Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

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

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

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

“So how do I help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W alt had awakened to an alarm clock at 6 A.M. Sunday morning, having had four hours’ sleep. He went for a two-mile run to wake himself up, showered, and changed into a fresh uniform. By 8 A.M. he was overseeing Brandon’s leadership in securing Sun Valley Road for the one-mile stretch from Ketchum to the resort, while monitoring the Sun Valley Police Department’s attempts to contain the burgeoning number of First Rights protesters who twice had broken through a barricade trying to get closer to the inn and the C 3gathering, only to be pushed back to the area allotted them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a long way away.”

“But not so far from the lodge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? So what?”

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

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