“We need to talk,” Remy said.
“Anytime.”
“Give me a minute.”
A crowd was gathering. Remy turned and raised his voice so they could hear him.
“An historic evening! A piece of history will end up in a private collection. It’s not every day that happens.”
Walt stepped back. Remy was surrounded at once. Condolences over his knee mixed with questions about his discovery of the bottles. He caught Walt’s eye briefly, but if he intended to convey anything it was lost on Walt, whose attention was galvanized by a woman just then entering the tent.
Fiona hurried toward him.
“Wow!” Walt said, eyeing her.
“I know what it is,” she said breathlessly.
Her present state-flushed and panting-excited him.
“What what is?” he asked.
“Sawtooth Wood Products… the kid getting zapped.”
He drew her away from the display tables.
“What about it?” he said.
“Pick-up sticks. The kids, at Michael and Leslie’s, were playing pick-up sticks. The people doing this-the thieves-they’re going to use the logs to block a road. They were after one of the logging trucks. You spill one of those logging trucks… you dump logs on the road…”
“It would stop traffic for hours,” he muttered, realizing she’d seized upon the escape plan.
He grabbed for his radio but dropped it, pulling Fiona close to him and throwing her to the ground beneath him, as the walls of the tent briefly flared yellow and an explosion ripped through the cocktail party’s peaceful chatter.
There were screams, and immediate panic, but no more explosions. Walt rolled off Fiona and sprang to his feet.
It had begun.
35
In one ear Walt heard the calm voice of the MC dispatcher report the explosion. “To all units in the vicinity of the Sun Valley Golf pro shop…” her report began. She was broadcasting a 10-80, the radio code for an explosion, over the secure frequency monitored by the valley’s police departments and all on-duty sheriff’s deputies.
Walt immediately returned over the same frequency. “Code nine,” he said, ordering the roadblocks established. “All units outside a half-mile radius, hold your current positions.”
Three months earlier, there had been a shooting in downtown Ketchum. In and of itself, that was a rare event but not unheard of. It being a slow night in the valley, what made things interesting was that every patrol from Bellevue to the North Shore responded, seventeen police officers and five sheriff’s deputies in all. Walt could see it happening again, despite a review board organized by him, following a front-page article in the newspaper ridiculing local law enforcement for overreacting.
Fiona’s theory about spilling logs on the highway entered his decision making. What if the thieves had read that same newspaper? What if they expected and were trying to orchestrate the same overreaction?
Within seconds, he heard a siren approaching. Then another. And another.
While four of his deputies hurried toward the fire in the golf shop, Walt and Brandon secured the Adams bottles in the attaché and made for the Cherokee, parked alongside the tent.
Emergencies instilled a certain calmness in Walt. His hearing was heightened. He saw things more clearly. He loved this shit.
Guests had scattered. Some had hit the deck like he had, others had fled to their cars. Still others had been rescued by their own bodyguards. But as the confusion settled down, so did the remaining crowd, and surprisingly quickly. Wineglasses were refilled. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves again.
Fiona was by the tent entrance, camera in hand, getting shots of the distant fire.
Another siren, and yet another. It quickly became apparent that, once again, the action-starved police were turning out in droves.
Now behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Walt called his own deputy, who served as the Bellevue marshal, to ask him to recheck the lumberyard for logging trucks.
“There should be two of them,” he told the man.
“Got it.”
“What’s that about?” Brandon said from the passenger’s seat, the attaché in hand.
Walt quickly explained Fiona’s theory, tying it to all the sirens and responding fire trucks and patrol cars.
“So they’re shutting down the highway?”
“Makes for an easier getaway.”
“But they don’t have the wine,” Brandon said, patting the case.
“Not yet, they don’t,” Walt said.
He drove off, negotiating all the well-dressed people gawking at the fire.
“If they didn’t get the rig from Sawtooth, that hardly matters. There are plenty of logging trucks around. All that work on the ski mountain…”
“True enough,” Walt said. “First, we get these bottles back into the bank.”
“Why didn’t they rush the party?” Brandon asked. “Why blow that golf cart and then not rush the party?”
“Yeah, I know, that’s bugging me too.”
They passed five patrol cars-two from Hailey, three from Ketchum-heading toward the fire.
“We screwed this up… again,” Walt said. “That’s probably half our resources heading the wrong direction.”
Brandon grabbed for the radio and, on Walt’s instruction, reiterated the order for dispatch to recall the patrols. But as he did, two more cars zoomed past, lights blazing.
“Shee-it,” said Brandon, his face lit by the colorful lights. “Like kids in a candy store.”
“Entirely too predictable,” said Walt.
They drove through their own roadblock, then moved traffic out of the way with their lights and siren. Ten minutes later, the bottles were returned to the vault, courtesy of the manager, who had agreed to be at their disposal all evening.
“Not exactly what we wanted,” Walt said, back behind the wheel, the Adams bottles now safe.
“We’re missing something,” Brandon said.
“Yup.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Nope.”
“They should have gone after the bottles.”
“Yup.”
Beatrice stuck her wet nose between the seats and licked Walt, who reached back and petted her.
“Why block the highway if you don’t steal the wine?” Brandon asked.
“Roach Motel,” Walt said, yanking the car into gear and racing out of the bank’s parking lot. Brandon clipped his seat belt.
“What the hell, Sheriff?”
“They check in, but they never check out.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Brandon said. “But, what the hell?”
“They set off the explosion. We respond. They use the logs to close the highway. We’re all trapped.”
“They aren’t after the wine,” Brandon said, grabbing for the vehicle’s support handle.
“They aren’t after the wine,” Walt echoed.
36
Summer signaled for Kevin to pull over next to a chain-link fence that separated the tarmac and hangars from the airport access road. Beyond the fence, a dozen business jets were parked and tied down. Kevin killed the engine, his palms slippery on the steering wheel.
“Sun Valley Aviation’s up there,” he informed her. “Why here?”
“Yeah, but we aren’t exactly going there.”
“Because?”
“Because of the small technicality that I am underage and neither of us is a pilot. You’re not a pilot, are you?” she added as an afterthought.
“No, but my uncle owns a sailplane, a glider. I’m sure they’d let me show it to you. I know most of the guys in there.”
“That’s the point. I’d rather just jump the fence.”
“That’s insane.”
“No, it’s not. It’s easy. Look around, dude. It’s not like anything’s happening around here.”
“Hello? It’s illegal.”
“We can be over in, like, two seconds.”
“But why bother if I can get us through the FBO? Fixed Base Operation,” he added, answering her puzzled expression. “Sun Valley Aviation, we don’t have to jump any fence,” he said. “Maybe I should just go.”