Killer Summer by Ridley Pearson Page A

negative. A pattern of shadows moved in unison—deer or elk on the run—then vanished, absorbed by forest.
    Fiona struggled for words to convey her awe, or at least her appreciation, without sounding stupid or overly spiritual. But failing to find any, she raised her camera and recorded the moment instead.
    The glider rose. As her insides pressed through her feet and out through the floor, she rested the camera on her chest and shut her eyes, holding on to the cold frame of the seat for a sense of security.
    “Holy shit!” she said.
    Walt lifted the glider higher in ever-widening circles. It gained over a thousand feet in a matter of minutes.
    “One more pass,” Walt warned. “I saw some shapes in the willows below those mine tailings.”
    She collected herself and pressed the TALK button. “Shapes?”
    “Might be tents or something.”
    “I’ll make pictures.”
    The glider dove. Even the headphones’ noise-cancellation feature couldn’t hold back the roar. She ran off a series of pictures.
    The glider began its lazy climb.
    “There!” he said. “Two o’clock!”
    She aimed and saw the dark shapes, zoomed in.
    Click. Click.
    Fiona listened as Walt contacted the airport tower and asked for a message to be relayed to his dispatcher. He requested a patrol explore the area.
    When Walt was off air, Fiona pushed the button and spoke.
    “I got a pretty good look at those shapes. Smaller than tents.”
    “ATVs?” he asked.
    “Why not?”
    “Parasailors,” he said, pointing through the canopy. “Off the ski mountain.”
    Three colorful parachutes—red, green, and blue—hung in the air, with their ribbed foils bulging, just below the top of the Sun Valley ski mountain, the silk caught in the glare of the morning sun. They were too far away for her to see the nylon cords, the jumpers appearing to float beneath their chutes.
    “Beautiful,” she said.
    He steered the plane north, flying directly above the parasailors, and she took more photographs. To the east, the butterfly-winged canvas roof of Sun Valley’s new outdoor amphitheater caught her eye, and, nearby, the enormous white tent that would shelter the wine auction later that evening.
    She thought he might overfly this venue as well, but instead he looped south and soon returned to the airport. In a matter of minutes, they were on the ramp near the hangars.
    “You’re good at your job. You know that?” she said.
    “I’m a hack,” he said.
    “Why do you do that?” she asked, shaking her hair out. “Why can’t you accept a compliment?”
    “My father makes a point of it when the Express covers my men chasing a bear out of a backyard or arresting a man for riding a lawn mower down Main Street. You say I’m good at it, and I want to agree, believe me. There’s a jazz standard called ‘Compared to What?’ You hold my job up against even a rookie cop in Los Angeles or New York and it looks like I’m sleepwalking.”
    “But we’re not in New York. And I meant it as a compliment.” She paused.
    “Okay. So, thank you.”
    He was dancing on ice. It made her uncomfortable.
    “I’ll e-mail you the pictures,” she said. She could sense his impatience to get going.
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    “Don’t hide from me,” she said.
    Walt looked at Fiona curiously, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. Again.
    “I’ve known you for, what, two years? I barely know you.”
    “You know me better than most,” he said.
    “Then that’s a shame.”
    “What are you looking for?” he asked.
    “I plead the Fifth, Sheriff.”
    He fought back a grin.
    “I need to hangar the glider,” he said.
    “I’ll help you.”
    “It’s light. One person can do it.”
    “Consider this: maybe it’s easier with two. You think that’s possible?”
    Their eyes met.
    “I’d appreciate the help,” he said.
    “That’s better,” she said, moving behind the wing and awaiting instructions.

23

    A s Walt left the hangar, he heard a radio code spoken over his