Killer Weekend

“That’s great. But maybe we could do this later?”

“Among those returned were several dogs, and among the dogs were a pair of shepherds-my Search and Rescue trainees. Or so I thought.”

Walt decided not to interrupt, but he tuned him out slightly to listen in to the ru

“We tag our dogs. Electronic chips placed beneath the skin in the shoulder. They both came back without collars, so we wanded them just to make sure. One had been picked up at the hospital. One, clear out Trail Creek. Some hikers found her.”

“That’s a long way away.”

“But not so far from the lodge.”

“True enough. Better cut to the chase here, Mark. I’m in the middle of moving Shaler. We’re about there.”

“The ID provided by the chip surprised me. It wasn’t one of mine after all. But I had chipped this dog. It’s Toey, Walt. The service dog we loaned the blind guy. He must have lost her and been too embarrassed to tell us. But what the hell am I supposed to do? Confront him? Return the dog to Maggie? Or what? What do you want me to do?” He added, “Meanwhile-news flash-I’m still missing my twenty-thousand-dollar tracker.”

“The one you pla

In his mind’s eye he saw the contents of the unclaimed backpack spread out on the table as Fiona photographed them; he saw the gruesome images of the Salt Lake airport killing: the severed fingers, the pulled teeth, the missing eyes…

“Laundry,” he said, pulling the Cherokee through the lodge’s portico. Shaler’s Escalade pulled in front of the doors.

“Laundry? Walt, it’s Mark,” Aker said, not understanding Walt’s change of subject.

“All the search and rescue we ever do,” Walt said, “the dogs are given a piece of clothing, right? Or some personal item of the missing person’s. A hairbrush. A shoe.”

“Of course they are. Walt…what are you talking about?”

“S and R! The dogs. Your missing dog is a tracker, a sniffer.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“He broke into the laundry,” Walt said, seeing it clearly now. “He broke into the laundry,” he repeated. “Holy shit.”

He was out of the car, the phone already back in his pocket. The phalanx of press, and tourists, agents, and his own deputies jammed the landing outside the hotel’s doors as Liz Shaler was squeezed inside. His moment or two of delay had cost him-he was on the outside looking in.

“Stand aside,” he hollered, but it did no good. Liz Shaler’s celebrity had taken over. Nothing was going to part the crowd. There were too many hotel guests and people from town-faces he recognized-waiting there to be coincidence. Patrick Cutter had arranged a big, splashy welcome for her, and for the sake of the cameras.

He lifted up on his toes to see into the lobby. Liz Shaler and Patrick Cutter were at the center of a knot. A camera flashed. Walt followed its source to a pair of thin arms, and finally, Fiona’s profile. Despite the clamor of Liz’s admirers, despite the shouting of O’Brien and his men for people to get out of the way, despite the chaos and confusion, Fiona somehow turned and looked right at him.

They met eyes and she immediately understood his problem as he pointed inside. Fiona was jostled to the side. She co

A moment later, the exterior door leading to the hotel offices, locked on a Sunday morning, sprang open. Fiona’s eyes sparkled. “What a zoo!”

The door closed, eliminating much of the shouting from the protesters.

“I know who it is,” Walt a

Three

T revalian stood in line in the i

“That’s a beautiful dog you have there,” said a woman behind him.

He thanked her, wondering if she or anyone else had spotted that, to a large degree, he was directing the dog, not the other way around. The line moved steadily forward, everyone accustomed to, and comfortable with, the routine: Women removed their heavy jewelry, the men dumped their phones into plastic bins. Only one woman he saw was also wanded after passing through the metal detector. Trevalian’s turn came next.

“Hello, Mr. Nagler,” said the young, wide-shouldered man feeding the X-ray belt. “I’ll take the dog through first.”

Trevalian turned his head in that direction, but also aimed his face toward the ceiling. He passed the handle of the guide harness in that general direction, making sure not to appear overly anxious or to put the harness squarely into this man’s hands-reminding himself to play the blind man.

The dog was held in check as Trevalian searched his pockets. He came up with a cell phone, some coins, and, in his coat’s side pocket, a device about the size of a garage door opener. He made a good act of feeling for the plastic dish and catching its edge, deposited his belongings.

“What’s this?” the guard asked curiously.

Trevalian could see the man was holding the other device. “My cell phone?”

“A garage opener?” the man asked.

The dog was led through a metal detector and sounded an alarm.

“Don’t push it, please!” Trevalian said a little too sharply. He reached out and found the man’s hand and returned the device to the plastic tray. “Shock collar. She’s still in training.”

“We’ll have to X-ray that collar. The harness, too.”

“No problem. Of course,” Trevalian said. “Just don’t lose her, please.”

The guards removed both and ran them through the X-ray. Trevalian waited anxiously as the collar and harness were imaged by a third guard behind a TV monitor. Finally, he was waved through the metal detector and passed without incident.

The bulky collar was reattached to the dog, as was the harness. Once through he returned his belongings to his pockets, grabbed hold of the guide handle, and moved forward.

He was inside.

Four

T he crowd had thi

“Sheriff?”

“Chuck, I need a room number from you. And I need you to put any of your guys you have left over on radios by all the exits. I needed this to happen about five minutes ago.”

Webb didn’t question any of this. The urgency in Walt’s voice had convinced him. He reached for a handheld radio. “Guest’s name?”

“Nagler.” He racked his memory. “Strange first name I can’t remember.”

“The blind guy. I know who you mean.”

“Yes.”

Chuck spoke into the radio, “Christopher Robin,” he a

“It’s Nagler,” Walt repeated.

“That’s our internal code to block all doors. Kids missing. That sort of thing. My guys’ll lock them down.”

Walt spotted one of O’Brien’s men approaching fast. Cutter intended to throw him out, which wasn’t going to happen-but it would delay him.

“The room number,” Walt hissed at Webb. “And your passkey. I need both right now!”

Webb fumbled for a small hub clipped to his belt from which hung a retractable string attached to a plain white plastic card. He stuffed it into Walt’s hand. He saw O’Brien’s man as well, and knew trouble when he saw it.