Ridley Pearson - Killer View

“Sure,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“We’d appreciate it if every member of your staff-”

“I get it,” said Walt, interrupting. “Leave them with me. I’ll see to it.”

“Companies in your county are aware of their obligation under federal guidelines to notify both you and our center in the event of suspected contamination or unexplained illness, are they not?”

“I would assume so. We’ve spread the word, and there’s been a lot of literature.”

“Can you think of any reason Daniel Cutter would elect not to notify either of us?”

“They’re guidelines, recommendations, not requirements, if I’m not mistaken.”

“But you’d think with his history-”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. I’m sure if you ask him, he’ll tell you. Danny isn’t what you’d call shy.”

Bezel said, “Please instruct your officers to remain alert for flulike symptoms and nosebleeds.”

“You make it sound like Ebola.”

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Bezel said, her face suddenly severe, her husky voice an octave lower. “I wouldn’t be making any jokes.”

“Nerves,” Walt said. “I’m not real comfortable with biological agents.”

“Neither are we, Sheriff,” Bezel said.

“I T’S REALLY QUITE SIMPLE,” THE MAN SAID, OVER THE sound of wood popping and crackling inside a woodstove. Aker sat, tied to a ladder-back chair, wearing a black hood. A syringe and some vials sat in an enamel tray on a game table to his left. A dog was curled up by the woodstove. The ceiling was vaulted to the cabin’s roof, the scissor trusses exposed. The air smelled strongly of coffee and, less so, of the distinct but foreign odors of pharmaceuticals.

“We need you to write up a report on what you found,” he continued.

“Found where?” Mark Aker asked through the fabric of the hood.

“The sheep. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Writing a paper requires lab work, research, patience, and a lot of time,” he said.

“You’ve done all that.”

“I did some. It’s true. But I need more time. If you release me…”

“All I’m talking about is a discovery of findings.”

“I’m a long way from that. It’s true, I have theories. If you want me to stop my research, I will. No questions asked.”

“To the contrary: I need you to scientifically confirm what I already know. You can help me here. I want you to publish what you’ve found, not hide it.” He paused. “You think I’m trying to fuck you, don’t you? I’m not! I want you to publish.”

“If you want me to do that, I will. But first you need to drop me off near a hospital and you need to do it real soon, if you’re going to avoid manslaughter charges.”

“I’m not going to kill you. Relax. This isn’t about stopping you from doing your research; it’s about publishing it. You’re misunderstanding. Publish what you know and we’ll release you.”

“It’s you who’s not understanding, asswipe. See, I’m an insulin-dependent diabetic. In a couple of hours, if not sooner, my heart rate’s going to increase, I’ll start breathing rapidly, and I’ll pass out. I’ll go into shock. And if I don’t receive medical care, I’ll die. As for your report: I won’t live long enough to write the first paragraph. Get me to a hospital; I’ll do whatever you want.”

A dark musical score ran through his head; it had begun with the mention of diabetes. He untied Aker’s feet and wrestled to bring his unwilling body out of the chair. Aker fell sideways and the chair crashed to the floor. Aker thrashed, and landed a kick to the man’s left ear, before he was restrained. The man unfastened Aker’s belt and pulled his pants down.

Aker’s left buttock was riddled with circular bruises, the result of insulin shots.

“Motherfucker!” the man shouted. He snorted and paced the small area angrily.

“I need insulin, Coats,” Aker said.

During the ruckus, the hood had come off.

Roy Coats heard his name spoken. He stared at his hostage. How in the world?

“R. Coats, right?” Aker said. “And she would be Dimples,” he said, referring to the dog, now by the fire. The dog had gotten close enough earlier for Aker to see down through the opening at his neck. And he’d recognized her. “Front right paw bitten by a rattlesnake… what, two years ago? You owe me a hundred and eighty bucks for that, Coats. I tend not to forget the customers who don’t pay.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“What are you going to do, kill me?” he said, amused. “I’m going to die here, Coats. And let me tell you something: it won’t be pretty.”

“You’re not going to die. You’re going to write your report.”

“Would if I could, but I don’t think so. I don’t remember how you got me here. I don’t even remember how you found me. Ketamine?” he asked. “Headache tells me it’s ketamine. But there’s not a sound anywhere near us. Not even planes going over. So I’ve got to think we’re a long way from anywhere. And that doesn’t bode well for me. Challis? Salmon? The Pahsimeroi? Stanley? You’re never going to get the insulin in time.”

Coats paced between the stove and back again, his head hanging, the fingers of his right hand tugging at whiskers in his beard. Then he stopped and addressed Aker, who remained on the floor. “The islets of Langerhans,” Roy Coats said.

Aker couldn’t conceal his astonishment.

“My mom was type 1,” Coats explained. “I know all about acidosis.”

Aker’s focus changed as he took in the cabin walls, all floor to ceiling with books. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them.

“The second coming of Ted Kaczynski?”

“I’d watch my mouth, if I were you.” Coats began searching the stacks for a particular title. “There’s a cow, two pigs, and some chickens out back.”

“I’m a little old for a petting zoo. I’ll pass.”

“Last warning about that mouth.”

“What exactly do you think you’re holding over me, Coats? Without insulin, I’m on my way out.”

“Bovine and pig insulin kept diabetics alive for decades. It wasn’t until the nineteen fifties that they synthesized it.”

“You cannot be serious,” Aker said. “Oh, I get it: you’re Frederick Banting, not Ted Kaczynski.”

“Both the pig and the cow have a pancreas, and that’s all we need.” Coats pulled a book from a shelf, returned it, and selected another. “All I’ve got to do is keep you alive until the next radio check. We stay off the airwaves. Only check in once a day. You’re the vet. You want to live, doc, you’re going to have to earn your supper.”

TWO MOUNTAIN PASSES THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN AVAILABLE to Walt in the summer months were closed by snow for the winter, forcing him to travel southeast around the ends of three mountain ranges that pointed like fingers into central Idaho’s vast, arid plain. He and Brandon said little on the two-hour drive that took them through Carey, Arco, and, finally, the tiny town of Howe, which consisted of a Church of Latter-day Saints, a post office, and a general store. He drove northeast into the Pahsimeroi Valley. With long, subzero winters, and only enough surface water to support a dozen ranches, the Pahsimeroi existed in a time warp, virtually unchanged for a thousand years. Majestic mountains surrounded a valley floor of rabbitweed and sagebrush. Aspen and cottonwood trees lined its few streams and creeks. Herds of antelope flashed their white tails like garden rabbits while red-tailed hawks sailed effortlessly on the steady winds that made this place so inhospitable to man.

A two-lane road, dead straight, plowed through a tablecloth of white, splitting the valley in two. It was as breathtaking a piece of Idaho scenery as could be found, and Walt never grew tired of looking at it.