Killer View

by Ridley Pearson

  Glass shattered behind him. Walt turned in the spray and squeezed off two shots, expecting to see Coats, but it was the bear’s giant mitt that swiped at him through the broken window, five grotesque claws tearing through Walt’s shoulder and into his muscle. Walt fell into the dead cow, starting it swinging, slipped in the slime on the floor and scrambled quickly to his feet. By the time he did, there was no sign of the bear, only two splintered holes in the log wall where his wild shots had landed.

  The chain holding the swinging dead cow creaked like a clock slowly winding down.

  He briefly lifted the goggles, wishing he could do without them, but the difference was astonishing: the shed held only a faint glow of moonlight. Back in the world of green and black, he moved cautiously toward the tractor, stepping toward the center of the room to avoid a pile of clutter.

  He stood there, panting from the rush of the bear attack, his shoulder throbbing, working the goggles left to right, searching out the hidden recesses and hiding places while anticipating a surprise attack.

  Behind him, the swinging cow slowly twisted and spun as its metronomic ticktocking wound down. Unseen by Walt, the crude knife slice running down the center of the gutted animal twitched open and a human hand slipped out. Then another, this one bearing a bloodied meat hook. The gap widened to reveal the feverish face of Roy Coats.

  Walt heard the icy crack of the cow carcass opening and spun.

  The meat hook sank into his right hand. His gun dropped. His body followed the sinking weight of the hook as he screamed. The goggles bounced off his head. He crashed onto the dirt floor, his bruised chest sending shock waves of pain racing through his body.

  Coats struggled to free the hook, but it had penetrated the meat of Walt’s hand and did not come loose. The two men were briefly connected by the hook, Coats unwilling to let it go, Walt unable to shake it loose. Walt, on his knees, punched out with his left hand and hit something spongy. The man wailed and released the meat hook.

  Walt grabbed hold of the hook, gritted his teeth, and pulled it free. With his left hand, he sank the hook into Coats’s chest just as the man raised his head. His left arm was not nearly as strong or coordinated as his right, and, though the hook hit Coats, it did little more than graze him.

  Walt punched the man’s leg in the same spot again and then kicked up, as Coats craned forward. He caught the man’s chin and heard the cracking of teeth.

  Coats somehow had the hook now. He swung out at Walt, who scrambled back-one swipe, two-narrowly missing him. Walt collided with a pile of junk, and here came the hook again. He blocked it with a length of pipe seized from the pile. The hook came free.

  Walt smashed the pipe into the man’s ankle and Coats screamed again.

  The shack shook; it sounded like an earthquake.

  Walt saw the gun: five feet to his left.

  He dove for it.

  Coats threw a knee into Walt’s face, stumbled forward and inadvertently kicked the gun away. It disappeared in the darkness into a pile of debris along the wall. Walt scrambled to his knees, swinging the pipe and connecting again. Then he pulled himself to his feet.

  Coats backed up, away from the pipe, his right leg dragging awkwardly.

  Walt staggered forward, barely conscious, his right arm and hand useless.

  Coats snagged a fallen shovel and swung it madly into Walt’s left side. The blow knocked Walt into the hanging cow and he spun to fend off the next attack. The shovel glanced off the frozen cadaver.

  The door broke from its hinges and crashed to the floor-first a rectangle of moonlight, which was then blotted out by the massive presence that filled it. The bear charged the first thing it saw: Roy Coats.

  The shovel was lifted high but fell to the floor, handle first, the blow never delivered.

  Walt heard the tear of clothing, followed quickly by the bubbling slobber of Coats attempting to cry out. But his cheek was no longer part of his face and his left eye was missing.

  Walt knew better than to run for the door: he didn’t want the bear substituting him for his present target.

  Hands on the cow, he realized where to hide and pulled himself into the frozen womb, the sounds of terror continuing in a relentless stream until Roy Coats was silenced forever and the bear wandered off and out.

  69

  AS FIFTEEN OF THE BACKUP DEPUTIES SEARCHED FOR MARK Aker, he stumbled into camp of his own accord.

  Walt’s wounds were being tended to in the cabin as word arrived.

  “Sheriff!” Brandon said from the doorway in a voice so urgent that Walt jumped up as one of his team attended his hand.

  Brandon led Walt around to the side of the cabin and whispered, “He was just… standing there.”

  Mark Aker was, in fact, standing between the shed and the woodpile in two feet of snow, an animal draped over his shoulders and held by its feet around his neck. A dog, Walt saw on closer inspection.

  “I approached,” Brandon informed him, “but he stepped back, saying your name over and over. He’s in shock, or worse.”

  “Mark,” Walt called out. “It’s me.”

  “Sheriff Walt Fleming,” Aker called out again, as if he hadn’t heard. He took another step back.

  “Your flashlight,” Walt said to Brandon. “Shine it on me.”

  As the light struck Walt, revealing a scarred and battered man, Aker started walking toward him. Walt held a hand out, stopping Brandon from meeting him. Mark was clearly in shock or had hypothermia, skittish and unpredictable.

  Aker fell to his knees, a few feet from Walt. At least, that was what Walt thought. In fact, Aker had only gone to his knees to unload the dog. With the dog now in his arms he stood, with difficulty, and passed it to Brandon.

  He turned and faced Walt. “What took you so long?”

  “The cabin’s warm. We have a medic.” Walt motioned toward the cabin.

  “Coats?”

  “Dead.”

  “You found the test tube?” Aker was moving toward the cabin now. Brandon stood there holding the dog, wondering what to do with it.

  “I could have used a note along with it,” Walt said.

  “Needed to buy myself time.” His voice was distant. Walt realized they were losing him.

  As they led him inside the cabin, Aker began to shiver uncontrollably in waves that bordered on seizures. The medic began an IV, as they undressed him and wrapped him in wool blankets. Forty minutes later, he and Walt were Life Flighted out and flown to Boise for medical attention. Aker slipped into unconsciousness on the way and could not be revived. He remained in a coma for three days when, miraculously-or so the doctors said-he sat up, fully alert.

  Walt never left the man’s bedside, running his office and writing reports from room 317.

  It wasn’t until Aker regained consciousness that they were finally able to contact his family, all of whom had been holed up in a Holiday Inn in Ogden, Utah, on Aker’s orders.

  They might have arrived sooner, had the press gotten hold of the story, but not a sentence had been-or would be-written about the events of the past weeks. A task force of federal agencies had descended upon all concerned to debrief Walt and his team, requiring their signatures on nondisclosure agreements.

  The rights of a few for the good of the many, Walt thought.

  A cover story was invented for Mark Aker that involved his family’s desire for privacy and his father’s fictional heart condition. The efficiency and thoroughness of the government surprised everyone involved; even Danny Cutter had been silenced by its efforts, not an easy task.

  THREE WEEKS LATER, the first rumors began to circulate around the valley. Walt declined comment but knew the stories had helped with his reelection.

  On a wintry Halloween night in Hailey, limping and unable to use his right hand, he accompanied Gail escorting the girls as they went house to house in town. While the girls waited in line at a busy house, Gail spoke to him for the first time since “Hello.”

  “If you want
them back…”

  “Of course I do,” Walt said. He knew it would come to this; Gail had never been comfortable as a mother. The excuses would follow next.

  “I may have overreacted,” she said.

  The girls returned, displaying their goodies; Emily got a chocolate bunny she was especially proud of. Walt wondered if it was left over from Easter and wanted a look at it.

  They walked as a family down the street to the next house, Walt marveling how uncomfortable he felt in Gail’s company. The girls hurried to the next door.

  “I don’t like who you’ve become,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want the divorce to screw up the girls.”

  “I seem to screw them up without even trying. Why I can’t do this, I have no idea.” She looked across the street where there was nothing to see, but it kept her face averted.

  “Quite a pair,” he said.

  “We aren’t a pair,” she corrected. Then she apologized.

  “They need us both,” he said. “We need to work this out.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I’d rather we work it out than the lawyers. I don’t want lawyers deciding what’s right for the girls.”

  Gail didn’t say anything, saved again by the arrival of the girls. The trick-or-treating continued for another forty-five minutes. Snippets of conversation passed between them but none with any content. The mention of lawyers had broken the spell or they’d simply run out of things to say. Over a decade spent together, and they couldn’t find five minutes of things to talk about.

  The girls looked anxiously at Walt, then followed their mother to her car. But she stopped them, withdrawing a small overnight bag and handing it to Walt. Emily’s eyes brightened. Nikki took her father’s hand. Gail stared dully at the three of them, forced a grimace of a smile, and, kissing the girls, climbed behind the wheel.

  When Walt got home, he put the girls to bed, taking extra time to read to them, wishing he didn’t have to turn off the light.

  Returning to his own bedroom, he stopped and looked around. He emptied her closet. Set four black garbage bags of clothes out on the back porch, but that barely scratched the surface. He took off his wedding ring and put it in a drawer with some cuff links he never used. He drank two beers in front of the television and fell asleep in the chair.

  70

  THE DRIVE UP TO HILLABRAND’S MOUNTAINTOP ESTATE REMINDED Walt again of the man’s power and position, of the enormous wealth in Sun Valley and how carefully one had to tread. He was greeted by an aide and shown inside, exceptionally aware that Sean Lunn was nowhere to be seen.

  Hillabrand met him in the living room, with its panoramic views of Ketchum and Sun Valley. He’d lost his tan, replaced by a gray pallor.

  “You look better than I’d have expected,” Walt lied.

  “Looks can be deceiving. I’ve seen the worst of it. It was only the one glass, after all. I’m told my liver will scar and I’ll pay for it later in life. For now, they say I’m recovering, though it doesn’t feel like it.”

  “I was wrong to put you in that position. That’s what I came to say.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “So… it’s done.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “That’s all I had.” Walt turned to leave.

  Hillabrand stopped him. “You ignored James Peavy’s warning. Why was that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it egged me on more than discouraged me. It led to the discovery of the sheep pit. I’m trained as an investigator. What can I say?”

  “People like Coats… We can’t let five or ten people have that kind of effect on our country. That has nothing to do with democracy. It’s vile and wrong.”

  “Where does warning innocent people about contaminated water come into play?” Walt asked.

  “I know you don’t believe it, but we had that pretty well under control. If you tested it now, you wouldn’t find a trace of that spill in the aquifer. We were buying time. Trilogy Springs… that was an oversight. A costly oversight. A mistake that cost us dearly. I don’t have any excuses for it.”

  “I thought I had you,” Walt admitted. “It never for a minute occurred to me the INL could possibly be the victim.”

  “The real victims were the ranchers,” Hillabrand said. “They were willing to stay quiet to benefit their country.”

  “They were willing to stay quiet because you paid them to,” Walt said. “And there’s the rub.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You, and a couple of others in Washington, convinced yourselves that what you were doing was for the good of the country.”

  “Yes. And your point?”

  Walt hesitated and looked around the sumptuous room with its stunning views.

  “What makes you any different than them? The Samakinn? Weren’t they doing the exact same thing?”

  Hillabrand began to speak but bit back his words. Then he said, “But we’re the good guys.”

  Walt slipped the DVD out of his pocket and placed it down. “Are you so sure? I want you to watch this. I want you to look real closely at the guy with Coats, the guy doing the girl. I’ll expect Sean Lunn to turn himself in to me within twenty-four hours. If he doesn’t, then it’s a manhunt. And I will personally see that this entire story gets into the papers, NDA or no NDA. I’ll take my chances.”

  Hillabrand handled the DVD, flipping it over. He looked into Walt’s fierce expression. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll look at it.”

  Walt thought about that: a man with enough power to make a suspect simply walk through his office door.

  “Coats worked for Lunn,” Walt said. “Lunn hired him to take down Mark Aker and find out what Mark knew. When that went bad, they targeted Mark’s assistant.” Walt pointed to the DVD, as if Hillabrand could see poor Kira Tulivich. “At some point, Coats turned against him, seeing Mark as an asset to his own cause. But don’t you see what that means?”

  Hillabrand’s face went red, his neck veins bulging. “No, Sheriff. What does it mean?”

  “If Coats worked for Lunn, then he worked for you,” Walt said. “It was your money.”

  Hillabrand rolled his eyes trying to dodge the accusation. “If Sean Lunn did as you say, it was without my knowledge. He went rogue. He probably thought he could earn points with me by handling this himself. It happens. I would never condone such methods. Not ever.”

  “That may or may not be true,” Walt said. “The courts will sort it out. But given the events, exactly how does that make you the good guys?”

  He turned and left Hillabrand in the living room, in the middle of his private panorama, the indicting DVD pinched between his fingers.

  71

  SHE AGREED TO MEET ON HER TERMS. SHE CHOSE A BENCH on the snow-covered bike path, overlooking a turn in the Big Wood River. Behind them, the traffic on Highway 75 hummed a little loudly for the picturesque setting. They sat shoulder to shoulder, closer than he’d expected. Some mallards came and went on the river below, their wings etching V’s on the darkly moving water.

  “Hate me?” he asked.

  “This isn’t seventh grade, Walt.”

  “For some of us it still is.”

  “I… There are things… I visited Kira, and it brought up some stuff.”

  “I wasn’t using you and your relationship with Hillabrand. I know what you thought, but it wasn’t true. When you mentioned it, it made some sense, but that wasn’t how it was to begin with.”

  “I want us to be able to work together.”

  “Of course.” His voice cracked, belying his attempts to keep his feelings out of this. Her words sounded so final.

  “Thank you.”

  “What about a dinner… sometime?” He added quickly, “If it was seventh grade, it would have been a movie or an ice-cream cone. At least give me some credit.”

  “Being your photographer is good. I like the work a lot.”

  “Are you seeing som
eone?”

  She watched a great blue heron fly the length of the river until it was nothing but a speck.

  “There was someone,” she said. “Before I moved here. Two, nearly three years ago now. It wasn’t good. I ran away by coming here. All it took was talking to Kira to remind me. Which is a long way of saying a cup of coffee, sure. A movie, maybe. But not dinner. Not for a long time. Not with you, not with anyone.”

  “A person’s got to move on.”

  “Remind me of that after your divorce is final.”

  He drew in a breath of sharp, cold air.

  “Out of bounds,” she said. “That was awful of me. I’m so sorry. That’s just it, you see? I don’t even know myself.”

  “When you get to know you,” he said, “you’ll find you like you a lot.” He added, “I do.”

  “Some wounds heal from the outside in and some from the inside out.”

  “Who said that?” Walt asked.

  “I just did.”

  A fly fisherman came around the corner of the river in his waders. He worked the far, snow-covered bank, his casts a thing of beauty.

  “Freaks,” Walt said.

  “Aren’t we all?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  They talked for a while about the confiscation of her photographs and computer, and how she still had the images from the glider on an SD card in her camera. They weighed the rights of the individual versus the rights of a democracy and argued semantics for a while.

  It was the arguing that made Walt feel better. There was comfort in disagreement.

  “So none of this ever happened,” she said, after a long bout of silence.

  “That’s what I hear.” He added, “Only I didn’t hear it from you.”

  She smiled. He warmed up a little.

  The fisherman caught something. They heard his cheer well up the ridge where they sat. The fisherman extracted the catch from his net and turned it loose back into the river.