Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“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.”

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.

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 between 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.”