Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

Fiona tried to speak, but stepped back and threw up on the carpet. She apologized immediately, the vomit still coming from her.

On the floor by the trash can he spotted several bloodied bandages and a pair of bloodied latex gloves. He saw the corner of a cardboard box beneath a bloody towel. The box read: ESS FENCE. Another piece of trash caught his attention: EverTyed Surgical Suture 3.0.

“You all right?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Call downstairs for Chuck Webb. Tell him what we found. Then tell him I’m on my way over to the inn. There’s a shooter at the brunch. A blind guy. He may or may not have a dog. I need backup. His backup. Not the feds. Have you got that? Hey! Fiona!”

“Got it,” she whispered.

“Keep your cell phone free. I may call back here. I may want details.”

“Details…,” she mumbled.

“Hey!” he shouted, to break the trance. “Do you have your cell phone?”

She looked up at him and nodded.

“Okay?” he said.

“Okay.”

Walt hurried down the long hallway to a set of fire stairs. A minute later he was outside and running.

Light and sounds blurred. The art fair. Kids playing. People shopping. Another day in paradise. He heard nothing but his own quickened pulse.

People turned to watch the red-faced sheriff at an all-out run.

He was passing through the outdoor mall when his cell phone rang. “Fleming,” he said.

“Walt.” Fiona’s voice. “It’s not her blood. She’s not cut anywhere I can see. Can you hear me? It’s not her blood.”

“Three-point-oh,” Walt said. “Large-animal suture.”

“The dog? He hurt the dog?”

He pushed himself faster. A teenage kid went by on Rollerblades.

Bursting through the doors, he alarmed the inn’s desk clerk. He turned the corner and ran smack into the security station.

“Sheriff,” he spit out breathlessly.

He walked briskly through the metal detector, tripping the alarm. A meaty hand grabbed him by the upper arm, spinning him around. Walt wrestled to break the grip.

“No weapons inside,” the man said.

“No time,” Walt said, out of breath. “The shooter’s in there. Where’s Dryer?”

“No weapons.” The two men faced each other. Walt knew where this was going. His father had warned him. He removed his gun, held it out, and broke the man’s grip. The gun fell. He took off, an agent close behind him.

P atrick Cutter watched from behind Elizabeth Shaler, savoring the moment. He saw a room of captivated faces and the unblinking eyes of the five television network news cameras given permission to record.

Liz Shaler spoke with authority and passion, animating her talk with her beautiful hands. “There is a growing abyss in this country, a divide between haves and have-nots that must finally be addressed. Those of us here today are fortunate to be in the former category, but that also puts us in a position of responsibility to have a critical impact on this country’s future. An obligation for improvement. I see a need for moral certitude, yes, but administered with a compassion promised by the present administration but never delivered. It is time we stand up and say, ‘If not me, who? If not now, when?’”

The audience erupted into applause. A good number jumped to their feet. Patrick allowed himself a smile.

Then he spotted a red-faced and out-of-breath Walt Fleming at the back of the room, and he knew he had trouble.

Walt paused only briefly at the door. Dryer’s men were likely on orders to keep him out of this room. He searched for Nagler, for the dog, as he walked away from the doors and toward a corner where he could get a look back at the faces. Much of the crowd rose in applause, blocking his view of the room. Then he spotted his father straight ahead. His father spotted him and shook his head as if to say, “You’ll never make it.”

W e stand at a threshold,” Shaler said from the dais, “a turning point where we can elect to go back or push forward. The choices have never been more clear…”

Cutter watched as some heads turned with the sheriff’s quick movement. Here was the very distraction he’d hoped to avoid-Dick O’Brien would hear about this! Shaler, too, took notice of the sheriff, angling her head slightly-looking for a possible sign. Now Dryer’s two agents, flanking the stage, picked up on him as well.

Liz Shaler pressed on: “We will find solutions with friends from both sides of the aisle. But find them, we will! The best days still lie ahead.”

More applause rippled through an increasingly divided crowd.

“It is no easy task what I propose. But I believe I am up to the challenge. Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the United States, I come here today to humbly offer you my services, as a fellow, concerned citizen, a former educator, a litigator, and yes: as a woman.” She paused and studied the crowd. “I offer you my candidacy for the president of the United States of America.”

Walt continued searching the room for sight of Nagler. The crowd jumped to its feet. He saw nothing but frantic waving and excited faces.

He risked a look back: two of O’Brien’s men, closing fast.

Walt reached Jerry and raised his voice over the thunderous cheering. “It’s the blind guy…maybe the dog is concealing a piece. This is for real, Dad. You’ve got to go with me on this.”

Walt met his father’s questioning look with absolute conviction and confidence.

“You were right,” Walt said. “They’re coming to get me. And they took my piece.”

“I’m with you,” Jerry said.

“Okay. Sorry about this,” Walt said. He reached inside his father’s sport coat and took his gun.

As he spun around, there were Nagler and the dog, on the opposite end of the cavernous room.

A s the audience rose to its feet, Trevalian knelt and once again slipped the jogging bra in front of Callie’s snout. As he did so, he spotted the sheriff immediately. Both men knew what was going to happen next.

Trevalian let go of the guide harness. He said, “Find it!” The dog took off into the thunderous crowd. Shaler stepped away from the lectern and began a series of bows. It was, for her, a beautiful moment.

He looked behind him: The cameras rolled. He plunged his hand into his coat pocket, his thumb hovering over the remote’s button.

L iz Shaler waved and bowed, her moment of glory upon her. Cameras flashed brightly. A news cameraman tried to part a seam down the standing crowd to get a better shot of the candidate. O’Brien’s men hurried to cut this off.

Then one of the agents shouted, “GUN!” He pointed at Walt.

His counterpart dove to take down Elizabeth Shaler. But she had had her eye on Walt for the past few seconds. When she saw him with a gun in hand, she knew he’d been right all along. “W…A…L…T!” she screamed.

Walt took a step toward Nagler just before he heard someone else cry, “GUN!”

It never occurred to Walt that warning was in response to his gun. Somehow Nagler had sewn a gun inside the dog as a means to secret the weapon through security-that was the picture in Walt’s head. By now Nagler had removed the gun and intended to use it. Obviously, one of Dryer’s men had been alert enough to see Nagler reach for it in his coat pocket.

What threw him off this notion, in those slow split seconds, was Nagler’s calm composure, his keeping his hand in his pocket, and his uninterrupted attention out ahead of him-not looking at Shaler, but at something much lower in the room.

The dog…

At that moment, his father’s profile entered his peripheral vision, coming in front of him. The man was running-a rare enough sight. He shouted, “Nooooo!” as he threw himself in front of Walt, who recoiled to avoid a collision.