For the first time, he saw a crack in her determination.

He pressed on. “I could call him to make sure we’ve covered everything. Leave you my cell phone number.”

“Well…” She didn’t sound as convinced as before. “Maybe I can interrupt him,” she said. “Why don’t we try one more time?”

As Trevalian followed her back to the main building he looked for any security cameras that might be recording him and saw none. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the building, returning a moment later.

“I think you’re in luck,” she said. “He’s at a point in the procedure where he can take a minute or two to come out and meet you.”

As his gut twisted, Trevalian attempted to look pleased.

“I’m going to run over to the other building,” the woman said. “I won’t be but a minute. Mark should be out shortly.”

“Thank you.”

She hurried through the door, obviously pleased to be rid of him.

When she returned, she found Mark Aker in his scrubs, his gloves removed, standing next to the reception desk with a perplexed look of confusion and irritation.

“So?” Aker asked her, his voice revealing the degree of his annoyance. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Mr. Meisner was right here a minute ago,” she said.

But the reception area stood empty.

T he gargantuan white tent shimmered in the late morning sunlight, an imposing edifice of vinyl-coated canvas supported by a steel superstructure. More than fifty yards long and thirty wide, it occupied most of a field adjacent to the art fair’s temporary tent city.

Walt parked across from the First Rights protest where several dozen kids in their twenties were already gathered. They waved posters and shouted, “Global capitalism equals world starvation!” A hundred yards to the west, well-heeled guests converged on the Great White Tent.

Sun Valley police maintained a perimeter around the protesters. Walt moved toward the tent, where four of his deputies were working with O’Brien’s team to secure the event.

C³ was ten minutes away from its 10 A.M. opening. For Walt, it felt like horses in a starting gate. The months of planning came down to this moment. He fought a fatigue headache, and the soreness from the chase the night before.

The tent could seat an audience of twelve hundred in folding chairs. The stage could hold a sixty-person symphony orchestra. At present the tent held four hundred folding chairs, a bookstore, and a coffee house with a dozen café tables on Persian rugs. A Dale Chihuly chandelier hung overhead. Robert Kelly oil paintings lined the interior walls. There were potted trees, azaleas in bloom, custom pillows, and a red silk draped ceiling that created the atmosphere of the interior of an Achaemenid tent.

Dryer’s agents were clustered at the front row near Liz Shaler, who was seated. Classical music played from speakers on either side of the stage and drowned out the anticapitalist chant. O’Brien’s team swiped arriving attendees with security wands-not enough of an imposition to be bothersome, but enough precaution to imply a sense of security.

Moving past the café and down the center aisle, Walt noticed that the tent’s side walls, usually left open, were tied shut with locking plastic cable ties. The only way in and out was the one entrance through which Walt had just come.

It might have been a result of his aborted pursuit the night before; it might have been the sight of the protesters, or the faint sound of their chanting; it might have been his father’s presence. It might have been his imagination’s unrelenting imagery of Brandon fucking his wife. But whatever the reason, he felt agitated and unsettled-that feeling like he’d forgotten something.

Patrick Cutter, wearing a blue blazer over a peach golf shirt, stood conferring with his assistants to the right of the stage. He looked confident and proud.

When a commotion began at the tent’s entrance, it drew Walt’s attention. He turned and hurried toward it. A pair of college kids confronting O’Brien’s guys.

Walt had taken only a few steps when O’Brien’s guys converged from every direction. Most of O’Brien’s guys, by the look of it. Eager for action.

As Walt approached, he caught a look in the eyes of one of the protesters, a kid wearing a green First Rights T-shirt-and it was not a look of despair or concern over being caught, but one of satisfaction, almost glee. The kid made the mistake of looking toward the stage with anticipation.

Walt immediately reached up for his radio. “Stage entrance. All units crash it, now!”

The two protesters had been sent as a diversion. O’Brien’s men had swarmed, leaving other areas unguarded.

Now running down the center aisle, Walt shouted out, “RED BADGE!” The three agents guarding Liz Shaler pulled her out of her seat, pushed her into a crouch, and formed a circle around her. They rushed her to the side of the tent, cut the plastic bands binding the tent panels, and whisked her outside. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

People jumped out of their seats, blocking the stage. Walt couldn’t get to Patrick Cutter, whom he now also identified as a possible target.

He scrambled up onto the stage, dodged across the set: a coffee table, a standing lamp, and two leather chairs. Ahead of him he saw the far wall of the tent wave, the result of air pressure. The moving wave headed in Cutter’s direction. Walt dove face-first across the stage, straight off the edge and into the person creating that wave. Something wet spread down him, and as he pinned the kid’s arms, restraining him, he saw the blood. It took him a moment to realize it was neither his nor the kid’s. Instead, it was chicken blood, intended as a political statement.

He rolled the kid over to cuff him. The kid shrieked and hollered slogans about capitalism and human rights. Brandon appeared and quickly escorted the boy backstage.

Patrick Cutter hurried along the side of the stage to Walt.

“Sheriff? Oh, my God!” he said, seeing the blood down his front. “How did you…? Where did he come from? Thank you! A thousand times thank you.”

“No problem,” Walt said. “We’re lucky it was just a stunt.”

“You saved me a huge embarrassment. Are you all right, Sheriff?” he finally thought to say.

“I’m fine. I’m going to get out of here.”

Walt headed backstage.

Cutter called after him, “I suppose that thing last night was probably just a dress rehearsal for this. Right?”

Walt turned, the blood covering him from chest to knees. His face and hands were smeared in it. “It was a different venue,” he said, “and that was a man last night, not a college kid. Other than that, yeah, they’re pretty much exactly the same.”

A t 11 A.M. sharp, fifteen minutes after the conclusion of Patrick’s opening address in the tent, an event of unbridled excess that included a gift of a Cutter Communications mobile phone for every guest, and marred only briefly by the disturbance, Stuart Holms sat down with Danny Cutter in the hospitality suite. Stuart’s head of security, a balding man in a Hawaiian shirt, who introduced himself as Emil, made a quick sweep of the suite and left. Before he shut the door he gave Danny the eye, as if Danny were trouble, and the first thing that came to Danny’s mind was an image of Ailia Holms riding him the night before, her face a grimace of well-earned pleasure.

Stu Holms took the couch, selected a piece of cheese from a tray, and nibbled on it. “So,” he said.

He looked much younger than Danny remembered him. A face job? He wore a pair of cream-colored slacks and a dark green shirt. He had wet eyes, thin hair, and ears like bird wings. He needed more sun, but his teeth were perfect. Dentures? He seemed to be looking right through Danny, not at him.