Killer Weekend

“I’m sorry.”

“All I wanted was to make sure he was never coming back. Too much to ask?”

“If we could deal with this tomorrow?”

“What’s so damn pressing, Mr. Meisner? That’s right: I know your name. So sue me. I want an explanation. You seemed so nice. All they needed was a physical description.”

“I think you should go now.”

“What? You’re going to call security or something?”

“Or something,” he said. He wanted to tell her to stop wandering around the room. This, above all else, worked devilishly against his nerves.

“I just don’t understand it,” she whined. “How difficult is it?” She stopped at the co

He focused on the dead bolt: unlocked. The door co

He moved to shut the door-to cut her off. But she was already in.

“A dog?” she asked. “Whose room is this?” She turned around, looking bewildered. When their eyes met, hers were filled with fright.

“What’s going on here? Who are you?”

“Lilly,” he said. “Oh, Lilly,” the weight of disappointment and betrayal impossible to miss.

Twenty-five

N ear closing time, Walt caught up to his father at the Sawtooth Club, a Main Street restaurant and bar in Ketchum that serviced a more subdued clientele than the two rock clubs a few doors down. The ground-floor bar was open to a surround balcony for upstairs dining. A canoe hung where a chandelier belonged. The wait staff was women and men in shorts and T-shirts.

Jerry was at the bar making love to a glass of Scotch. Walt had been summoned here. He told himself to maintain his cool. Seeing his father drunk didn’t help matters. He persuaded Jerry onto a couch between two silk ficus trees, where he hoped there was less chance of being overheard.

“You shouldn’t have used the split tail, son.” His father sounded quite sober, despite his looks. “When you want something done right, always do it yourself.”

“Split tail?”

“This photographer of yours.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Such a detective. You coulda been, you know? A detective. More’s the pity.”

Walt stood. “I’m in the middle of a lot of things right now. If you’re looking for a whipping boy-”

“Sit down.”

Walt hesitated. The door was only a few feet away.

“Sit…down!”

Walt returned to the couch, regretting his cooperating.

“The trouble with the truth is that some people just don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re drunk and I’m tired. Maybe another time.”

“Your girlie girl took the Salt Lake photos to Shaler.”

Walt felt himself swallow dryly. “Who? Fiona?”

“Dryer caught her, and is, of course, convinced you were behind it.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Cutter’s told Dryer not to let you anywhere near her before the talk.”

“You must be thrilled,” Walt said.

He glowered.

“No worries. He can’t roadblock me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Dryer can play the federal card. Couple phone calls and the local guy is out of it. That’s you.”

Walt mulled over his options. “I don’t have much of a role anyway. We secure transportation routes. That’s about it. It’s up to Dryer and Dick O’Brien after that. They’re the ones that have to keep her safe once inside.”

“But if you’re right about this shooter…”

“I am right,” Walt said. “The guy is here, Dad. No doubt about it. He’s here and he means to fulfill that contract.”

“So how do I help?”

“What?” He made no attempt to mask his astonishment.

“Let’s just say, hypothetically, I was going to help you…I have six men with me. That’s not insubstantial. My men will be on the inside. You may not be.”

“Are you playing me?” Walt asked, bewildered. He glanced around the bar and up into the restaurant. “What’s going on?”

“Focus, son,” his father said, motioning to his own bloodshot eyes. “What can my guys do on the inside tomorrow? What are we looking for?”

“You do believe me,” Walt nearly said aloud. Instead, he reached over and sucked down some of his father’s Scotch. Jerry raised his hand and signaled a waitress for two drinks.

“If she goes down on your watch, son, you not only won’t be reelected, you’ll lose any shot at corporate work, private work. Any kind of work. You’ll be blackballed the rest of your life.”

“And it’ll be a stain on the family name,” Walt said bitterly. “Like Bobby.”

Jerry stiffened. “That’s not what this is about.”

“You did such a good job with that one,” Walt said.

“Fuck you. I’m offering to help,” Jerry said.

Walt caught sight of the waitress heading back with the two Scotches. It all felt too cozy. He stood before the drinks arrived and threw a five-dollar bill down on the table. It landed in a ring of water left from the Scotch glass. Jerry went back to consulting his ice.

Walt moved toward the door, reluctantly at first, wondering if he was making a terrible mistake.

SUNDAY

One

T revalian had three hotel towels laid out on the floor. On the first he’d placed a pair of his own socks. On the second, Elizabeth Shaler’s jog bra. And on the third, a pair of Nagler’s shoes.

“Find it!” he commanded, releasing Callie’s collar.

The dog sprang excitedly into action. She jumped up and made two circles in the room, then came across the towels and, nose to the floor, moved one towel to the next. She sat down sharply in front of the jog bra.

Trevalian stepped forward and rewarded her with a small piece of beef jerky, patted her affectionately, and praised her. He rearranged the towels, moving them far apart, and began the process anew. Again, Callie found the jog bra. Again, she won a piece of beef jerky.

“Four out of four,” he told her. “Good dog!”

Two

W alt had awakened to an alarm clock at 6 A.M. Sunday morning, having had four hours’ sleep. He went for a two-mile run to wake himself up, showered, and changed into a fresh uniform. By 8 A.M. he was overseeing Brandon’s leadership in securing Sun Valley Road for the one-mile stretch from Ketchum to the resort, while monitoring the Sun Valley Police Department’s attempts to contain the burgeoning number of First Rights protesters who twice had broken through a barricade trying to get closer to the i

By 9 A.M. things seemed pretty much in control. They intended to briefly shut down traffic on Sun Valley Road, allowing for Shaler’s motorcade. He had placed Deputy Tilly, his team’s second best marksman, on top of Pe

Liz Shaler came out her front door, amid camera flashes, surrounded by three of Dryer’s men. She met eyes briefly with Walt through the gauntlet, and to his surprise she seemed to apologize to him. Or maybe he’d taken that wrong. They moved her into one of three black Escalades.

Walt’s Cherokee led the motorcade. Tommy Brandon, in the black Hummer, took up the rear. To the casual tourist, and to Walt as well, this looked like overkill, but something told Walt otherwise. Inside he was thinking: This isn’t enough.

His cell phone rang, and his intention was to ignore it, but old habits die hard, and he checked the caller ID anyway. The number came as Mark Aker. Walt took the call.

“Mark? Kinda busy at the moment,” Walt said.

“You want to hear this.” Walt knew from the man’s tone that it wasn’t a social call.

“Go ahead.”

“We’ve had thirty volunteers working to find our missing animals. As of this morning, we have eighty percent found and most of those returned to us.”