Killer Weekend (13 page)

   "A male can travel twenty-five miles at night, while hunting. This one could have been in Hailey last night. Starweather? No problem."

   Fiona finished taking shots, packed up her bag, said goodbye to them both, and trudged back up the hill.

   "It would help if we could connect this cat to the yellow Lab," Walt told the agent. "There was an attack on a fisherman. Putting all those to bed would be a good thing."

   "We won't be able to confirm any of that. And what I didn't want to say was chances are we won't find her a home."

   Walt looked down at the beautiful creature and felt depressed.

   "Cougars and humans . . . ," the agent said, pausing, "is not a good mix. Add PCP into it, and it's a nightmare waiting to happen. She's trouble, Sheriff. May not be her fault, but trouble just the same."

   "Yeah," Walt said, "but she got here first. We're the interlopers."

   The cat's open-eyed stare stayed with him on his return to the trailhead. Fiona's car was gone.

   He thought about finding Gail's car parked at Brandon's trailer and his chest tightened. He'd spent the night on his own couch, unable to sleep in their bed. Hadn't slept much at all. He realized his marriage had officially ended: It wasn't just talk, and tears, and lawyers anymore, and it left an aching hole in him that even work couldn't fill. He wanted to take the day off, maybe hike up into the Pioneers with the dogs. He wanted change, something to take away all the reminders of his own failure.

   He climbed back into the Cherokee and held firmly to the wheel, unable to drive. Unable to move.

T
revalian had a problem: For his plan to work he had to take possession of the second dog, a dog trained for scent—and then make a switch. The sheriff and the vet had unwittingly provided a dog to get his plan back on track. But the vet, Mark Aker, from whom he'd arranged to purchase a scent dog—a tracker—weeks ago, by phone, had been introduced to Nagler that same morning, when delivering the service dog. Trevalian felt it too great a risk to allow Aker to meet Trevalian and Nagler in the same day, for fear he might make the connection—doctors were, if anything, observant. But this was the day prearranged for him to buy the tracker, so he'd timed his arrival in the lobby of Aker's Veteranarian Services, an expansive log structure a few miles south of Ketchum, at a time he knew Aker to be busy with an emergency surgery.

   He hid his impatience from the receptionist, wandering an area crowded with parakeet cages, racks of kitty teasers, and sacks of pet food.

   Then his impatience gave way and he approached the counter for the third time.

   "I don't mean to be rude but is there anyone else I might talk to about this?" he asked.

   "I'm afraid he asked that you wait," she answered.

   "But the sale has been in place for several weeks," he protested. "I'm under time constraints."

   "Mark thinks of these animals as members of the family. He handles all the sales personally."

   "But she's ready?"

   "Of course."

   "Then could I at least see her?" he asked.

   "Of course you can. I'm so sorry it's taking so long." She came around from behind the desk and led Trevalian out of the building, across a courtyard, to a small barn. The moment they entered, a half dozen dogs started barking.

   Callie was a three-year-old German shepherd with an energetic face and two black socks on the hind legs. Trevalian knelt and petted and talked to the dog.

   "She's trained to track, yes?" he asked the receptionist.

   "All the Search and Rescue dogs are," she replied. "All are expert trackers. Yes."

   Trevalian asked for a demonstration, and the receptionist humored him. He watched and listened carefully to the specific commands used. He committed them to memory, along with Callie's expressions and reactions. She gave him two full demonstrations—the dog obviously enjoying the game of pursuing a scent and receiving a reward for her success.

   Trevalian glanced at his watch, making sure the receptionist saw him do so. "Certainly it can't make any difference who takes my cashier's check."

   "Mark would kill me. We've spent over a year training Callie. He's going to want to say goodbye."

   Trevalian considered killing her himself.

   "And if he loses a twenty-thousand-dollar sale?" Trevalian proposed.

   For the first time, he saw a crack in her determination.

   He pressed on. "I could call him to make sure we've covered everything. Leave you my cell phone number."

   "Well . . ." She didn't sound as convinced as before. "Maybe I can interrupt him," she said. "Why don't we try one more time?"

   As Trevalian followed her back to the main building he looked for any security cameras that might be recording him and saw none. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the building, returning a moment later.

   "I think you're in luck," she said. "He's at a point in the procedure where he can take a minute or two to come out and meet you."

   As his gut twisted, Trevalian attempted to look pleased.

   "I'm going to run over to the other building," the woman said. "I won't be but a minute. Mark should be out shortly."

   "Thank you."

   She hurried through the door, obviously pleased to be rid of him.

   When she returned, she found Mark Aker in his scrubs, his gloves removed, standing next to the reception desk with a perplexed look of confusion and irritation.

   "So?" Aker asked her, his voice revealing the degree of his annoyance. "Is this some kind of joke?"

   "Mr. Meisner was right here a minute ago," she said.

   But the reception area stood empty.

T
he gargantuan white tent shimmered in the late morning sunlight, an imposing edifice of vinyl-coated canvas supported by a steel superstructure. More than fifty yards long and thirty wide, it occupied most of a field adjacent to the art fair's temporary tent city.

   Walt parked across from the First Rights protest where several dozen kids in their twenties were already gathered. They waved posters and shouted, "Global capitalism equals world starvation!" A hundred yards to the west, well-heeled guests converged on the Great White Tent.

   Sun Valley police maintained a perimeter around the protesters. Walt moved toward the tent, where four of his deputies were working with O'Brien's team to secure the event.

   C
³
was ten minutes away from its 10 a.m. opening. For Walt, it felt like horses in a starting gate. The months of planning came down to this moment. He fought a fatigue headache, and the soreness from the chase the night before.

   The tent could seat an audience of twelve hundred in folding chairs. The stage could hold a sixty-person symphony orchestra. At present the tent held four hundred folding chairs, a bookstore, and a coffee house with a dozen café tables on Persian rugs. A Dale Chihuly chandelier hung overhead. Robert Kelly oil paintings lined the interior walls. There were potted trees, azaleas in bloom, custom pillows, and a red silk draped ceiling that created the atmosphere of the interior of an Achaemenid tent.

   Dryer's agents were clustered at the front row near Liz Shaler, who was seated. Classical music played from speakers on either side of the stage and drowned out the anticapitalist chant. O'Brien's team swiped arriving attendees with security wands—not enough of an imposition to be bothersome, but enough precaution to imply a sense of security.

   Moving past the café and down the center aisle, Walt noticed that the tent's side walls, usually left open, were tied shut with locking plastic cable ties. The only way in and out was the one entrance through which Walt had just come.

   It might have been a result of his aborted pursuit the night before; it might have been the sight of the protesters, or the faint sound of their chanting; it might have been his father's presence. It might have been his imagination's unrelenting imagery of Brandon fucking his wife. But whatever the reason, he felt agitated and unsettled—that feeling like he'd forgotten something.

   Patrick Cutter, wearing a blue blazer over a peach golf shirt, stood conferring with his assistants to the right of the stage. He looked confident and proud.

   When a commotion began at the tent's entrance, it drew Walt's attention. He turned and hurried toward it. A pair of college kids confronting O'Brien's guys.

   Walt had taken only a few steps when O'Brien's guys converged from every direction. Most of O'Brien's guys, by the look of it. Eager for action.

   As Walt approached, he caught a look in the eyes of one of the protesters, a kid wearing a green First Rights T-shirt—and it was not a look of despair or concern over being caught, but one of satisfaction, almost glee. The kid made the mistake of looking toward the stage with anticipation.

   Walt immediately reached up for his radio. "Stage entrance. All units crash it, now!"

   The two protesters had been sent as a diversion. O'Brien's men had swarmed, leaving other areas unguarded.

   Now running down the center aisle, Walt shouted out, "RED BADGE!" The three agents guarding Liz Shaler pulled her out of her seat, pushed her into a crouch, and formed a circle around her. They rushed her to the side of the tent, cut the plastic bands binding the tent panels, and whisked her outside. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

   People jumped out of their seats, blocking the stage. Walt couldn't get to Patrick Cutter, whom he now also identified as a possible target.

   He scrambled up onto the stage, dodged across the set: a coffee table, a standing lamp, and two leather chairs. Ahead of him he saw the far wall of the tent wave, the result of air pressure. The moving wave headed in Cutter's direction. Walt dove face-first across the stage, straight off the edge and into the person creating that wave. Something wet spread down him, and as he pinned the kid's arms, restraining him, he saw the blood. It took him a moment to realize it was neither his nor the kid's. Instead, it was chicken blood, intended as a political statement.

   He rolled the kid over to cuff him. The kid shrieked and hollered slogans about capitalism and human rights. Brandon appeared and quickly escorted the boy backstage.

   Patrick Cutter hurried along the side of the stage to Walt.

   "Sheriff? Oh, my God!" he said, seeing the blood down his front. "How did you . . . ? Where did he come from? Thank you! A thousand times thank you."

   "No problem," Walt said. "We're lucky it was just a stunt."

   "You saved me a huge embarrassment. Are you all right, Sheriff?" he finally thought to say.

   "I'm fine. I'm going to get out of here."

   Walt headed backstage.

   Cutter called after him, "I suppose that thing last night was probably just a dress rehearsal for this. Right?"

   Walt turned, the blood covering him from chest to knees. His face and hands were smeared in it. "It was a different venue," he said, "and that was a man last night, not a college kid. Other than that, yeah, they're pretty much exactly the same."

A
t 11 a.m. sharp, fifteen minutes after the conclusion of Patrick's opening address in the tent, an event of unbridled excess that included a gift of a Cutter Communications mobile phone for every guest, and marred only briefly by the disturbance, Stuart Holms sat down with Danny Cutter in the hospitality suite. Stuart's head of security, a balding man in a Hawaiian shirt, who introduced himself as Emil, made a quick sweep of the suite and left. Before he shut the door he gave Danny the eye, as if Danny were trouble, and the first thing that came to Danny's mind was an image of Ailia Holms riding him the night before, her face a grimace of well-earned pleasure.

   Stu Holms took the couch, selected a piece of cheese from a tray, and nibbled on it. "So," he said.

   He looked much younger than Danny remembered him. A face job? He wore a pair of cream-colored slacks and a dark green shirt. He had wet eyes, thin hair, and ears like bird wings. He needed more sun, but his teeth were perfect. Dentures? He seemed to be looking right through Danny, not at him.

   "So. Trilogy looks pretty damn good on paper, or I wouldn't be here."

   "It is good," Danny said, playing to his own strengths. Cheerful optimism came easily for him. "We have significant market penetration, brand loyalty with our customers, and fabulous packaging. What we don't have is a national presence."

   "Which is where my ten million comes in. Yes, I get all that. But listen, Danny, I don't love paying for marketing and advertising. Infrastructure, sure. SquawkCom could provide all your communications needs, networking, cabling, phone, and data. The million you have in this budget will be more than enough. We can save you a lot there. Your bottling plant makes sense to me. Securing your source— absolutely necessary. Imperative, even. But ad dollars? Not me. Not my money. Take that out of the cash flow of your existing business. Move my money into salaries and transportation. Human assets. But I hate advertising. Whoever buys anything because of an ad they see?"

   Danny sorted through what he'd just been told. "You're going to invest?"

   "That's the idea, isn't it?"

   "Well . . . yes." He was stunned it had happened so easily.

   "You'll make me part of the angel round—I don't want diluted shares," he said, "and you'll give me a seat on the board."

   "Our angel round closed two years ago."

   "It just reopened. I'm not taking B shares, Danny. I'm first in line, or I'm stepping out of the line."

   "That can be arranged."

   "Of course it can. And the seat on the board—I had in mind cochairman."