Killer Weekend

by Ridley Pearson

  Mark Aker needed sleep and his beard held cracker crumbs.

  Walt spread the photos out on the counter, as he said, “Suture, needles, bandaging, hypodermic needles. What’s that add up to?”

  Aker studied the photos. “Closing an incision.”

  “Anesthesia, or some kind of painkiller-is any of that missing from your meds closet?”

  “We won’t know for at least a couple days,” Aker answered. “We’re still missing nine dogs, seventeen cats, and a handful of house pets including a pair of Peruvian rabbits, confiscated by Fish and Game. Of those nine dogs, two are my own-Search and Rescue training. Ten, fifteen thousand each. One I’d sold already.”

  Walt tapped the enlargement of the packaged suture in the photographs. “Number three suture,” he said. “Not three-zero. Just plain three.” He looked to Aker for some kind of reaction.

  “Number three is strictly large animal,” Aker said. “Horse, or cow, or sheep. Rarely used, even around here.”

  “Not people,” Walt said. “That’s what a nurse told me at the hospital.”

  “No. Never.”

  “When I first saw this bag and its contents I was thinking: an assassin’s first aid kit. But now, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Maybe some vet lost it,” Fiona suggested. “Left it on the flight.”

  Aker rearranged the photographs.

  Walt could feel him trying to make sense of it.

  “You still could be right,” Aker said. “It’s a stretch, but if you take all these collectively, they could be to close a human wound. The large suture simply means it’s not going to reopen.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re right about the anesthesia and/or pain meds. With those this makes a fine kit.”

  “A mobile emergency room,” Walt said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Walt. It’s a field kit, not first aid.” Again, he studied the photographs. “There is one other possibility…” He took a moment to collect the same instruments and he laid them out on the stainless steel along with several packets of suture. They looked like a particularly horrific place setting. He nodded to himself and said, “Throw in a very sharp knife or scalpel…” Now he met eyes with Walt. “And you have everything you need for minor surgery.”

  Twenty-four

  T revalian understood the endgame. These final hours of preparation-much of it mental-were for him like an athlete’s last night before the competition. Time slowed, but he didn’t fight it. He used what felt like extra hours to double-check the plan and prepare for his escape. Extra clothes, sleeping bag, water bottles, handheld GPS, hunting knife, dry foods. He was ready for the backcountry.

  He anticipated the valley’s only road-Highway 75-would be roadblocked both south and north. The airport would be closed. For these reasons he had packed for the wilderness, his supplies already in the trunk of the rental.

  From Meisner’s room he dialed an 800 number and a woman answered. “Steel Birds Excursions. This is Laura. How can I help you?”

  “It’s Ralph Lewis,” Trevalian said, “Mr. Bloggett’s assistant.”

  “Oh, yes. Hello.”

  “I’m reconfirming Mr. Bloggett’s pickup. He’ll have been in the backcountry a week, and I know he’ll be looking forward to seeing you all.”

  She recited the time and the coordinates: 8 P.M. Sunday evening. 43° 44' 27.04" N by 114° 10' 18.27" W. Trevalian had the location memorized and approved it.

  “Eight A.M. Monday morning if weather prevents.”

  “And every twelve hours thereafter,” he said.

  “That’s correct.”

  He thanked her and hung up the call.

  Typically unruffled, Trevalian jolted with surprise at the sound of a knock-not from the door, but from behind him. He turned to see a woman’s shapely form out on the balcony. Although he’d pulled his privacy drapes, he had no doubt she could identify him as well as he could identify her: Lilly, the jazz singer.

  He wanted to hide. He wanted to pull the blackout drapes, and he chastised himself for not having done so earlier. The back balcony was shared by a dozen rooms and overlooked the outdoor skating rink.

  She knocked again. “Please?”

  He didn’t need attention drawn to the room. Who knew how many of the people gathered for an early dinner three stories below might hear her? He could make this quick. He parted the gauze curtains, unlocked the sliding door.

  “Hello,” she said.

  She’d done well with the makeup. He saw no bruises or cuts, and though she looked tired, there was no self-pity in her face.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m busy, Lilly.”

  She did not take this well.

  “Sorry to hear about your…ordeal.”

  “Please? May I come in, just for a minute?”

  “Tomorrow would be better,” he said.

  “Checking out, are you?” Sarcastic. Nasty.

  “No…”

  “How could you be so spineless?” She pushed past him.

  Sympathy was not in his emotional range. She’d come to the wrong place. He slid the door shut behind her.

  “All I needed was a description,” she complained, now patrolling the room slowly, her back to him. “And don’t tell me you didn’t see him,” she added accusingly.

  “I was looking at you,” he lied. “I would have helped if I could have. Now…at the moment I’m busy.”

  “Oh, I can see that,” she snapped. “Did he buy you off?”

  “What?” he fired back indignantly.

  “Anything for the right price?” she asked.

  “I helped you,” he protested. “I took a chance doing that. I had no idea what I was getting into at the time-other than I’d seen you on stage, and I liked your voice.” He hoped flattery would calm her long enough to get her out the door.

  “I’m singing here again tonight.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  She shrugged, and caught his reflection in the desk mirror, making sure he was still watching her. “He hit me,” she said. “He touched me inappropriately.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All I wanted was to make sure he was never coming back. Too much to ask?”

  “If we could deal with this tomorrow?”

  “What’s so damn pressing, Mr. Meisner? That’s right: I know your name. So sue me. I want an explanation. You seemed so nice. All they needed was a physical description.”

  “I think you should go now.”

  “What? You’re going to call security or something?”

  “Or something,” he said. He wanted to tell her to stop wandering around the room. This, above all else, worked devilishly against his nerves.

  “I just don’t understand it,” she whined. “How difficult is it?” She stopped at the connecting door to Nagler’s room.

  He focused on the dead bolt: unlocked. The door connecting was ever-so-slightly ajar. He watched as her fingers slipped into the opening and pulled. “You didn’t tell me you had a suite,” she said.

  He moved to shut the door-to cut her off. But she was already in.

  “A dog?” she asked. “Whose room is this?” She turned around, looking bewildered. When their eyes met, hers were filled with fright.

  “What’s going on here? Who are you?”

  “Lilly,” he said. “Oh, Lilly,” the weight of disappointment and betrayal impossible to miss.

  Twenty-five

  N ear closing time, Walt caught up to his father at the Sawtooth Club, a Main Street restaurant and bar in Ketchum that serviced a more subdued clientele than the two rock clubs a few doors down. The ground-floor bar was open to a surround balcony for upstairs dining. A canoe hung where a chandelier belonged. The wait staff was women and men in shorts and T-shirts.

  Jerry was at the bar making love to a glass of Scotch. Walt had been summoned here. He told himself to maintain his cool. Seeing his father drunk didn’t help matters. He persuaded Jerry onto a couch be
tween two silk ficus trees, where he hoped there was less chance of being overheard.

  “You shouldn’t have used the split tail, son.” His father sounded quite sober, despite his looks. “When you want something done right, always do it yourself.”

  “Split tail?”

  “This photographer of yours.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Such a detective. You coulda been, you know? A detective. More’s the pity.”

  Walt stood. “I’m in the middle of a lot of things right now. If you’re looking for a whipping boy-”

  “Sit down.”

  Walt hesitated. The door was only a few feet away.

  “Sit…down!”

  Walt returned to the couch, regretting his cooperating.

  “The trouble with the truth is that some people just don’t want to hear it.”

  “You’re drunk and I’m tired. Maybe another time.”

  “Your girlie girl took the Salt Lake photos to Shaler.”

  Walt felt himself swallow dryly. “Who? Fiona?”

  “Dryer caught her, and is, of course, convinced you were behind it.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Cutter’s told Dryer not to let you anywhere near her before the talk.”

  “You must be thrilled,” Walt said.

  He glowered.

  “No worries. He can’t roadblock me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Dryer can play the federal card. Couple phone calls and the local guy is out of it. That’s you.”

  Walt mulled over his options. “I don’t have much of a role anyway. We secure transportation routes. That’s about it. It’s up to Dryer and Dick O’Brien after that. They’re the ones that have to keep her safe once inside.”

  “But if you’re right about this shooter…”

  “I am right,” Walt said. “The guy is here, Dad. No doubt about it. He’s here and he means to fulfill that contract.”

  “So how do I help?”

  “What?” He made no attempt to mask his astonishment.

  “Let’s just say, hypothetically, I was going to help you…I have six men with me. That’s not insubstantial. My men will be on the inside. You may not be.”

  “Are you playing me?” Walt asked, bewildered. He glanced around the bar and up into the restaurant. “What’s going on?”

  “Focus, son,” his father said, motioning to his own bloodshot eyes. “What can my guys do on the inside tomorrow? What are we looking for?”

  “You do believe me,” Walt nearly said aloud. Instead, he reached over and sucked down some of his father’s Scotch. Jerry raised his hand and signaled a waitress for two drinks.

  “If she goes down on your watch, son, you not only won’t be reelected, you’ll lose any shot at corporate work, private work. Any kind of work. You’ll be blackballed the rest of your life.”

  “And it’ll be a stain on the family name,” Walt said bitterly. “Like Bobby.”

  Jerry stiffened. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “You did such a good job with that one,” Walt said.

  “Fuck you. I’m offering to help,” Jerry said.

  Walt caught sight of the waitress heading back with the two Scotches. It all felt too cozy. He stood before the drinks arrived and threw a five-dollar bill down on the table. It landed in a ring of water left from the Scotch glass. Jerry went back to consulting his ice.

  Walt moved toward the door, reluctantly at first, wondering if he was making a terrible mistake.

  SUNDAY

  One

  T revalian had three hotel towels laid out on the floor. On the first he’d placed a pair of his own socks. On the second, Elizabeth Shaler’s jog bra. And on the third, a pair of Nagler’s shoes.

  “Find it!” he commanded, releasing Callie’s collar.

  The dog sprang excitedly into action. She jumped up and made two circles in the room, then came across the towels and, nose to the floor, moved one towel to the next. She sat down sharply in front of the jog bra.

  Trevalian stepped forward and rewarded her with a small piece of beef jerky, patted her affectionately, and praised her. He rearranged the towels, moving them far apart, and began the process anew. Again, Callie found the jog bra. Again, she won a piece of beef jerky.

  “Four out of four,” he told her. “Good dog!”

  Two

  W alt had awakened to an alarm clock at 6 A.M. Sunday morning, having had four hours’ sleep. He went for a two-mile run to wake himself up, showered, and changed into a fresh uniform. By 8 A.M. he was overseeing Brandon’s leadership in securing Sun Valley Road for the one-mile stretch from Ketchum to the resort, while monitoring the Sun Valley Police Department’s attempts to contain the burgeoning number of First Rights protesters who twice had broken through a barricade trying to get closer to the inn and the C3 gathering, only to be pushed back to the area allotted them.

  By 9 A.M. things seemed pretty much in control. They intended to briefly shut down traffic on Sun Valley Road, allowing for Shaler’s motorcade. He had placed Deputy Tilly, his team’s second best marksman, on top of Penny Hill, working with two spotters. Best of all, his two communications with Adam Dryer, whose agents occupied Walt’s Mobile Command Center, had been workmanlike and professional.

  Liz Shaler came out her front door, amid camera flashes, surrounded by three of Dryer’s men. She met eyes briefly with Walt through the gauntlet, and to his surprise she seemed to apologize to him. Or maybe he’d taken that wrong. They moved her into one of three black Escalades.

  Walt’s Cherokee led the motorcade. Tommy Brandon, in the black Hummer, took up the rear. To the casual tourist, and to Walt as well, this looked like overkill, but something told Walt otherwise. Inside he was thinking: This isn’t enough.

  His cell phone rang, and his intention was to ignore it, but old habits die hard, and he checked the caller ID anyway. The number came as Mark Aker. Walt took the call.

  “Mark? Kinda busy at the moment,” Walt said.

  “You want to hear this.” Walt knew from the man’s tone that it wasn’t a social call.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve had thirty volunteers working to find our missing animals. As of this morning, we have eighty percent found and most of those returned to us.”

  “That’s great. But maybe we could do this later?”

  “Among those returned were several dogs, and among the dogs were a pair of shepherds-my Search and Rescue trainees. Or so I thought.”

  Walt decided not to interrupt, but he tuned him out slightly to listen in to the running dialogue pouring over the radio. All seemed well with the motorcade-and for some unknown reason that made Walt all the more queasy.

  “We tag our dogs. Electronic chips placed beneath the skin in the shoulder. They both came back without collars, so we wanded them just to make sure. One had been picked up at the hospital. One, clear out Trail Creek. Some hikers found her.”

  “That’s a long way away.”

  “But not so far from the lodge.”

  “True enough. Better cut to the chase here, Mark. I’m in the middle of moving Shaler. We’re about there.”

  “The ID provided by the chip surprised me. It wasn’t one of mine after all. But I had chipped this dog. It’s Toey, Walt. The service dog we loaned the blind guy. He must have lost her and been too embarrassed to tell us. But what the hell am I supposed to do? Confront him? Return the dog to Maggie? Or what? What do you want me to do?” He added, “Meanwhile-news flash-I’m still missing my twenty-thousand-dollar tracker.”

  “The one you planned to sell?” Walt asked. He’d tuned out the police band radio under the dash. He tuned out more than he should have, given that he was leading the motorcade. The Escalade behind him honked, just in time for Walt to cut the wheel sharply and turn into the entrance to the lodge, and avoid the total embarrassment of missing the turn. He felt badly that Nagler hadn’t mentioned losing the dog. He wasn’t sure how to approach this himself.

&n
bsp; In his mind’s eye he saw the contents of the unclaimed backpack spread out on the table as Fiona photographed them; he saw the gruesome images of the Salt Lake airport killing: the severed fingers, the pulled teeth, the missing eyes…

  “Laundry,” he said, pulling the Cherokee through the lodge’s portico. Shaler’s Escalade pulled in front of the doors.

  “Laundry? Walt, it’s Mark,” Aker said, not understanding Walt’s change of subject.

  “All the search and rescue we ever do,” Walt said, “the dogs are given a piece of clothing, right? Or some personal item of the missing person’s. A hairbrush. A shoe.”

  “Of course they are. Walt…what are you talking about?”

  “S and R! The dogs. Your missing dog is a tracker, a sniffer.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “He broke into the laundry,” Walt said, seeing it clearly now. “He broke into the laundry,” he repeated. “Holy shit.”

  He was out of the car, the phone already back in his pocket. The phalanx of press, and tourists, agents, and his own deputies jammed the landing outside the hotel’s doors as Liz Shaler was squeezed inside. His moment or two of delay had cost him-he was on the outside looking in.

  “Stand aside,” he hollered, but it did no good. Liz Shaler’s celebrity had taken over. Nothing was going to part the crowd. There were too many hotel guests and people from town-faces he recognized-waiting there to be coincidence. Patrick Cutter had arranged a big, splashy welcome for her, and for the sake of the cameras.

  He lifted up on his toes to see into the lobby. Liz Shaler and Patrick Cutter were at the center of a knot. A camera flashed. Walt followed its source to a pair of thin arms, and finally, Fiona’s profile. Despite the clamor of Liz’s admirers, despite the shouting of O’Brien and his men for people to get out of the way, despite the chaos and confusion, Fiona somehow turned and looked right at him.

  They met eyes and she immediately understood his problem as he pointed inside. Fiona was jostled to the side. She connected with him once again and waved Walt to his left. Walt backed away from the throng, looked left, and saw the door.