She declined, though a little frostily, dangled a set of keys, and led Walt down a walnut-paneled corridor. She unlocked a set of doors for him and accompanied him inside. A geometric shape of light flooded across lavishly decorated tables and…sand.

The young woman found some lights. Enough to navigate.

“I’ll make sure it’s locked when I leave. And I’ll stop by the desk, so you know I’ve left.” He thanked her. The door clunked shut behind her.

The room was shaped like a shoebox, with Walt in the center of one of the long sides. He faced the elevated riser from where Liz Shaler would give her talk. It currently held six potted palm trees. Gift boxes sat at each place setting. Envy nibbled at Walt-that Cutter, or anyone, should have this kind of disposable income.

He dragged his feet through the thick sand wishing he could take his boots off. He reached the riser, knee height and rimmed with a navy blue skirt.

Through his grief, frustration, and fatigue, something tugged at him. He’d come to respect such sensations. He stood absolutely still, blood thumping past his ears, his throat dry. Wishing for more light, he spotted a bank of dimmer switches forty feet away. Almost automatically, he unsnapped his holster, felt the cool of its gnarled grip. Moved silently, sweat breaking out all over him.

The bank of light switches was too far. He felt drawn to his right, and he followed his instinct.

His boots moved absolutely silently in the sand. He passed one table after another, looking left, right, ahead, and behind.

The tablecloths cascaded down to seat height, screening the area beneath the tables, leaving fifty hiding places to search.

His radio, clipped to his waist, spit with static. “Sheriff, what’s your twenty?”

A blur to his right. A man’s form raced for an exit, slammed a door open, and vanished before Walt got a decent look at him.

Running now, Walt reached for his radio’s handset and called out the code for a suspicious person, “Ten-one-oh-seven. In pursuit on foot. Sun Valley Inn. Request backup.” His belt snagged a tablecloth and dragged it off to the sound of exploding wineglasses.

He burst into a service hallway that was pitch black. He reached down and silenced his radio.

Took two steps forward. Smashed into a food dolly, tripped, and went down on one knee. Jumped to his feet, his eyes stinging to pierce the dark. The suspect had disappeared.

T revalian, hidden behind a meal cart, kept his back to the wall. He knew the quickest way out: the service hallway to the loading platform. He knew he’d be exposed for several seconds if he ran. But a moving target, at least. The sheriff was less than ten feet away-unmoving, barely breathing. More professional, more careful than he’d have thought.

With his back literally against the wall, he once again calculated the time and distance to the end of the hall. He walked himself through the sharp left turn to the loading dock. He had no desire for confrontation. Only escape.

He hesitated only briefly. Then he shoved the food cart and ran.

W alt drew his weapon as the cart smashed into the wall. He didn’t remember grabbing his flashlight, but there it was, held with the gun as if a single piece.

The dark shape of a man juked right and left, zigzagging down the hall, and was gone.

Walt turned left at the end of the hall and broke through hanging ribbons of sheet plastic used as a cold barrier. He jumped off the loading dock, lost his balance, and fell forward. As he came to his feet, the suspect was now twenty yards ahead of him. A very fast runner.

Walt holstered the gun at a full sprint. He wasn’t going to shoot only to find it was a high school kid, or the wayward son of a hotel guest. He followed out onto the first fairway of the Sun Valley golf course, and heard the tick-tick-tick of lawn sprinklers before he felt the first cold shower. Within seconds he was soaked through, his boots slogging through the spongy grass.

He trailed the suspect by twenty yards as he followed him through a wall of towering evergreens and out into a back parking lot. The man ran well and showed no signs of slowing, having increased the gap between them. Beyond the lot loomed a field of white tents that Walt recognized as the Sun Valley Art Show. Closed for the night, the tents covered two acres and offered the suspect a place to get lost.

He disappeared there, Walt several long seconds behind.

Walt slowed to a walk, catching his breath, listening for the man. He was soaked through, his boots squishing with each step. The vendors had lowered the walls of the tents. He took his weapon back in his hand, aimed the flashlight tent to tent. Yanking back flaps and peering inside, he worked down the row. The man was here.

Walt leaned forward for the next tent, when a sharp snap of fabric turned him around in time to see the darkened figure take off and disappear around a corner. Walt cut through between tents, arriving in the adjacent aisle. He saw a tent jerk and wiggle as his quarry caught a foot on a rope.

Walt crashed through into the next aisle. He spotted the man to his right just rounding a corner. Walt took off at a sprint, hugging the same corner.

The other man jumped out and connected with Walt, shoving him and using his momentum to lift him off his feet. Walt was catapulted into a tent across the aisle, crashed into and through the front wall of canvas, and took out the legs of a portable table. He rolled, came to his feet, tripped over a horse saddle, and went down hard.

A harsh beam of light filled his eyes.

“Sheriff? That you? What the hell?” The voice belonged to a Sun Valley Company security man.

Out of breath, Walt coughed out, “A guy…running…” He pointed. “After him!”

The security man just stood there, confused. “What guy?”

Walt pushed past the man into the aisle. Empty.

“What guy?” the guard repeated.

“Where’d you come from?” Walt asked. “How could you not have seen him?”

“Didn’t see no one. Heard you crashing around over here. Came running.”

“Get on the radio. I don’t want any cars leaving the main lot. Anyone with wet hair gets detained.”

“Wet hair. Yes, sir.”

Walt took off toward the lodge. The hit man was here to kill Liz Shaler, he had no doubt now. Given the element of surprise, the man could have done far worse to him. Stabbed him. Broken his neck. Taken his gun. But he’d attempted none of these and instead of making him an amateur it marked him a pro: He’d done the minimum required to get cleanly away. Intentional or not, the man had delivered a message.

And whether Dryer chose to or not, Walt intended to listen.