“Shit!” he exclaimed, his voice dampened. “Looks like a panel over the bathroom goes up into a crawl space or something.” He jumped down and repeated the procedure from the countertop in the bathroom. He broke away several of the flimsily hung ceiling tiles, stretched onto his toes. “Affirmative. There’s egress here.” He ducked out of the ceiling and looked down. “He could be fucking anywhere by now.”

Twenty-four

W alt had spent the last hour in the Mobile Command Center writing up a summary of events. His eyes strayed to a seating chart thumbtacked to a corkboard.

It was a large sheet, showing tables and seating arrangements for the Shaler brunch. Of all the seats, one was marked with an X.

Dryer felt his presence. “What?”

“That’s the seating plan for Liz Shaler’s talk,” Walt suggested.

“Yes it is,” Dryer agreed.

“Why the X on Stuart Holms?” Walt asked.

“We were reaching. On the off chance the contract on the AG came from someone attending the conference, we looked at who failed to attend. His was the only empty seat.”

“And the initials by his name?” Walt asked. “Explain it to me.”

“Exactly what it says: meal preference. Do you want a regular meal, vegetarian meal, do you have your own personal chef, are you allergic to wheat…You know how these people are.”

Walt referred to his notebook and flipped back through the pages. He asked, “And what’s that date printed down there by the file name? Bottom of the sheet?”

Dryer leaned closer. “Six-six. June sixth. What is it, Sheriff?”

“Stuart Holms uses a personal chef. Name of Raphael,” he said, consulting his notebook. “Won’t eat a bite if it’s not prepared by Raphael. He’s fanatic about it.”

“Well, that’s Stuart Holms’s seat, and he’s down for a regular meal. What’s it matter? I think you need some rest.”

“What it means, I think, is that six weeks ago-on June sixth-Holms already knew he wouldn’t be attending Liz Shaler’s talk.”

“And so, why bother with meal preference if he’s not going to be there?”

Walt nodded. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Dryer did a double-take, first looking at the seating plan, then back at Walt. His brow creased, tightening his eyes. “Naa…” But he didn’t sound as convinced as a minute earlier.

A knock on the coach’s door was followed by the big head of Dick O’Brien. “Sheriff, you got a minute?”

Twenty-five

W alt climbed out of the Mobile Command Center wearing a fresh black T-shirt that read SEARCH AND RESCUE on the back.

O’Brien apparently never stopped sweating.

“Hey there,” O’Brien said.

“Hey there, yourself,” Walt answered.

“How is he-your dad, I mean?”

“Came through the operation with flying colors.”

“Good to hear.”

“Yes, it is,” Walt said.

“My guy…who shot him…It was meant for you: the gun and all.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I just mean he was doing his job. If you can go easy on him…”

“We could make a trade, you and I,” Walt proposed.

“Could we?”

“Must have steamed him, her taking to his brother all over again.”

“Don’t go there, Walt.”

“Jealousy is a powerful motivator. A man like Patrick gets anything he wants, right? But when your rival turns out to be your own brother, what then?”

“This is a big mistake.”

“Was a big mistake. His mistake,” Walt said. “You helped me. On the bridge. Why’d you do that?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s say your boss killed her-some kind of accident. Lost his temper. But who took her down there and put her in that cage? Who did that to her? Who was it carried her up the Hill Trail and dumped her?” He studied O’Brien, who seemed to be sweating more profusely. “It was his trying to implicate Danny that pushed you over the top, wasn’t it? Danny was a good fit for it, and you knew that’s how I’d see it. That Danny would go down for it.”

O’Brien remained tight-lipped.

“You must have also known there wouldn’t be near enough evidence to prove any of this-it would come down to a jury trial. And if Danny went down for it, he’d go down and that would be that.”

“I wish I had the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“The thing I don’t get is the workout clothes. She’d already run that day. She wouldn’t have gone running again. So you-or someone else-had to get her into running clothes. It had to be running clothes to sell that she’d been out Adam’s Gulch. But where’d they come from, those running clothes? Did she keep some clothes at Patrick’s? Was that it? Something she could jump into if his wife came home early? I don’t get the clothes.”

“I’m glad your dad is doing better.” He turned to break off the conversation, then turned back again. “I’ve been within an arm’s reach of Patrick for four solid days, Walt. That’s the God’s truth.”

“You give me Cutter, and any of your guys involved in the cover-up will walk.”

Brandon ’s frantic voice called out a series of codes over the radio.

Walt went running right past O’Brien, clutching his gun belt to keep it from slapping, wishing he’d had more time to see if the man had been ready to make a deal.

Twenty-six

W alt paced Trevalian’s empty room, Brandon standing in the doorway, watching. He checked the windows-all fixed glass, none broken. He wandered into and then back out of the bathroom. He approached the closet and slid open the doors. Walt had only glanced in there the first time. Now he returned for a more thorough look. They’d been searching the grounds for the past hour, with no sign of the suspect.

“There’s a ceiling hatch leads up into the joists,” Brandon said, breaking the silence. “Up over the bathroom. Three of the rooms on this floor have similar access.”

“Climbing with that knee of his. You think?” Walt said.

He squatted and looked beneath the raised bed. He turned over a pillow, then another. He lifted the bedding and peered under the sheets. “This guy is seriously wounded, and he’s clever. If we’re thinking he climbed out through the roof, then you can bet he didn’t.”

He touched another pillow, then spun around sharply on his heels, facing the closet again. “You went through all this?” he asked, indicating the closet.

Brandon answered, “There’s nothing in there, unless he’s hiding in a drawer.”

Walt reached up into the closet and pulled out the pillows. As he did so, he said, “Did you happen to notice that three of the pillows on the bed-the ones that were under his knee-were stripped of their pillowcases? Do you pay attention to anything other than the nurses?”

Brandon fumed but knew better than to answer.

Walt opened the end of one of the pillowcases taken from the closet, then looked up disapprovingly at Brandon and shook its contents onto the floor, discovering big chunks of foam and fabric. A section of a zipper. He hurried now and shook out the other pillowcase as well, spilling out similar contents. “Help me out,” Walt said, spinning back around and lowering the hospital bed’s side rail. The two dragged the mattress off the bed and flipped it over, upside down, onto the floor.

The bottom of the mattress had been cut away with something sharp into a human form-head, shoulders, legs, arms. Three sections of clear tubing had fallen to the floor.

“He was in the room all along,” Walt said, “faceup, under the mattress. Breathing tubes,” he said, picking them up. “In here the whole time we were out there looking for him.” Furious at him now, Walt shouted, “One officer always protects the crime scene! Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

He stormed out of the room, already putting himself into the contrarian mind of Trevalian. Where would he go? How could he hope to escape the valley? Was there someone helping him?