Killer View (14 page)

He opened the door to the incident room and called out loudly for Tommy Brandon, startling Fiona with the sharpness of his voice.

Brandon appeared, his left arm in a sling. It was the first the two had seen each other since the shooting. Other deputies would have taken a week’s leave, but Walt had received no such request on his desk and knew Brandon would give him no excuse to be put on leave.

“You okay?” Walt asked.

“Fine.”

“Want to take a ride?”

“Where to?”

“Randy Aker was shot with a ketamine cocktail before he dove off those rocks. He was wearing his brother’s jacket—his brother’s scent. Now, come to find out, Mark was drugged by the same cocktail. And he was interested in three ranches over in the Pahsimeroi. He marked them on a topo map he had pinned to his cabin wall. Whoever took Mark probably took the map as well.”

“Count me in,” Brandon said.

BEFORE HE GOT OUT OF THE BUILDING, WALT WAS GRABBED by the officer on duty and introduced to a gorgeous woman from the Denver office of the CDC. Lynda Bezel was in her early thirties and wore a dark blue suit. It wasn’t a look typically seen in Hailey, Idaho. The Sun Valley look was Patagonia and Eddie Bauer; faded jeans, hiking boots, and clinging tops. She had a creamy complexion, and pale eyes that opened wide as she spoke.

“This might be better discussed in confidence,” she said. She had a raspy bedroom voice and the coy smile that went along with it. She sat in Walt’s intentionally uncomfortable visitor’s chair. She crossed her legs with a whisper of panty hose.

“I’ve come here as a courtesy,” Bezel began, comfortable with taking the lead. “Daniel Cutter is on probation, as we understand it. Because he’s in the system, I thought it only right to pay you a visit and let you know I intend to question him later today.”

Walt had a history with Danny Cutter that went back several years. Patrick Cutter, Danny’s older brother, now ran a billion-dollar cellular company. Danny, whom Walt liked better than his far-more-successful brother, had a prior arrest and conviction on drug charges. He’d spent time in a federal minimum security facility before returning to Ketchum, just in time to be caught up in a murder investigation—the valley’s only murder in six years. He was a womanizer, a hard-partying boy who had cleaned up his act and, as part of his attempt to reestablish himself, had founded a bottled-water company, called Trilogy Springs, based in Ketchum.

“Concerning?” he asked.

“We were contacted by a Salt Lake City hospital. Two of Mr. Cutter’s employees have taken ill. Their condition is listed as serious. Doctors have not been able to stabilize them. I’m here to interview Mr. Cutter about his company’s role, if any, in these illnesses and to question him about his actions. We have a full inspection team on the way to the Trilogy Springs bottling facility, near Mackay, Idaho.”

“What actions?”

“It has come to our attention that Mr. Cutter may have flown the two employees in a private jet to Salt Lake City while possibly denying them medical care locally.”

“You think he tasked those two down to Salt Lake to avoid being found out? That doesn’t sound like Danny. Listen, Salt Lake’s the better health care. All our Life Flights go to Boise or Salt Lake.”

Bezel jotted down something into a small notebook. She looked comfortable in the chair. Maybe she was into yoga; she looked it.

“You said you came to me as a courtesy,” Walt said, somewhat suspiciously.

“Exactly.”

“Is there a probation violation?”

“He traveled with the employees out of state. I assume that was with your knowledge and permission?”

He was getting the idea now. Beneath the superfeminine façade was a bulldog. “I’m not his probation officer.”

“But, as a felon, he’s required to notify your office if he intends to travel out of state, is he not?”

“He is.”

“Did he do that in person or by phone?”

Walt felt cornered. He wasn’t going to lie for Danny Cutter, but he didn’t like the idea of the CDC playing babysitter.

“I could check with his PO.”

“Would you, please. The point is, if he entered this facility—your offices—there’s the possibility of contagion.”

“The illness is contagious?”

“There are two patients with similar symptoms. Tests are being conducted. Doctors have not yet identified the illness. We’ve asked both Mr. Cutter and his assistant to keep themselves isolated prior to my arrival. My job is to track their movements since their contact with the individuals in question. We’ve also notified the pilots as well as employees at the Fixed Base Operation that serviced the plane.”

He read between the lines. “Are you saying this is somehow terrorist related?” He’d had the recent warning from Homeland concerning activity by the Samakinn. “Was Trilogy contaminated intentionally?”

“We don’t know what we’ve got, much less how Cutter’s employees might have contracted it. But, with your permission, we’d like to pass out tags to everyone employed here.” She produced what looked like a car air freshener, a round disc in a cheap plastic frame divided into six wedges of different-colored paper. It dangled from her fingers like a Christmas ornament. “And we’d like both physical swabs of the environment and a few blood samples.”

“Jesus.”

“Your deputies and staff come in contact with the public. Should any one of these indicators change colors, no matter how subtle, we need to hear about it.”

Walt knew from recent training that such indicators had been proven to help field investigators narrow down searches and limit exposure. He had a box of similar tags in a cupboard in the incident room. He’d never had use for them.

“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.

“You get over here, it’s like another world,” Brandon said.

“My father used to hunt here.”

“You don’t hunt,” Brandon said, as if it had just occurred to him.

“No.”

Brandon tracked a handheld GPS, the topo map unrolled on his lap, his actions awkward due to the sling. He cross-checked the map with the device, occasionally glancing over to the right, where he imagined the first of Mark Aker’s three pinholed locations.

“You think I’m nuts coming here,” Walt said.