Killer Summer (Walt Fleming)

by Ridley Pearson

  She explained her decision to drive herself, that it was a job for her. Though disappointed, he didn’t act surprised.

  “We’ll see you there, then,” he said. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Maybe by dessert.”

  She allowed herself a smile, at Leslie’s expense, and was turning to leave when she remembered to say something to the children. She had looked after them on several previous visits and liked all three very much.

  It was only then she paid any attention to the pick-up sticks. She stepped closer to the game, looking straight down at the pile of colorful knitting-needle-length wooden sticks interlocked in a jumbled mess.

  Perhaps it was flying with Walt, the bird’s-eye view. Perhaps it was her photographer’s eye. Whatever it was, she saw something in that pile of sticks that ran a spike of adrenaline through her.

  She was in her car, speeding out the drive, before she realized she’d been rude. She’d forgotten to say good-bye.

  34

  With the open attaché displaying the Adams bottles inside the air-cooled Plexiglas case, Walt kept an eye on the crowd at the cocktail party. An ATKINSON’S MARKET bag containing Remy’s pants and belongings rested on the grass at Walt’s feet. If the bottles were stolen without the attaché and its GPS, then Walt’s plan to follow it to George Clooney would fail. Convinced he had not seen the end of these people, he watched for the woman who’d been wearing the copper-colored blouse, the woman who’d pushed the baby stroller across Main Street and stopped the wrecker, the woman who’d run naked from the motel room. He believed she was the one in charge. She was the one he was after.

  Arthur Remy hobbled in on aluminum crutches. Approaching Walt, he looked like a man on too many painkillers.

  “Sheriff . . .”

  Walt handed Remy the bag. Remy rummaged through his belongings, his pants, his wallet, found the security card, stuffed his pockets. He then dropped the bag and pants into the grass.

  “You have quite a few officers here this evening. I counted four outside.”

  “Deputies, yes. An ounce of prevention . . .” Walt said.

  He had five total, Brandon and four others. The radios were live, the MC parked nearby, its dispatcher maintaining control over the team. Walt had three roadblocks set up, if needed.

  Remy shuffled over to the case containing the Adams bottles, like a mother hen checking her nest. He glanced at the bottles, then up at Walt, and for a moment Walt sensed Remy knew the bottles had been handled. But Fiona had photographed their position, and Walt believed they had been returned exactly.

  “We need to talk,” Remy said.

  “Anytime.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  A crowd was gathering. Remy turned and raised his voice so they could hear him.

  “An historic evening! A piece of history will end up in a private collection. It’s not every day that happens.”

  Walt stepped back. Remy was surrounded at once. Condolences over his knee mixed with questions about his discovery of the bottles. He caught Walt’s eye briefly, but if he intended to convey anything it was lost on Walt, whose attention was galvanized by a woman just then entering the tent.

  Fiona hurried toward him.

  “Wow!” Walt said, eyeing her.

  “I know what it is,” she said breathlessly.

  Her present state—flushed and panting—excited him.

  “What what is?” he asked.

  “Sawtooth Wood Products . . . the kid getting zapped.”

  He drew her away from the display tables.

  “What about it?” he said.

  “Pick-up sticks. The kids, at Michael and Leslie’s, were playing pick-up sticks. The people doing this—the thieves—they’re going to use the logs to block a road. They were after one of the logging trucks. You spill one of those logging trucks . . . you dump logs on the road . . .”

  “It would stop traffic for hours,” he muttered, realizing she’d seized upon the escape plan.

  He grabbed for his radio but dropped it, pulling Fiona close to him and throwing her to the ground beneath him, as the walls of the tent briefly flared yellow and an explosion ripped through the cocktail party’s peaceful chatter.

  There were screams, and immediate panic, but no more explosions. Walt rolled off Fiona and sprang to his feet.

  It had begun.

  35

  In one ear Walt heard the calm voice of the MC dispatcher report the explosion. “To all units in the vicinity of the Sun Valley Golf pro shop . . .” her report began. She was broadcasting a 10-80, the radio code for an explosion, over the secure frequency monitored by the valley’s police departments and all on-duty sheriff’s deputies.

  Walt immediately returned over the same frequency. “Code nine,” he said, ordering the roadblocks established. “All units outside a half-mile radius, hold your current positions.”

  Three months earlier, there had been a shooting in downtown Ketchum. In and of itself, that was a rare event but not unheard of. It being a slow night in the valley, what made things interesting was that every patrol from Bellevue to the North Shore responded, seventeen police officers and five sheriff’s deputies in all. Walt could see it happening again, despite a review board organized by him, following a front-page article in the newspaper ridiculing local law enforcement for overreacting.

  Fiona’s theory about spilling logs on the highway entered his decision making. What if the thieves had read that same newspaper? What if they expected and were trying to orchestrate the same overreaction?

  Within seconds, he heard a siren approaching. Then another. And another.

  While four of his deputies hurried toward the fire in the golf shop, Walt and Brandon secured the Adams bottles in the attaché and made for the Cherokee, parked alongside the tent.

  Emergencies instilled a certain calmness in Walt. His hearing was heightened. He saw things more clearly. He loved this shit.

  Guests had scattered. Some had hit the deck like he had, others had fled to their cars. Still others had been rescued by their own bodyguards. But as the confusion settled down, so did the remaining crowd, and surprisingly quickly. Wineglasses were refilled. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves again.

  Fiona was by the tent entrance, camera in hand, getting shots of the distant fire.

  Another siren, and yet another. It quickly became apparent that, once again, the action-starved police were turning out in droves.

  Now behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Walt called his own deputy, who served as the Bellevue marshal, to ask him to recheck the lumberyard for logging trucks.

  “There should be two of them,” he told the man.

  “Got it.”

  “What’s that about?” Brandon said from the passenger’s seat, the attaché in hand.

  Walt quickly explained Fiona’s theory, tying it to all the sirens and responding fire trucks and patrol cars.

  “So they’re shutting down the highway?”

  “Makes for an easier getaway.”

  “But they don’t have the wine,” Brandon said, patting the case.

  “Not yet, they don’t,” Walt said.

  He drove off, negotiating all the well-dressed people gawking at the fire.

  “If they didn’t get the rig from Sawtooth, that hardly matters. There are plenty of logging trucks around. All that work on the ski mountain . . .”

  “True enough,” Walt said. “First, we get these bottles back into the bank.”

  “Why didn’t they rush the party?” Brandon asked. “Why blow that golf cart and then not rush the party?”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s bugging me too.”

  They passed five patrol cars—two from Hailey, three from Ketchum—heading toward the fire.

  “We screwed this up . . . again,” Walt said. “That’s probably half our resources heading the wrong direction.”

  Brandon grabbed for the radio and, on Walt’s instruction, reiterated the order for dispatch to recall the patrols. But as h
e did, two more cars zoomed past, lights blazing.

  “Shee-it,” said Brandon, his face lit by the colorful lights. “Like kids in a candy store.”

  “Entirely too predictable,” said Walt.

  They drove through their own roadblock, then moved traffic out of the way with their lights and siren. Ten minutes later, the bottles were returned to the vault, courtesy of the manager, who had agreed to be at their disposal all evening.

  “Not exactly what we wanted,” Walt said, back behind the wheel, the Adams bottles now safe.

  “We’re missing something,” Brandon said.

  “Yup.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Nope.”

  “They should have gone after the bottles.”

  “Yup.”

  Beatrice stuck her wet nose between the seats and licked Walt, who reached back and petted her.

  “Why block the highway if you don’t steal the wine?” Brandon asked.

  “Roach Motel,” Walt said, yanking the car into gear and racing out of the bank’s parking lot. Brandon clipped his seat belt.

  “What the hell, Sheriff ?”

  “They check in, but they never check out.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Brandon said. “But, what the hell?”

  “They set off the explosion. We respond. They use the logs to close the highway. We’re all trapped.”

  “They aren’t after the wine,” Brandon said, grabbing for the vehicle’s support handle.

  “They aren’t after the wine,” Walt echoed.

  36

  Summer signaled for Kevin to pull over next to a chain-link fence that separated the tarmac and hangars from the airport access road. Beyond the fence, a dozen business jets were parked and tied down. Kevin killed the engine, his palms slippery on the steering wheel.

  “Sun Valley Aviation’s up there,” he informed her. “Why here?”

  “Yeah, but we aren’t exactly going there.”

  “Because?”

  “Because of the small technicality that I am underage and neither of us is a pilot. You’re not a pilot, are you?” she added as an afterthought.

  “No, but my uncle owns a sailplane, a glider. I’m sure they’d let me show it to you. I know most of the guys in there.”

  “That’s the point. I’d rather just jump the fence.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s easy. Look around, dude. It’s not like anything’s happening around here.”

  “Hello? It’s illegal.”

  “We can be over in, like, two seconds.”

  “But why bother if I can get us through the FBO? Fixed Base Operation,” he added, answering her puzzled expression. “Sun Valley Aviation, we don’t have to jump any fence,” he said. “Maybe I should just go.”

  “No way!”

  “You’re here. You wanted me to drive you here, and I did. We’re good.”

  “I’m way early for my flight,” she complained. “The inside of the jet is way cool. That’s it, right over there.” She pointed. “I’m telling you, you’re going to totally love it.”

  “I’m not jumping the fence, that’s nuts. It’s, like, a federal crime or something.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No. I’m just not going to do it.”

  “Because you’re afraid . . .”

  “No. Because I can just walk through Sun Valley Aviation and get to the same place.”

  “At some point,” she said, “my father’s going to look for me, we both know that. Tonight, tomorrow? When he does, he’s going to check everywhere. He doesn’t do anything halfway. If you and me go through Sun Valley Aviation, we’ve been seen together. And then, when I’m suddenly not around . . .”

  “Which is why this is where you get out.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “Seriously, I’ve got to go. Have a safe flight.”

  She yanked the keys from the ignition, popped open the door, and sprinted for the fence. She climbed the fence like a cat. Through the chain link, she grinned playfully, dangling Kevin’s keys from her finger. She glanced furtively to either side, wondering if she’d been seen, then was all the more obnoxious when she realized she was in the clear.

  “If you want ’em, you’re going to have to come and get ’em.” She slipped the keys into the tight front pocket of her jeans. “Throw my suitcase over, while you’re at it.”

  He left the suitcase in the car and climbed the fence, landing flat-footed on the tarmac.

  She backed away, her right hand still guarding the keys in her pocket.

  “Your bag for the keys,” he said, looking around hotly, terrified of being caught.

  “Come and get it,” she said.

  She sprinted toward one of the jets.

  He caught up to her just as she was slipping a key in the jet’s lock. The top half of the jet’s hatch lifted up as a set of stairs simultaneously lowered with the bottom half.

  She grabbed Kevin by the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her. Then, as their lips were about to touch, she spun around, placing her backside against his crotch, and pulled his right hand down around her, his fingers inching into her pocket.

  It was warm inside the pocket. And terrifying.

  “They’re yours, if you want them.”

  His fingers touched his keys. She forced his hand lower, deeper into the pocket. It was like a furnace down there.

  He grabbed his keys, pulled them out, stuffed them in his pant pocket.

  She pulled his now-free hand against the skin of the jet.

  “Now that you’ve touched it,” she said, confusing him, “don’t you want to see it?”

  “I . . . don’t think so,” his voice cracked. He looked back at his car.

  “One beer,” she said. “Have a look around. Stay or don’t stay. Whatever you want. But I’ve got time to kill, and we might as well kill it together.”

  Her warmth lingered on his fingertips.

  Now that you’ve touched it . . .

  He followed her up the stairs.

  37

  Having set the charge in the golf cart, Roger McGuiness had met up with Matt Salvo, who’d had a much easier time stealing the logging truck than on his first try.

  McGuiness dropped the semi into a low gear, and they drove off, leaving behind Sun Valley Company’s Cold Springs base camp, an area of collected construction equipment and material.

  “We’re good?” Salvo said.

  McGuiness replied, “I must have passed a dozen patrol cars headed north.”

  A siren whooped from behind them.

  “Heads up!” McGuiness said, his attention on the truck’s wing mirror.

  Salvo checked the opposing mirror and he pounded the truck’s dash. “Shit!”

  “Chill. We’ve got this,” said the driver.

  The GREENHORN/EAST FORK traffic light was just ahead. Less than a quarter mile past the light, and slightly downhill, was the highway bridge, a three-lane concrete span.

  Salvo reached over and picked up the fat black electric cable that lay between the seats. The rest of it ran out of the cab’s sliding rear window to the load of logs chained to the truck bed. Attached to the cab end that Salvo held was a black button switch.

  The cop car had pulled to within a few feet of the red safety flags stapled to the ends of the longer logs.

  “Not yet,” McGuiness said.

  “The fucker is right there!”

  “And what’s he going to do, run us off the road? Do not detonate those charges, Matt. Hold off.”

  Salvo’s thumb hovered over the button.

  The truck ran the light, speeding toward the bridge.

  “Timing is everything,” McGuiness said. “I set those charges. I know how this thing is going to work. Don’t freak out over some cop car.”

  The cop car jerked out into the turn lane and pulled up alongside. Oncoming traffic swerved to avoid it.

 
; A hundred yards and closing.

  Salvo’s thumb loomed over the button.

  “You strapped in?” McGuiness said, double-checking.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Hold on.”

  McGuiness tugged the steering wheel sharply left, quickly corrected, and then applied the brakes. The tires squealed and smoked as the cab and trailer drifted in slow motion, first in unison, then like the tail wagging the dog, as the truck jackknifed into a graceful skid. The move got the cop’s attention—one second, alongside the rig; the next, about to be crushed by it. He veered off the highway, spewing a rooster tail of dust and crashing head-on into the berm that supported the bike path.

  McGuiness had landed the cab and trailer squarely between the bridge’s opposing guardrails. A thing of beauty.

  “Now!”

  Salvo pushed the button.

  A great cloud of gray smoke arose from a series of small explosions along both sides of the trailer. The giant logs tumbled from the trailer in both directions.

  It happened exactly as Cantell had proposed—a nightmarish tangle of enormous logs, rolling and bouncing off the truck. The truck shuddered to a stop, complaining steel squealing. McGuiness had jackknifed the truck into the mouth of the bridge like a cork in a bottle.

  “Nice,” Salvo said, as he grabbed the chainsaw at his feet.

  “See you at the rendezvous,” McGuiness said, sliding down out of the cab.

  Salvo made his way through the fallen timber, and, keeping an eye on the damaged patrol car, climbed to the bike-path bridge, dragging the chainsaw with him.

  He tugged its cord and the saw sputtered to life. He planted its blade into a power pole.

  He looked away, avoiding the spray of wood chips and sawdust, only to see cars everywhere. In both directions, traffic had come to a stop, causing a few rear enders, and leaving the highway in chaos.

  He made a second cut with the saw. A wedge of wood broke loose and fell out. He started a third cut.

  The driver of a pickup truck climbed out and started shouting at him. The man ran for the wrecked police car.