Killer View

8

“KEEP TRYING,” WALT TOLD NANCY, HIS SECRETARY, THE phone clutched under his chin as he kneeled on the kitchen floor, wrestling a small foot into a tight boot.

“It’s too tight,” his daughter complained.

“Push harder,” he said.

“Me?” Nancy asked over the phone.

“No. That’s for Emily. You keep trying to reach Mark. I want to hear the minute you find him.”

“Got it.”

He hung up and set the phone down on the kitchen table and went back to the battle of the boots. He’d been caught by the fluke fall storm, hadn’t had any of the girls’ winter clothes ready. Now he was racing to get them dressed and into the car in time to avoid a tardy. He’d managed four hours’ sleep.

“What if I put soap all over it?” he said, holding her foot. “You think that’ll help it get into that boot?” He tickled the bottom of her foot and Emily screeched. It was strange that she should be so ticklish when Nikki was not. In every other way, they were identical. Until Nikki had developed a tiny mole by her right eyebrow, even their parents had had trouble telling them apart.

“Nooo!” She giggled.

“Olive oil?” he asked.

“Nooo!”

“Snot?”

Emily burst out laughing-a barking cackle from her gut that was infectious to anyone within earshot. In seconds, the two of them were rolling around on the floor, while Nikki stood away, trying to force the grin from her face. Nikki had suffered the most from her mother’s abrupt departure. It was she whom Walt worried about on his sleepless nights.

The morning report from Nancy was pretty typical for the day after a storm: five highway collisions throughout the early-morning hours, none fatal; three DUIs issued; a ski shop had found a back window broken and was conducting an inventory; a nineteen-year-old girl had been reported missing by her parents.

A few months earlier, he’d not needed phoned-in reports from Nancy; he would have already been at his desk by now. He resented Gail for every intrusion in his routine. There was no seam in their family life her indiscretion had not penetrated and infected. It was as if the waning gifts of a young face and tight body had compelled her to prove herself still attractive, with no regard to the three she had left behind.

With Nancy ’s help, he’d dispatched a team of twelve Search and Rescue to continue looking for the missing skier. He felt he owed his energy to Mark Aker and the investigation into Randy’s death. He was the only trained investigator for a hundred miles in any direction. As such, he also asked for more on the missing girl. Nancy told him that Kira Tulivich attended a wedding, had gone out drinking with friends, and had not come home. Walt assumed she would stagger home sometime later in the day, with apologies, but he knew to consider it a crime first and to be happy if it turned out differently.

“My coat won’t zip,” Nikki complained, all trace of humor gone from her face.

“Okay, okay,” he said, Emily’s foot finally sliding down into the boot. A small victory. He tried Nikki’s zipper, but she was right: the coat wouldn’t close around her.

“Damn.”

“Daddy said a bad word!” Nikki announced loudly. This time both girls giggled.

“Daddy’s tired. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Lisa, the sitter, would pick them up from school, get them home, and start dinner. She worked for a flat daily fee, not hourly, and she gave him all sorts of breaks, doing everything from picking up dry cleaning to running to the supermarket-and never charged him. She’d made his transition to single parenting doable, though he had miles to go. He felt like a failure most of the time, as if, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he cared, he moved backward. He held himself to higher standards than what he was capable of. He was digging in sand, and, worst of all, he thought the girls knew it.

There was nothing much to do about the jacket. New winter outfits were needed. He tried the snaps; got the middle two to hold. “That’s going to have to do.”

“But it won’t zip.”

“It’s the best we can do for now.” Talk of the zipper reminded him of Randy Aker’s body bag. He thought he should probably hurt more for Randy’s loss. In truth, he felt bad for Mark, but it was difficult to take the victim’s death personally. That emotion had been trained out of him, clipped from his DNA. Even Bobby’s untimely death had hit him much the same way. He grieved not for the dead but for the living.

“I don’t want to wear it if it doesn’t zip,” Nikki said.

“Don’t. Please, don’t. Not this morning. Okay? We’ve got to get to school. We’ll fix it later. Maybe you can go shopping with Lisa.” He was thinking how expensive kids’ winter clothing was. Maybe he’d get lucky and find a secondhand jacket at the Barkin’ Basement.

Despite the best intentions, he went from fuming mad to blind anger as he made the short drive to Hailey Elementary. Gail had cited a dozen reasons for leaving him-his time on the job, the nature of his work and the fear it forced her to live with, her unfounded jealousy of other women-but they both knew the real reason: the two girls in the backseat. Motherhood had not only not come naturally; it had barely ever come at all. He had watched her descend from the initial glow of motherhood to the reality of being overwhelmed. Year by year, she had grown more resentful of losing her own freedom. She might have survived a single child, but the needs of two proved too much. When early frustrations had evolved into resentment, manifested as screaming rants and threats that shaded dangerously close to child abuse, she’d done the only thing available: removed herself from the home. She’d used the affair with Tommy Brandon to keep friends and neighbors in the dark, as well as to renew her own sense of self-worth; but he suspected her failure as a mother was rotting away what little chance at happiness she dreamed of. For him, whatever feelings he’d had for her had dissolved with her inability to cope. In the end, he’d realized he’d never really known her. Never mind that the added burden of single parenting drained him. Never mind that her departure and absence influenced every moment, his every decision, even something as simple as a drive to school. They had reached a disconnect. With divorce now inevitable, he reminded himself to keep it from getting bloody: the girls had to be protected at all costs.

BY THE TIME he reached the sheriff’s office, an unremarkable one-story brick building with the jail’s coiled-razor-wire exercise area slung off the back side, he pushed Gail aside, expecting that Nancy would have found Mark Aker while hoping she might have word on the missing teenage girl as well.

Instead, he saw Tommy Brandon and two other deputies across the street from the office, the lights of one of their cars flashing.

Walt parked and joined them, his heart sinking. Crazy Dean Falco was chained to a tree.

“The sheep are all dying!” Falco shouted for Walt’s sake. “The environment is a killer. All corporate profiteers should be hanged!”

Falco himself had been arrested and tried no fewer than six times for similar stunts. He usually found a small group to join him, but, typically, in the summer months, not in twenty-degree winter weather. The chain was big and thick, and was padlocked with a hardened steel lock that would be hell to cut. Using an oxyacetylene torch might scar the tree, giving Falco added ammunition to his cause.

He began shouting his message again, though louder-animals in peril, the poisoning of the environment-causing Walt to check behind him, wondering at his audience.

He saw Fiona, with her camera gear, and a reporter, Sue Bailey. They crossed the street, suppressing grins. Everyone knew Dean.

Falco strained the chains, working himself up to a lather.

Brandon was on his cell phone, working with Elbie’s Tire and Auto to bring a cutting torch up there; no bolt cutter was going to handle that heavy-gauge steel.

Walt’s father, Jerry, enjoyed ridiculing his son about the small-time nature of his sheriff’s job. Though Sun Valley had grown into an internationally recognized playground for the rich and famous, big-city crime had, for the most part, not found its way here yet. The Wood River Journal still carried stories on its front page about bands of sheep stopping traffic and the Senior Center ’s vending machine being robbed. Jerry Fleming made fodder from all of it. For this reason, Walt hoped to avoid being in any of the photographs. Jerry subscribed to both local newspapers, the Mountain Express and the Wood River Journal.

He shuffled over to Fiona. “I know you’re wearing another hat at the moment,” he said, “but I’d sure appreciate it if I didn’t end up in any of the pictures.”

“Keeps your name in front of voters,” she suggested.

“Makes me look like all I’ve got time for is babysitting tree huggers,” said Walt. “If I arrest him, I’m antienvironment; if I don’t, I’m a flaming liberal.”

“What if you just set him on fire?” she asked.

He barked a laugh and then hid his smile behind his hand. “A reasonable reaction, I think.”

“Or, better yet, just leave him. Do nothing.”

“You think like a cop,” he said.

“He’ll freeze his butt off out here with no one to preach to.”

“I think I’ll take your advice,” he said, squeezing her arm-a nice, firm arm. He headed for his office.

Nancy offered him a grim look. “Nothing on Mark,” she said.

“Cell phone?”

“Not answering.”

“Work?”

“They don’t open until ten. I tried the emergency number, but the woman who answered hadn’t heard from him. She reminded me- unnecessarily-how close he was to Randy. She said he may have just shuttered himself in for the morning.”

“I doubt that.”

Despite the mountain of paperwork, Walt had to admit that he loved his office. It gave him an excuse to shut the door and lock the world out. Yet these days, thanks to Gail, he would catch himself behind his desk, staring into space, ten minutes lost to the black hole.

“What about the Runaway Bride?”

“Bridesmaid,” Nancy corrected. Her sense of humor stopped when she occupied that chair. “Her name is Kira Tulivich. No, still no word.”

He’d made up his mind. “I’m going over to Mark’s,” he said.

“I’ve called,” she reminded. “We could send a cruiser by, if you’d rather.”

“No, I’m doing it myself.” Before he left, he gave Nancy his wish list: he wanted more on Kira Tulivich, all her friends, boyfriends, and fellow bridesmaids; he wanted to know why the ERC had not yet provided the caller ID for the Search and Rescue call that had sent them up Galena in the first place; and he wanted photos from Fiona of the tire tracks.

“Got those,” Nancy said. “She just dropped them by.” She handed Walt a manila envelope, and he double-checked the contents.

“If you get a minute, call the Barkin’ Basement and see if they have a kid’s winter coat, Nikki’s size. Zipper, not snaps.”

HE DROVE the four miles north to the Starweather subdivision, marveling at the beauty of a fresh snowfall sparkling in the sunlight. A sky of perfect blue. Sugarcoated evergreens bowing to gravity.

Highway 75 ran north-south, bisecting the twenty-mile-long valley. It was the only road that connected the three main towns: Bellevue, Hailey, and Ketchum/Sun Valley. For most of the drive, the south faces of the mountains were without trees. Covered in a fresh snowfall, they looked like giant marshmallows, forming a V with Sun Valley near the tip that pointed north. Dozens of smaller roads, all hosting million-dollar homes, led east or west off the spine of Highway 75.

He drove his department-issue Cherokee down a small hill into a forest of aspen trees. Starweather formed a large oval through the woods.

Aker’s driveway hadn’t been plowed. Snow slipped down into Walt’s boots and melted around his ankles, as he headed from the Cherokee. The multiple tire tracks he followed suggested vehicles coming and going at a very early hour. When Walt had arrived home just after two A.M., the snowfall had still been steady. The tracks he was following had been left somewhere before three A.M., when the storm had stopped completely.

The driveway curved to reveal a modest one-and-a-half-story log home with a river-rock chimney. About an acre of trees had been cleared around the house, and Walt knew from many summer evenings spent on the back deck that it overlooked a small lawn, leading to the edge of the Big Wood River.

A magpie floated overhead on fixed wings, landed between Walt and the house, and then took off again. No motion in any of the windows. A pair of spotlights, on the corner of the roof nearest the garage, left on. Another light glowed by the front door. Combined with the lack of any interior lights, Walt didn’t like the look of the place. It was possible, of course, that a grieving Mark Aker had turned off all the phones and was sleeping in. Possible, but unlikely.

As a small-animal vet, Mark lived with death. No matter his emotions, he was not a person to hide himself away. And even if he had needed some time, Francine would be fielding calls.

He rang the front bell to no success. Maybe they’d headed south to Mark’s parents and the family farm.

He walked around back and tried to see into the kitchen. He knocked loudly on the living room’s French doors. But there was no sign of life.

He tried the back door. Locked. Tried it again. Stared at it.

Mark never locked his doors. The fact that he’d done so now and had apparently left town-in the middle of an awful night-told him something was terribly wrong. Mark not answering his cell phone also needed explanation-he was on call 24/7.

The more Walt looked at this, the more it stank. Mark had brought up politics the night before, had done so with difficulty. They never talked politics. Coincidental or related? Had it had something to do with Randy?

Returning to his Cherokee, Walt took a minute, sitting on the back bumper with the tailgate up, to clean the snow out of his boots and brush off his socks.

The rumors about Randy had to do with big-game poaching. Hunting violations belonged to Fish and Game, so Walt had steered clear.

No doubt, Mark had heard the same rumors, might even know of Randy’s associates. Was he trying to protect the family name by running?

Or, knowing Mark, was he determined to handle this himself?

Politics?

Back behind the wheel, Walt drove fast now, intent to keep his friend from exacting vengeance yet having no idea where to begin.

9

ELBIE, OF ELBIE’S TIRE AND AUTO, WAS A STOUT MAN WITH a potbelly whom Walt had known since back when the man had hair. Elbie greeted Walt with a calloused right hand that had the feel and texture of a gardening glove left outside for the winter.

“Come on in,” he said. “Show me what you got.”

An air gun rattled periodically from the garage, interrupting music playing on an oldies station. Since when had Talking Heads become oldies? Walt pondered this, as they reviewed Fiona’s photograph.

“I need the make of the tire,” he explained, “and what kind of vehicle I might be looking at.”

“I repair flats and do alignments. We’ve got a special right now on wiper blades.”

“Please?”

“It’s a Toyo tire.” Elbie had the nasty habit of making a whistling, wet, sucking sound between his teeth when he paused to think. He led Walt across the garage, past three kids in soiled jumpsuits who were busy with machinery, and he tugged a tire down from the rack. “They call it the Observe. See this center pattern? Easy to spot. It’s a good, solid tire. Expensive, though.”

“Vehicle?”

“It’s a truck tire. Pickup. SUV.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, does it?”

“We sell a lot of them. And they come standard on some Toyota all-wheel drives.”

“This same size?”

“You scaled the photo with a glove, Walt. Kinda hard to pinpoint a particular size.”

“Anything at all to help me narrow it down?”

“It’s underinflated. See how wide it’s spread?” Elbie said, pointing to the photo. “And it’s worn to the outside. Overloaded and underinflated. Or maybe someone just wanted better traction in all this snow. It’ll hold better this way, but it’ll cut the life of the tire in half if it’s not corrected.”

“An overloaded pickup truck driving on snow,” Walt said disappointedly. “Only a couple thousand of those to pick from.”

“I can put you into a new set of wiper blades.”

Elbie noticed Walt eyeballing one of the workers.

“Listen, Walt, I know Taylor ’s history with you. With your office. But he’s a hardworking kid, and I’m giving him a fresh start.”

“Did I say anything?” Walt asked defensively. “I’m glad to see him gainfully employed. But what the hell happened to his face?”

“Said he hit a tree, skiing this morning.”

“On the mountain?” Walt said sarcastically. “At sixty bucks a day? Taylor Crabtree? He’s doing four hundred hours of community service for mounting a webcam in the girls’ bathroom of the Alternative School. You really think he’s spending a lot of time on the mountain, Elbie?”

“He hit a tree. That’s good enough for me. He does afternoons for me. Kids this age… a boy like this, basically on his own. You know how it is in this valley, Walt. Hell, a guy with a real job can’t afford to live here anymore. A kid like Taylor? It’s not easy.”

Crabtree sneaked a look in Walt’s direction. Walt read all sorts of things into that look, among them avoidance and fear. But there was something else as well. A searching expression, as if Crabtree wanted to talk to him.

“Listen,” Walt said. “Do you have any ink or oil or something that would give me a print of this tire’s tread pattern?”

“I probably have a picture of it in one of the books.”

“Could you give a look for me?”

Elbie glanced from Walt to Taylor and back again. “Go easy on him. That’s all I ask.”

As Walt crossed the garage, Crabtree lowered his head and tried to look busy. Up close, Walt could see that the bruised eyes and split lips were clearly not the work of a tree. There were no scrapes; he’d been hit, once, real hard.

“Take a break with me out back,” Walt said.

Crabtree set down his tire iron and followed like his boots were two sizes too big. Once outside, Walt checked for anyone within hearing range. The effort won Crabtree’s attention.

“How many hours are left on your community service?” Walt asked.

“Two hundred eighty-two.”

“But who’s counting, right?” Walt said. He’d hoped to win something other than a scowl but failed. “I could use your help with something, maybe cut back some of those hours.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Have you heard about any recruiting going on after school?”

The kid shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

“They call themselves the Samakinn,” Walt said. “It’s a Blackfoot word for ‘spear.’ Word is, they want to recruit high school kids to do their dirty work. Get someone else to commit the felonies. Guys like that, they talk about the Mexicans having ruined everything. Taken all the jobs. Crowded the schools. Get someone mad enough, they’ll do about anything. You know anything about it?”

Crabtree’s eyes met Walt’s. His were swollen and bruised, and Walt knew what kind of a blow it took to leave that kind of damage.

“Maybe they’ve roughed up kids that disagree with them.”

Crabtree shrugged.

The Idaho Bureau of Investigation had put out an alert on the Samakinn for central Idaho. It was said to be a small but determined cell.

“You and I might disagree on a lot of stuff, Taylor, but no one wants this kind of thing around here.”

“Don’t know nothing about it.”

“This is nothing but a small group of bozos, hiding behind the Blackfoot’s good name. There’s no proof they’re even Native Americans. They want their manifesto heard, make a name for themselves. They think violence-sabotage-is going to get them heard. They’re said to be interested in recruiting kids your age. Get them hooked on meth. Get them to do stuff for them, like dropping power lines, blowing up bridges. Stuff like that. Front-page stuff. That if they do enough of that, people will listen.” He gave this a moment to sink in. “Maybe they beat up the ones who won’t play along?”

Crabtree lit a cigarette. He played the scene deadpan.

Kids saw too many movies, Walt thought.

“Thing of it is, Taylor, I could probably convince a judge to cut that two hundred eighty-two hours in half, if you were to give me something that led me to these guys. If we got a conviction, he might make that time go away completely.”

Crabtree stared at the scuffed toes of his winter boots. He flicked the long ash off the cigarette and finally inhaled.

“Maybe you didn’t hit a tree. Maybe you can identify one or two of these guys from photos.”

“I hit a tree.” Eyes still fixed on the ground.

“They threaten you? I can help with that.”

He huffed out a laugh and some smoke with it.

“Why don’t you ask someone else?”

“Because most kids are afraid of them.” Walt gave that a few seconds to sink in. “You don’t strike me as a kid who’s afraid of much, Crab.”

Crabtree glanced up briefly from the toes of his boots.

“I’d like to know how many there are. What they drive. Where they’re staying. Who they know. Anything along those lines. You think you could do that?”

He shrugged.

“Community service can’t be too wonderful this time of year. What do they have you doing, shoveling sidewalks at Rowan House? Cleaning the dog shit off the ski trails? I can make that go away.”

“You’re the one put it there in the first place.”

“Was I the one who broke into that laundry to steal chemicals? Don’t put that on me.”

Elbie banged on the inside glass of the door to the garage and held up a three-ring binder.

Crabtree snuffed out his cigarette and shuffled back inside, Walt trailing behind. Walt took the manufacturer’s product description-the sheet included a print of the tread pattern-and thanked Elbie. There was no mistaking its similarity to the tire tread in Fiona’s photo.

As he climbed back into the Cherokee, Walt caught a glimpse of Crabtree’s bruised face through the filthy gray glass of the garage doors.

10

MYRA, WALT’S SISTER-IN-LAW, SAT ON THE ONLY FREE chair in Walt’s crowded office. Pushed back into a corner against a bookshelf, she faced his desk, her skinny legs crossed, a solemn expression dominating her shrunken face. Her awkwardly cropped brown hair was held out of her eyes with a pink plastic clip. Brown eyeliner was smudged over her right eye.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, giving her a peck on the cheek as he crossed to his desk. She returned the kiss, and then grabbed his arm and worked the thumb of her left hand against his cheek to remove the lipstick left behind.

“You look tired.”

“I am,” Walt answered. “And I’m busy, Myra. A lot on my plate.” He’d received an update from Search and Rescue: forty percent of the mountain below the Drop had been searched, with no sign of the missing skier.

He didn’t want to say how she looked. And he didn’t want to get her talking. Once started, she was like an avalanche.

There had been a time, three years ago, back before the death of Walt’s brother, when she’d had some weight to her breasts and hips. Had even turned a few heads. But grief had freeze-dried her, and there was no reconstituting that original Myra. Robert’s death had cost Walt too-his marriage, among other things.

Myra kicked the office door closed. Walt rarely shut his office door; he could almost hear the gossip begin on the other side of it.

“You asked Kevin about something going on at school.”

“I’m talking to a bunch of the kids,” he said. “Just spoke to Taylor Crabtree a few minutes ago.”

“You could have told me.”

“It’s kind of quiet right now. I asked Kevin to keep it between us.”

“If you’re turning your nephew-my son-into an informer, I’d like to know about it.”

“And if it gets that far you will.” Walt shuffled some papers. “You and Kevin have dinner plans?”

“Now we do. Eight o’clock?”

Walt smiled. “Good.”

“Girls okay?”

“Nikki needs a new coat. Emily’s growing out of her boots.” He looked up exasperated. “I suck as a father.”

“Not true.”

“Work is taking over again.”

“It goes in cycles. You know that. You’re tired. Give me the girls for a couple days. Catch a movie or something.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You can’t be everything for everyone. There’s no one complaining but you. The girls are happier. You’re better off than you were with Gail around. At least things are consistent. That’s a major improvement.” She picked some lint off her sweater. “Have you cleaned out her stuff?”

Walt hit her with an icy stare.

“I can’t, Myra. Not yet.”

“That’s where it starts, Walt. I offered before: I can do this for you. You come home from work, it’s done.”

He shook his head, pursed his lips. “No thanks.”

“Open-ended offer.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

She stirred; he hoped she might get up and leave, but it wasn’t to be.

“And what about the primary? What if you lose?” Myra asked.

Walt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He dreaded the election cycle. Every four years, like a plague.

“Have you thought about what happens if you lose this election?”

“ Myra, I’m a little busy for this.”

“It’s not as if there are other sheriff jobs in this valley. If you and Gail sell the house, and you end up unemployed, you’re going to be forced out of the valley like every other worker. Who can afford these prices anymore? Then what? Will the court let you take the girls out of state? Courts love the mother.”

“The mother doesn’t want them.”

“Not now, she doesn’t. But just wait until she sees you with another woman. Sees you happy. She’ll do anything to stop that.”

“That’s not going to happen anytime soon,” he said.

“Then it’ll be when you challenge her for custody. But the day is coming when she’s going to regret all this. Mark my word.”

He swallowed that one away, hoisted a pile of pink messages. “I’ll figure it out. I’ve got a ton of work here, Myra.”

“You need this election.”

“I’ll give it more thought. We’ll talk about it at dinner.”

She stood. No one could take that chair for too long. “You give me the word, I’ll have every trace of her out of that house in twenty minutes.” And she meant it.

11

WALT WAS EN ROUTE TO RANDY A KER’S CABIN WHEN THE call came in. Kira Tulivich, the missing bridesmaid, was in Emergency at St. Jude’s. He reached Fiona and asked her to meet him there.

“She wandered in through the front door about four-thirty this morning,” the attending desk nurse told Walt. “She didn’t know who she was or where she was,” the nurse continued, “and there was some confusion on our end in contacting you, as I understand it, because we thought we might be dealing with a minor. We’ve cleaned her up and examined her. Brought in a SANE nurse.” Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. This told Walt all that he wanted to know. “She gave us her name about an hour ago. She’s nineteen. Doesn’t want her family notified, and we have to honor that.”

“You do, but I don’t,” he said. “We’ll let them know.”

The nurse seemed relieved. He placed a call to Nancy and asked her to inform the family. As Fiona came through the doors, he guessed they had fifteen to twenty minutes before the onslaught.

They waited quietly in seats alongside a set of automatic doors that errantly reacted to the slightest motion. Walt felt paralyzed, reeling over Mark’s disappearance.

A tall artificial tree stood in the corner of the waiting room, its dust-colored silk leaves looking pathetic. One of the seat cushions bore the artistic efforts of a child with a purple marker. The walls were covered in a sand brown corduroy fabric.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

“I called the Hailey mortuary on the way up here. Mark’s never called.”

They sat in silence. Walt checked his watch, then the wall clock, then his watch again.

“I don’t love the idea of photographing this woman. Can’t the doctors do that?”

“The nurses. Yes. You’ll only be shooting her face and hands and belongings. Believe me, the quality of their pictures leaves a lot to be desired, and you’re the best we’ve got.”

“I’m the only one you’ve got.”

“I have a hidden agenda: I’m required to have a woman deputy in the room with me, and you were the closest.”

“Last time I checked, Walt, I was also a civilian.”

“Consider yourself deputized. Seriously. It’s done.”

“I want a badge,” she said. “And a car with a siren.”

“So noted.”

They were shown into a brightly lit examination room that held an array of colorful machines hung from stainless steel stands, yards of clear plastic tubing, and three boxes of different-colored examination gloves.

Fiona saw the young woman’s face and gasped.

Her reaction turned Walt toward her. “Listen, if you can’t handle this-”

“It’s not that!” she countered in a whisper. “I know her, Walt. From the wedding. Last night’s wedding. On the dance floor. She was there, for heaven’s sake.”

“Can you do this?” he asked.

“Of course.”

The girl’s knees were raised beneath a white cotton sheet adorned with pale blue bees, her head elevated by several pillows. Beneath the blotchy complexion and runny nose, she was a pretty girl of nineteen, but with a tormented sadness in her dull eyes that cut to the quick. Her red hair was a tangled mess. Her makeup was smeared down her face. There were bundles of oversized paper bags on a rolling table to the left of the bed. Her clothes and belongings. One of those bags would contain a bedsheet she would have stood on while undressing-Walt wanted a look at any debris that had fallen off her.

The nurse was an attractive woman in her late forties wearing the name tag HOPE on the chest of her scrubs. She spoke in a dry, husky voice.

“Her behavior when we admitted her was consistent with date rape. Catatonic. Possibly a result of shock, but more likely the drugs. I wouldn’t be surprised to find either Rohypnol or ketamine. Bloods are cooking in the lab. Injuries are consistent with oral, anal, and vaginal penetration. We’ll run a rape kit on her next, but that can take hours. I was told to wait for you guys first.”

“I’d like to talk to her, if possible,” Walt explained. “And I’ve asked Deputy Kenshaw to take a few pictures-face and hands.”

“I’ve got no problem with that.” She leaned over the victim. “Kira? The police are here.”

The girl squinted open bloodshot blue eyes. She didn’t focus well. Her pupils were completely dilated, making him think of Roman death masks with coins placed over the eyes.

Walt kept his voice low. He made introductions. “Can I ask you a few questions, Kira?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said, sounding doped. She took a sip of water from a straw offered by the nurse. Tears followed tracks down her cheeks.

“Sometimes we know more than we think. What’s the last thing you recall?”

“We were at Whiskey’s… dancing. Then I woke up in this car.” She pinched her eyes shut tightly. “He dropped me out front, I think.”

“He?” Walt asked the girl. “Do you know whoever drove you?”

She opened her eyes and looked at Walt as if she’d never seen him. “Who are you?”

Walt reintroduced himself and Fiona. “Did you get a good look at the man that dropped you off? Do you know him, Kira?”

She stared right through him.

“A friend? Family? Someone from the wedding?” he asked.

He thought he’d lost her. Her eyes rolled up and her lids closed. Her chest rose and fell heavily. “KB’s,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

KB’s was a burrito shop in town. Two restaurants: one in Hailey, one in Ketchum.

“Someone you know from KB’s?” Walt asked, a jolt of energy pulsing through him.

Her head rocked faintly side to side. Or maybe she had just nodded off.

“A person who works there?”

“KB’s.” Her lips moved silently.

“KB’s,” Walt repeated back to her.

Her head moved infinitesimally.

“She just nodded, yes?” he asked Fiona, who shrugged. “Kira?”

A minute or two passed. It seemed much longer.

“My two cents?” the nurse said.

Walt nodded.

“The bruising indicates violent assault. This wasn’t a frat house rape, or, if it was, it was multiple partners. It was a violent assault. If that helps you any.”

“I need her last twelve hours,” Walt said, his voice cracking. “It’s important.”

“I doubt you’ll get it. Not if the bloods come back positive for Rohypnol.”

“May I?” Walt said, indicating the girl’s hands.

He donned a pair of gloves and a pair of glasses, then picked up her limp right hand, leaning close.

He asked Fiona for some photographs and she went to work.

“She was bound,” he said, addressing the nurse. “Wire or plastic tie. You’ll scrape the fingernails, as part of the kit?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’d like her fingernails clipped and bagged, please, if that’s possible.”

“Of course.”

He indicated the paper bags on the stand.

“Her dress, a piece of panty hose. Shoes. I’ve held off on the rape kit, as I said.” She sounded a little defensive. “She’s wearing a strapless bra. It was not in place, and I’ve left it where it was. There’s bruising visible on both breasts. No underwear. Probably torn off during the attack.”

The possibility of evidence left behind at the scene sparked a moment of optimism in him.

“Alcohol was also involved,” the nurse said, interrupting. “She tested point-one-four upon arrival.” She answered Walt’s inquisitive expression. “We ran a Breathalyzer as part of admittance.”

“Point-one-four?” Walt said. “That’s juiced. Well over the limit.”

“A good wedding, I suspect,” agreed the nurse.

Walt and Fiona exchanged a glance.

Concerned over the chain of evidence, Fiona donned a pair of surgical gloves and photographed the clothing and personal effects in the bags without removing them.

“You never can have too much documentation,” Walt said.

Fiona went about this methodically, bag to bag.

“I still need her last twelve hours,” Walt repeated, as if no one had heard him the first time. “What about security cameras?”

“I know there are some here, outside ER,” the nurse said. “I’m not aware of any out front, but maybe.”

“No one beats a woman and then drives her to the hospital,” Fiona said with the sound of authority. “That just doesn’t happen.”

“That’s why we need the driver,” Walt said. “If he wasn’t involved, why abandon her?”

The nurse crossed her arms tightly and looked at the girl sympathetically. “Unfortunately, Sheriff, I don’t think she’s going to tell you much.”

“Then maybe this will,” Fiona said, pointing into the white paper evidence bag.

Walt saw two dirty high-heeled satin shoes. “Mud,” he said.

The shoes were caked in it.

“She didn’t just step in some road sludge,” Fiona said. “She sank up to her ankles.”

“Her legs are the same.” The nurse gently and carefully pulled up the sheet to reveal the girl’s lower legs. They were splattered with dried mud.

“But the ground is frozen solid,” Fiona said. “Has been for a couple days at least. A week or more.” She ran off several photographs of the shoes in the bag, then glanced up at Walt. “So where was she?”

12

THE ICY SURFACE OF THE ROADS CARRIED A THIN SKIM OF melt. Walt drove cautiously-there was little more embarrassing than the sheriff needing to be towed out of a snowbank. Ketchum, the town that serviced the Sun Valley hotels and condominiums, was nestled at the base of the ski mountain. In the 1960s, the north-facing slopes had been developed along Warm Springs Creek and a like-named road, surrounded by desirable real estate. Warm Springs continued as a dirt track for some twenty miles, past the small village of ski shops and restaurants that had grown to service the condominiums and second homes. A hundred years earlier, the road had provided access to small mines that had never proved lucrative. Despite the avalanches that closed the road regularly in winter, a few daring souls had built past Board Ranch, which for generations had been the last stop on the road. They’d left Fiona’s Subaru at the hospital, ostensibly because of the remote location and the treacherous road conditions. But there was an undercurrent of something more to her request for the ride, a sense she had something on her mind.

Walt, even more socially incompetent than usual, couldn’t find a way to prime the pump. Fiona tried to pick up the slack.

“Couldn’t it just be that they wanted to grieve as a family? Together? That they’ve gone off on a retreat-a friend’s ranch-to pull themselves together?”

“Possible,” he said. “But I don’t know…”

The road wound through stands of lodgepole pine, spruce, and aspen, all covered in a dusting. Strong sunlight, slanting through the limbs, forced harsh shadows onto the undisturbed rolling white carpet of fresh snow. A pair of magpies flew across the road and landed on an old rail fence. High overhead, a jet’s vapor trail cut a pure white line across the rich blue sky.

“Times like this,” she said, “I could just keep driving.” She caught herself, embarrassed by the sentiment. Opened her mouth to say something but then coughed out a self-conscious laugh and turned toward the side window.

“It’s real pretty,” Walt said. He wondered if his boot would fit in his mouth along with his foot.

He four-wheeled, following car tracks out to some natural hot springs. Fiona remained in the car as Walt surveyed the area. The year-round hot springs were well known to locals; it made sense that a drunken wedding or Halloween party might have driven out and skinny-dipped during a snowstorm. Made sense that this might have been where some guy had assaulted Kira Tulivich, out where no one would hear her screams.

To Walt’s disappointment, he found no signs of recent activity around the pools. No mud. With no tracks leading to the pools, and no sign of the telltale mud, Walt had to rethink his theory.

Another mile out Warm Springs Road, they reached Randy’s cabin. It had been part of the Board Ranch, a cattle-and-horse operation that had gone bust in the 1960s. The owners had wisely retained the property, selling off fifty-year leases, most of which had been sublet a dozen times by now. Its eight hundred acres lay directly in the shadow of Bald Mountain. A satellite dish hung beneath the south-facing eave, and somehow broke the romanticism of the setting. Walt and Fiona followed tracks-fresh tracks-to the cabin’s door. They found it unlocked, which was not at all surprising. Until recently, locals had commonly left their keys in the ignition while at the grocery store. On frigid days, cars were left running out in the parking lot. Much of that had changed with the white flight from Los Angeles in the early 1990s. Celebrities had followed their affluent friends and agents who’d come to Idaho in response to the riots and wildfires. With Sun Valley in the tabloids, ten years of constant development had transformed a modestly popular ski resort into an enclave of the very rich and very famous. All of which had pushed locals like Randy Aker to less expensive housing on the outskirts of the town.

“Start shooting when you’re ready,” Walt said, banging the snow off his boots and stepping inside. “I’m going to look around. I want everything in here documented. Anything and everything.”

They stood in a single open room, with a woodstove in the righthand corner, a small love seat facing it. A TV, on a low table, viewable from the couch. Bookshelves along the near wall, crowded with videos, DVDs, and books. A small kitchen was just beyond, its U-shaped countertops framing a butcher-block island. A small table for two that backed up to the love seat. The bedroom and bath were to the left. Electric baseboard heat fought to keep the temperature in the low sixties, the woodstove no doubt contributing when lit. Walt kept his coat zipped but removed his winter gloves in favor of a pair of latex.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Fiona asked.

He shrugged. “We’ll know when we find it.”

She started making pictures, her camera flashes annoying him. To the left of the front door was a narrow harvest table and a laptop computer.

More flashes.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird for a veterinarian to have animal heads on his walls?” There was a bull elk, a buck deer, and, more of a surprise, the head of a mountain goat, a protected animal.

“Anyone local-and the Akers are local-hunt. They do it for food. For tradition. Because their granddads taught them to.”

“I still think it’s strange,” she said. “They heal them Monday through Friday and kill them on the weekends?”

“I doubt they’d see it that way,” Walt said, having trouble taking his eyes off the goat head. Mountain goat hunts were by lottery, with only a few tags sold each year. And they were the most expensive tags offered, along with bighorn sheep and moose. He thought he would have heard from Mark if Randy had bagged a goat. Considering the dust on the elk and deer, the goat was a recent trophy.

He searched all the kitchen cabinets, the refrigerator and oven, knowing people hid things in strange places. He tapped the plank flooring, listening carefully for a hollow sound. If the rumors about Randy’s illegal poaching were true, Walt expected to find some evidence. The goat head wasn’t proof of anything. He wanted a bank account, checkbook, or a cashbox. He planned to take the laptop with him.

“You know anything about radio collar hunting?” he asked Fiona, as she clicked off more shots.

“Isn’t that where these rich golfer types hire someone to tree a cougar, then fly out to shoot it?”

“Exactly. The guide uses dogs to hunt down the game. It can take days. When the dogs get a cougar treed, they look up at it, barking, and keeping it there. The poachers follow the signal to the tree. They phone their client-it can take most of a day for him to get there-then he climbs out of the helicopter and is handed a rifle. He shoots the cougar, then flies off. Single shot. Ten minutes, max. The cat is taxidermied and shipped to him a few months later.”

“And that’s called hunting?”

“It’s called poaching. The collars are illegal to use, and the cats require a tag from Fish and Game. So the whole thing is one violation after another. A hundred-thousand-dollar fine, and up to five years in prison. So it’s an expensive way to hunt. The client pays about ten grand an animal.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Randy’s name surfaced in a bust in eastern Washington. It reached me through a friend. Word was, he’d begun taking clients on his own. And that kind of thing can get a man killed out here.”

“And Mark?”

“Probably knew. He has his ear to the ground.”

“That couldn’t have been easy. And you’re looking for a possible connection,” she said.

“We are. Yes.”

“That’s right: I’m deputized.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“You want the contents of the kitchen cabinets?” she asked.

“Why not?” he answered.

Walt searched the tiny bedroom and small bath while Fiona sparked flashes in the kitchen. Frustrated by a lack of evidence, or even anything interesting, he climbed on a chair and lifted up all three game heads in succession, hoping an envelope or paperwork might have been hidden behind the trophies. All he got was dusty.

“Here’s a curiosity,” Fiona called out.

Walt joined her in the kitchen.

She pointed to the kitchen cabinets. “Box of nongluten pancake mix. Several boxes of pasta, also gluten-free. And a breakfast cereal- all corn. Lots of rice and rice noodles. No pretzels or chips.”

“So he’s gluten-intolerant,” Walt said. “Where’s the crime in that?”

“Check it out, Sherlock.” The toe of her boot pointed at an open drawer. There were some potatoes, a bag of onions, and a loaf of bread. “What’s he doing with the loaf of bread if he can’t eat gluten?”

“Just because he doesn’t eat it doesn’t mean he doesn’t serve it.” But she’d raised his curiosity. He bent down and retrieved the loaf from the drawer. “And it’s moldy, to boot. Probably forgot he even had it.”

He balanced and bounced the loaf in his hand a couple of times, weighing it. Unusually heavy. “I want a record of this,” he said as he placed the loaf on the cutting board. He didn’t like that he had missed this; liked it even less that she had pointed it out to him. But there was no changing that now; and he wasn’t going to ignore it simply because she had brought it to his attention, though the thought crossed his mind.

“Pictures of you opening a loaf of bread? Seriously?”

“Just shoot it, please.”

She ran off a series of shots, as Walt unfastened the plastic clip and opened the wrapper. His gloved hand reached in and pulled out the first few slices.

The center of the loaf had been hollowed out. A brick of money wrapped in stretch plastic wrap filled the cavity.

Click, click. Fiona gasped while running off more shots.

Walt peeled back the stretch wrap, revealing one-hundred-dollar bills. Three inches high.

Walt whistled. “There’s got to be thirty or forty thousand dollars here.”

“Good Lord,” she said. “I’ve never seen that much cash.”

“His own little in-joke. Bread? Dough? And that’s where he hid it.”

“Poaching?”

“It’s got to be dirty,” Walt said. “But he’s a doctor, don’t forget. It could be poaching. It could be drugs. Abortions. Blackmail, I suppose.”

“And we’ll never know,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” Walt said irritably. “Of course we’ll know! It’s my job to know. To find out. Don’t say things like that, you’ll jinx it.”

“You? Superstitious?”

“Careful, is how I think of it. The weirdest things can squirrel an investigation. Never speak ill of the dead, and never, ever claim you’ve got a suspect until the court case is over and he’s behind bars.”

“Sage advice for a freshman deputy?”

“Just take the pictures, Watson, would you please?”

Walt began counting the money.

13

WALT LOVED TECHNOLOGY. HE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND IT HALF the time, but the beauty of good technology was that he didn’t have to understand it. Just use it.

His patrolmen were currently taking advantage of a quiet evening by updating the score of Monday Night Football over the police band radio, mistakenly thinking their boss off air, otherwise, they wouldn’t have dared do it. In fact, Walt was a Seahawks fan, so, on the ride home, he listened in guilty pleasure.

Lisa had been kind enough to stay with the girls while Walt had dropped Fiona back at her car. He’d then spent thirty minutes talking to employees at Mark and Randy Aker’s veterinarian practice.

Jillian Davis was Mark’s head nurse and sometime bookkeeper. She led Walt into the “family room,” where, for an additional fee, boarding pets were treated to a “home environment” that included two couches, some throw rugs, and a television running all the time. The room’s popularity with customers spoke to the excesses of Sun Valley. Mark had turned wealthy guilt into a profit center for his boarding clinic.

Jillian worked to keep her composure. A sturdy woman in her early forties, with kind eyes and a severe brow, she wore blue scrubs with a pilled cardigan sweater. He’d caught her at the end of what had to have been a long, difficult day. He cautioned her that, for both their sakes, he was going to speak directly, warning her that anything discussed must not leave the room. She agreed, then turned up the television to cover their voices.

“I have circumstantial evidence that Randy was involved in poaching,” he said. “High-stakes stuff. Probably mountain goat, cougar, and bear. Any talk around here to that effect?”

She nodded reluctantly. “Only that: talk. It came up when our inventory was off. Incapacitating meds that we rarely use were found to be in short supply.”

“So Mark knew.” He made it a statement.

“I’m sure he suspected, as did I. To my knowledge, no one else. And before you ask: if Mark confronted Randy, I never heard about it.”

“Would Mark have considered the whole subject matter of hunting tags and fees political? Did he look at it that way?”

“I’ve heard both of them talk about their childhoods, when there were no restrictions on hunting. Some limits, to be sure, but the state wasn’t running lotteries and such.”

“Does Mark talk politics with you?”

“No. Just business. We’re very busy here-all the time, these days.”

“Was he doing anything political? Volunteering? Fund-raising?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Did you see anyone, anything, bothering Randy? Giving him trouble? Visitors that you wouldn’t have expected? Phone calls?”

“Nothing like that. We all loved Randy. He was a terrific guy. Really good with the large animals.”

“Any conflicts in either of their practices lately? Threats? Lawsuits?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Business was down on Randy’s side.”

He could read it in her face: she was holding back. “But?” he said. She hesitated. “By talking to me, you’re helping him, Jillian. You have to believe that.”

“Mark’s been up to something.” It came out of her like a confession; she hung her head, as if ashamed of herself. “Secretive. Brooding, at times. You know how up he usually is. That kind of went out of him lately.”

“Trouble at home?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. He spent a lot of time here, at the clinic, after closing. And he wasn’t training. Wasn’t doing paperwork. The one time I checked on him, he was in the lab, and he blew up at me for surprising him like that.”

“Any idea-”

“No. That’s just the thing,” she said, interrupting. “None. He’s been spending a lot of time at their cabin in Challis. Been going there a lot lately. Sometimes overnight. Was he following Randy or something? I don’t know. Some of our deliveries… he’d put them straight into his truck, and that was always when he’d go north for a day or so.”

“Do you know what was in those boxes?”

“No clue.”

“Receipts?”

“I could check with Sally, our bookkeeper. There might be records.”

Walt had forgotten about Mark’s cabin, and chastised himself. “It’s on Francine’s side. The cabin? I didn’t think they used it, some family battle they got embroiled in. A relative lived up there, didn’t he?”

“You’re right. Her brother. But he moved to Maine, I think it was. This is like a year ago, and Mark and Francine took over caring for the place.”

“So he’d been going up there to fix it up.”

“Initially, yes. But then he and Randy started using it…”

“To hunt,” Walt said, when she failed to finish.

“Yeah. You knew about that? They didn’t exactly want that to be public knowledge. Bad for business.”

“I’ve known Mark a long time,” Walt said, still angry at himself for having forgotten about the cabin. “Do you know where it is, exactly?”

She shook her head. “Randy’s death was an accident, right?”

“Sure looks like it,” Walt said, not wanting to start anything, “but we have to investigate it, anyway.”

“They were superclose. It doesn’t surprise me Mark’s gone off like this.” Tears formed in her eyes. They weren’t the first.

“Who else might know?” Walt said. “About the cabin? Anyone who works here?”

“I doubt it. Francine, of course.” As she met eyes with Walt, a spark of realization ignited in hers. “She’s missing too, isn’t she? Oh my God. You can’t find either of them.”

“As you said,” Walt reminded, keeping his voice level, “they probably just need a day or two in private to grieve. My guess is, we’ll find them at the cabin. I might give them another day before trying.”

Her eyes softened, thanking him, and she nodded. “Good people,” she choked out.

“Yeah.”

The tears finally spilled, and she laughed at herself out of embarrassment, saying, “I thought I was done with this.” She dabbed her eyes with tissue.

“If Sally could get back to me about those deliveries…” he said.

“Will do.”

As Walt stood, the dozen dogs in the room hurried to him, nosing him and whining.

She laughed. “We kind of spoil them in here.”

“I’ll say.” He pet several.

“You might try Kira,” she said.

“Excuse me?” he said. Mention of the name turned Walt around sharply to face Jillian.

“Mark’s assistant, Kira. I suppose there’s a chance she might know how to find the cabin.”

Walt felt it like a blow to his sternum. He took a moment to recover, to clear his head, so that his voice didn’t give away his surprise. “Kira Tulivich?” he asked. He’d left her in the hospital only hours earlier.

“You’ve already spoken to her?”

“Kira’s Mark’s assistant?” He tried to keep the shock from his face. He had a good deal of practice with such things, but this one hit him hard and he was afraid he’d shown his cards. “I didn’t know that,” he said.

“You know, she didn’t show up today either.” She paused. “You don’t think Mark and Kira…”

“Absolutely not,” Walt said. The idea swam around in his head. “Do you?”

“No, of course not.”

Walt needed some time to think this through.

“I doubt she knows anything more than I do,” Jillian said. “Whatever he was up to, he wasn’t sharing. And, yes, I thought it might have something to do with Randy-you know, because of the inventory. But that was never anything more than a wild hunch.”

His cell phone rang, and he chased a decent signal across the room and out the door. He took the call in a back lot used for animal exercise and training.

His office informed him that AmeriCell had traced the emergency call that had sent Search and Rescue into the mountains the night before. The owner of the cell phone that had made the call had a billing address in West Ketchum.

He returned to the door, thanked Jillian, and asked that she keep their discussion private. “You know about this valley and rumors,” he said. “Mark doesn’t need that on top of everything else.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said.

AS WALT PULLED DOWN Bird Drive in West Ketchum, a KPD patrol car pulled away from the corner and followed him. Out of courtesy, he’d called ahead to his friend, Cory Limon, the Ketchum police chief, detailing his intention of making an arrest, and Cory had assigned the backup.

Walt and one of the KPD officers approached the front door of a gray-and-white, board-and-batten single-family residence while the other officer sludged through the snow to cover the back. The clutter of snowboards, mountain bikes, and other gear on the covered porch suggested a rental property. Walt rapped sharply on the door and called out: “Sheriff’s Office. Open the door, please.”

It took another try before the door finally was opened, by a girl in a tight-fitting T-shirt, black Lycra stretch pants, and gray wool socks. Walt and the officer stepped inside. For the time being, Walt ignored the faint smell of pot, looked past the clutter of pizza boxes and the clumps of clothes on the floor. A dormitory room.

“May I help you?” she asked, a little taken aback by their entering.

“I’m looking for Charles Jones,” Walt said, glancing around.

“CASEY!” she shouted over her shoulder. Then, more softly, “Can I help you?”

“Do you live here?” Walt asked.

“No. Just a friend. We all went boarding today. Amazing powder.”

“You might want to take off,” Walt said. “I’m only interested in Charles-Casey. But Officer”-Walt read the man’s name tag- “Shanklin might have an interest in the incense.”

“Got it,” she said, and immediately went searching for boots and a jacket. She was out of the house before the boy arrived downstairs.

“Charles Jones?”

“Yeah?” he said.

He was a gangly boy with curly, unkempt hair, a skier’s tan, and a failed attempt at facial hair. Like most of the kids his age that Walt encountered, he did not cower at the sight of law enforcement. He carried his shoulders straight and high, and his mouth remained small as he talked, like he’d been sucking on a lemon.

“Your cell phone placed an emergency call to the county’s ERC- the Emergency Response Center-at six thirty-two P.M. yesterday.”

The boy appeared to be chiseled out of marble. For a moment, he didn’t breathe and didn’t blink.

“Think carefully… Casey,” Walt warned. “Can I call you ‘Casey’?”

“Yes, sir.” The shoulders hunched forward. Eye contact was broken.

“Think carefully about how you answer. These next few minutes are critical. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your cell phone bills are being sent to this address,” Walt said. “That’s how we found you. You’ve cost this county time and money. The money will have to be repaid. But whether or not we treat this as a crime… well, that depends on you and how forthcoming you are.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it a prank? A dare?”

Jones looked up, his face a pool of shame.

“It wasn’t, was it?” Walt said. “A thing like this… you get one chance and one chance only. That chance is to tell the truth. You lie to me, son, and you’ll pay for it for the rest of your life. So you want to think about that, okay? You want to think about your parents, your friends, your family, and how this is going to reflect on all of them. Because there are no second chances. You lie to me and you’ll start a progression of events that you’ll look back and regret forever. I need to know you understand that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, then. There are two ways to do this. I can arrest you, right here and now. If I do, Officer Shanklin here is likely going to search your residence and that may complicate your situation, judging by the odor in the air. The situations of others living with you as well. So that’s one way. The other is to talk this out for a few minutes, for you to tell me the truth. For me to decide where to go from here. You agree to do that and Officer Shanklin goes back to his cruiser and waits for me. Do you understand? It’s just you and me. But I’m only interested in door number two if you’re interested in sharing the truth with me. In my line of work, you get so you can spot the truth, son. So don’t even think about trying to lie to me. The choice is yours: door one or door two? Time’s up, so which is it?”

Shanklin shut the door on his way out.

Walt took a seat on the spongy couch, moving an Xbox controller out of the way. Jones took the dilapidated, overstuffed chair across the coffee table from him.

“You all set?” Walt asked.

The boy nodded.

“Did you make that call to 911?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it the truth?”

“No, sir.”

“There was no skier left behind on Galena?”

“No.”

Walt fought back the emotions that set his teeth grinding.

“Why’d you do it?”

The boy wouldn’t answer. Walt asked a second time.

“I was paid. By the government.”

“The government?” Walt said, unable to disguise his astonishment.

“A guy from, you know… I don’t know… some agency. He told me, but I forget exactly which one. He said it’s, like, routine to check the response time of Search and Rescue teams. That with caller ID, and everything, the government can’t make the calls, because then people know it’s a test, so they ask common citizens-like me-to make the calls for them.”

“You were paid to make the call.”

“Exactly. Then they time the search and rescue…” His voice trailed off. “What are you saying, exactly? This guy was for real, right?”

Walt removed his notebook from his uniform’s breast pocket. “Can you describe him, please?”

“I don’t know. About my height, I guess. Khakis. Coat and tie. Mustache. Kinda short hair. Your color-you know, kinda sandy and gray. Normal-looking dude.”

“He told you what to say,” Walt stated. Gray? he wondered.

“Yeah. Said it had to be done a certain way to make all the tests comparable. He had it typed out.”

“He had the message you were to read typed out?”

“Yeah.”

“And you read it exactly as he’d written it.”

“Yes.”

“And do you have that… I don’t know… card, sheet of paper, currently in your possession?”

“He took it back.”

“Of course he did,” Walt muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Did I fuck up or something?”

“How much did he pay you for this service?”

“A C-note.”

“A man offered you a hundred dollars to make a phone call and you didn’t question it?”

“I questioned it, all right. I demanded to see the money up front.”

Walt hurried out to the car and radioed in to call off the search. He took a minute to settle himself, reeling over the wasted manpower and the risk to the searchers.

When he returned inside, his voice was irrationally calm.

“How ’bout credentials? Did you demand or did he show you any credentials confirming he was with the government?”

“He flipped open some ID when he first came up to me. Not that I took that good a look or anything. I wasn’t going to blow off some government dude. And then when he got explaining it, it sounded good to me.”

“But not too good to be true?”

“What’s that?”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again? A photo maybe?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Lay off the pot for a while, okay? I need your memory clear.”

If the boy could have dissolved into the chair, he would have. Eyes to the dirty carpet, chin down, he said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up. “I take it he wasn’t with the government.”

“Mr. Jones, you’re not to leave the county without my permission. You do so and you will be considered at flight. Is that clear?”

“Is that legal?”

“You want to involve the courts? I’m happy to do so.”

“It’s clear,” the boy said.

“I want a written statement from you. Exactly what happened. Where, when, who, what. Every detail you can recall: accent, clothes, mannerisms, expressions, shoes, car, glasses, gloves-I don’t care how insignificant you think it might have been. I want that on my desk, in Hailey, by six P.M. this evening. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No excuses. No delays. No makeups. Six P.M.”

“Does it have to be typed?” Jones asked.

Walt shook his head in frustration. “It has to be truthful. I don’t care if it’s a podcast; I just want to know what happened. In your words, to the best of your ability.” He dug himself out of the couch and made for the door. “And I’d lose the weed, if I were you. Ketchum police will be watching you now.”

He headed out the door and, as he did so, he tugged on his jacket against the cold. The process of pulling the jacket up onto his shoulders instantly took him back to Randy’s coming out of the pickup truck the night before. Randy and Mark had been throwing jabs about Randy borrowing the coat.

Walt recalled Randy’s complaining about the smell of the winter jacket and Mark’s chastising him for forgetting a coat of his own in the middle of a blizzard. It had been Mark’s coat that Randy had been wearing up on the mountain. A loaner. A coat carrying Mark’s scent, not Randy’s. Walt had all but proven that dogs had been involved-the prints found alongside the tire track.

What if Randy had been pursued by dogs meant to target Mark?

We never talk politics.

Mark had tried to discuss something. Walt had joked about it, had failed to listen.

The same complaint he’d gotten from Gail on her way out the door.