Killer Weekend

He said nothing, wondering if he’d been set up. She’d managed to get into his room; she’d drunk his booze. An extortion racket?

“There’s been an assault. All I need is five minutes. Really. I’d rather not do this in a stairwell.”

“Do what?”

“Lilly remembered your room number. That’s how I got your name.”

Trevalian said nothing.

“She said you got a look at the man,” Parker explained. “A possible suspect. These can be tricky cases to prove. He-said, she-said.”

“A matter for the authorities,” Trevalian said. “Please leave me out of it.”

“She’s not pressing charges. The police are not involved. But if we can confirm the man’s identity, he will never set foot on company property again.”

Trevalian doubted the explanation. “I saw her with a man. But I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look at him.”

Parker’s face fell. “Anything about him would help. We’d like to get rid of this guy.”

Trevalian spoke, bringing the man into his confidence. “Let me put it this way: If you saw Lilly and some guy in the hallway, who would you be looking at?”

“Yeah…I hear you.”

“I’m sorry,” Trevalian said, “but that’s how it was.”

The man appeared crushed. “Listen, you remember anything, give me a call. The front desk can find me.”

“My apologies to Ms. Cu

“The difference is,” Parker said, more determined than ever, “you can choose not to be involved. But Lilly’s going to climb back up on that stage with that creep out there looking at her.”

“I’ll sleep on it,” Trevalian said. He rounded the landing and hurried up the stairs, thinking there was precious little time for sleep.

His mind had briefly been elsewhere-a mistake he rarely made. He had a switch to make, and, if possible, he wanted to do it now, while it was still dark out.

Seven

C ivil twilight was listed as 5:41 A.M., a naval term referring to the first glimpse of a defined horizon. Trevalian didn’t want the horizon or himself defined or glimpsed as he made the switch, and so two hours after being stopped by the hotel security man, and an hour before civil twilight, he made his way out of a ground-floor exit as Rafe Nagler. Toey, the German shepherd service dog, pulled at the harness at his side.

The first of these switches was changing Nagler to Meisner, for a blind man could not be seen climbing behind the wheel of a car. At 5 A.M. the Sun Valley grounds stood deserted, nothing but faux gas lamps and vacant sidewalks. He followed sidewalks from the lodge to the indoor ice rink and a dark open-ended shed that contained a backup Zamboni. He used the shed as a changing room, stripping off and pocketing Nagler’s facial hair, wig, and glasses. He dumped the sport coat there-the only evidence he would leave behind for the next hour-revealing the black fleece vest that had been hiding beneath it. He quickly clipped a leash to Toey’s collar and unfastened the harness, concealing it up his back, inside the fleece vest. He let the string leash play out, to where Toey had a twenty-foot lead, and the two made their way out into the giant parking lot that serviced the resort.

He appreciated the black-hole quality of both sky and air as he drove north from the resort into national forest. He kept a close eye on the odometer as well as the rearview mirror. He turned east onto a dirt track marked for Pioneer Cabin, and put a half mile between him and the asphalt he left behind, having never seen the twinkle of another set of headlights.

The darkest hour really was just before the dawn. He double-checked the car’s ceiling light making sure it wouldn’t turn on as he opened the door. He stepped outside. The cold mountain air stung his lungs and he coughed, immediately trying to stifle the sound.

He leaned back into the car facing two dogs-both shepherds. Toey remained in the front seat, where he’d put her, the leash still attached to her collar. Callie lay down on the backseat, nothing but a long black shape.

He shut his door, came around the car, and opened the passenger door. Callie jumped to all fours and stuck her nose from behind the front seat. Toey bent around to meet noses. Trevalian yanked on the leash and pulled Toey from the car. He double-checked that the small flashlight worked, and then, returning it to his pocket, he led Toey off into the dense forest of Douglas fir and lodgepole pine. A hundred and fifty yards later he knelt and fed her some cheese-flavored chowder crackers from the minibar. He lavished her with praise and softly thanked her for being a good dog. Then he unclasped the leash, commanded her to stay, and walked away.

Twice he turned back and used the flashlight to ensure she was holding the command, her eyes a hollow luminescence in the dark. But in the short time they’d been together he’d learned that Toey was a particularly kind and obedient dog. She wasn’t going anywhere.

His original plan had been to cut her throat and bury her out here, miles from any possibility of being found. But now he walked away, then ran, knowing she would obey his command and “stay” for probably ten or fifteen minutes or more.

He reached the car, fastened the guide harness to Callie, and moved her into the front seat.

The switch was made. And with it, he’d cleared the last of his obstacles.

Eight

W alt awakened in his daughter Emily’s bed to the ringing of the phone in his own bedroom. For the second night he’d avoided that mattress.

He dragged himself out of the stupor of two hours’ sleep, managing to answer the kitchen phone before voice mail picked up.

“It’s Kathy. I’m sorry to call you at home, Walt.” Dispatch. Walt pulled himself into focus. “I tried both your cell and pager first.”

“Go ahead.” He rubbed his face to clear his thought. It didn’t work.

“Stuart Holms called at five fifty-six A.M.”

Walt checked the kitchen clock: seven minutes had passed. “Go on.” Maybe he wouldn’t need the coffee. Just mention of that name had jolted him awake.

“He was a little abusive, sir. Bossy. I told him nine-one-one took the emergency calls. He told me to go to hell.”

Walt knew Stuart Holms by reputation. This didn’t surprise him. “What emergency?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. That’s what I’m saying. Demanded to speak with you personally.”

An alarm sounded in Walt’s head: He didn’t know Stuart Holms personally.

“He sounded upset,” she went on.

Fifteen minutes later, Walt was refueling the Cherokee, wearing a fresh, starched blue uniform shirt and sipping hot coffee from a travel mug. He called the number Stuart Holms had left with dispatch, but had only reached an assistant who said Holms needed to speak with Walt “as soon as was humanly possible.”

Yet it was Holms himself who met Walt at the front door to the colossal modern home out the Lake Creek drainage. Nestled at the base of the mountains, it felt to Walt like a museum of contemporary art. Holms led him to a café table with a view of an enclosed garden through a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They were waited on by a slim woman in her thirties who had a French accent. Stuart Holms ordered Walt a sausage omelet, toasted bagel with cream cheese, coffee, and orange juice. He took smoked salmon, capers, and guava juice for himself.

Dressed in blue pajamas, Holms wore a terrycloth bathrobe and sheepskin moccasins. He looked younger than Walt had imagined him. His name had been in the business pages for decades.

He focused intently on Walt and spoke in a croaking voice that needed more coffee.

“I apologize for the secrecy, Sheriff, but there’s no such thing as privacy, and I need to keep this private. I called you because this home is in the county, not the city, and I’ve had it on good authority that you’re a hell of a lot more trustworthy than the Ketchum police chief.”