Killer View

Even the officer cracked a smile. He wiped it off quickly. “We’re going to want to talk to you,” he informed Walt. “Both of you,” he said, then looked at Fiona. “If it all checks out, I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fiona cracked open her purse. “May I make a call?” she said, reaching the phone before the officer could move to stop her.

“It’s all to remain in place,” he said, holding out an open palm.

Fiona shot a sideways glance at Walt. She turned the face of the mobile device so that Walt could see it. His view of the colorful menu led him to believe the photographs had completed sending. “Can’t I call someone to come get me?” she asked the officer.

Walt understood then: the photographs had sent, but she hadn’t had time to erase them off the chip. The evidence remained in her hand.

“Apparently not,” Walt answered. “And I think they want your phone.”

As she handed it to the officer, she managed one more look in Walt’s direction-a serious look, one of deep concern. He took this as confirmation of his suspicions: the photographs were still on the phone’s memory chip.

“Maybe they’ll let you call once we get to wherever they’re taking us,” Walt suggested.

The officer didn’t contradict him.

“Who said they’re taking us anywhere?” Fiona complained. “All he said is, they want to talk to us.”

“People like this,” Walt said, “people like me, we always take you somewhere when we want to talk to you.”

Looking at Walt fiercely, she said, “Tell me this was all cooked up to impress me. Tell me this is your screwed-up attempt at a joke.” She then looked at the officer, as if he might confess to the conspiracy.

The officer said, “Afraid not.”

“As far as dates go,” Fiona said to Walt, settling into her role a little too easily he thought, “this one really sucks.”

46

“THE GLIDER’S RADIOS ARE FULLY FUNCTIONING. DID YOU know that?” Walt’s interviewer, a man who introduced himself as Russell Amish, was an unshapely man in his mid-forties who spoke his vowels in a nasal tone and carried a liverish blemish on the side of his neck like an abscessed high school hickey. A man who had once been physically strong, he’d gone soft, like fruit left in the bowl too long. His black eyes revealed a contempt for Walt’s badge.

Walt had met other wa

He and Fiona had been separated immediately, put into separate cars and driven out to a nondescript, one-story cinder-block building that carried an American flag out front. It was part of a small cluster of buildings surrounded by a vast expanse of desert. Other buildings looked like parking garages. They might have been entrances to underground tu

“I believe we call that pilot error,” Walt said, taking a look around the briefing room. Acoustical ceiling. Video surveillance in two corners. A vinyl-topped table that held a cassette recorder.

“I don’t know much about gliders, Sheriff, except that while they’re dependent on wind and air currents to maintain altitude, the wind does not determine direction of flight.”

“We were blown off course,” Walt said. “At right about ten thousand feet, we were caught up in winds out of the north that drove us into your airspace. You must have had me on radar. Check my flight pattern. I was beating upwind ever since, trying to work my way back to the highway.” He paused, searching the man’s eyes to see if he’d checked the radar. “When you fly a sailplane, Mr. Amish, you like having a strip of pavement in sight. Despite the beautiful view your restricted airspace offers, I’ll take the safety net of a flat stretch of pavement under me any day.”

“You were or were not on official business?”

“Was not. I’m out of uniform, Mr. Amish. I’m coming out of a marriage, which I’m sure you’re able to confirm, and,” he said, lowering his voice, “I was trying to get into something new, if you catch my meaning. I was going for the wow factor: Top Gun meets National Geographic. If I hadn’t made her sick, if you guys hadn’t interfered, I might have had a chance.”

“I doubt it,” said Amish. “Not your chances but the story.” He shifted some papers. Guys like him did that just as a matter of habit. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Fleming.”

“Not so far as the crow flies.”

“Your towplane pilot reports you requested a release over Craters of the Moon. You strayed quite far from that release point.”

“Have you ever seen the park from the air? The huge flows of lava, like somebody spilled black ink and it froze in place. You want to impress a woman, Mr. Amish, show her Craters at sunset. Land in Arco. Buy her a steak at the Mel-O-Dee and have the towplane waiting to fly you home. Knocks their socks off, and, if you’re lucky, other pieces of clothing as well.”

Amish fought back a grin. For a moment, Walt allowed himself to believe he was regaining some credibility. But it was a grin of satisfaction, as it turned out, not one of agreement.

“Ms. Kenshaw is your department’s contracted photographer, Sheriff. She boarded your romantic escapade with two camera bodies, five lenses, a light meter, and a variety of filters. And, oh… infrared capability. You flew into our airspace and stayed off com for twenty-seven minutes before being forced down by the Air National Guard. The only photographs on her camera are of what appears to be an assault-a young woman, badly beaten, and some colorful clothing. A prom? A wedding? They’re dated less than a week ago. So what you’re telling me is you brought her up on this ‘date’ to photograph the sunset and she got, what, so caught up in your smooth talking that she forgot to shoot any photographs?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“We are.”

Walt wondered if she could possibly hold up under the scrutiny and realized he should have created a story for them both to stick to. Amish likely knew of his attempts to reach the director by phone. Even so, proof was proof. No matter what Amish believed, he could not prove intent. “The glider’s not much different than a parasail. You’ve never had parasailers over your airspace?”

“We’d rather work with you than against you,” Amish said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t want me calling the vice president about it,” Walt said.

“I’m aware of your relationship with Vice President Shaler. I’m aware of your service record. You’re something of a hero, Sheriff. I get that. Doesn’t make my job any easier.”

“You’re retired military,” Walt said. “That’s a burn wound on your neck-chemical, maybe. Desert Storm, I’m guessing. There were compounds used in that war that few of us ever heard about, weren’t there? You don’t strike me as military intelligence, Mr. Amish. You have field experience, I’m pretty sure. Marines, maybe.” There was a flicker in the man’s eyes that was his tell: an ever-so-slight lifting of the eyelids that Walt guessed he’d worked hard to control. “Your boss worked under George the First when he headed up Langley. Your boss’s boss I’m talking about: Roger Hillabrand. He was a Marine, wasn’t he? A big player in Desert Storm. Hired his men to work for him, once he entered the private sector, and formed the Semper Group. So you’re long on loyalty, short on questions. We can spend three or four hours in here and all I’m going to do is lose my chance at Ms. Kenshaw. These are tricky waters because your boss’s boss has a personal relationship with Ms. Kenshaw-and if he had anything to do with our grounding, if any phone calls were exchanged, this is going to look personal. Mixing business with pleasure. Using his power… to derail any attempt at a date. I thought I could take off the uniform, fly her up over Craters, and make a good impression. Maybe score a few points. But maybe Hillabrand thought different. This could be embarrassing. You called in the Air National Guard, Mr. Amish. Over a woman. Why don’t you release us and let me try to salvage what I can of an evening gone horribly wrong and we’ll both forget all about this?”