as he pleased, under the guise of either identity.
Trevalian pulled a cold beer from the minibar and cracked it open. He worked the television remote, disappointed the lodge did not offer adult in-room movies, and flipped to CNN.
Both the dog and the missing backpack were problems requiring solutions. But he’d established the two identities; he had the connecting rooms.
Calling from the Meisner room, Trevalian arranged for a rental car through the weekend.
He had errands to run in Ketchum.
He had a bomb to build.
Fifteen
I n the middle of arranging for barricades to help control the expected protests from First Rights, Walt was alerted by Tommy Brandon of an unexpected complication.
“You’re not going to like this, Sheriff,” Brandon began. He’d elected to call Walt on his office phone, rather than relay any message through dispatch, telegraphing that secrecy was an issue. “But I went back onto the Taylor Crabtree surveillance after the airport, and I just followed him to one seventy-two Northridge. That’s Myra’s place, right?”
Walt relived his sister-in-law’s earlier intrusion into his office and her pushing him to do something about her wayward teenage son, Kevin.
“Yeah,” Walt said.
“So…what do want me to do?” Brandon asked.
Taylor Crabtree was a sixteen-year-old JD suspected of drug trafficking in meth and selling to minors like himself. He’d flunked out of Wood River High, had been given a second chance in the Silver Creek Alternative School, and had been tossed after three strikes on drug use. For the past two weeks Walt’s deputies had kept him under nearly round-the-clock surveillance. And now he’d walked in to visit Walt’s nephew.
“Take a coffee break,” Walt said. “I’ll look into it.”
“Roger that,” Brandon said. “I’m on the cell, if you want me to pick the surveillance back up.”
“I’ll call. And thanks, Tommy.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Brandon said, “I went on the break a half hour ago. None of this goes into my report until and unless you say so.”
“Appreciate it.” Walt disconnected the call, knowing he wouldn’t condone cooking a report to favor his nephew. But if he could get a read on the situation, or break it up ahead of anything illegal, then maybe he’d spare Myra and Kevin another family disaster.
He pulled into Myra’s driveway and opened the car door to a blast of dry heat. He shut it loudly, making a point of announcing his arrival, and then used a sliding glass window in the next-door neighbor’s house like a mirror to watch the back of Myra’s house. He’d been fifteen once himself.
Two kids spilled out the back door like the place was on fire.
Walt took off after them: down the driveway, around the corner, past the vegetable garden and the disused swing set. He vaulted the low post-and-rail fence into a neighbor’s backyard just in time to catch one of the two escapees in profile.
“Eric!” he shouted in his best sheriff’s voice.
Two women looked up from their flower beds across the street. Walt shouted a second time.
The boy stopped.
Walt was angry with the kid for causing him to sweat through his uniform. “What the hell, Eric?”
“Kevin said we could.”
“Could what?”
“Could be there. At the house.” The boy was more out of breath than Walt. “Kevin said it was okay.”
“Kevin works Thursdays,” Walt said, testing.
“He just got back from Cristina’s. I swear we’ve been in there maybe ten minutes.”
Walt knew it was more like thirty. Kids. “We?”
The boy hesitated.
“I can check all this out,” Walt said. He looked the boy over, considered asking him to turn his pockets out. But he was afraid of what he might find. “Who was the other boy?” he asked instead, already knowing damn well. “And before you answer, remember that lying to a sheriff is a bad idea.”
Eric lowered his eyes. “Crab,” he said after a moment.
“Taylor Crabtree?” Walt paused.
Trevalian pulled a cold beer from the minibar and cracked it open. He worked the television remote, disappointed the lodge did not offer adult in-room movies, and flipped to CNN.
Both the dog and the missing backpack were problems requiring solutions. But he’d established the two identities; he had the connecting rooms.
Calling from the Meisner room, Trevalian arranged for a rental car through the weekend.
He had errands to run in Ketchum.
He had a bomb to build.
Fifteen
I n the middle of arranging for barricades to help control the expected protests from First Rights, Walt was alerted by Tommy Brandon of an unexpected complication.
“You’re not going to like this, Sheriff,” Brandon began. He’d elected to call Walt on his office phone, rather than relay any message through dispatch, telegraphing that secrecy was an issue. “But I went back onto the Taylor Crabtree surveillance after the airport, and I just followed him to one seventy-two Northridge. That’s Myra’s place, right?”
Walt relived his sister-in-law’s earlier intrusion into his office and her pushing him to do something about her wayward teenage son, Kevin.
“Yeah,” Walt said.
“So…what do want me to do?” Brandon asked.
Taylor Crabtree was a sixteen-year-old JD suspected of drug trafficking in meth and selling to minors like himself. He’d flunked out of Wood River High, had been given a second chance in the Silver Creek Alternative School, and had been tossed after three strikes on drug use. For the past two weeks Walt’s deputies had kept him under nearly round-the-clock surveillance. And now he’d walked in to visit Walt’s nephew.
“Take a coffee break,” Walt said. “I’ll look into it.”
“Roger that,” Brandon said. “I’m on the cell, if you want me to pick the surveillance back up.”
“I’ll call. And thanks, Tommy.”
“Far as I’m concerned,” Brandon said, “I went on the break a half hour ago. None of this goes into my report until and unless you say so.”
“Appreciate it.” Walt disconnected the call, knowing he wouldn’t condone cooking a report to favor his nephew. But if he could get a read on the situation, or break it up ahead of anything illegal, then maybe he’d spare Myra and Kevin another family disaster.
He pulled into Myra’s driveway and opened the car door to a blast of dry heat. He shut it loudly, making a point of announcing his arrival, and then used a sliding glass window in the next-door neighbor’s house like a mirror to watch the back of Myra’s house. He’d been fifteen once himself.
Two kids spilled out the back door like the place was on fire.
Walt took off after them: down the driveway, around the corner, past the vegetable garden and the disused swing set. He vaulted the low post-and-rail fence into a neighbor’s backyard just in time to catch one of the two escapees in profile.
“Eric!” he shouted in his best sheriff’s voice.
Two women looked up from their flower beds across the street. Walt shouted a second time.
The boy stopped.
Walt was angry with the kid for causing him to sweat through his uniform. “What the hell, Eric?”
“Kevin said we could.”
“Could what?”
“Could be there. At the house.” The boy was more out of breath than Walt. “Kevin said it was okay.”
“Kevin works Thursdays,” Walt said, testing.
“He just got back from Cristina’s. I swear we’ve been in there maybe ten minutes.”
Walt knew it was more like thirty. Kids. “We?”
The boy hesitated.
“I can check all this out,” Walt said. He looked the boy over, considered asking him to turn his pockets out. But he was afraid of what he might find. “Who was the other boy?” he asked instead, already knowing damn well. “And before you answer, remember that lying to a sheriff is a bad idea.”
Eric lowered his eyes. “Crab,” he said after a moment.
“Taylor Crabtree?” Walt paused.
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