In Harm's Way

by Ridley Pearson

  In Harm's Way

  Ridley Pearson

  The New York Times-bestselling author delivers another extraordinary Walt Fleming thriller.

  Sun Valley sheriff Walt Fleming's budding relationship with photographer Fiona Kenshaw hits a rough patch after Fiona is involved in a heroic river rescue and she attempts to duck the press. Despite her job and her laudable actions, she begs Walt to keep her photo out of the paper, avoiding him when he can't.

  Then Walt gets a phone call that changes everything: Lou Boldt, a police sergeant out of Seattle, calls to report that a recent murder may have a Sun Valley connection. After a badly beaten body is discovered just off a local highway, Walt knows there is a link-but can he pull the pieces together in time?

  Ridley Pearson

  In Harm's Way

  The fourth book in the Walt Fleming series, 2010

  For Louise Marsh

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Sheriff Walt Femling, his wife, Jenny, and their family. And to the residents of the Wood River Valley.

  1

  Glancing out the windshield and beyond the four-lane concrete bridge, Fiona spotted a log with flailing arms. Human arms. A child’s arms, struggling up through the river’s rushing water, held down by a tangle of branches.

  Fiona instinctively reached out to block her passenger from hitting the dash while simultaneously slamming on the brakes. Her Subaru skidded, drifting into the breakdown lane just past the bridge. She set the emergency brake and released her seat belt in a single motion, her feet already on the asphalt. She crossed four lanes of busy traffic amid a flurry of horns and the high-pitched cries of biting rubber.

  Over it all, she heard her passenger, Kira, calling out her name and she glanced back to see Kira hoisting her camera bag high in the air. Fiona gestured her back, but Kira ignored it and pressed forward, darting through gaps in the traffic. More tire squeals. A man crudely cursed from his black pickup as he avoided Kira by inches, careening off the roadway and onto the dirt shoulder, throwing up twin rooster tails.

  Fiona ignored him, scampering down the bank, and waded into the shallow, painfully cold water at the river’s edge. The fist-sized, slippery round stones of the river bottom made her look drunk as she charged into the more swiftly moving, knee-deep water. She glanced left, timing the approach of the floating logs, preparing to dive.

  The limbs of the first of four logs struck her, knocking her off balance, and she fell. They scraped across her back, tearing her shirt and dragging her down under. She struggled out of the grasp of the tangled branches and gasped for air as she resurfaced. Finding her balance, she dodged the next log. And the next.

  Barreling toward her came the final tree: the one with the human arms she’d seen upstream. It bore down on her, a tongue of torn wood aimed like a lance.

  She no longer saw the arms thrashing. For an instant, she wondered if she’d seen them at all.

  The approaching tree was well over a foot thick and likely weighed hundreds of pounds. Driven by the force of June runoff, it would hit her like a battering ram.

  Kira, now at river’s edge, again screamed, “F-i-o-n-a! No!”

  From the same direction, Fiona heard a splash-the driver of the pickup now thundering out toward her.

  The wide spread of pine boughs seemed aimed to sweep her off her feet once again. Distracted, she’d lost her chance to move out of the way. She counted down in her head…

  Ten yards… five yards…

  She drew a lungful of air and dove the four feet to the river bottom. Reached out and white-knuckled a mossy, large flat rock, keeping herself down. The limbs broomed over her, snagging her hair and yanking her head up and back. A chunk of hair tore loose. She screamed bubbles. Most of her shirt was torn off. She one-handed the rock, protecting her face as the remaining limbs scraped raw the flesh of her forearm.

  In her blurred vision appeared a child’s pale bare foot. Fiona let go of the rock, grabbed the ankle with both hands and followed up the leg to the child’s waist, planting her feet in the maze of rocks on the river bottom and propelling herself up out of the water and into the snarl of tree branches. The tree limbs whipped and dug into her arms and face, demanding she release the child, but she would not let go.

  At last, the tree passed and Fiona opened her eyes to see a little girl’s terrified eyes gazing back at her. The girl blinked and coughed and Fiona felt tears spring to her eyes. Alive! The driver of the pickup appeared, lunging through the coursing water and extending an arm to Fiona, who held on to the crying child like life itself.

  A smattering of applause arose from a small gathering of onlookers, camera phones extended, all of whom had pulled to the side of the road to help. Behind them towered the greening mountains that surrounded Ketchum and Sun Valley, above them the azure sky that had helped name this place.

  Fiona held the child high in an effort to screen her own face, hoping to keep herself out of sight of the cameras.

  The girl’s crying was steady now-a joyous sound. As Fiona briefly lost her balance to the uneven river bottom, the girl clutched her with an unexpected force.

  “I won’t let go,” Fiona promised.

  In the distance a siren wailed, an ambulance from St. Luke’s Hospital less than a mile away. Someone had called 911. More applause as the pickup driver led her to dry ground and Fiona dropped to her knees, never relaxing her embrace of the child, who in turn pressed herself closer to her rescuer.

  “You’re okay. You’re okay,” Fiona whispered into the matted hair, as a dozen people rushed down the embankment and the pickup driver called out to give them room.

  More cameras fired off shots, including her own, currently in Kira’s hands. Too many cameras to ever control. She could imagine the images already being sent over the Internet. One moment, anonymous in a sleepy Idaho town. The next… out there.

  Helpless to do anything about it, she understood that this moment represented the saving of one life and quite possibly the loss of another: her own.

  2

  Walt Fleming entered St. Luke’s emergency room to the stares his sheriff’s uniform typically provoked. Reaction was never neutral, and it affected him, to varying degrees. People were both afraid of and impressed by police. Everyone was guilty of some infraction, no matter how minor; it came down to how much of it they wore on their sleeves.

  “Kenshaw!” he barked at the nurse behind the registration desk, never slowing a step. Despite his concern for the well-being of the child fished from the Big Wood River, he was impatient and tense about the condition of the child’s rescuer.

  “Observation two!” the nurse called down the hall after him.

  The walls were beige, the ceiling lighting intense, the complex aroma-medicinal disinfectant, bitter coffee-vaguely nauseating. He ran, did not walk, to Observation 2. He yanked back the privacy curtain, not waiting for permission.

  “Oh, damn!” he barked out unintentionally upon seeing her. He stepped inside and drew the curtain closed behind him.

  A nurse tending to an IV bag turned and was about to let loose on the intruder when sight of the uniform stopped her.

  “Leave us a minute,” Walt told the nurse as he met eyes with Fiona.

  “I’m fine,” Fiona said.

  “Yeah, I can see that.” She looked horrible.

  The nurse gave Walt the once-over on her way out. She clearly had some choice words to offer, but contained herself.

  Fiona wore a blue and white hospital gown-a loosely woven yellow blanket covered her from the waist down. Her face and arms were badly scratched, both carrying some butterfly bandages. Her scalp had been shaved in a spot about the size of a quarter over her left ear and was dressed with a small bandage. On her upper left shoulde
r he saw the glow of a bruise forming.

  “They took some X-rays,” she said, “against my better judgment. I really am fine. It’s nothing. I realize I must look like hell, and you have no right to be-”

  “You look good,” he said. He’d rarely paid her any kind of compliment about her looks. It hung in the air uncomfortably. “Alive is good,” he added. Fiona would never win any beauty contests, but in his opinion she’d turn heads decades into the future. Her kind of tomboyish looks didn’t need a surgeon’s knife to remain interesting. She changed her looks frequently, using ball caps or haircuts. It was impossible to pin down her age, but she was over twenty-eight and under thirty-five if he was any judge. She took a lot of sun from her hours as a fishing guide, but she wore it well, not leathery the way some of the Ketchum women aged. In a strange way, her wounds added to her attractiveness, as if mystery were all she’d ever lacked.

  “Given the options.”

  “What’d you do, fight a bear to get to her?”

  “A fir tree, I think it was. Lots of nasty branches.”

  “That kind of goes hand in hand where trees are concerned-the branches thing. I heard the kid’s fine.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You’re a hero.”

  “I may need your help with that,” she said. “Sit.”

  Walt drew a rolling stool up to the side of the bed and rested his hands on the bed’s stainless steel frame. He’d been reaching for her hand, but stopped himself.

  She took his hand in hers, stretching the IV to do so. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “Yeah.” He absentmindedly glanced toward the pulled curtain.

  She let go of his hand. “It’s all right,” she said, sensing his reluctance and misinterpreting it as embarrassment.

  He regretted losing her touch, regretted having looked behind him, regretted that he couldn’t see a few seconds ahead to know when to keep from doing something stupid.

  “The IV,” she said, following his eyes, “is nothing but a precaution. They have to charge you for something.”

  “The department’s insurance will cover it.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I wasn’t on the job.”

  “You’re always on the job.”

  “I’m a civilian employee-part time at that-who serves at the pleasure of the sheriff. That doesn’t come with benefits, last I looked.”

  “Well, you didn’t look carefully enough. You serve at my pleasure, and it’s my pleasure that our policy will cover it. Have you ever seen the bill from an emergency room visit?”

  “I’ll withhold my objections until I know what we’re talking about.”

  “That’s better.”

  “So the ‘Oh, damn’? Was that for my face?”

  “General condition,” he said. “The hospital gown. Lying there like that. Your face… I like your face. No complaints.”

  “The doctor said it won’t scar. Some will heal faster than others, but they’re nothing to worry about.”

  “You saved a life,” he said.

  “I need you to go to bat for me.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Pam.”

  Pam was Fiona’s other boss, the editor/owner of the Mountain Express, Ketchum/Sun Valley’s weekly.

  “Because?”

  “There were a lot of people taking pictures.”

  “Heroic moments tend to get that.”

  “I don’t want my picture to run.”

  “I doubt you’ll have any say in the matter. For once your modesty, the way you stalk about, is going to lose out to the needs of the masses. Pam will run it on the front page, I would think.”

  “She can’t,” Fiona said defiantly.

  “But she will, no matter how much you object.”

  “It’s a giveaway. The front page hardly matters.”

  “A good front page, the more copies you give away, the more you can charge for your ads next time.”

  “Whose side are you on? I need you, Walt.”

  “It’s false modesty: you saved a life.”

  “My picture cannot run in that paper.” Her tone and demeanor had changed. The physical pain and shock behind her eyes had given way to anger.

  “O… k… a… y. Maybe we should talk about this.”

  “I can’t. That’s not going to happen. I just need you to speak with her, to convince her.”

  “And you need me to do this because…?”

  “Because I’m her employee. I’m your employee. Employer to employer, I need you to talk to her and make up anything you want, any reason you want, just make sure no photo runs.”

  “If you were trying to win my curiosity, you’ve succeeded,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

  She seemed ready to tell him something, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Talk to me,” he said, his own voice now sharing her concern. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the stainless steel fixtures. He had a wide face, slightly boyish, with kind eyes. His hair was short and graying prematurely. His ex-wife had once advised him to use “product” on his hair, but he’d resisted. He was suddenly revisiting that idea.

  “I need you to convince her not to run any photos. I’m a civilian employee of your office-part time-and you want to protect my privacy. Make up anything you like.”

  “There’s a little thing called freedom of the press.”

  “Which is why it can’t come from me. From you it carries a lot more weight.”

  “My office can’t make that kind of request without being able to back it up. I’ve never made such a request. And there have been plenty of times I didn’t want a photo to run. We’ve blacked out eyes a few times. I could ask her for that-but I’d have to have a reason.”

  “That’ll just cause more of a sensation,” Fiona said. “That’s worse than just running a picture.”

  “You’re not giving me a lot of options here.”

  “Can’t I get a favor with no strings attached? Please. Ask her not to run my picture.”

  Something had been nagging at Walt that now made a world of sense. Again, he voiced it without taking proper time to think through the consequences.

  “This paranoia of yours… It doesn’t happen to have anything to do with your always being on the other end of the camera, does it?” Her eyes grew intense. If what he’d seen a few seconds before was anger, this was now rage. “You take the pictures to make sure no one takes them of you? Is that it? Could that be any more insidious?”

  “Please, stop,” she said.

  The nurse knocked on the frame. “I’m coming in there,” she announced.

  “I’ll talk to her about it,” Walt said, amazed by the relief that washed over Fiona’s wounded face, and the warmth of her hand as she once again touched his.

  3

  Beatrice, Walt’s three-year-old Irish spaniel, drooled onto Fiona’s face on the front page of the Mountain Express, and then turned to lick Walt, who remained trapped behind the wheel of the Jeep. Walt pushed her into the backseat and told her to stay. He brushed the drool off the newspaper, but too late: Fiona, carrying the half-drowned child from the river, now had a teardrop beard that ran to her waist.

  He pulled the Jeep Cherokee into the driveway behind his deputy’s cruiser. The call of a bear attack had come in thirty minutes earlier. The property owner’s insurance would want the police to sign off on the cause of the damage-it wasn’t the first time for Walt. Garbage cans or vehicles with windows down were the most common targets of a wayward bear; rarely did the bear actually break into a kitchen and shred the place. This, Walt had to see.

  Fiona’s Subaru was parked beneath a portable basketball backboard. She’d been called in to document the damage. Sprinklers ran in the front yard, creating a haze behind which the densely green mountains rose magnificently. Every view here was worthy of a postcard.

  The Berkholder residence, a 9,000-square-foot stucco home, occupied the back corner of a five-acre parcel at the end of a
quarter-mile semi-private drive. Their only neighbors-the Engletons-lived a half mile away. Fiona, who served as the Engletons’ caretaker, lived in their guesthouse, meaning she could have walked over here.

  He tossed the Mountain Express onto the car floor, annoyed by the reminder of his own failed attempt to keep Fiona’s picture from appearing in it. He feared there would be hell to pay.

  He cracked a window for Beatrice, told her to stay, and climbed out, in no great hurry to reach the front door. Thankfully his phone rang, stopping him alongside the chick, chick, chick of the sprinkler guns.

  He instantly recognized the caller’s number.

  “Dad?”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  “Pleasantly surprised is more like it. It’s been a while, is all.”

  “Has it? I suppose it has. Honestly, I don’t remember.”

  That’s the point.

  “To what do I owe…?” Walt said.

  “I’ve been approached as an intermediary, I suppose you could say. A detective with Crimes Against Persons, over here in Seattle. The guy knew I was your father and got hold of me through a mutual friend, Brent Staffer, a Bureau buddy of mine.”

  “Okay.” Jerry never failed to remind his son he’d been a special agent for the FBI and that Walt had missed his own chance to serve a higher calling. He was also fond of reminding his son that he read the local Ketchum paper, tracked the stories involving Walt’s department, and liked to rub it in when those jobs involved clearing a band of sheep from the highway or serving motorcade duty for a rock star on a weekend ski trip.

  “He’s trying to keep things low profile, very low profile, because of the personalities involved. Doesn’t want so much as the record of a phone call. You get the point.”

  “I do.” Walt dealt with plenty of the rich and famous-more than his father knew.