Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson

cars had responded. He headed to Sun Valley, alone and afraid in a way he'd not felt. His father's sarcastic sting about the nature of crime in the valley—his job—echoed uncomfortably in his mind. Gail had moved on. It was all but unthinkable—but think about it he did.
       He checked in at the inn's front desk, not wanting Sun Valley security mistaking him for a prowler.
       The Bavarian woman behind the desk said no one was to enter the banquet rooms until morning.
       He touched his sheriff 's badge, pinned to his uniform. "I'm not asking. I'm just letting you know I'm here. If you'd like, I'd be happy to wake Larry Raffles." Walt pulled out his cell. Raffles managed the resort.
       She declined, though a little frostily, dangled a set of keys, and led Walt down a walnut-paneled corridor. She unlocked a set of doors for him and accompanied him inside. A geometric shape of light flooded across lavishly decorated tables and . . . sand.
       The young woman found some lights. Enough to navigate.
       "I'll make sure it's locked when I leave. And I'll stop by the desk, so you know I've left." He thanked her. The door clunked shut behind her.
       The room was shaped like a shoebox, with Walt in the center of one of the long sides. He faced the elevated riser from where Liz Shaler would give her talk. It currently held six potted palm trees. Gift boxes sat at each place setting. Envy nibbled at Walt—that Cutter, or anyone, should have this kind of disposable income.
       He dragged his feet through the thick sand wishing he could take his boots off. He reached the riser, knee height and rimmed with a navy blue skirt.
       Through his grief, frustration, and fatigue, something tugged at him. He'd come to respect such sensations. He stood absolutely still, blood thumping past his ears, his throat dry. Wishing for more light, he spotted a bank of dimmer switches forty feet away. Almost automatically, he unsnapped his holster, felt the cool of its gnarled grip. Moved silently, sweat breaking out all over him.
       The bank of light switches was too far. He felt drawn to his right, and he followed his instinct.
       His boots moved absolutely silently in the sand. He passed one table after another, looking left, right, ahead, and behind.
       The tablecloths cascaded down to seat height, screening the area beneath the tables, leaving fifty hiding places to search.
       His radio, clipped to his waist, spit with static. "Sheriff, what's your twenty?"
       A blur to his right. A man's form raced for an exit, slammed a door open, and vanished before Walt got a decent look at him.
       Running now, Walt reached for his radio's handset and called out the code for a suspicious person, "Ten-one-oh-seven. In pursuit on foot. Sun Valley Inn. Request backup." His belt snagged a tablecloth and dragged it off to the sound of exploding wineglasses.
       He burst into a service hallway that was pitch black. He reached down and silenced his radio.
       Took two steps forward. Smashed into a food dolly, tripped, and went down on one knee. Jumped to his feet, his eyes stinging to pierce the dark. The suspect had disappeared.

Twenty-nine

    T revalian, hidden behind a meal cart, kept his back to the wall.
    He knew the quickest way out: the service hallway to the load
          ing platform. He knew he'd be exposed for several seconds if he ran. But a moving target, at least. The sheriff was less than ten feet away—unmoving, barely breathing. More professional, more careful than he'd have thought.
       With his back literally against the wall, he once again calculated the time and distance to the end of the hall. He walked himself through the sharp left turn to the loading dock. He had no desire for confrontation. Only escape.
       He hesitated only briefly. Then he shoved the food cart and ran.

Thirty

    W alt drew his weapon as the cart smashed into the wall. He didn't remember grabbing his