Killer Weekend (12 page)

   "Sure thing, Sheriff."

   Walt had called ahead. Nagler had tried to talk him out of the offer.

   "We may have to sell him on this," Walt warned.

   "I doubt it," Aker replied. "Toey will sell herself."

W
ith the opaque contact lenses blocking his vision, and anxiety welling in his chest, Trevalian awaited the arrival of the sheriff—the
sheriff
—yet enjoying the irony that the man was now supplying him with a dog that he desperately needed.

   He sat on a couch in the lobby, Karl the bellman as his eyes.

   "Here they are," Karl announced. "Oh, sir, she's a fine-looking dog."

   Trevalian stood.

   "A fine-looking German shepherd. You should see everyone looking at her. Queen of the ball."

   "Mr. Nagler." The sheriff.

   "Sheriff," Nagler said.

   "I believe you may have met Mark Aker yesterday."

   He and Aker shook hands.

   "In less fortunate circumstances," the vet said. "But allow me to introduce Toey."

   "Toey?" Nagler said.

   Karl took the cane from Trevalian's hand and Aker put the leash into his grip. Trevalian squatted and Toey immediately licked his face.

   "She's service trained," Aker said, "and ready to go."

"Are you now, Toey?" Trevalian said, petting the dog furiously.

   "She'll direct you to a handrail on stairs on your signal," Aker said. "She'll move through a doorway and return to working position."

   "A smart girl, are you?" Trevalian said.

   "Take her for a spin?" Aker asked.

   "I couldn't possibly."

   "But you've got to!" the sheriff said. "It's all been arranged."

   Trevalian looked up in the general direction of that voice.
Play hard
to get,
he thought. "Sheriff, do you have dogs?"

   "Three."

   "Then you know there's a bond of trust that forms between the handler and the animal. Whatever I do with Toey will only corrupt whatever training she's had to this point, will spoil her for her real owner. As much as I'd love her company, and her help, I'd be doing a disservice to her and the people who trained her."

   "Three days is not going to undo fourteen months of training."

   Trevalian leaned his head far back, smiled and rocked side to side. If anyone happened to catch a look behind his sunglasses, they would see only milky orbs, without pupils or irises. "Toey?" he said excitedly. "You want to take a walk?"

   He imagined Aker and the sheriff silently congratulating themselves. He wondered how they'd feel two days from now.

   Taking hold of the dog's service harness, he ordered in a crisp voice, "Walk!"

   Together they maneuvered around the crowded lobby, Trevalian stifling a grin of satisfaction. The sheriff, of all people.

   He had his substitute: His original plan was back on track.

T
he mountains rose steeply on either side of him, a narrow canyon called Chocolate Gulch with a creek that snaked between two dozen custom homes. The mouth of the canyon intersected Highway 75 to the east while to the west it was covered by vast stands of lodgepole pine and Douglas fir, the rolling green of which was broken only by rock outcroppings, copses of aspens, and patches of deadfall.

   With his dog in the lead, the tall, nondescript man held to a game path, a narrow, sometimes aimlessly bending strip of bare dirt and rock cut into the side of the hill by years of use by deer and elk. Below him, the rich green lawns were laid out like quilt squares, connected by stitching of post-and-rail fences.

   He shifted the rifle to his opposite shoulder, hunched low, and moved stealthily, his breath shooting staccato puffs of gray fog out in front of him.

   The dog pulled eagerly, leading him to a stand of saplings. Hearing voices, he ducked and peered down at the houses below and located the source of that sound: a man and woman in a hot tub.

   He wanted to avoid being seen: Men with rifles drew attention. The dog had picked up a fresh scent, and he intended to stay on it. The ri fle shot would announce him; but by then the deed would be done and he'd have earned his pay.

   Less than a quarter mile later, with the last of the homes behind him, he slowed as the dog slowed. She glanced at him then shivered head to toe in excitement as she lifted her front paw into a curl. On point, she leaned forward.

   It took him a second to spot his target. Forty yards below, she sat with her back to the hill.

   Quietly, he slipped the rifle off his shoulder. He lowered to one knee and brought the sight to eye level.

   A stream of drool fell from the dog's mouth to the dry leaves.

   With the target now magnified, he held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger.

   The gun recoiled in his grip, and the shot rang out, echoing down the canyon like a beautiful piece of music.

   The cougar spun sharply, trying to bite the dart that dangled from its haunch. Then it twitched and its front legs went out from under it. It looked once up the hill at its assailant, collapsed completely, and rolled onto its side.

W
alt blew across the top of the coffee mug as Dick O'Brien stabbed a roasted potato, shoveled some scrambled egg on top of it, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Fuckin' delicious," he said, his teeth yellow with egg.

"Not hungry," Walt said.

   The lodge's lobby restaurant hummed with conversation, while waitresses dressed like Heidi, their busts bulging, moved between tables shuttling trays. The room smelled of cinnamon and maple syrup.

   Walt sat across from O'Brien at a table near the door.

   "So, we'll lock down the banquet hall tighter than a teenager," O'Brien said.

   "I have daughters," Walt reminded. "Watch yourself."

   "It could have been anybody."

   "This guy is already here."

   "It could easily have been one of the First Rights kids," O'Brien said. "You know that, Walt."

   "This guy was in shape, careful; he knew tactics. Does that fit the profile of your average WTO protester?"

   "Listen, you know what kind of headache this is for me? I'd just as soon Shaler head back to New York. But the boss? This is his moment in history. You won't convince him."

   Walt looked at him skeptically. The coffee was battery acid—or maybe that was his stomach. "You married?" Walt asked.

   "Happily. Listen, we'll lock down the ballroom—this is
after m
y guys sniff it—and we'll keep it locked and under guard. Right up until the speech. Agreed?"

   O'Brien's demeanor instantly changed and Walt didn't need to look over his own shoulder to see it was Patrick Cutter behind him.

   "Sheriff," Cutter said, taking a chair by Walt. "That was a heck of a thing you did for Rafe Nagler."

   "
We
did," Walt said, including him. "But, yeah, it was a good moment."

   "We're just discussing last night," O'Brien said.

   "I heard you had a run-in."

   "True story," Walt said.

   "And that you were unable to identify the trespasser."

   "He was in the banquet room, and he didn't want to be caught." Walt sipped the bitter coffee. "For me, that speaks volumes."

   "Just don't speak it too loudly," Cutter said.

   Walt lowered his voice. "We have to assume it could have been the contractor."

   "I assume no such thing," Cutter said.

   "We were just running down a bunch of other possibilities," O'Brien explained, "First Rights chief among them."

   "And I was pointing out," Walt said, "that this guy's behavior was totally pro. Never looked back. Was familiar with avoidance tactics. Vanished into thin air when it came time. And if he left the property, he did so on foot. We locked down the parking lots and came up blank."

   "So you've got nothing," Cutter said.

   "I've got a sore side from where the guy hit me, and real strong suspicion of the kind of person I was dealing with."

   Walt's cell phone rang. He checked the screen and took the call. As he listened, his face tightened. O'Brien signaled for the check as Walt finished the call and hung up.

   "Fish and Game took down a cougar out Chocolate Gulch. Darted it."

   "The one that went after my brother?" Patrick asked.

   "Possibly."

   "What the hell do you do with a drugged cougar?" O'Brien asked.

   "Kill it, I hope," said Patrick. "Thing's a menace."

   "They'll probably cage it down at the pound—the Humane Society, in Hailey," Walt said. "She was wearing a tag, so this is at least her second dose of drugs. Not good."

   "Because?" O'Brien asked.

   Surprisingly, Patrick interrupted. "They used to use PCP to drug the bears and lions. It was discovered with the bears that the drug made them overly aggressive. Released back into the wild, they presented more of a threat to humans, not less."

   "I'm impressed," Walt said.

   "I sit on the society's board."

   "And the cougar?" O'Brien asked Walt. "She doesn't stay there for ever, I'm guessing."

   "They have a pen there that can hold her," Walt said. "They won't want to destroy her, but they can't re-release her."

   "Tough being a cougar," O'Brien said.

   "In captivity, yes," agreed Walt.

   Patrick's assistants appeared in the doorway looking for him. He sensed them, turned, and signaled for them to wait a minute. He said to O'Brien, "Keep me up on this."

   "Yes, sir, I will."

   "And you, too, Sheriff. I want to know what you're thinking."

   O'Brien signed for the check. Walt protested, but not too hard.

Cutter left with his two assistants. He was immediately approached by conference guests.

   Walt walked out with O'Brien. "I wouldn't want that many friends."

   "I thought you're elected," O'Brien said.

   "Yeah, I am. But that's all rigged," he said, patting O'Brien on the back.

T
he pavement stopped at a variegated edge where chunks of tarmet brown dust, marking the boundary between civilization and wilderness. Walt spotted Fiona's beat-up Subaru among the vehicles parked at the Chocolate Gulch trailhead.

   He was calling his location to dispatch when she knocked on the side window, startling him.

   He looked at her, noticing for the first time a constellation of freckles under her jaw.

   But as he rolled down the window, the freckles moved down her neck: nothing but fly specks on the glass.
Some detective
, he thought.

   "You mind if I tag along?" she asked. "Pam wants some shots." Pam Brummell was the publisher of the weekly newspaper,
The Sun Valley
Sentinel.

   "No problem." He rolled the window back up and climbed out. "It's actually not my scene. Fish and Game."

   They walked together. At 9 a.m. the sun was quickly warming the air, the tree-covered hills alive with sunlight, the sky an indigo blue.

   "I hope you're not gloating over the fact they got the cougar before the cougar got anyone else, because that's blind luck if you ask me."

   "For one thing," Walt said, "I don't gloat. For another, we have no way of knowing if this is the same cat. It's a very dry summer. A lot of game is coming out of the hills for the river."

   "This is where the yellow Lab was killed."

   "Yes. But you and Danny Cutter and Liz Shaler were ten miles south of here. Cougars cover a lot of territory, but that's a good hike."

   Walt admired her from behind as she mounted the trail. She walked a bit like a cat herself. They reached a backpack on the game trail and looked down through the woods to see the cat lying on her side, a man kneeling next to her. Walt and Fiona scrambled down the slope. The cat lay by a slow trickle of a stream, her black eyes open, giving the impression she was dead. But the steady rise and fall of her rib cage said otherwise. The agent had spread petroleum jelly over her open eyes to protect them from drying out, but the result was a deathly gaze.

   "Sedated." The man introduced himself as a Fish and Game agent. He looked vaguely familiar to Walt.

   "She's beautiful," Fiona said, already preparing her equipment.

   "Hell of a shot," Walt said. "From up on the game trail?"

   "Yeah. I got lucky being downwind, or she'd have bolted."

   The dart still dangled from her shoulder. There was something sad about seeing so graceful and powerful an animal brought down like this. A collision of man and nature. The pungent decay of soil and the mint of the evergreens comingled.

   The agent's dog—a yellow Lab—was tied to an aspen sapling.

   Walt asked, "Is that dog trained for explosives, by any chance?"

   "No, just a tracker."

   Walt thought he knew all the tracking dogs in the valley. This one was new to him.

   "What's to become of the cat?" Fiona asked, now taking photographs.

   The agent pointed out the ear tag and explained she'd be caged and they'd look for a home for her.

   "And if you can't find a home for her?" she asked.

   "We usually do. We have a month or more," the agent answered.

   "Doesn't seem fair," Fiona said. "Do we even know if she's the one who killed the yellow Lab? I mean, is she guilty of anything?"

   "We'll be able to watch her stool for hair and bones. That's one place caging her helps."

   "Could she possibly have been down in Starweather yesterday afternoon?" Walt asked.