Then it came to him: Dryer’s men and most of his deputies had been deployed to search the hospital, top to bottom.

He hoped he wasn’t too late.

Twenty-seven

T revalian had found his way into town on the most direct route available, and one he was quite certain the cops wouldn’t think to search or roadblock: the bike path. He’d stoved in the head of a deputy who stood guard outside the bottom of the hospital fire stairs, and had left him unconscious and stripped of his clothes, a sock down his throat, his hands cuffed behind him. He had the man’s cell phone and now wore his uniform, though the shoes were a size small and his feet were killing him. A wheelchair had gotten him most of the way into town along the bike path, while fifty yards to his right cop cars raced up and down the highway. He’d ditched the chair at the turn to the ski slopes. When the painkillers wore off, he was going to be in serious trouble.

From somewhere near the center of town, he called the memorized number and left a page when the recorded message told him to do so. He hoped he wasn’t too late. If a contract had gone out on him, it might not be rescinded.

He waited. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Finally the phone rang and he answered the call.

“Go ahead,” a male voice said.

“The engagement was broken off,” he said.

“So I heard. Most disappointing.”

“I had a little problem getting away from the church, but that’s behind me now. I’m free.”

“Free?”

“Yes. But my in-laws are never going to let me out of this town. I could use a place to stay.”

“That’s the problem with being single,” the man said. “You’ll think of something.”

“I need your help with this.”

“I’m afraid not. You failed to consummate the marriage.”

At that moment, a helicopter passed overhead. At first Trevalian had trouble hearing, and hoped the contact hadn’t hung up. But then, much to his surprise, the same sound of the helicopter was in his other ear: the ear pressed to the phone.

He scanned the sky and spotted the flashing red and white lights as it flew to the far end of town. It hovered and then landed halfway up Knob Hill. It looked to be a private home the size of a country club.

In the phone he heard nothing. The call had disconnected.

A moment later it rang again and he answered. There was no sound of the helicopter in the receiver, and he wondered if he’d actually heard it coming from the phone, or not.

“The bride is still in town,” the voice said. “Her father’s place. Try to work things out with her. If you’re successful, contact me again. I’ll see what I can do to assist you.”

Trevalian hung up wondering if he could walk any farther.

Twenty-eight

W alt reached the emergency room at a run. A Secret Service agent guarded the door.

“Dryer?” Walt asked, not slowing.

“Special Agent in Charge Dryer is in the Command Center.”

“Tell him it’s Shaler. He’s going for Shaler.”

“I’m not your message boy!” the agent shouted after him.

Walt jumped into the Cherokee-and sped away. Five minutes later he was negotiating the streets of Ketchum. He parked uphill a block from Shaler’s house, pulled the shotgun from the dashboard, and double-checked its load. He realized too late that his protective vest had come back from cleaning and was still in his office.

The crickets chimed. A dog barked in the distance. The smell of wood smoke lingered in the air. He moved stealthily in shadow, avoiding the streetlight, quickly closing the distance to Shaler’s house. This was the identical route he’d ridden as a pedal patrolman eight years earlier, and for some reason he thought of his brother and how much he missed him. He snuck down a driveway and past a neighbor’s house. He slipped over a rail fence that bordered Shaler’s driveway, his heart tight, his breath short.

Procedures called for him to wait for backup: Dryer’s men couldn’t be far behind. His earpiece carried the monotonous prattle of his dispatcher’s voice. He needed silence. So he called in his location and went off-air.

He approached Shaler’s kitchen door stealthily but not wanting Dryer’s sentries to mistake him for an intruder. He paused and studied the layout, looking carefully for signs of the agent guarding the back door.

No one.

Adding to his confusion, the interior lights were out. This went against protocol. The place should have been lit like a Christmas tree. He carefully made his way to the back door. His shoe hit something slippery right as his nose picked up the metallic smell of blood.

He one-handed the shotgun and checked the shrubbery with his Maglite. Twin soles faced him. The agent had been clobbered. His head was bleeding-a good sign. He was out cold.

Walt moved quietly through the door and into the kitchen. The all too familiar hallway stretched before him.

Trevalian would have taken the agent’s gun. No vest, he reminded himself.

He crept down the hallway, the flashlight off but held beneath the shotgun.

The first door hung open: a small bedroom. Empty. The study door, to the right, also open. The room empty.

His eye caught a glint on the carpet. He reached down and touched it: sticky. Blood. It could have been an agent’s, or Shaler’s, but something told him Trevalian’s stitches had popped. He worked down the hallway, passed a bathroom and a linen closet.

One door remained: Shaler’s bedroom. Consumed by his memory of eight years earlier, his courage waned as his scar pulsed with pain.

He twisted the head of the flashlight, kicked open the door, and stood to the side, expecting a shot.

Then, an enormous crash of glass. Someone-something-going out a window. He dove into the bedroom, the shotgun pressed tightly against his shoulder. Looked left…right. Clear. Belly-crawled to the louvered doors of the closet. Clear.

Walt got to his knees. Shaler lay in the bed, absolutely still. But then the flashlight caught her: It wasn’t Shaler but a mannequin.

A safe room? A panic room?

He kicked some errant glass from the broken window and climbed outside.

A man in uniform-a sheriff’s deputy-was well up the hill, keeping to shadow. He dragged a leg behind him.

Walt heard sirens approaching.

“Halt!” Walt yelled out at the top of his lungs.

Trevalian ducked into shadow.

Police cruisers and sheriff’s vehicles slid around both street corners nearly simultaneously-behind Walt and in front of him. They stood off, aware of the limited range of the shotgun. Their overhead racks threw off colors as two searchlights were aimed onto Walt from opposite directions-each blinding the other car and leaving Walt a fuzzy, glowing image between them.

Walt was no longer wearing his uniform shirt, and the word was out that a sheriff’s uniform had been stolen.

“Hands in the air!” a megaphone voice called out.

Walt dropped the shotgun, shouting, “It’s me!” He turned to face his own sheriff’s vehicle.

“Stand down!” Brandon ’s voice called out to the Ketchum police car. “It’s Sheriff Fleming!”

Amplified shouting back and forth, with Walt caught in the middle. He knew the quickest way to resolve this was to lie down on the asphalt until the Ketchum cop got it right.

Doing so now, Walt peered into the shadows, wondering if they’d lost Trevalian. Again.