Ridley Pearson - Killer View

“Sheriff, you look like a housepainter,” Danny quipped. “Come in.”

“I’ll be in my car,” Walt said, turning.

“I didn’t mean to offend you!” Cutter called after him. Walt didn’t bother answering.

Bezel had put herself together quickly. She’d thrown on a pantsuit that was either similar to or the same one he’d seen her in previously. She’d pulled her hair back and had even managed to apply lipstick. But she’d forgotten the perfume, and her strong scent revealed far too plainly what Danny Cutter had been inspecting. An awkward, embarrassing moment lingered as long as the interior light, which finally dimmed and went dark. Walt reached up and switched it back on. She’d been too self-absorbed to notice his paper suit. But now she did, and some of the red left her face.

“Sheriff?”

He unzipped the hazmat suit, reached in and picked the biosensor off his chest pocket. He handed it to her. “I’m supposed to report this.”

“Jesus…” She threw open the car door and stood outside in the cold. She knocked for Walt to put down the passenger window. “Shit, Sheriff, there’s protocol involved here! Procedure. What the hell were you thinking?”

“That you were the closest expert.”

“You’re supposed to isolate yourself and call the 800 number. You know the drill.”

“This is a small community, in case you hadn’t noticed. If a van full of space aliens shows up at my front door-and we both know how the government reacts to these situations-it’s going to throw this valley into a panic. My first and most important job is maintaining the peace, not causing riots. What’s that thing trying to tell me? I’m perfectly willing to do whatever’s necessary.”

She left the car and walked over to the light at the front door. Walt caught sight of Cutter inside, keeping his eye on developments. She turned the biosensor in the light, called inside to Cutter, and he handed her purse to her. She made a call on her cell phone. Walt was thinking he’d made the right choice-it was better if the space aliens showed up at Patrick Cutter’s isolated mansion than on Third Avenue South in Hailey. She returned to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. For the first time in about an hour, Walt felt some relief.

“Mild exposure to low-level radioisotopes,” she stated.

“I’m radioactive? Seriously?”

“If it had been a darker shade, there’d be reason for concern. The tags were modified post nine-eleven to be supersensitive. That way, if a container inspector, for instance, had had contact with even ultralow levels of radiation, it would be detected. Yours isn’t exactly ultralow, but it’s not high. You can lose the suit. We’ll ask that they run a few tests at the local hospital, but you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Walt leaned back against the headrest and let out an audible exhale.

She said nothing for a moment. “Must have scared you.”

“You think?”

“About my being here…” It became clear she’d had no intention of finishing the sentence when Walt made no attempt to interrupt her.

“About your being here,” Walt said, taking unexpected pleasure in her awkwardness.

“I’m a big girl. I can separate the two.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“I know Danny’s history.”

“Preliminaries aren’t in. If there’s biological contamination at the bottling plant, we’re having a hell of a time finding it. Much less ID’ing it.”

“Do you carry one of those?” he asked, referring to his tag in her hand.

“Of course.”

“Did you wear one at the plant?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

Walt considered this. He had a scenario in his head that he wasn’t willing to voice without a lot more proof. Her tag coming up blank didn’t sit well with his theory. “Have you asked Danny what he did out at the plant before your arrival?”

“Meaning?”

“What if his brother’s private jet happened to have flown in a wet team?”

“You’re saying he deep-cleaned the facility prior to my inspection?”

“You sound so shocked.”

“That’s illegal.”

“I doubt that. More like it violates some regulation.”

“Same thing to us.”

“Maybe so. But not really.”

“There’s protocol. I questioned Mr. Cutter. He answered me faithfully and to my liking.”

“You’re not on trial, Dr. Bezel. And drop the ‘Mr. Cutter’ crap, will you? Ask again,” Walt said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Are you telling me my job?”

“I’m telling you your sugar daddy can sweet-coat anything, can sweet-talk anyone, can fast-talk the best of them, and I put nothing past him. I’m betting he professionally hosed down his facility before you arrived, and that if you had a tape of your Q and A-which you don’t, I’m guessing-that you’d find he never lied to you but failed to tell the truth.” He paused. “Meet Danny Cutter, Dr. Bezel.”

She blinked repeatedly, pursed her lips, turned her face toward the house, and then trained her rage on Walt. “What is it with you people out here?”

“Ah, come on. He dodges a few questions. No one’s ever done that? And, at least for an evening, he’s managed to take your mind off work. Score two points for Danny.”

“Stop it!” Her lower lip was quivering. She looked ready to bite his head off.

“Test the plant for low-level radioisotopes,” Walt said.

Her neck made a cracking sound, she spun it so quickly. “You’re saying you were there? At the bottling plant?”

Walt considered how to answer this. “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “And that’s the hell of it.”

ROY COATS’S WIDE SHOULDERS FILLED UP ONE SIDE OF A booth table in the dim recesses of the back corner of the Mel-O-Dee steak house in Arco, Idaho.

The woman who entered, fanning at the smoke-filled air, had aged fifteen years in the past twelve months since he first recruited her. The meth had dragged bags under her once-pretty eyes, melted her gums, and had turned her skin a pasty gray. But she still had the tight body of a thirtysomething.

She couldn’t help the way she walked-and not many men missed it. All without an ounce of self-awareness. If she’d had a face to go with it, she wouldn’t have been walking into this bar. But the small head and pointed chin, the turned-in teeth, and pixie nose had all suffered under the effects of the meth. She wore a mask of melted, sallow skin, and carried a haze of disrespect, like an out-of-work whore. At a glance, you’d never have imagined her an atomic physicist.

“Evening,” he said. “Buy you a drink?”

She shrugged.

Roy signaled the waitress, a sixty-year-old former rodeo queen with a beer belly. Without asking, he ordered his guest a double vodka on the rocks with a twist of lime, himself a draft beer.

“Do you have it?” he asked.

“Not yet. But it won’t be a problem.” She paused, then asked, “Do you have it?”

“You’re two weeks late.”

“So sue me. It’s tricky. They’re watching everyone like a hawk. You have only yourself to blame for that.”

“I need it. Soon,” he added.

“Yeah. And I need it now.” She leveled her eyes on him. Jaundice was setting in.

“You gotta take better care of yourself,” he said, caring nothing about her long-term health. “They’re going to figure you out. You don’t look so good.”

“When anyone asks-and it isn’t often-I tell them I can’t shake the flu. I can handle myself.” Her right hand trembled, and she tucked it in her lap.