Nearly an hour earlier, at 12:30 A.M., Walt had hit a wall of fatigue while attempting to catch up on paperwork. Preparing to call it a night, he’d been organizing the Salt Lake photos when he saw one of the retail space’s torn-apart ceiling. Then he checked Shaler’s master schedule, grabbed his gun belt, and took off at a run.
Now, at nearly 1:30 A.M., driving north, he called O’Brien’s cell phone.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“I wish,” answered the security man.
Walt asked, “Did your guys check the banquet room after the workers got out of there?”
“You worry too much. I like that about you. We’ve got all day tomorrow. The first real event is the luau tomorrow night.”
“Shaler’s scheduled for a walk-through and sound check at 10 A.M., preregistration.”
He could practically hear O’Brien thinking.
“We need to sweep the room,” Walt announced. “I’m heading up there. I’m going to do a walk-through tonight.”
“Tonight? How ’bout first thing in the morning? We’ve got to move Patrick back into the residence. He dined in town following the party.”
Walt could hear O’Brien’s despair. Private security often amounted to little more than babysitting. He’d never envied his father his six-figure salary for this reason.
O’Brien offered to send two of his guys over to help Walt.
“I’m good. I’ve got patrols doing nothing this time of night.”
With O’Brien still making offers, Walt politely signed off and called Tom Brandon. Brandon was off duty. When he failed to reach him, Walt turned off into the Red Top trailer park. With so many of the trailers looking the same, he drove past Brandon’s on his first try. It wasn’t the trailer, but his wife’s car that stopped Walt on the second try: Gail’s minivan was parked in Brandon’s driveway. He slowed, then continued on, catching sight of the trailer in his rearview mirror. Dark. Locked up for the night.
He pulled to the corner, stopped, and threw his head against the steering wheel. He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart was doing a tumbling act. He squeezed out tears before he knew it, then leaned back and wiped his face on his sleeve. He kept checking the rearview mirror, the minivan and the trailer now quite small in the frame, hoping he’d gotten the wrong place, the wrong car. He drove around the block again, and this time checked the plates. Stopped at the same corner. Ached the same way.
He thought back to Brandon’s comment about running against him in the primary, and he saw it on a whole new level. His deputy was doing his ex-wife. Stealing the best thing in his life. Never mind that it had to end, it didn’t have to end like this, and for a brave moment Walt considered confronting them both.
Then he drove on, in a daze of confusion, a lump like a piece of coal rammed down his throat.
He did his best to control his voice and summoned his patrols over the radio. But a bear had been reported tearing up trash cans mid-valley and his two available 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.