Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

“Stand aside,” he hollered, but it did no good. Liz Shaler’s celebrity had taken over. Nothing was going to part the crowd. There were too many hotel guests and people from town-faces he recognized-waiting there to be coincidence. Patrick Cutter had arranged a big, splashy welcome for her, and for the sake of the cameras.

He lifted up on his toes to see into the lobby. Liz Shaler and Patrick Cutter were at the center of a knot. A camera flashed. Walt followed its source to a pair of thin arms, and finally, Fiona’s profile. Despite the clamor of Liz’s admirers, despite the shouting of O’Brien and his men for people to get out of the way, despite the chaos and confusion, Fiona somehow turned and looked right at him.

They met eyes and she immediately understood his problem as he pointed inside. Fiona was jostled to the side. She connected with him once again and waved Walt to his left. Walt backed away from the throng, looked left, and saw the door.

A moment later, the exterior door leading to the hotel offices, locked on a Sunday morning, sprang open. Fiona’s eyes sparkled. “What a zoo!”

The door closed, eliminating much of the shouting from the protesters.

“I know who it is,” Walt announced. “He’s here in the hotel.”

T revalian stood in line in the inn’s lobby awaiting his turn at the security checkpoint, just past which were the men’s and women’s bathrooms-a piece of the logistical planning that was already drawing complaint. At the end of the hall: the doors to the banquet hall.

“That’s a beautiful dog you have there,” said a woman behind him.

He thanked her, wondering if she or anyone else had spotted that, to a large degree, he was directing the dog, not the other way around. The line moved steadily forward, everyone accustomed to, and comfortable with, the routine: Women removed their heavy jewelry, the men dumped their phones into plastic bins. Only one woman he saw was also wanded after passing through the metal detector. Trevalian’s turn came next.

“Hello, Mr. Nagler,” said the young, wide-shouldered man feeding the X-ray belt. “I’ll take the dog through first.”

Trevalian turned his head in that direction, but also aimed his face toward the ceiling. He passed the handle of the guide harness in that general direction, making sure not to appear overly anxious or to put the harness squarely into this man’s hands-reminding himself to play the blind man.

The dog was held in check as Trevalian searched his pockets. He came up with a cell phone, some coins, and, in his coat’s side pocket, a device about the size of a garage door opener. He made a good act of feeling for the plastic dish and catching its edge, deposited his belongings.

“What’s this?” the guard asked curiously.

Trevalian could see the man was holding the other device. “My cell phone?”

“A garage opener?” the man asked.

The dog was led through a metal detector and sounded an alarm.

“Don’t push it, please!” Trevalian said a little too sharply. He reached out and found the man’s hand and returned the device to the plastic tray. “Shock collar. She’s still in training.”

“We’ll have to X-ray that collar. The harness, too.”

“No problem. Of course,” Trevalian said. “Just don’t lose her, please.”

The guards removed both and ran them through the X-ray. Trevalian waited anxiously as the collar and harness were imaged by a third guard behind a TV monitor. Finally, he was waved through the metal detector and passed without incident.

The bulky collar was reattached to the dog, as was the harness. Once through he returned his belongings to his pockets, grabbed hold of the guide handle, and moved forward.

He was inside.

T he crowd had thinned, the gawkers following Liz Shaler’s procession toward a private reception held in her honor, prior to her talk. Walt spotted Chuck Webb, the hotel’s house detective.

“Sheriff?”

“Chuck, I need a room number from you. And I need you to put any of your guys you have left over on radios by all the exits. I needed this to happen about five minutes ago.”

Webb didn’t question any of this. The urgency in Walt’s voice had convinced him. He reached for a handheld radio. “Guest’s name?”

“Nagler.” He racked his memory. “Strange first name I can’t remember.”

“The blind guy. I know who you mean.”

“Yes.”

Chuck spoke into the radio, “Christopher Robin,” he announced.

“It’s Nagler,” Walt repeated.

“That’s our internal code to block all doors. Kids missing. That sort of thing. My guys’ll lock them down.”

Walt spotted one of O’Brien’s men approaching fast. Cutter intended to throw him out, which wasn’t going to happen-but it would delay him.

“The room number,” Walt hissed at Webb. “And your passkey. I need both right now!”

Webb fumbled for a small hub clipped to his belt from which hung a retractable string attached to a plain white plastic card. He stuffed it into Walt’s hand. He saw O’Brien’s man as well, and knew trouble when he saw it.

His radio chirped and Webb put it to his ear. “Three-twenty-seven,” he said.

Walt didn’t want to initiate a chase with O’Brien’s guy. But it seemed either that, or confrontation. That was when someone stepped between them and raised a camera. A pulse of white light exploded in the face of O’Brien’s soldier. Fiona.

Walt took off for the stairs.

The security man cleared his eyes and looked around quickly. “Where’d he go?” he asked Webb.

“Who?” answered Webb.

The guard spun around. The sheriff was gone. And so was the photographer.

D anny Cutter was on borrowed time. The police were after him for Ailia Holms’s murder-and his brother was acting strange. His fears, along with the financial repercussions of her death, had kept him up all night. He knew he looked beleaguered and beaten down. That wouldn’t help him any.

The reception for Elizabeth Shaler was held in a private dining room. Danny looked around for Stuart Holms but knew he wouldn’t find him.

Conversation quieted in the direction of Liz Shaler. Patrick escorted her through the room, making introductions. Danny tagged along and listened in. Those in this room had already made campaign contributions. The brush with fame was payback.

He heard someone in the group ahead address the attorney general. “We’d love to give more, if only we could, Your Honor, but as much as we’d like to see you in office, we’re not willing to go to jail for it.” His bellowing laugh followed.

Patrick piped up, saying, “You might consider her as a speaker for a company event.”

Liz looked noticeably uncomfortable.

At that moment, Danny understood his brother’s determination to make sure Liz gave her talk. He was overpaying her, setting a market value for others to match. Never mind the tax implications, money was money, and candidates were allowed to spend their personal wealth on the campaign trail. Patrick had found a way around the rules, and by doing so had made himself invaluable to Liz Shaler.

Dick O’Brien appeared out of nowhere. He caught Patrick’s eye. As O’Brien shook his head side to side, a ghostly pallor swept across Patrick’s face. Danny knew intuitively this had something to do with Walt Fleming and the fact that Doug Aanestad had spent the early morning in private with Patrick.

Something was horribly wrong.

W alt, out of breath, stopped in front of 327, Fiona right behind him. “You can’t be here,” he told her.

“Yeah? Well, guess what? I am.”