O ver the incessant din of the Weather Channel, Danny Cutter heard the telephone system’s unique ring tone that signaled an arrival at the front door of his brother’s compound. He continued on the elliptical as he used the television remote to view a fish-eye image of Ailia Holms, dressed in a two-color, gray, zippered shell, white iPod wires in her ears. She stared up toward what was supposed to be a hidden camera. She mouthed, “Hello…” Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, her cheeks red with the cool morning air.
Danny resentfully disembarked the trainer, punched a button on the phone, and told her, “Be right there.”
The gym occupied the upper floor of the swimming pool barn. He navigated his way back through the series of renovated barns to the front door-a two-minute, brisk walk.
A towel draped around his neck, he answered the door.
“Hey there,” Ailia said, stepping inside without invitation.
Danny eased the door shut.
“Sleep well?” She used her vixen voice, the voice of the woman who had seduced him the night before.
“He’s not here,” Danny said. “He’s up at the lodge. The rest of the guests all arrive before noon.”
She touched his cheek. “Hot and sweaty. Just how I left you last night.”
“You could try his cell.”
“I’m taking a run out Adam’s Gulch,” she explained. “You want to come with?” Patrick’s compound abutted state forest land. Aspen -and evergreen-shrouded mountains were braided together with interlocking bike and foot trails.
“I’m just wrapping up,” he said, declining. “There’s coffee, if you want.”
“Staff arrives at eight, isn’t that right?” She checked her watch and cozied up to him. “We could put that twenty minutes to good use.”
“Rain check,” he said.
She complained, “It doesn’t rain much here, Danny. You know that.” She stepped away and looked around the room. “You’d never guess there were a hundred people here last night.”
She had a sultry walk as she prowled the room. He felt himself stir. He wanted none of that, already resenting the night before. “Can I leave a message or something?”
“Or something,” she said.
“Allie…”
She turned to face him. “Come on, Danny, I’m just kidding around.” They both knew differently. “Why so serious? I’ve got news for you. Good news for a change. The least you could do is pretend you’re glad to see me.”
“We talked about this.”
“Not really. I don’t remember talking all that much.”
He fought back an urge to just walk away and leave her before it got out of hand again.
“I’ve arranged a meeting between you and Stu.”
He felt his breath catch. “I expressly asked-”
“You can thank me now, if you like.” She checked her watch. “We’ve still got eighteen minutes.” She closed to within an arm’s reach.
“You know how hard it was to set up a meeting given his conference schedule?”
Danny felt his face flush.
“Don’t gush with thanks all at once. I can take it in little bits. Or little bites, or whatever.”
“I asked you to leave it alone.”
“You know me, Danny: I’m impulsive.”
He took her by both wrists and backed her up several feet against a couch.
“Shit, Danny, that hurts.”
He drove himself against her, pelvis against pelvis. “Is this what you want, Allie? Nice and rough. You want it on the couch? On the kitchen counter? Where?”
“You’re hurting me,” she gasped.
“You love it.”
“Fuck you!”
“You wish.”
He let go of her, stepped back.
Panting, she inspected her wrists.
“Shit, Danny. I think you bruised me. How am I going to explain that?”
“I’m sorry!”
“Sorry?” she said, rubbing her forearm. “You obviously don’t know Stu very well.”
“I told you I have to do this myself,” he scolded. “I don’t want Paddy’s help, or yours, or anybody else’s.”
She was still rubbing her forearm. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Long sleeves in July? Are you kidding me?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“What’s happened to you?” she mumbled. “You’re fucked up, Danny.”
“I was fucked up,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
She pulled the heavy front door open. Morning sunlight had broken onto the opposing hillside, setting it on fire. She didn’t look at him, just walked outside.
She started into a slow jog, turned at the end of the drive, and broke into a full run.
Danny stepped back inside, shaken by what he’d done. He wondered where such anger came from, and worse, where it could lead.
V eterinarian Mark Aker’s low voice growled as he walked stiffly and slightly bowlegged toward the Sun Valley Lodge, Walt at his side. “This guy must be charmed. You pulled off a miracle.” His dark brown eyes peered out from his tanned, bearded face. In his right hand he held a dark blue nylon leash, leading a fine-looking German shepherd.
“We,” Walt corrected. “And I don’t even know how we did it.”
“He has Maggie to thank. And Patrick Cutter’s wallet. This is costing north of five hundred bucks a day.”
Walt whistled. “What’s amazing is she looks just like his dog-the one that died.”
“Animals and commercial aircraft shouldn’t mix.”
The lodge’s portico was crowded with vehicles, valet personnel, and bellmen. One of the bellmen caught sight of the dog and moved to intercept Mark Aker. “Service dog,” Walt said. “Being delivered to a hotel guest.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.”
Walt had called ahead. Nagler had tried to talk him out of the offer.
“We may have to sell him on this,” Walt warned.
“I doubt it,” Aker replied. “Toey will sell herself.”
W ith the opaque contact lenses blocking his vision, and anxiety welling in his chest, Trevalian awaited the arrival of the sheriff-the sheriff-yet enjoying the irony that the man was now supplying him with a dog that he desperately needed.
He sat on a couch in the lobby, Karl the bellman as his eyes.
“Here they are,” Karl announced. “Oh, sir, she’s a fine-looking dog.”
Trevalian stood.
“A fine-looking German shepherd. You should see everyone looking at her. Queen of the ball.”
“Mr. Nagler.” The sheriff.
“Sheriff,” Nagler said.
“I believe you may have met Mark Aker yesterday.”
He and Aker shook hands.
“In less fortunate circumstances,” the vet said. “But allow me to introduce Toey.”
“Toey?” Nagler said.
Karl took the cane from Trevalian’s hand and Aker put the leash into his grip. Trevalian squatted and Toey immediately licked his face.
“She’s service trained,” Aker said, “and ready to go.”
“Are you now, Toey?” Trevalian said, petting the dog furiously.
“She’ll direct you to a handrail on stairs on your signal,” Aker said. “She’ll move through a doorway and return to working position.”
“A smart girl, are you?” Trevalian said.
“Take her for a spin?” Aker asked.
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“But you’ve got to!” the sheriff said. “It’s all been arranged.”
Trevalian looked up in the general direction of that voice. Play hard to get, he thought. “Sheriff, do you have dogs?”
“Three.”
“Then you know there’s a bond of trust that forms between the handler and the animal. Whatever I do with Toey will only corrupt whatever training she’s had to this point, will spoil her for her real owner. As much as I’d love her company, and her help, I’d be doing a disservice to her and the people who trained her.”
“Three days is not going to undo fourteen months of training.”
Trevalian leaned his head far back, smiled and rocked side to side. If anyone happened to catch a look behind his sunglasses, they would see only milky orbs, without pupils or irises. “Toey?” he said excitedly. “You want to take a walk?”
He imagined Aker and the sheriff silently congratulating themselves. He wondered how they’d feel two days from now.
Taking hold of the dog’s service harness, he ordered in a crisp voice, “Walk!”
Together they maneuvered around the crowded lobby, Trevalian stifling a grin of satisfaction. The sheriff, of all people.
He had his substitute: His original plan was back on track.
T he mountains rose steeply on either side of him, a narrow canyon called Chocolate Gulch with a creek that snaked between two dozen custom homes. The mouth of the canyon intersected Highway 75 to the east while to the west it was covered by vast stands of lodgepole pine and Douglas fir, the rolling green of which was broken only by rock outcroppings, copses of aspens, and patches of deadfall.
With his dog in the lead, the tall, nondescript man held to a game path, a narrow, sometimes aimlessly bending strip of bare dirt and rock cut into the side of the hill by years of use by deer and elk. Below him, the rich green lawns were laid out like quilt squares, connected by stitching of post-and-rail fences.
He shifted the rifle to his opposite shoulder, hunched low, and moved stealthily, his breath shooting staccato puffs of gray fog out in front of him.
The dog pulled eagerly, leading him to a stand of saplings. Hearing voices, he ducked and peered down at the houses below and located the source of that sound: a man and woman in a hot tub.
He wanted to avoid being seen: Men with rifles drew attention. The dog had picked up a fresh scent, and he intended to stay on it. The rifle shot would announce him; but by then the deed would be done and he’d have earned his pay.
Less than a quarter mile later, with the last of the homes behind him, he slowed as the dog slowed. She glanced at him then shivered head to toe in excitement as she lifted her front paw into a curl. On point, she leaned forward.
It took him a second to spot his target. Forty yards below, she sat with her back to the hill.
Quietly, he slipped the rifle off his shoulder. He lowered to one knee and brought the sight to eye level.
A stream of drool fell from the dog’s mouth to the dry leaves.
With the target now magnified, he held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger.
The gun recoiled in his grip, and the shot rang out, echoing down the canyon like a beautiful piece of music.
The cougar spun sharply, trying to bite the dart that dangled from its haunch. Then it twitched and its front legs went out from under it. It looked once up the hill at its assailant, collapsed completely, and rolled onto its side.
W alt blew across the top of the coffee mug as Dick O’Brien stabbed a roasted potato, shoveled some scrambled egg on top of it, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Fuckin’ delicious,” he said, his teeth yellow with egg.
“Not hungry,” Walt said.
The lodge’s lobby restaurant hummed with conversation, while waitresses dressed like Heidi, their busts bulging, moved between tables shuttling trays. The room smelled of cinnamon and maple syrup.
Walt sat across from O’Brien at a table near the door.
“So, we’ll lock down the banquet hall tighter than a teenager,” O’Brien said.
“I have daughters,” Walt reminded. “Watch yourself.”
“It could have been anybody.”
“This guy is already here.”
“It could easily have been one of the First Rights kids,” O’Brien said. “You know that, Walt.”
“This guy was in shape, careful; he knew tactics. Does that fit the profile of your average WTO protester?”
“Listen, you know what kind of headache this is for me? I’d just as soon Shaler head back to New York. But the boss? This is his moment in history. You won’t convince him.”
Walt looked at him skeptically. The coffee was battery acid-or maybe that was his stomach. “You married?” Walt asked.
“Happily. Listen, we’ll lock down the ballroom-this is after my guys sniff it-and we’ll keep it locked and under guard. Right up until the speech. Agreed?”
O’Brien’s demeanor instantly changed and Walt didn’t need to look over his own shoulder to see it was Patrick Cutter behind him.
“Sheriff,” Cutter said, taking a chair by Walt. “That was a heck of a thing you did for Rafe Nagler.”
“We did,” Walt said, including him. “But, yeah, it was a good moment.”
“We’re just discussing last night,” O’Brien said.
“I heard you had a run-in.”
“True story,” Walt said.
“And that you were unable to identify the trespasser.”
“He was in the banquet room, and he didn’t want to be caught.” Walt sipped the bitter coffee. “For me, that speaks volumes.”
“Just don’t speak it too loudly,” Cutter said.
Walt lowered his voice. “We have to assume it could have been the contractor.”
“I assume no such thing,” Cutter said.
“We were just running down a bunch of other possibilities,” O’Brien explained, “First Rights chief among them.”
“And I was pointing out,” Walt said, “that this guy’s behavior was totally pro. Never looked back. Was familiar with avoidance tactics. Vanished into thin air when it came time. And if he left the property, he did so on foot. We locked down the parking lots and came up blank.”
“So you’ve got nothing,” Cutter said.
“I’ve got a sore side from where the guy hit me, and real strong suspicion of the kind of person I was dealing with.”
Walt’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen and took the call. As he listened, his face tightened. O’Brien signaled for the check as Walt finished the call and hung up.
“Fish and Game took down a cougar out Chocolate Gulch. Darted it.”
“The one that went after my brother?” Patrick asked.
“Possibly.”
“What the hell do you do with a drugged cougar?” O’Brien asked.
“Kill it, I hope,” said Patrick. “Thing’s a menace.”
“They’ll probably cage it down at the pound-the Humane Society, in Hailey,” Walt said. “She was wearing a tag, so this is at least her second dose of drugs. Not good.”
“Because?” O’Brien asked.
Surprisingly, Patrick interrupted. “They used to use PCP to drug the bears and lions. It was discovered with the bears that the drug made them overly aggressive. Released back into the wild, they presented more of a threat to humans, not less.”
“I’m impressed,” Walt said.
“I sit on the society’s board.”
“And the cougar?” O’Brien asked Walt. “She doesn’t stay there forever, I’m guessing.”
“They have a pen there that can hold her,” Walt said. “They won’t want to destroy her, but they can’t re-release her.”
“Tough being a cougar,” O’Brien said.
“In captivity, yes,” agreed Walt.
Patrick’s assistants appeared in the doorway looking for him. He sensed them, turned, and signaled for them to wait a minute. He said to O’Brien, “Keep me up on this.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“And you, too, Sheriff. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
O’Brien signed for the check. Walt protested, but not too hard. Cutter left with his two assistants. He was immediately approached by conference guests.
Walt walked out with O’Brien. “I wouldn’t want that many friends.”
“I thought you’re elected,” O’Brien said.
“Yeah, I am. But that’s all rigged,” he said, patting O’Brien on the back.
T he pavement stopped at a variegated edge where chunks of tar met brown dust, marking the boundary between civilization and wilderness. Walt spotted Fiona’s beat-up Subaru among the vehicles parked at the Chocolate Gulch trailhead.
He was calling his location to dispatch when she knocked on the side window, startling him.
He looked at her, noticing for the first time a constellation of freckles under her jaw.
But as he rolled down the window, the freckles moved down her neck: nothing but fly specks on the glass. Some detective, he thought.
“You mind if I tag along?” she asked. “Pam wants some shots.” Pam Brummell was the publisher of the weekly newspaper, The Sun Valley Sentinel.
“No problem.” He rolled the window back up and climbed out. “It’s actually not my scene. Fish and Game.”
They walked together. At 9 A.M. the sun was quickly warming the air, the tree-covered hills alive with sunlight, the sky an indigo blue.
“I hope you’re not gloating over the fact they got the cougar before the cougar got anyone else, because that’s blind luck if you ask me.”
“For one thing,” Walt said, “I don’t gloat. For another, we have no way of knowing if this is the same cat. It’s a very dry summer. A lot of game is coming out of the hills for the river.”
“This is where the yellow Lab was killed.”
“Yes. But you and Danny Cutter and Liz Shaler were ten miles south of here. Cougars cover a lot of territory, but that’s a good hike.”
Walt admired her from behind as she mounted the trail. She walked a bit like a cat herself. They reached a backpack on the game trail and looked down through the woods to see the cat lying on her side, a man kneeling next to her. Walt and Fiona scrambled down the slope. The cat lay by a slow trickle of a stream, her black eyes open, giving the impression she was dead. But the steady rise and fall of her rib cage said otherwise. The agent had spread petroleum jelly over her open eyes to protect them from drying out, but the result was a deathly gaze.
“Sedated.” The man introduced himself as a Fish and Game agent. He looked vaguely familiar to Walt.
“She’s beautiful,” Fiona said, already preparing her equipment.
“Hell of a shot,” Walt said. “From up on the game trail?”
“Yeah. I got lucky being downwind, or she’d have bolted.”
The dart still dangled from her shoulder. There was something sad about seeing so graceful and powerful an animal brought down like this. A collision of man and nature. The pungent decay of soil and the mint of the evergreens comingled.
The agent’s dog-a yellow Lab-was tied to an aspen sapling.
Walt asked, “Is that dog trained for explosives, by any chance?”
“No, just a tracker.”
Walt thought he knew all the tracking dogs in the valley. This one was new to him.
“What’s to become of the cat?” Fiona asked, now taking photographs.
The agent pointed out the ear tag and explained she’d be caged and they’d look for a home for her.
“And if you can’t find a home for her?” she asked.
“We usually do. We have a month or more,” the agent answered.
“Doesn’t seem fair,” Fiona said. “Do we even know if she’s the one who killed the yellow Lab? I mean, is she guilty of anything?”
“We’ll be able to watch her stool for hair and bones. That’s one place caging her helps.”
“Could she possibly have been down in Starweather yesterday afternoon?” Walt asked.
“A male can travel twenty-five miles at night, while hunting. This one could have been in Hailey last night. Starweather? No problem.”
Fiona finished taking shots, packed up her bag, said goodbye to them both, and trudged back up the hill.
“It would help if we could connect this cat to the yellow Lab,” Walt told the agent. “There was an attack on a fisherman. Putting all those to bed would be a good thing.”
“We won’t be able to confirm any of that. And what I didn’t want to say was chances are we won’t find her a home.”
Walt looked down at the beautiful creature and felt depressed.
“Cougars and humans…,” the agent said, pausing, “is not a good mix. Add PCP into it, and it’s a nightmare waiting to happen. She’s trouble, Sheriff. May not be her fault, but trouble just the same.”
“Yeah,” Walt said, “but she got here first. We’re the interlopers.”
The cat’s open-eyed stare stayed with him on his return to the trailhead. Fiona’s car was gone.
He thought about finding Gail’s car parked at Brandon ’s trailer and his chest tightened. He’d spent the night on his own couch, unable to sleep in their bed. Hadn’t slept much at all. He realized his marriage had officially ended: It wasn’t just talk, and tears, and lawyers anymore, and it left an aching hole in him that even work couldn’t fill. He wanted to take the day off, maybe hike up into the Pioneers with the dogs. He wanted change, something to take away all the reminders of his own failure.
He climbed back into the Cherokee and held firmly to the wheel, unable to drive. Unable to move.
T revalian had a problem: For his plan to work he had to take possession of the second dog, a dog trained for scent-and then make a switch. The sheriff and the vet had unwittingly provided a dog to get his plan back on track. But the vet, Mark Aker, from whom he’d arranged to purchase a scent dog-a tracker-weeks ago, by phone, had been introduced to Nagler that same morning, when delivering the service dog. Trevalian felt it too great a risk to allow Aker to meet Trevalian and Nagler in the same day, for fear he might make the connection-doctors were, if anything, observant. But this was the day prearranged for him to buy the tracker, so he’d timed his arrival in the lobby of Aker’s Veteranarian Services, an expansive log structure a few miles south of Ketchum, at a time he knew Aker to be busy with an emergency surgery.
He hid his impatience from the receptionist, wandering an area crowded with parakeet cages, racks of kitty teasers, and sacks of pet food.
Then his impatience gave way and he approached the counter for the third time.
“I don’t mean to be rude but is there anyone else I might talk to about this?” he asked.
“I’m afraid he asked that you wait,” she answered.
“But the sale has been in place for several weeks,” he protested. “I’m under time constraints.”
“Mark thinks of these animals as members of the family. He handles all the sales personally.”
“But she’s ready?”
“Of course.”
“Then could I at least see her?” he asked.
“Of course you can. I’m so sorry it’s taking so long.” She came around from behind the desk and led Trevalian out of the building, across a courtyard, to a small barn. The moment they entered, a half dozen dogs started barking.
Callie was a three-year-old German shepherd with an energetic face and two black socks on the hind legs. Trevalian knelt and petted and talked to the dog.
“She’s trained to track, yes?” he asked the receptionist.
“All the Search and Rescue dogs are,” she replied. “All are expert trackers. Yes.”
Trevalian asked for a demonstration, and the receptionist humored him. He watched and listened carefully to the specific commands used. He committed them to memory, along with Callie’s expressions and reactions. She gave him two full demonstrations-the dog obviously enjoying the game of pursuing a scent and receiving a reward for her success.
Trevalian glanced at his watch, making sure the receptionist saw him do so. “Certainly it can’t make any difference who takes my cashier’s check.”
“Mark would kill me. We’ve spent over a year training Callie. He’s going to want to say goodbye.”
Trevalian considered killing her himself.
“And if he loses a twenty-thousand-dollar sale?” Trevalian proposed.
For the first time, he saw a crack in her determination.
He pressed on. “I could call him to make sure we’ve covered everything. Leave you my cell phone number.”
“Well…” She didn’t sound as convinced as before. “Maybe I can interrupt him,” she said. “Why don’t we try one more time?”
As Trevalian followed her back to the main building he looked for any security cameras that might be recording him and saw none. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the building, returning a moment later.
“I think you’re in luck,” she said. “He’s at a point in the procedure where he can take a minute or two to come out and meet you.”
As his gut twisted, Trevalian attempted to look pleased.
“I’m going to run over to the other building,” the woman said. “I won’t be but a minute. Mark should be out shortly.”
“Thank you.”
She hurried through the door, obviously pleased to be rid of him.
When she returned, she found Mark Aker in his scrubs, his gloves removed, standing next to the reception desk with a perplexed look of confusion and irritation.
“So?” Aker asked her, his voice revealing the degree of his annoyance. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Mr. Meisner was right here a minute ago,” she said.
But the reception area stood empty.
T he gargantuan white tent shimmered in the late morning sunlight, an imposing edifice of vinyl-coated canvas supported by a steel superstructure. More than fifty yards long and thirty wide, it occupied most of a field adjacent to the art fair’s temporary tent city.
Walt parked across from the First Rights protest where several dozen kids in their twenties were already gathered. They waved posters and shouted, “Global capitalism equals world starvation!” A hundred yards to the west, well-heeled guests converged on the Great White Tent.
Sun Valley police maintained a perimeter around the protesters. Walt moved toward the tent, where four of his deputies were working with O’Brien’s team to secure the event.
C3 was ten minutes away from its 10 A.M. opening. For Walt, it felt like horses in a starting gate. The months of planning came down to this moment. He fought a fatigue headache, and the soreness from the chase the night before.
The tent could seat an audience of twelve hundred in folding chairs. The stage could hold a sixty-person symphony orchestra. At present the tent held four hundred folding chairs, a bookstore, and a coffee house with a dozen café tables on Persian rugs. A Dale Chihuly chandelier hung overhead. Robert Kelly oil paintings lined the interior walls. There were potted trees, azaleas in bloom, custom pillows, and a red silk draped ceiling that created the atmosphere of the interior of an Achaemenid tent.
Dryer’s agents were clustered at the front row near Liz Shaler, who was seated. Classical music played from speakers on either side of the stage and drowned out the anticapitalist chant. O’Brien’s team swiped arriving attendees with security wands-not enough of an imposition to be bothersome, but enough precaution to imply a sense of security.
Moving past the café and down the center aisle, Walt noticed that the tent’s side walls, usually left open, were tied shut with locking plastic cable ties. The only way in and out was the one entrance through which Walt had just come.
It might have been a result of his aborted pursuit the night before; it might have been the sight of the protesters, or the faint sound of their chanting; it might have been his father’s presence. It might have been his imagination’s unrelenting imagery of Brandon fucking his wife. But whatever the reason, he felt agitated and unsettled-that feeling like he’d forgotten something.
Patrick Cutter, wearing a blue blazer over a peach golf shirt, stood conferring with his assistants to the right of the stage. He looked confident and proud.
When a commotion began at the tent’s entrance, it drew Walt’s attention. He turned and hurried toward it. A pair of college kids confronting O’Brien’s guys.
Walt had taken only a few steps when O’Brien’s guys converged from every direction. Most of O’Brien’s guys, by the look of it. Eager for action.
As Walt approached, he caught a look in the eyes of one of the protesters, a kid wearing a green First Rights T-shirt-and it was not a look of despair or concern over being caught, but one of satisfaction, almost glee. The kid made the mistake of looking toward the stage with anticipation.
Walt immediately reached up for his radio. “Stage entrance. All units crash it, now!”
The two protesters had been sent as a diversion. O’Brien’s men had swarmed, leaving other areas unguarded.
Now running down the center aisle, Walt shouted out, “RED BADGE!” The three agents guarding Liz Shaler pulled her out of her seat, pushed her into a crouch, and formed a circle around her. They rushed her to the side of the tent, cut the plastic bands binding the tent panels, and whisked her outside. It all happened in a matter of seconds.
People jumped out of their seats, blocking the stage. Walt couldn’t get to Patrick Cutter, whom he now also identified as a possible target.
He scrambled up onto the stage, dodged across the set: a coffee table, a standing lamp, and two leather chairs. Ahead of him he saw the far wall of the tent wave, the result of air pressure. The moving wave headed in Cutter’s direction. Walt dove face-first across the stage, straight off the edge and into the person creating that wave. Something wet spread down him, and as he pinned the kid’s arms, restraining him, he saw the blood. It took him a moment to realize it was neither his nor the kid’s. Instead, it was chicken blood, intended as a political statement.
He rolled the kid over to cuff him. The kid shrieked and hollered slogans about capitalism and human rights. Brandon appeared and quickly escorted the boy backstage.
Patrick Cutter hurried along the side of the stage to Walt.
“Sheriff? Oh, my God!” he said, seeing the blood down his front. “How did you…? Where did he come from? Thank you! A thousand times thank you.”
“No problem,” Walt said. “We’re lucky it was just a stunt.”
“You saved me a huge embarrassment. Are you all right, Sheriff?” he finally thought to say.
“I’m fine. I’m going to get out of here.”
Walt headed backstage.
Cutter called after him, “I suppose that thing last night was probably just a dress rehearsal for this. Right?”
Walt turned, the blood covering him from chest to knees. His face and hands were smeared in it. “It was a different venue,” he said, “and that was a man last night, not a college kid. Other than that, yeah, they’re pretty much exactly the same.”
A t 11 A.M. sharp, fifteen minutes after the conclusion of Patrick’s opening address in the tent, an event of unbridled excess that included a gift of a Cutter Communications mobile phone for every guest, and marred only briefly by the disturbance, Stuart Holms sat down with Danny Cutter in the hospitality suite. Stuart’s head of security, a balding man in a Hawaiian shirt, who introduced himself as Emil, made a quick sweep of the suite and left. Before he shut the door he gave Danny the eye, as if Danny were trouble, and the first thing that came to Danny’s mind was an image of Ailia Holms riding him the night before, her face a grimace of well-earned pleasure.
Stu Holms took the couch, selected a piece of cheese from a tray, and nibbled on it. “So,” he said.
He looked much younger than Danny remembered him. A face job? He wore a pair of cream-colored slacks and a dark green shirt. He had wet eyes, thin hair, and ears like bird wings. He needed more sun, but his teeth were perfect. Dentures? He seemed to be looking right through Danny, not at him.
“So. Trilogy looks pretty damn good on paper, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“It is good,” Danny said, playing to his own strengths. Cheerful optimism came easily for him. “We have significant market penetration, brand loyalty with our customers, and fabulous packaging. What we don’t have is a national presence.”
“Which is where my ten million comes in. Yes, I get all that. But listen, Danny, I don’t love paying for marketing and advertising. Infrastructure, sure. SquawkCom could provide all your communications needs, networking, cabling, phone, and data. The million you have in this budget will be more than enough. We can save you a lot there. Your bottling plant makes sense to me. Securing your source-absolutely necessary. Imperative, even. But ad dollars? Not me. Not my money. Take that out of the cash flow of your existing business. Move my money into salaries and transportation. Human assets. But I hate advertising. Whoever buys anything because of an ad they see?”
Danny sorted through what he’d just been told. “You’re going to invest?”
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
“Well…yes.” He was stunned it had happened so easily.
“You’ll make me part of the angel round-I don’t want diluted shares,” he said, “and you’ll give me a seat on the board.”
“Our angel round closed two years ago.”
“It just reopened. I’m not taking B shares, Danny. I’m first in line, or I’m stepping out of the line.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Of course it can. And the seat on the board-I had in mind cochairman.”
“Cochairman,” Danny repeated, his voice tightly wound. “I would if I could, but I control thirty-one percent of the voting shares, and as such-”
“It’s cochair, a partnership, or you take your dog and pony show on down the road. You want to turn me down, Danny, it’s a free country.”
“I mean no disrespect, Stuart. It’s just that I’ve always thought of this as my company. You must know that feeling. And-”
“Of course I do.”
“Exactly!” Danny said. “And so you can see how-”
“Take it or leave it,” Stuart said, interrupting for a second time. “No hard feelings one way or the other, Danny.” He checked his watch, a heavy thing with a titanium housing, white gold trim, and a platinum band. “It’s ten million dollars. My guys will go over the paperwork, if you agree. Your brother’s got us all on a tight leash. I’d like your answer now-I like a man who can think on his feet-but if you need more time…”
“It’s not a matter of time, it’s a matter of-”
“Time and money, Danny. Those are the only things that had better matter. If you’re good with the money and don’t need more time, then I’d say we have ourselves a deal.” He extended his hand. “We have an agreement, if you want it.”
Danny willed himself to lift his arm. He understood the opportunity this presented. He’d be a fool to walk away from such an offer.
He was saved from the handshake by a knock on the door. Danny looked up, expecting Emil.
Instead, Ailia entered, packed into a pair of white tailored pants, a long-sleeved shiny salmon blouse, and wearing a string of pearls the size of mothballs.
“We’re going to go in for the full ten,” Stuart informed her. He extended his hand again, and this time Danny shook it. Ailia joined her husband on the couch. “Ailia will take my seat on the board.”
Danny felt the room spin. “What?” he choked out. She looked over at him as if she’d won the lottery.
“Danny,” Stuart said, “meet your new partner.”
W hy the top secret treatment?” Fiona asked. She sat in the passenger seat of Walt’s Cherokee, its motor rumbling. He’d parked in the lot of the Hemingway School, on the west side of Ketchum, facing an athletic field and an over-forty intramural soccer game.
Walt had changed out of the blood-soaked uniform shirt and into a black SPECIAL TACTICS T-shirt he kept in the back.
“It’s not a favor. You’ll be paid,” he said.
“I’m scheduled to guide on the river most of the weekend.”
“It’s not like that. I want you to loan us your camera gear.”
“You have your own stuff.”
“We don’t have telephoto lenses, and I can’t rent them here in town. The soonest Salt Lake can get them up here is Monday, and I need them today.”
“Because?”
“There was an incident at the C3 opening.”
“I heard.”
“Yeah…so…I got to thinking that if I was a hit man hired to kill Shaler, the best place I could hide would be out in the open.”
“With the protesters.”
“Yes. I need photographs-digital close-ups of every face. There’s a chance I can run them through national databases-facial recognition. Maybe identify this guy-a suspect-in time.”
“I can do that for you.”
“You’re busy.”
“I just made myself unbusy. Randy can guide for me.”
“It’s risky work. Sometimes people don’t like their photograph taken. I’m thinking Brandon.”
“So I’m supposed to loan you my gear and train Tommy Brandon?”
“You’ll be paid.”
“This isn’t point-and-shoot. Not exactly.”
“You can keep it simple though, right? I’ve got a guy in Seattle with the Marshal Service. I need to get these e-mailed to him this afternoon.”
“Then let me do it. Forget teaching Brandon.”
“It could get ugly. I’m not putting you into that.”
“I’m touched,” she said sarcastically. “So, I’ll partner with Brandon.”
Just the words “partner with Brandon ” turned his stomach.
“Face recognition software requires good pictures, Walt. High-quality, full-frontal shots. You think Brandon is going to get this right?”
He was transported back to his imagination: Gail and Brandon sweating in the tight confines of the trailer’s bedroom.
“Earth to Walt,” he heard her say.
“Okay…okay,” he said. “You’ll team up with Brandon,” he agreed. Anything, he thought, to keep Brandon out of that trailer.
T revalian’s trick was to put a liberal amount of Vaseline laced with cayenne pepper up both nostrils. His nose ran like a faucet and gave Nagler the excuse to miss most of the events. The beauty of the Nagler identity was that the former academic was a virtual recluse, rarely seen outside the think tank. He did not travel in these circles, nor was he known by them. He crashed the invitation-only luncheon he’d seen mentioned on Cutter’s home computer.
No one would be so impolite as to bounce a blind man, and they did not. A place was set, and he sat through the outdoor luncheon, on the lawn of the Guest House, only three tables away from the woman he’d come to kill. Had he not cared about his own freedom, he might have run a knife through her and been done with it, for the Secret Service agents kept their distance, guarding the perimeter but not the woman. With his semitransparent contacts in place, Trevalian could see well enough to not make a mess of eating.
Prior to dessert he excused himself, having exhausted his Kleenex, and wanting to set the hook. As expected, a Secret Service agent escorted him and Toey to a golf cart that then shuttled him back to the lodge. This planted the dog’s existence firmly in the minds of the agents.
Back in Nagler’s room, Trevalian moved quickly, with a rehearsed system of changing from one man to the other. He locked the appropriate doors, hung out the PRIVACY tags, and then left the rooms and took the stairs to the ground floor.
Trevalian, as hotel guest Meisner, walked hurriedly into the side lot where he’d parked the rental. He drove out onto Sun Valley Road and parked along the bike path with a tourist map unfolded on the steering wheel. Ten minutes later, two black Escalades driving in tandem pulled up to the traffic light. Shaler’s escort.
He followed well back of the Escalades, turned and approached a building marked as the library. The television crews gave away her home. He parked and got out, having not figured on such a scene. There was no way he could get near her house without either being arrested or his face being shown on national television. He studied the suddenly excited reporters and news crews, all swilling Tully’s iced coffees from paper cups. Their enthusiasm, manifested as shouting and screaming, waned as Shaler entered the house without comment. These same news crews would likely be covering the brunch on Sunday. They would be in the room. Now he was the one who felt on edge: jumpy and excited.
He passed the next fifteen minutes watching them while trying to find a way inside. The journalists suddenly sprang back to life only to realize it was Shaler’s Hispanic housecleaner and not the AG at the side door. But where they cursed with disappointment, Trevalian had to contain his excitement: for the housecleaner carried a bulging white canvas sack in her arms. A laundry bag.
The maid launched the sack into the back of a beat-up Chevy, slammed the hatch, and climbed behind the driver’s wheel.
Trevalian was back in the rental in seconds and had the engine running by the time she pulled out of the drive. He followed, knowing a maid wasn’t going to check for tails. She drove six blocks and parked. He couldn’t find a parking place. He resorted to double parking in a private parking lot that warned of towing unauthorized vehicles. He hurried from the car and caught the door to the Suds Tub as it swung shut behind the maid.
She thanked him.
“Hello, Maria,” a woman with stringy hair said from behind the counter. Even with two fans running, the laundry suffered from high humidity and extreme heat. “Shaler?” she said, tapping on a keyboard and beginning her count, as the laundry bag was inverted. “Be with you in a minute,” she called out to Trevalian.
“No problem,” he said. The appearance of this maid was a gift. The icing on the cake came as the proprietor apologized to the maid that due to the extremely busy weekend and a broken washer, pickup would be Monday at the earliest, no exceptions.
Maria didn’t seem to care. She took a receipt, offered Trevalian a smile in passing, and left, carrying her empty laundry sack with her.
For his purposes, that empty sack would do. But he couldn’t see how to get it without making a scene.
“Can I help you?” the proprietor inquired.
Trevalian asked about the pricing, threw in a few questions about timing, and watched as the woman transferred Shaler’s dirty clothes into a blue sack, placed a sticker on it from the order form, pinned a tag bearing a second sticker to the bag, and then wedged the sack onto the second shelf from the floor with a dozen others-all identical.
“I don’t know if you heard,” she said over her shoulder, “but we’re a little backlogged because of a faulty washer.”
“I’m good,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
As he left, he made a quick study of the business’s security system.
A challenge-but nothing he couldn’t work with.
W alt met Fiona in the parking lot of the golf pro shop. She climbed into the Cherokee and immediately fiddled with the air-conditioning, making it colder.
“Damn, that sun’s hot,” she complained. She worked with her camera, pushing buttons on the back, and then passed it to Walt, who held it gingerly.
On the small LCD screen, he saw a photo of a man he recognized as Andy Bartholomew, the self-proclaimed leader of First Rights. “Where is this, the chairlift?”
“Yeah. River Run. You toggle this flywheel to move to the next shot.”
She leaned in close to demonstrate, and he tensed noticeably. Any proximity to a woman was too close for him right now. Even a bucket seat across a Jeep made him feel as if she were in his lap. She scorned him for his reaction, but went back to her corner. He toggled to the next shot.
What had been a blob in the first photo now turned out to be a man’s shoulder. Also, in this second shot the chairlift as a backdrop became more apparent. The Sun Valley Company operated a chairlift to the top of the mountain for summer sightseeing. Bartholomew, and the man belonging to that shoulder, were clearly in line for the chairlift.
The third photo caused him to gasp. “That’s Dick O’Brien.”
“That’s what Tommy said.”
He didn’t like her referring to Brandon by his first name, and nearly corrected her.
“What the hell is Cutter’s head of security doing with the leader of First Rights?”
“Tommy said that, too.”
“I don’t care about Tommy Brandon, okay?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it.
Fiona sat up straight.
“Sorry…I…” He pointed to the camera, unable to make eye contact with her.
“What…is going on?” she asked.
After a moment, she obliged him, advancing the images. Another several photos, all taken within a few minutes of one another. Bartholomew and O’Brien boarded and rode a chairlift together. “Oh, shit,” Walt mumbled.
“Sheriff?”
“The only reason you ride a twenty-minute chairlift with someone like Bartholomew is so that no one can listen in,” he said.
“He threatened him,” she said. “That’s what Tommy said happened: The big guy told the younger one that if he made any trouble for the conference there’d be hell to pay.”
“Thing is…,” Walt said, “it only takes about thirty seconds to do that. So why all the cloak-and-dagger involving the chairlift? That’s a lot of trouble to go through-a long ride to share with the guy-if all you’re going to do is try to scare him.”
“So?”
“So I’m going to find out.”
Twenty minutes later he and Bartholomew occupied the front seat of Brandon ’s BCS cruiser, which was parked in a Sinclair gas station across from the employee dormitories a few hundred yards from the site of the First Rights demonstration.
Walt introduced himself and shook hands with Bartholomew, a small man with an erudite face despite a grunge appearance. He emphasized that the man was here of his own free will and was under no legal obligation to cooperate.
“We’re cool.”
“I heard you took in the view from the top of Baldy this morning,” Walt said.
Bartholomew grimaced.
“It’s a small town. I also heard Dick O’Brien took that ride with you.”
Bartholomew studied the car’s ceiling fabric. He released a long exhale.
“I like Dick O’Brien-I’ve worked with him on the conference for the past four years. I don’t want to make accusations against a friend of mine, without a complaint to back it up.”
“No complaints,” Bartholomew said.
Walt considered leaving it there-he’d done his duty. “If he threatened or extorted you, Mr. Bartholomew, it’s my obligation to inform you that we will and can protect you against any such malfeasance.”
“Such a big word for an Idaho sheriff. But then again, Sheriff Walter Fleming, you’re not your average county sheriff, are you? Quantico trained. Your college degree at Northwestern on a full ride. Former two-term president of the state’s Sheriffs’ Association. Currently serving on the National Association of Counties. Your father, a former FBI special agent.”
“You want a gold star for doing your homework, go back to school,” Walt said. “Or do I counter by telling you you’re a Berkeley grad who joined the Peace Corps, worked for Nader’s election campaign in 2000, and then went off track. You’re an angry teen on steroids, Mr. Bartholomew. I’m not interested in you, only whether or not Dick O’Brien threatened you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Which is what I’m afraid of. It’s my job to handle Dick O’Brien, not yours. Don’t mess with him.”
“You can relax, Sheriff. His interest was in making a contribution to our cause.”
Walt mulled this over. “A contribution?” he said.
“Fifty thousand dollars: twenty-five up front, twenty-five when we cross the Blaine County border. He suggested we park ourselves on the capitol’s front lawn in Boise.”
“Fifty thousand dollars if you walked.”
“That’s what the man said.”
“And what did you say?” Walt asked.
“I told him to get in line. I turned down a hundred grand yesterday.”
“I’m in the wrong business. Who offered you the hundred?”
“No idea,” Bartholomew said. “An anonymous phone call. Maybe it was a joke.”
“You have no idea who made the offer?”
“Cutter, I can understand,” Bartholomew said. “He has his gig to protect. But the first one? Who but Cutter cares about it that much?”
“If you try to do to Sun Valley what you did to Seattle,” Walt warned, “you’ll be met with a show of overwhelming force.”
“Shock and awe?” he said sarcastically. “Let me tell you something, Sheriff. You’re limited to tear gas and rubber bullets, and we’ve seen them both.”
“I have National Guard Reserves on call. If you start something, I will finish it.”
“And whom do I see if I’m threatened by the sheriff?”
“That would be me,” Walt said, trading ironic smiles with the man. He reached for the missing door handle, then knocked loudly on the glass for Brandon to let him out.
Walt stood up out of the car to find himself face-to-face with his deputy. Bartholomew slid across the seat and also got out. He headed across Sun Valley Road back toward the demonstration.
“Sheriff?” Brandon said, when Walt failed to move. Brandon was nearly a head taller.
Walt hesitated, his head spinning, his fists clenched. “You two could have waited for the paperwork to come through.”
Brandon ’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He stiffened his posture, standing at rigid attention.
Walt opened his mouth to say more, but then reconsidered, shook his head, and walked away. He didn’t look back to check, as he crossed the road, but he sensed the man was still standing there staring straight ahead, and it gave him a much needed sense of satisfaction.
“Asshole,” he mumbled under his breath.
T revalian worked out hard before an operation, believing it mitigated the adrenaline rushes. Late Friday night he spent forty minutes on a treadmill and an elliptical, and another twenty with light weights-half his typical daily routine. With the edge burned off his nerves, he found his response time was quicker, his thinking clearer.
As he returned from the late night workout, his mind on the Suds Tub laundry and not the hallway’s wall of fame-photos of Gary Cooper, Ernest Hemingway, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Clint Eastwood-he spotted a scuffle ahead.
It appeared to be a feud between a husband and wife. The man had hold of her upper arms. He raised his voice drunkenly. The woman wore a clinging formal dress, her bare back to Trevalian. With each step she took to distance herself, the man moved with her-an awkward and dangerous dance.
She broke away from him with a sudden jerk, turning toward Trevalian. It was the jazz singer from the night before. The man was not her husband, but some lech of a hotel guest. Trevalian quickened his step. The singer spotted him, locked onto him. Her eyes cried for help.
He knew better than to get involved in this. But as the elevator bell dinged and the doors drew open, he saw an opportunity. The slobbering fool called out, “Hey, there! You come back here! We’re not done!” He looked about sixty, though fit for his age.
Trevalian moved toward her with deliberate speed. Her purse thumped against her flank. Trevalian hooked her elbow with his sweat-soaked arm, spun her around on her high heels, and escorted her into the elevator.
The elevator car lifted past the second floor sounding a bell. They met eyes; hers were bright with appreciation.
“I hope that wasn’t your husband,” Trevalian said.
She held up her left hand: no ring.
The elevator arrived at the third floor. He held the door and let her pass. She opened her mouth to thank him. He said, “No charge.” The elevator doors closed and they turned in opposite directions. Then the violent cursing of a man’s angry voice rose up the stairway.
She turned back toward him. “Hide me, please. Just for a minute.”
On the job, Trevalian did not get involved; he did not womanize.
“Five minutes,” he said. He took her by the elbow and led her down the hallway.
They walked briskly. As the man’s voice became clearer, far behind them, Trevalian broke into a light jog. The woman stopped, foisted her purse onto Trevalian, kicked off her heels, squatted down to scoop them up, hoisted her dress, and took off at a run. At the sight of him holding her purse she broke into a nervous laugh.
With the door to Meisner’s room locked behind them, and the jamb loop in place, he said, “You know where the phone is.” He indicated his own sodden athletic wear and, gathering a fresh change of clothes into his arms from the closet, said, “I’m going to shower. I am not going to spring out naked and attack you,” he said. “I’m sure you have someplace to go.”
“And if I stay?” she asked in her husky, singer’s voice. The lace of her bra showed. She adjusted the low-cut dress. “Could we make it ten minutes instead of five?”
“I’m heading out.” He was also about to dress in all black, although that was enough in fashion not to be a problem.
When he came back out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he found her sitting at the desk, a hotel bottle of liquor uncapped. She was drinking from a coffee mug. She’d applied some fresh lipstick.
“They probably charge a fortune for these, and I’m sorry, but I needed it.”
“Did you call someone?” he asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Because?”
She shrugged. “Fine line. I’m not supposed to offend the guests. But I don’t have to put up with that bullshit either. If I bring security into it-especially this, of all weekends-it’ll make it into more than it was…is…whatever.”
“He was hurting you.”
“He’s an asshole. But on a weekend like this the place is full of them.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t stay.”
“No problem.” She rose, adjusted her dress again, and slipped on her shoes. “I owe you a drink.”
“Rain check?” he said.
“This is Sun Valley. It snows here, but it doesn’t rain.”
“My loss.”
“Can you walk me out?” she asked.
“I can get you down to the lobby.”
“That’ll do.” She extended her hand. “Lilly.”
“Peter,” he said, providing Meisner’s first name.
They reached the lobby without incident.
Scouting the area, she said, “I meant it about the rain check.”
She turned. She saw only his back, heading down the same hallway from which he’d first appeared.
J ust before midnight, with the summer sky ripped in two by a vivid Milky Way, Walt entered Friedman Memorial Airport, still reeling over his brief encounter with Dick O’Brien.
With O’Brien attending a dessert function at Trail Creek Cabin, where the commissioner of the FCC was giving an informal talk on the Politics of Policy to forty-five special ticket holders, he’d suggested meeting Walt at the Hemingway Memorial. A well-trodden path less than a mile from the cabin. Walt had worked his way down through the dark, flashlight in hand, to Hemingway’s bust. The famous writer overheard everything they said.
O’Brien, defensive from the start, lit a cigarette, its red ember traveling up and down like a firefly.
“So?” the big man said. “I heard you spoke to Bartholomew. You might have told me you had him under surveillance.”
“I might have, but I didn’t.”
“Hell of a view from up there,” O’Brien said.
“I’m not telling Patrick Cutter his business-”
“Wouldn’t be any point,” O’Brien said, sounding exasperated.
“Making that kind of offer…it wouldn’t hurt if I knew about it.”
“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“Did Bartholomew tell you about the hundred K?” Walt asked.
“He did. It wasn’t us.”
“Then who?”
“That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question,” O’Brien said.
“Let me run this by you: If you’ve been planning to assassinate Elizabeth Shaler, if you’ve paid out maybe half a million in fees, and a good chunk in expenses and advance work, wouldn’t the arrival of First Rights scare you just a little?”
“The protesters get nasty,” O’Brien speculated. “It shuts down the conference, and you lose your shot at her.”
“The hundred grand serves as an insurance policy-to make sure nothing upsets the conference.”
O’Brien whistled.
“Tell me I’m crazy,” Walt said.
“Wish I could,” O’Brien said, lighting another cigarette.
It felt as if several minutes passed. O’Brien with the cigarette. The sound of the creek.
O’Brien exhaled a pale cloud. “I can’t take this to Cutter as further proof of the hit. If that’s what you’re asking-”
“The hell you can’t.”
“Do you trust some guy who let his protesters cause two million dollars’ worth of damage in downtown Seattle? Patrick Cutter won’t.”
“She should cancel that speech.”
“He’s going to need more.”
“That’s bullshit,” Walt said.
“Patrick will see this as a negotiating stance, nothing more. He eats guys like Bartholomew for lunch. This kid has zero credibility.”
O’Brien’s words stayed with Walt as he entered the air terminal. He’d received a message that Pete-the former volunteer fireman who now ran airport security-had to see him immediately. He’d called but reached voice mail. Heading to Hailey anyway, he swung by the airport.
“Hey, Walt,” Pete said, greeting him at the automatic doors. He’d been waiting for him. Pete wore extra-extra-large and had hands like an NBA player. He sounded as if he’d smoked from birth.
“What have you got?” Walt asked, releasing the handshake before it became a contest.
“Yesterday. You and Brandon,” Pete said. “The dog thing.”
“Yes.”
“Flight seventeen-forty-six.”
“If you say so,” Walt said. He followed down a wide corridor to the two small and unattended airline counters, pushed through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The back room was crowded with unclaimed luggage.
“Pete, it’s been a long day.”
“The way it works anymore,” Pete said, “is we gotta send back lost items to Salt Lake. They got the full-size X-ray machines down there. But we can’t scan ’em because of their size, so we open them up. In this case we could scan it, and we also did a hand search.”
“Pete,” Walt said again.
“Yesterday you were looking for some guy on flight seventeen-forty-six. Today we got ourselves an unclaimed bag from seventeen-forty-six.” He mugged for Walt, letting him stew. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, Walt, except for its contents.”
“Its contents,” Walt repeated.
Pete hoisted the bag onto a table and dumped it upside down. The contents scattered. Pete said, “Suture, bandages. Hypodermic needles. Fuckin’ traveling emergency room. Only thing missing is a scalpel, and you got yourself a regular surgical suite.”
Walt moved the contents around, using his pen. “You touch any of this?”
“No, sir,” Pete said.
“It’s good work, Pete,” Walt said. “Syringes got through security?”
“Diabetics are allowed syringes. See ’em all the time. More than one or two, you’re usually asked to put it in with the checked luggage. Not always.”
Walt inventoried the contents. A navy blue sweater. A paperback novel by Leslie Silbert. Three boxes of bandage wrap. A box of butterfly bandages. A pair of forceps. Two pairs of needle holders. Two containers of suture marked Ethicon #3 and Ethicon #0. A box of latex gloves. “Shit,” Walt said. “No ID?”
“No. None.”
He studied the sweater. “Some hairs, looks like. Maybe some prints on these boxes, or the forceps.”
“Who leaves something like this behind? You know? Wouldn’t you come back to get it? I would.”
Walt returned the contents to the bag. He noted a white loop of stretch string at the bottom of one of the back straps. “This coulda been an ID,” he said.
“Could have been tore off years ago.”
Walt glanced around the disorganized room and its filthy floor. “Do me a favor and ask these guys to sweep up. Let’s run any loose ID tags they find.”
“Against passenger manifest,” Pete stated. “Done.”
Walt wrote down the contents of the bag.
“Listen, Pete…could you buy me the weekend, before sending it down there?” Walt asked. He knew TSA regulations were strict. “I’d like to get some of these items to the Nampa lab. The lab will do weekend work for the right price.”
“Prints…” Pete said. “You think?”
“It’s possible.”
“I got ya covered. It’ll miss the morning flight. Shit happens.” Pete sniggered. He zipped the bag shut and handed it to Walt. “Monday morning, I need it back by seven.”
Walt thanked him. Right or wrong, he connected the bag to the shooter. The medical contents suggested the preparation for injury. If the man was prepared to doctor himself, he meant business.
And if such a man was so prepared to treat himself, then what exactly did he have planned for Liz Shaler?