Read Online Killer View by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ridley Pearson
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the road. They’d left Fiona’s Subaru at the hospital, ostensibly because of the remote location and the treacherous road conditions. But there was an undercurrent of something more to her request for the ride, a sense she had something on her mind.
Walt, even more socially incompetent than usual, couldn’t find a way to prime the pump. Fiona tried to pick up the slack.
“Couldn’t it just be that they wanted to grieve as a family? Together? That they’ve gone off on a retreat—a friend’s ranch—to pull themselves together?”
“Possible,” he said. “But I don’t know . . .”
The road wound through stands of lodgepole pine, spruce, and aspen, all covered in a dusting. Strong sunlight, slanting through the limbs, forced harsh shadows onto the undisturbed rolling white carpet of fresh snow. A pair of magpies flew across the road and landed on an old rail fence. High overhead, a jet’s vapor trail cut a pure white line across the rich blue sky.
“Times like this,” she said, “I could just keep driving.” She caught herself, embarrassed by the sentiment. Opened her mouth to say something but then coughed out a self-conscious laugh and turned toward the side window.
“It’s real pretty,” Walt said. He wondered if his boot would fit in his mouth along with his foot.
He four-wheeled, following car tracks out to some natural hot springs. Fiona remained in the car as Walt surveyed the area. The year-round hot springs were well known to locals; it made sense that a drunken wedding or Halloween party might have driven out and skinny-dipped during a snowstorm. Made sense that this might have been where some guy had assaulted Kira Tulivich, out where no one would hear her screams.
To Walt’s disappointment, he found no signs of recent activity around the pools. No mud. With no tracks leading to the pools, and no sign of the telltale mud, Walt had to rethink his theory.
Another mile out Warm Springs Road, they reached Randy’s cabin. It had been part of the Board Ranch, a cattle-and-horse operation that had gone bust in the 1960s. The owners had wisely retained the property, selling off fifty-year leases, most of which had been sublet a dozen times by now. Its eight hundred acres lay directly in the shadow of Bald Mountain. A satellite dish hung beneath the south-facing eave, and somehow broke the romanticism of the setting. Walt and Fiona followed tracks—fresh tracks—to the cabin’s door. They found it unlocked, which was not at all surprising. Until recently, locals had commonly left their keys in the ignition while at the grocery store. On frigid days, cars were left running out in the parking lot. Much of that had changed with the white flight from Los Angeles in the early 1990s. Celebrities had followed their affluent friends and agents who’d come to Idaho in response to the riots and wildfires. With Sun Valley in the tabloids, ten years of constant development had transformed a modestly popular ski resort into an enclave of the very rich and very famous. All of which had pushed locals like Randy Aker to less expensive housing on the outskirts of the town.
“Start shooting when you’re ready,” Walt said, banging the snow off his boots and stepping inside. “I’m going to look around. I want everything in here documented. Anything and everything.”
They stood in a single open room, with a woodstove in the righthand corner, a small love seat facing it. A TV, on a low table, viewable from the couch. Bookshelves along the near wall, crowded with videos, DVDs, and books. A small kitchen was just beyond, its U-shaped countertops framing a butcher-block island. A small table for two that backed up to the love seat. The bedroom and bath were to the left. Electric baseboard heat fought to keep the temperature in the low sixties, the woodstove no doubt contributing when lit. Walt kept his coat zipped but removed his winter gloves in favor of a pair of latex.
“Looking for anything in
Walt, even more socially incompetent than usual, couldn’t find a way to prime the pump. Fiona tried to pick up the slack.
“Couldn’t it just be that they wanted to grieve as a family? Together? That they’ve gone off on a retreat—a friend’s ranch—to pull themselves together?”
“Possible,” he said. “But I don’t know . . .”
The road wound through stands of lodgepole pine, spruce, and aspen, all covered in a dusting. Strong sunlight, slanting through the limbs, forced harsh shadows onto the undisturbed rolling white carpet of fresh snow. A pair of magpies flew across the road and landed on an old rail fence. High overhead, a jet’s vapor trail cut a pure white line across the rich blue sky.
“Times like this,” she said, “I could just keep driving.” She caught herself, embarrassed by the sentiment. Opened her mouth to say something but then coughed out a self-conscious laugh and turned toward the side window.
“It’s real pretty,” Walt said. He wondered if his boot would fit in his mouth along with his foot.
He four-wheeled, following car tracks out to some natural hot springs. Fiona remained in the car as Walt surveyed the area. The year-round hot springs were well known to locals; it made sense that a drunken wedding or Halloween party might have driven out and skinny-dipped during a snowstorm. Made sense that this might have been where some guy had assaulted Kira Tulivich, out where no one would hear her screams.
To Walt’s disappointment, he found no signs of recent activity around the pools. No mud. With no tracks leading to the pools, and no sign of the telltale mud, Walt had to rethink his theory.
Another mile out Warm Springs Road, they reached Randy’s cabin. It had been part of the Board Ranch, a cattle-and-horse operation that had gone bust in the 1960s. The owners had wisely retained the property, selling off fifty-year leases, most of which had been sublet a dozen times by now. Its eight hundred acres lay directly in the shadow of Bald Mountain. A satellite dish hung beneath the south-facing eave, and somehow broke the romanticism of the setting. Walt and Fiona followed tracks—fresh tracks—to the cabin’s door. They found it unlocked, which was not at all surprising. Until recently, locals had commonly left their keys in the ignition while at the grocery store. On frigid days, cars were left running out in the parking lot. Much of that had changed with the white flight from Los Angeles in the early 1990s. Celebrities had followed their affluent friends and agents who’d come to Idaho in response to the riots and wildfires. With Sun Valley in the tabloids, ten years of constant development had transformed a modestly popular ski resort into an enclave of the very rich and very famous. All of which had pushed locals like Randy Aker to less expensive housing on the outskirts of the town.
“Start shooting when you’re ready,” Walt said, banging the snow off his boots and stepping inside. “I’m going to look around. I want everything in here documented. Anything and everything.”
They stood in a single open room, with a woodstove in the righthand corner, a small love seat facing it. A TV, on a low table, viewable from the couch. Bookshelves along the near wall, crowded with videos, DVDs, and books. A small kitchen was just beyond, its U-shaped countertops framing a butcher-block island. A small table for two that backed up to the love seat. The bedroom and bath were to the left. Electric baseboard heat fought to keep the temperature in the low sixties, the woodstove no doubt contributing when lit. Walt kept his coat zipped but removed his winter gloves in favor of a pair of latex.
“Looking for anything in
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