymore."

"Don't be so sure."

   She pulled the heavy front door open. Morning sunlight had broken onto the opposing hillside, setting it on fire. She didn't look at him, just walked outside.

   She started into a slow jog, turned at the end of the drive, and broke into a full run.

   Danny stepped back inside, shaken by what he'd done. He wondered where such anger came from, and worse, where it could lead.

V
eterinarian Mark Aker's low voice growled as he walked stiffly and slightly bowlegged toward the Sun Valley Lodge, Walt at his side. "This guy must be charmed. You pulled off a miracle." His dark brown eyes peered out from his tanned, bearded face. In his right hand he held a dark blue nylon leash, leading a fine-looking German shepherd.

   "We," Walt corrected. "And I don't even know how we did it."

   "He has Maggie to thank. And Patrick Cutter's wallet. This is costing north of five hundred bucks a day."

   Walt whistled. "What's amazing is she looks just like his dog—the one that died."

   "Animals and commercial aircraft shouldn't mix."

   The lodge's portico was crowded with vehicles, valet personnel, and bellmen. One of the bellmen caught sight of the dog and moved to intercept Mark Aker. "Service dog," Walt said. "Being delivered to a hotel guest."