Killer Weekend (2 page)

S
ix men, all wearing white hard hats and orange ear protectors, huddled in one corner of what was to become a themed fast food restaurant, That's a Wrap, that would sport vinyl wallpaper of Monroe, Bogart, Julia Roberts, Tom Hanks, and Harrison Ford. Not twenty feet away, on the far side of a temporary wall, passengers hurried down a long hallway that connected Salt Lake airport's concourses C and D.

   The entrance to the work site was through a thick sheet of black plastic. Sheetrock dust covered the floor along with scraps of aluminum conduit, pieces of electrical wire, and a half dozen used paper cups from the Starbucks down on concourse D.

   There was debate among the workers about how to install a length of ventilation duct; the architect had neglected to note the location of the sprinkler system.

   "There's no way, Billy, that you're going to get around that pipe," the foreman said at last. "And you sure as shit can't go through it."

   Billy disagreed. To illustrate his suggestion, he dragged two sawhorses to below the spot in question, threw two lengths of aluminum studs across them, and climbed up, while the foreman shouted out for him to use a stepladder because he didn't want to lose his workman's comp record.

   But by then there was no stopping Billy. He punched a section of ceiling panel up and into the space above, and slid it to one side.

   Shining a flashlight, he poked his head up inside.

   "What the fuck?" he said. He withdrew his head and addressed his fellow workers. "Is this one of those haze-the-rookie things? Because if it is, it sucks."

   When no one answered, Billy jumped down and used a broom handle to knock the additional ceiling panels out of the way. The fourth panel wouldn't budge. Neither would the fifth, or the sixth. He tried another, and it lifted partially. Billy carefully slid it to the left.

   Now he and the others could see up into the false ceiling.

   "What is that?" one of the men said. "A suit bag?"

   It was a six-foot length of bulging, heavy black plastic, zippered shut.

   The foreman took a tentative step forward.

   "That ain't no suit bag," said the smallest of the six workers, a man with a goatee and a tattoo of three X's on his neck. He spoke softly, which was not his way. "That's a body bag. And there's something in it."

W
alt Fleming pulled the white Grand Cherokee marked "Blaine County Sheriff " to the curb in front of Elizabeth Shaler's home. As he sat behind the wheel, staring up at the house, Walt realized he was rubbing the scar through the shirt of his blue uniform, a firm reminder of that evening eight years earlier. It still pulsed hot from time to time, for no reason at all. It did so now. He felt oddly nostalgic for a moment, reliving the event that had propelled him to the front page and secured his bid for county sheriff, an election he'd won by a landslide.

   Now a household name, Liz Shaler had recently returned to her Sun Valley home—albeit a second home—allegedly to announce her candidacy for president. Walt's job, along with the people inside, was to keep her alive. He radioed dispatch that he was leaving SD-1, his Cherokee, and heading inside.

   A black Porsche Cayenne parked behind the Cherokee, and out from the passenger seat stepped Patrick Cutter, with his George Hamilton golfer's tan and porcelain white smile. Walt acknowledged Dick O'Brien, Cutter's security chief, visible through the windshield. O'Brien, stocky, and with an Irishman's nose, offered Walt a mock salute. Two dark-suited minions, a man and a young woman, both of whom, judging by their black clothing, knew nothing about dressing for the arid Idaho summer, attempted to follow Cutter but were quickly turned back by their boss. They returned to the idling car a little sheepishly.

   Liz Shaler's 1950s ranch home would have fit inside Patrick Cutter's six-bay garage. Walt wondered how that made Cutter feel as he bounded up the walkway like a kid arriving home from school.

   The Secret Service agent held the door for Walt. "Looks like Dryer called in the varsity," Walt said to Patrick Cutter.

   "There's been a credible threat," Cutter announced. It struck Walt as both odd and unfortunate that Patrick Cutter, no matter how many billions he was worth, should have such intelligence ahead of local law enforcement. With the Cutter Communications Conference—C
³
— less than twenty-four hours away, the proper chain of command would have been Dryer, Walt, and
then
O'Brien, who would tell Cutter; not the other way around.

   Cutter could read a man's face. "Don't worry, Walt, no one's pulling an end run on you. Dick O'Brien received the intel ahead of even Dryer."

   "That's not possible," Walt blurted out, without thinking.

   "That's the way it is," Cutter said. "We do
a lot
of business with the military. Believe me. Those are our satellites they're using, for Christ sakes." He winked: a mannerism Walt found intentionally offensive.

   They stood half in the house. A man with bad acne scars approached from the open kitchen. He was dressed like a preppie, wearing a white shirt, no tie, a blue blazer, blue jeans, and loafers. He offered his hand to Walt while still too far away for them to shake.

   "Adam Dryer," he said.

   "At last," Walt said. The man tried a little too hard with the handshake.

   "You guys have not met?" an astonished Patrick Cutter asked.

   "Not face-to-face," Dryer said, still shaking Walt's hand. "But if e-mail were any judge, we're practically married."

   "Mr. Cutter mentioned a credible threat," Walt said, getting free of the man's eager hand.

   "Did he?" Dryer asked, looking at Cutter disappointedly. "Have you met the AG?" Dryer stepped out of Walt's line of sight.

   Elizabeth Shaler was on the phone in the kitchen. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Walt, and she waved enthusiastically, then pointed to the phone and scrunched up her face into complaint. She wore a sleeveless white shirt with a simple string of pearls. The countertop blocked sight of the rest of her, but she hadn't added a pound. If anything, he thought she looked a little too thin and not a day older than when the two of them had been in this house together under much different circumstances.

   "I guess you have," Dryer said, seeing Shaler's reaction. He sounded almost jealous.

   "It's a small town," Walt said.

   "Or was," Cutter added, trying too hard to be friendly, "until people like me moved in. Right, Sheriff?"

   "Everybody, take a deep breath," Walt said. "Everything's fine. I want to hear about this threat. But first, I think I'm being summoned."

   In fact, Liz Shaler was waving him over to her and pointing down the hallway. She placed the phone down, gave Walt an affectionate hug, and said to Dryer, "I'm going to steal him for a minute."

   As she led him by the hand, Walt felt a pain in his gut just beneath the scar. Liz Shaler sensed this somehow and inquired, "Too familiar?"

   "I'm fine."

   "It's been too long," she said, closing the door of a small study behind him. "Oh my God, how good it is to see you!"

   She devoted her full attention to him. If it was an act, she was profoundly gifted.

   "And you, Mrs. Shaler."

   "Liz. Please. Are you kidding me? It's Walt, not Sheriff. Is that okay?"

   "I prefer it."

   "Really good to see you. So much has happened," she said. "Where to begin?"

   Walt felt she owed him none of this and was about to say so, but her energy silenced him.

   "I appreciated your note," she said. "About Charlie."

   "It was a tragedy. I wasn't even sure you'd see my note. That it would get through to you."

   "It did. You never met him, did you?"

   "No, ma'am."

   "But your note was very kind, as if you had. It meant a great deal to me. And stop it with the ma'am!"

   Walt fought back a smile. He said, "We stay in here too long and Dryer's going to have me vetted."

   "You would have liked him—Charlie. And he, you. He knew all about you—about your saving me."

   "Hardly."

   "Of course you did," she said. "Do you suppose Adam Dryer doesn't know?"

   "I would doubt it."

   "Isn't that strange? And should I tell him?"

   "Your decision entirely," he said.

   "You'd rather I didn't," she said. "I can see it in your eyes. Gosh, it's good to see you. Isn't it strange how something like that connects two people? I feel like . . . Well, I'm gushing. Forgive me."

   "It's an honor to be part of your security detail."

   "Oh . . . please. I loathe the Secret Service. Not the men themselves—they're just doing a job—but being watched and accounted for twenty-four/seven. It's absolutely oppressive."

   "We're going to have a tight net around you this weekend. I hope you're still speaking to me Monday."

   She grabbed both his hands in hers. "Monday, and the Monday af ter that, and every Monday forever, Walt. I can tell you're nonchalant about this, but I've never forgotten that night, and I never will."

   "May there never be another one," Walt said.

   "Amen to that."

   A knock on the door.

   "Probably another fund-raising call," she said.

   "So the rumors are true?" he asked.

   She bit back a smile. Her eyes were positively luminous. She smelled like a garden of lilacs. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

   She pulled open the door. There were five people jammed into the hallway, all vying for her attention.

   "Not exactly the same as running for county sheriff," he said over her shoulder, unsure if she'd heard him or not.

   He glanced up the hallway toward the bedroom. He remembered hearing the glass break, could still feel the grip of his weapon cool in his right hand as he slipped it from the holster. Could still feel the hot jolt as the knife entered him. He'd shot three men in the line of duty since that first time—had killed one of them. But nothing came close to this memory. And though he hadn't admitted it to her, he, too, felt a kindred bond with this woman unlike anything he had with anyone.

   She had heard him, for she turned over her shoulder and spoke to him, as if able to block out the five voices all speaking at once. "You didn't tell me about the divorce, and I'm going to honor that. But when you're ready, I'd like to hear about it. If you're okay with that."

   They moved as a group then, back down the hall until she let out an ear-piercing whistle without touching her lips. Walt had once had a baseball coach who could whistle like that. Her entourage shut up, and she was tall enough that when she rose onto her tiptoes she lifted above them. "I have a security meeting with Sheriff Fleming, Agent Dryer, and Patrick Cutter right now. It's confidential, and none of you are in vited. After that, I'm going fly-fishing for the afternoon. And after
that
I'm yours again. I ask you to respect my schedule, and for the time being to leave the house and take a break. Jenna, that means you, too. Okay . . . so go. Go!"

   The group of handlers dispersed immediately. A moment later it was just the Secret Service detail of four agents, including Dryer, and Patrick Cutter, and Walt. He noticed for the first time that some press was encamped across the street in front of the library, their dark lenses aimed like rifle scopes.

   "Let's get to it," Dryer said, clapping and rubbing his hands together.

   One of Dryer's men lowered and twisted the living room blinds shut, then left through the front door. Walt noticed another of the detail stood outside the kitchen door. The four of them took seats on a couch and a pair of art deco overstuffed chairs that had been a part of the house since the 1950s. A rectangular glass coffee table, covered in magazines and newspapers, sat as an island between them.

   As the four-way conversation began, Walt took a quick assessment: Dryer was efficient and down to business, as he'd learned to expect of the government man; Cutter seemed slightly aloof and impatient, a man with his eyes on the bigger picture; Walt's job seemed to be to play the paranoid local cop, but he resisted playing to the stereotype; for her part, Liz Shaler found it in her powers to give each person her full attention while scribbling out the occasional note to herself. Walt envisioned the discussion as a transcript written from the recording made by the digital pen that Patrick Cutter placed in the center of the coffee table with everyone's permission.

fleming:
So, a credible threat.

dryer:
A telecommunications intercept. Most likely the NSA, although we got it from the Bureau.

cutter:
Dick never tells me who we get this stuff from. But it's obviously for real.

dryer:
Very real. 

fleming:
Do we have a transcript?

dryer:
It's coming, which probably means we'll get it Tuesday or Wednesday, after the conference and Ms. Shaler's talk, Sunday morning, are long behind us. Government work.

fleming:
But credible.

dryer:
Mentions "AG" and a price of five hundred thousand dollars. 

shaler:
My stock has gone up. The first man to try to kill me was a volunteer.

cutter:
Dick feels it's of concern, certainly, but it was apparently stated vaguely enough that it could be for any date, now or well into the future.

fleming:
I take it means we make adjustments. Have we considered canceling the talk?