Killer Summer

34

With the open attaché displaying the Adams bottles inside the air-cooled Plexiglas case, Walt kept an eye on the crowd at the cocktail party. An ATKINSON’S MARKET bag containing Remy’s pants and belongings rested on the grass at Walt’s feet. If the bottles were stolen without the attaché and its GPS, then Walt’s plan to follow it to George Clooney would fail. Convinced he had not seen the end of these people, he watched for the woman who’d been wearing the copper-colored blouse, the woman who’d pushed the baby stroller across Main Street and stopped the wrecker, the woman who’d run naked from the motel room. He believed she was the one in charge. She was the one he was after.

Arthur Remy hobbled in on aluminum crutches. Approaching Walt, he looked like a man on too many painkillers.

“Sheriff…”

Walt handed Remy the bag. Remy rummaged through his belongings, his pants, his wallet, found the security card, stuffed his pockets. He then dropped the bag and pants into the grass.

“You have quite a few officers here this evening. I counted four outside.”

“Deputies, yes. An ounce of prevention…” Walt said.

He had five total, Brandon and four others. The radios were live, the MC parked nearby, its dispatcher maintaining control over the team. Walt had three roadblocks set up, if needed.

Remy shuffled over to the case containing the Adams bottles, like a mother hen checking her nest. He glanced at the bottles, then up at Walt, and for a moment Walt sensed Remy knew the bottles had been handled. But Fiona had photographed their position, and Walt believed they had been returned exactly.

“We need to talk,” Remy said.

“Anytime.”

“Give me a minute.”

A crowd was gathering. Remy turned and raised his voice so they could hear him.

“An historic evening! A piece of history will end up in a private collection. It’s not every day that happens.”

Walt stepped back. Remy was surrounded at once. Condolences over his knee mixed with questions about his discovery of the bottles. He caught Walt’s eye briefly, but if he intended to convey anything it was lost on Walt, whose attention was galvanized by a woman just then entering the tent.

Fiona hurried toward him.

“Wow!” Walt said, eyeing her.

“I know what it is,” she said breathlessly.

Her present state-flushed and panting-excited him.

“What what is?” he asked.

“Sawtooth Wood Products… the kid getting zapped.”

He drew her away from the display tables.

“What about it?” he said.

“Pick-up sticks. The kids, at Michael and Leslie’s, were playing pick-up sticks. The people doing this-the thieves-they’re going to use the logs to block a road. They were after one of the logging trucks. You spill one of those logging trucks… you dump logs on the road…”

“It would stop traffic for hours,” he muttered, realizing she’d seized upon the escape plan.

He grabbed for his radio but dropped it, pulling Fiona close to him and throwing her to the ground beneath him, as the walls of the tent briefly flared yellow and an explosion ripped through the cocktail party’s peaceful chatter.

There were screams, and immediate panic, but no more explosions. Walt rolled off Fiona and sprang to his feet.

It had begun.