parking lot. The man ran well and showed no signs of slowing, having increased the gap between them. Beyond the lot loomed a field of white tents that Walt recognized as the Sun Valley Art Show. Closed for the night, the tents covered two acres and offered the suspect a place to get lost.
He disappeared there, Walt several long seconds behind.
Walt slowed to a walk, catching his breath, listening for the man. He was soaked through, his boots squishing with each step. The vendors had lowered the walls of the tents. He took his weapon back in his hand, aimed the flashlight tent to tent. Yanking back flaps and peering inside, he worked down the row. The man was here.
Walt leaned forward for the next tent, when a sharp snap of fabric turned him around in time to see the darkened figure take off and disappear around a corner. Walt cut through between tents, arriving in the adjacent aisle. He saw a tent jerk and wiggle as his quarry caught a foot on a rope.
Walt crashed through into the next aisle. He spotted the man to his right just rounding a corner. Walt took off at a sprint, hugging the same corner.
The other man jumped out and connected with Walt, shoving him and using his momentum to lift him off his feet. Walt was catapulted into a tent across the aisle, crashed into and through the front wall of canvas, and took out the legs of a portable table. He rolled, came to his feet, tripped over a horse saddle, and went down hard.
A harsh beam of light filled his eyes.
“Sheriff? That you? What the hell?” The voice belonged to a Sun Valley Company security man.
Out of breath, Walt coughed out, “A guy…running…” He pointed. “After him!”
The security man just stood there, confused. “What guy?”
Walt pushed past the man into the aisle. Empty.
“What guy?” the guard repeated.
“Where’d you come from?” Walt asked. “How could you not have seen him?”
“Didn’t see no one. Heard you crashing around over here. Came running.”
“Get on the radio. I don’t want any cars leaving the main lot. Anyone with wet hair gets detained.”
“Wet hair. Yes, sir.”
Walt took off toward the lodge. The hit man was here to kill Liz Shaler, he had no doubt now. Given the element of surprise, the man could have done far worse to him. Stabbed him. Broken his neck. Taken his gun. But he’d attempted none of these and instead of making him an amateur it marked him a pro: He’d done the minimum required to get cleanly away. Intentional or not, the man had delivered a message.
And whether Dryer chose to or not, Walt intended to listen.
FRIDAY
One
O ver the incessant din of the Weather Channel, Danny Cutter heard the telephone system’s unique ring tone that signaled an arrival at the front door of his brother’s compound. He continued on the elliptical as he used the television remote to view a fish-eye image of Ailia Holms, dressed in a two-color, gray, zippered shell, white iPod wires in her ears. She stared up toward what was supposed to be a hidden camera. She mouthed, “Hello…” Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, her cheeks red with the cool morning air.
Danny resentfully disembarked the trainer, punched a button on the phone, and told her, “Be right there.”
The gym occupied the upper floor of the swimming pool barn. He navigated his way back through the series of renovated barns to the front door—a two-minute, brisk walk.
A towel draped around his neck, he answered the door.
“Hey there,” Ailia said, stepping inside without invitation.
Danny eased the door shut.
“Sleep well?” She used her vixen voice, the voice of the woman who had seduced him the night before.
“He’s not here,” Danny said. “He’s up at the lodge. The rest of the guests all arrive before noon.”
She touched his cheek. “Hot and sweaty. Just how I left you last night.”
“You could try his cell.”
“I’m taking a run out Adam’s Gulch,” she explained. “You want to come
He disappeared there, Walt several long seconds behind.
Walt slowed to a walk, catching his breath, listening for the man. He was soaked through, his boots squishing with each step. The vendors had lowered the walls of the tents. He took his weapon back in his hand, aimed the flashlight tent to tent. Yanking back flaps and peering inside, he worked down the row. The man was here.
Walt leaned forward for the next tent, when a sharp snap of fabric turned him around in time to see the darkened figure take off and disappear around a corner. Walt cut through between tents, arriving in the adjacent aisle. He saw a tent jerk and wiggle as his quarry caught a foot on a rope.
Walt crashed through into the next aisle. He spotted the man to his right just rounding a corner. Walt took off at a sprint, hugging the same corner.
The other man jumped out and connected with Walt, shoving him and using his momentum to lift him off his feet. Walt was catapulted into a tent across the aisle, crashed into and through the front wall of canvas, and took out the legs of a portable table. He rolled, came to his feet, tripped over a horse saddle, and went down hard.
A harsh beam of light filled his eyes.
“Sheriff? That you? What the hell?” The voice belonged to a Sun Valley Company security man.
Out of breath, Walt coughed out, “A guy…running…” He pointed. “After him!”
The security man just stood there, confused. “What guy?”
Walt pushed past the man into the aisle. Empty.
“What guy?” the guard repeated.
“Where’d you come from?” Walt asked. “How could you not have seen him?”
“Didn’t see no one. Heard you crashing around over here. Came running.”
“Get on the radio. I don’t want any cars leaving the main lot. Anyone with wet hair gets detained.”
“Wet hair. Yes, sir.”
Walt took off toward the lodge. The hit man was here to kill Liz Shaler, he had no doubt now. Given the element of surprise, the man could have done far worse to him. Stabbed him. Broken his neck. Taken his gun. But he’d attempted none of these and instead of making him an amateur it marked him a pro: He’d done the minimum required to get cleanly away. Intentional or not, the man had delivered a message.
And whether Dryer chose to or not, Walt intended to listen.
FRIDAY
One
O ver the incessant din of the Weather Channel, Danny Cutter heard the telephone system’s unique ring tone that signaled an arrival at the front door of his brother’s compound. He continued on the elliptical as he used the television remote to view a fish-eye image of Ailia Holms, dressed in a two-color, gray, zippered shell, white iPod wires in her ears. She stared up toward what was supposed to be a hidden camera. She mouthed, “Hello…” Her hair was pulled back into a single ponytail, her cheeks red with the cool morning air.
Danny resentfully disembarked the trainer, punched a button on the phone, and told her, “Be right there.”
The gym occupied the upper floor of the swimming pool barn. He navigated his way back through the series of renovated barns to the front door—a two-minute, brisk walk.
A towel draped around his neck, he answered the door.
“Hey there,” Ailia said, stepping inside without invitation.
Danny eased the door shut.
“Sleep well?” She used her vixen voice, the voice of the woman who had seduced him the night before.
“He’s not here,” Danny said. “He’s up at the lodge. The rest of the guests all arrive before noon.”
She touched his cheek. “Hot and sweaty. Just how I left you last night.”
“You could try his cell.”
“I’m taking a run out Adam’s Gulch,” she explained. “You want to come
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