Ridley Pearson - Killer Weekend

He listened carefully for any indication his crushing of the razor had been overheard. Silence.

He checked the clock one last time, and then continued his work.

T ommy Brandon sat across from room 26 at St. Jude’s Hospital. “Furnishings compliments of Christopher Guest and Jamie Lee Curtis” read a plaque immediately below the door number.

“You ever see her in that one with Arnold?” Brandon asked the Secret Service agent, who had the chair closer to the hospital room door. This man was technically in charge. He was also unresponsive. Brandon continued, “True Lies? Jamie Lee. That little dance she did. Funny. Really funny. And sexy? Come on!”

Still the agent failed to acknowledge him.

“This is what they call the technical integration of law enforcement agencies, right?” Brandon said sarcastically. “The politicians are fucking brilliant.”

“Put a sock in it, will you?” said the agent. “We start out like this, it’s going to be a long night.”

Both agents saw a nurse approaching. Brandon immediately looked away, keeping his eyes on the exit door at the end of the hallway; the two men had the entire hallway covered.

“He had an EKG not an hour ago,” the agent said to the approaching nurse. “How often are you going to check on him?”

“Just doing my rounds, Officer. Doing my job, same as you.”

“It’s Special Agent,” the man corrected. “I was just making conversation.”

“And I was just making conversation back.”

“We’ve got to search you,” the man advised her.

“I know.”

Brandon did not take his eyes off the far door. “He just came on shift. You’ll have to forgive him. He doesn’t realize you’ve already been through this three times, Maddie.”

“It’s all right. Let’s get it over with, please.” She raised her hands out like wings. She told the agent, “You get fresh with me, and your senior officer will hear about it.”

“Special Agent in Charge,” the man said, correcting her again.

“He’s still going to hear about it.”

He patted her down-gently and carefully-and cleared her. “Okay. You can go inside.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said.

She waited for the agent to unlock the door. She went inside, and he relocked it behind her.

“It’s Sunday,” Brandon told him. “No one likes getting a call on a Sunday.”

“Every day’s the same to me,” the agent said.

“That’s kind of sad, you ask me,” Brandon fired back. With the room door shut, Brandon was free to look in whatever direction he wanted. He chose to stare down the agent.

“But no one did ask you,” the agent said, determined to have the last word. Brandon could have kept playing, but decided against it. It was going to be a long night, and the sheriff seemed determined to keep him here-and away from his trailer-for as long as possible.

O nly seconds after the nurse entered the hospital room there was a pounding on the door-not the casual knock that Brandon had grown used to but a frantic, full-fisted effort. Her voice barely made it through the thick door, but it sounded as if she was in a panic.

Brandon and the agent took positions, both with their weapons drawn, and the agent unlocked the door. He stepped back, prepared for a hostage situation where Trevalian was using the nurse to startle them.

She was red-faced, wide-eyed, and overly excited.

“He’s gone!” she said. “The bed…I checked the bathroom…”

Brandon glanced at the agent, then punched his radio and rattled off several codes, relaying an emergency. It was quickly worked out that the agent would go in, but without his weapon.

Brandon pulled the nurse out of the doorway. “Get gone,” he said.

The agent pulled open the door. The bed was empty. He edged toward the closet and slid the door across. Empty. Glanced under the bed. Nothing. Moved cautiously toward the bathroom, the door standing open. Checked the reflection in the mirror first-the bathroom appeared empty. He yanked the shower curtain back. No one. Then he caught it out of the corner of his eye: a ceiling panel over the bed. Slightly askew. Not like the others.

“Clear!” he shouted. He returned to the hallway, where several more deputies had gathered. He used hand signals to direct Brandon to follow. Together they entered the room. He pointed to the ceiling panel. Brandon climbed onto the end table and popped the ceiling panel out of its frame. He poked his head inside and squeezed a flashlight past his chin.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, his voice dampened. “Looks like a panel over the bathroom goes up into a crawl space or something.” He jumped down and repeated the procedure from the countertop in the bathroom. He broke away several of the flimsily hung ceiling tiles, stretched onto his toes. “Affirmative. There’s egress here.” He ducked out of the ceiling and looked down. “He could be fucking anywhere by now.”

W alt had spent the last hour in the Mobile Command Center writing up a summary of events. His eyes strayed to a seating chart thumbtacked to a corkboard.

It was a large sheet, showing tables and seating arrangements for the Shaler brunch. Of all the seats, one was marked with an X.

Dryer felt his presence. “What?”

“That’s the seating plan for Liz Shaler’s talk,” Walt suggested.

“Yes it is,” Dryer agreed.

“Why the X on Stuart Holms?” Walt asked.

“We were reaching. On the off chance the contract on the AG came from someone attending the conference, we looked at who failed to attend. His was the only empty seat.”

“And the initials by his name?” Walt asked. “Explain it to me.”

“Exactly what it says: meal preference. Do you want a regular meal, vegetarian meal, do you have your own personal chef, are you allergic to wheat…You know how these people are.”

Walt referred to his notebook and flipped back through the pages. He asked, “And what’s that date printed down there by the file name? Bottom of the sheet?”

Dryer leaned closer. “Six-six. June sixth. What is it, Sheriff?”

“Stuart Holms uses a personal chef. Name of Raphael,” he said, consulting his notebook. “Won’t eat a bite if it’s not prepared by Raphael. He’s fanatic about it.”

“Well, that’s Stuart Holms’s seat, and he’s down for a regular meal. What’s it matter? I think you need some rest.”

“What it means, I think, is that six weeks ago-on June sixth-Holms already knew he wouldn’t be attending Liz Shaler’s talk.”

“And so, why bother with meal preference if he’s not going to be there?”

Walt nodded. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Dryer did a double-take, first looking at the seating plan, then back at Walt. His brow creased, tightening his eyes. “Naa…” But he didn’t sound as convinced as a minute earlier.

A knock on the coach’s door was followed by the big head of Dick O’Brien. “Sheriff, you got a minute?”

W alt climbed out of the Mobile Command Center wearing a fresh black T-shirt that read SEARCH AND RESCUE on the back.

O’Brien apparently never stopped sweating.

“Hey there,” O’Brien said.

“Hey there, yourself,” Walt answered.

“How is he-your dad, I mean?”

“Came through the operation with flying colors.”

“Good to hear.”

“Yes, it is,” Walt said.

“My guy…who shot him…It was meant for you: the gun and all.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I just mean he was doing his job. If you can go easy on him…”

“We could make a trade, you and I,” Walt proposed.