Killer Summer

by Ridley Pearson

  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 he 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.

  Sirens called from the north. He looked south. No sign of cops coming from there, just as Cantell had planned.

  He leaned his weight into the chainsaw. The power pole popped and splintered. Then it teetered and fell.

  Overhead, wires sparked and flashed. Salvo had failed to remember he was bringing down a few thousand volts with the pole. A half dozen wires now sparked and jumped on the ground. He dropped the saw and took off south across the bridge. Car horns sounded. He took them as applause for a job well done.

  He sprinted across the highway, jumped down an embankment, lost his footing, and rolled to the bottom. He got to his feet and took off running.

  Some hero had left his car and was coming after him. “Hey, asshole, hold up!” the man shouted.

  Salvo reached for his knife. He stitched his way through a thicket of aspens and found himself in a yard next to a tool shed. He ducked around the side, silently begging his pursuer to give it up.

  But the hero came crashing through the aspens a moment later, and Matt, who’d grown up in Sparks, Nevada, in a neighborhood where survival required a degree in viciousness, timed the blow perfectly. He swung around the corner of the shed just as the hero arrived, delivering the hilt of the knife to the man’s forehead.

  The guy dropped like a rock.

  “Nice try,” he told the hero.

  He then looked around to get his bearings, wondering how long Lorraine and McGuiness would wait for him.

  38

  As Walt’s Cherokee approached a string of taillights, his mobile rang. Seeing the caller ID, he answered it.

  “What’d you find out?” he asked Myra.

  “He’s at the airport,” she said. “I used the tracking thing. Best I can tell, he’s there, or right around there.”

  “That’s not good,” he said. “She was seen getting into his car with a suitcase. If he’s seen as having aided her flight… Myra, he’s in trouble.”

  Brandon looked out the side window, pretending not to hear.

  “I’m on my way there,” she announced.

  “He’s still not picking up?”

  “No.”

  “Can you text him?”

  “Me? I have no idea how to do that. And I’m in my car.”

  She was about to cry.

  “I’ll call Pete. Hopefully, he can find him and put a cork in this.”

  She thanked him and hung up.

  A flash of brake lights. He flipped on the light rack and took the empty middle lane, reserved for vehicles turning either direction.

  Walt quickly called Pete, head of operations at the airport, and filled him in on Kevin’s situation. Pete said he’d head down to the terminal and take a look around.

  “I’ll call over to Sun Valley Air as well,” Pete said.

  “Appreciate the help.”

  “Back to you shortly.”

  As they passed the entrance to the Rainbow Bend subdivision, Walt got a better look at the chaos up the road: a long line of taillights ahead of him, no headlights coming at him. A patrol car off the road-Ketchum police, maybe. A second later, he could make out the truck blocking the road.

  “Are those logs?” Brandon asked.

  Drivers were out of their cars. A few had gathered a
round the wrecked patrol car.

  Walt and Brandon hurried to the patrol car. Brandon moved the onlookers aside. Walt wrenched open the door and determined the driver was dazed but otherwise seemingly okay.

  He looked around, focusing first on the spilled logs, then the power pole lying across the bike-path bridge, the downed wires still spitting sparks.

  He handed Brandon the keys to the Cherokee. “Get the power pole cleared first. No civilian traffic is to use the bike bridge, but get me a couple of our guys across if you can.”

  “Got it,” Brandon said. “You?”

  “Stay on comm,” Walt said, running for the bridge.

  39

  With the jet door shut, Summer encouraged Kevin forward. W“Come on, I want to show you,” she said. She squeezed past him, making sure to rub up against him, not wanting his interest to lag. “Seats eight. All eight can sleep flat. Each seat has its own TV, and there’s the big TV on the wall.” She pointed. Light shined weakly through the oval windows.

  She handed him a cold beer. There were two microwave ovens, a built-in coffeemaker, a stainless-steel sink. A fire extinguisher was clamped to the wall. Beyond the kitchen, a folding door gave way to a padded seat over a toilet. It faced an emergency exit door. Just over the toilet was a partially open roller panel that accessed a sizable storage area.

  Kevin drank some beer, impressed and overwhelmed.

  A rechargeable flashlight hung next to the toilet. There was a first-aid kit on the wall.

  “All the comforts of home,” he said.

  “That’s the idea. Including a satellite telephone.” She pointed to her father’s seat.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “I love this thing. I never tell my father. I don’t want him knowing what I like and don’t like because sometimes I feel like anything I mention liking means he has to buy or get it for me. Believe it or not, I don’t love that. It’s love/hate with this plane. He’s so into it, it actually bugs me. But I love flying it.”