“Sheriff Fleming?”

“Speaking.”

“Hold for Congressman McMillian, please.”

The line clicked.

“Sheriff?”

“Congressman?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, sir.”

“I was speaking with George Carliner and your name came up.”

“If this is about my suggestion we drop party affiliation as a requirement for-”

“It’s not,” the congressman interrupted.

“I told the attorney general it was an idea still in its infancy,” Walt said.

“Nothing to do with that. Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it another time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m calling about the National Law Enforcement Conference here in Washington next week. I don’t know if you’ve heard but Mel Tooley has had to withdraw at the last minute.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“His wife, I think. Something medical.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Walt liked Tooley, who was sheriff of Ada County, one of the fastest-growing counties in the nation.

“George and I were discussing a replacement. You’ve headed the Western Regional Sheriff’s Association, as I understand it. You held two terms as president, and you gained high-profile status in that fine work you did involving Vice President Shaler.”

“She hadn’t been elected at the time, Congressman. She was a candidate. And I really didn’t-”

McMillian cut him off again. “The point is that George has recommended you to replace Mel Tooley at the conference. To represent the state for us. I wish I were asking here, Walt-may I call you Walt?-but I’m not. The state needs you. I need you. The federal government is at the start of a major reorganization of everything, from communication to hardware assets for state law enforcement. A lot of us want them to keep their hands off. We need you there. You’re respected. You’re recognizable, and George and I think others will listen to you. I’d like you out here by Friday. My people will work through the talking points with you, and you’ll come out to our home in Bethesda for some meetings over the weekend. You’ll hit the ground running Monday morning on the Hill.”

His head was spinning. To be seen on the national stage was certain to open job opportunities. It was just the kind of appointment he could see his father arranging for him. Elizabeth Shaler, now the vice president, had told him she could use him in Washington; he wondered if this appointment had anything to do with her. He wondered if Mel Tooley’s wife was actually ill or if Mel had been asked to step aside so that Walt could be offered the appointment. Wheels within wheels.

“Can I think about it, sir?”

“Hell, no. You can pack your bag, and you can thank me later. One of my guys will be in touch shortly to iron out your itinerary. The state picks up the bill for everything, Sheriff. Make the necessary arrangements on your end. You’ll hear back from us by the end of the day.” The line went dead.

“Good news?” McClure asked.

Walt stared back at him, dumbfounded.

“Unexpected,” Walt answered honestly. Unexpected and slightly unbelievable, he thought. In spite of his accomplishments on a state and regional level, there were at least a half-dozen more-senior sheriffs in line for such perks. Whether Mel had dropped out or not, the chiefs of Boise, Pocatello, Coeur d’Alene, and Moscow would typically have been considered first. Should have been considered first. Someone had gotten to the congressman and had convinced him to put Walt’s name in ahead of others.

One thing seemed certain: it had been carefully orchestrated. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he couldn’t attend the conference. Worse, he saw no easy way out of it.

McClure prescribed iodine tablets and wanted a follow-up exam in two weeks.

Walt thanked him and headed out to the parking lot. He called Nancy from the Cherokee and asked for a list of all financial supporters of both his opponent and Congressman McMillian.

“I was just calling you,” Nancy said. “The lab called back almost immediately. The sample in the broken test tube-”

“It came back positive for radiation,” Walt declared, as if he’d received the call himself.

“What’s going on?”

“Mark Aker left me crumbs to follow and I almost missed it. A test tube of water, instead of just writing me a message. Why, I’m not sure. Left it on my back porch. Someone stepped on it the other night and I heard them and found it. I don’t know who. But now I get the message: its contaminated water-radioactive water. And I know someone who can clear this up for me.”

33

AS THE SHUTTLE ESCALADE ARRIVED AT ROGER HILLABRAND’S electronically controlled gate, Fiona Kenshaw checked her face once more in the Subaru’s rearview mirror. She saw the face of a traitor. She’d felt compelled to accept Hillabrand’s invitation to lunch, despite her better judgment. She’d changed clothes three times before settling on blue jeans, a tailored cranberry shirt that offset her dark hair and eyes, and a black boatneck sweater. Over it all, she wore a sheepskin coat that was her most prized, and most expensive, garment. The attention to her clothing informed her of her desire to impress him, which only served to further undermine her disposition. As she climbed out of the Subaru and headed across the squeaky snow to the black Escalade, she didn’t like herself very much.

The driver’s-side door opened and Sean Lunn climbed out, though begrudgingly. She moved quickly to avoid him opening the door for her. There were times such gallantry was a compliment and other times it felt demeaning. Lunn was not doing this out of respect but because his job required it of him. Fiona took exception, hurrying now.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

Lunn didn’t put up any fuss, immediately returning to his place behind the wheel.

The SUV stood high off the ground; she looked down to find the step rail. What she saw there knocked the wind out of her: mud. A grayish brown mud.

She wondered if she hesitated too long, how much of her reaction Sean Lunn caught. Had there been a recent thaw, had the road they now traveled up to the mountaintop estate been rutted, she might have quickly written this off. But neither of those was the case. More important was the mud’s distinctive color.

He was speaking. Talking to her. Saying something. She wasn’t listening, her thoughts locked on that mud. It was the same color mud they’d found on the dress shoes of the rape victim, Kira Tulivich-a sickly, unnatural gray. There was no mistaking it. She had a photographer’s eye. She knew color the way a painter did. It might not be the same mud. But what if it was?

“… do you think?” he said, finishing a sentence.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind.”

“No, please.”

“It was nothing. Weather talk. I was wondering if it’ll warm again or if we’re in for a very early winter.”

“Looks like winter to me,” she said.

“Am I driving too fast?” he said, noticing her expression-a mixture of shock and contemplation-and easing back on the accelerator. The private drive twisted and wound its way steeply up the mountain. Lunn knew it well enough to drive fast. Some of the turns were indeed terrifying, though her mind was elsewhere.

“No… no. I’m fine.”

He kept the speed steady. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but this- your being asked up to lunch-is not normal. In case you’re wondering. I can’t name the last time Mr. Hillabrand had a woman up to the house for lunch.”

“Do I look that nervous?” she asked.

“Preoccupied, is how I’d put it.”

“It’s a little unusual,” she said. “His home instead of a restaurant.” But Lunn had read her correctly; her mind was on the mud and where and how the Escalade had picked it up.

“When he dines in town, he’s constantly interrupted. He knows everybody and everybody knows him. Besides, he loves showing off his place. You want to score points with him, compliment him on the house.”