"You have to want it."

Fiona set her jaw.

"Fear is so elusive," Katherine said. "It's a bit of a magician. It can make itself appear much larger than it actually is. It's our unwillingness to look at it, to confront it, that allows this inflated presence. Most of the time, when we face our fears we let the air out and realize there wasn't much to it after all."

"And when it's justified?" Fiona asked.

"Well, then it's more . . . complicated."

"Exactly," Fiona said.

"But talking about it is where to start. Keeping these things inside, given your current situation, isn't going to help anything. I'll be honest with you: your memory is going to come back-that's my prediction based on a good deal of experience. Talking to me may or may not precipitate that return. But your sharing your fears with me, your discussion of the emotional context will greatly improve how you handle the memories when they do return-this I can promise. You don't need to do this alone."

"But I do," she said.

"I'm here," Katherine said. "Day or night, I'm here."

Fiona bit her lower lip because she felt it quivering, felt her eyes well. She stood from the chair, offering her back to Katherine, and tried to keep calm as she walked out of the room.

17.

"You okay?" Boldt asked from the Jeep's pa.s.senger seat.

Beatrice half-slept in the backseat, rolling a lazy eye as the men spoke.

"Yeah. Sorry. I pet.i.tioned the court about acquiring a DNA sample and was turned down. It's a child abuse case."

"The toughest there are."

"Right. So I'm a little out of sorts."

"Understandably. Any way around it?"

"Maybe. Might be. I have an article of clothing-a pair of panties. But ultimately I need the embryo's DNA and that's apparently not going to happen."

"And another sc.u.mbag remains out there."

"Something like that."

"You can always lie to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d and hope he comes apart, though such guys rarely do. And never discount the value of a fine piece of entrapment. Any felony will do."

Both men laughed into the windshield.

"The offer still stands for you to sit in on the Boatwright interview."

"We're good," Walt said.

"You don't have to drive me around. I can rent a car."

"It's my pleasure. I thought I might canva.s.s the neighbors or his employees about any knowledge of Gale or visits to the house. I'd like to start eliminating potential suspects. That is, with your permission."

"Don't need my permission," Boldt said. "Other way around. I'm the guest here, and I appreciate your helping me out."

"I wouldn't mind talking to Matthews," Walt said, "if you think that's possible."

"Easily arranged."

"I can pay her if necessary. Bring her over here, if you think that's possible."

"No need for that," Boldt said. "I'm sure she'll be happy to help out. If you nail down a suspect and the suspect is a tough nut you might want to bring her over. She's extremely good at reading people and leveraging weaknesses in personalities. But that's for down the road."

Walt could see Boldt went somewhere else, staring out the side window. At first he thought the landscape had grabbed him, overcome him the way it could. But the longer the silence went on, the more Walt suspected something else was going on, that he'd triggered something without having any idea about what he'd done.

"h.e.l.l of a place you live, Sheriff," Boldt finally said at the end of a long sigh.

No man in his seventies looked like Marty Boatwright without the help of plastic surgery. His watery eyes and the chicken skin on the backs of his hands gave him away. He greeted both men, meeting the Jeep in the driveway, then escorted Boldt inside. As Walt parked the Cherokee, he imagined Boldt would likely take that to the bank-guys like Marty Boatwright didn't greet anyone in their driveway; the impending interview had rattled the man and had put him on the defensive before it began.

The 11,000-square-foot log home sat on three acres carved out of a hill, giving Boatwright an un.o.bstructed view of the Warm Springs side of the Sun Valley ski area. The property was terraced into two cascading drops, both supported by four-foot stone walls, with a narrow creek falling down waterfalls and collecting into a half-acre pond at the bottom, just this side of the helicopter pad that had drawn the scorn of his neighbors.

On the bib of lawn that supported a large flagstone terrace and dining patio, a garden worker struggled with an invasive tube root in the first of three successive flower beds. A wheelbarrow topped with fresh soil sat alongside a tarp and a variety of garden tools.

"How's it going?" Walt said, immediately sensing the man's unease. Not an atypical reaction. He tried to soften the moment. "I have the same problem in my backyard," Walt said. "Can't stop the things."

"I transplanted one indigenous aspen seven years ago, and there's not a day I don't curse the decision. If I'd gone with one from a nursery . . . They don't send out tap roots like them natives. The indigenous . . . their suckers come up everywhere, and most of the time I let them be, but not when they invade my flower beds."

"You're replanting."

"I am." The man seemed more relaxed.

"In July." Walt tried to sound interested instead of accusatory.

"Mr. Boatwright wanted it done."

"Bad timing."

"Tell me about it. Too hot in the days to get anything decent started. The lilies were doing fine in my opinion. I'll fill it with annuals and worry about it next spring."

"The other beds too?"

"Who knows? You follow the NFL?"

"Baseball."

"Well, let me tell you something, you work for Mr. Boatwright, you learn that he's the coach and quarterback all in one. He says you go deep, you go deep, or you're on the bench. In my case that means the unemployment line. So I go deep."

"I hear you." Walt considered his approach. "You ever get to meet any players?"

"You kidding? Place is like a hotel."

"Anyone I'd know of?"

The gardener seemed proud of his insider's position. "Head coach and a couple of a.s.sistants up here last weekend. I hear the commissioner's coming in for the wine auction this year. You know these guys, Sheriff. Dinner parties every night. Jump in the jet. Fly back. He's a human yo-yo, and he's not getting any younger."

The guy liked to talk. Walt wasn't complaining. "Any players?"

"He interviewed a couple wide receivers back around the time of the draft. An offensive lineman, the kid that book was written about-The Blind Side-about the same time. No one too recently, at least that I know about." Leaning on his shovel, the heavily suntanned man seemed grateful for the respite. "But you'd have to check with Mary-his executive secretary. She should be around here someplace. Her office is on the lower level of the north wing."

"I'd probably need a map."

"Got that right."

"Is he a good guy to work for?"

"I actually report to Debbie, one of Mary's three a.s.sistants. I don't actually deal with Mr. Boatwright. Debbie's all right. They basically give me an open budget. It's the dream job. I'm overpaid, I get great benefits, and I'm pretty much left on my own."

"Wanna trade?" Walt said. He won a chuckle. "Anything a sheriff should know about Mr. Boatwright that I don't already know?"

"I told you, it's a dream job."

"I'm interested in a linebacker. A retired linebacker. He would have come by sometime in the past couple days. Big guy, obviously. Might have been alone. Might have been wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Name of Martel Gale."

"The Gale Force? s.h.i.t, I'd have recognized him, I think. Loved watching that guy hit. Listen, I don't see that many of the guests, and to tell you the truth, I don't pay that much attention unless I happen to get a look and recognize someone. I like the sport, so I'm kind of a major fan, but I don't know half the faces of the guys who come here. The girls, that's different. Hard not to look at the girls, you know what I mean?"

"Girls, or women?"

"I've said enough. I should get back to work."

Walt didn't look over his shoulder immediately, but he'd seen a flicker in the man's eyes and suspected he'd caught someone eyeing them both. Mary, perhaps, or one of the three a.s.sistants.

Walt felt tempted to ask about Caroline Vetta, but he lacked a photo and it was Boldt's business, not his.

"You think you could check with Debbie, informal like, if Gale has been around in the past week?"

"I suppose." He sounded surprised.

"I could do it," Walt said, not sure that he could, "but all I'm interested in is trying to get an autograph for my nephew, trying to catch Gale while he's still in town, and when a sheriff asks something it becomes a big production and it's not like that, so it makes it kind of difficult."

"I can see that."

"I've already asked Vince Wynn but he's not on such good terms with Gale."

The gardener turned away and went back to the struggle with the root.

"I shouldn't be loafing," he said.

Was it the mention of Wynn? Walt wondered. Or had the man received a second signal from within the house?

"Nice talking to you," Walt said.

"I'll ask if I can," the gardener told the dug-up flower bed.

"I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know," Walt said, "but I was told water stops tap roots. You put the offending tree on an island and that's the end of it."

The gardener lifted his head and eyed the only stand of aspen, in rough gra.s.s between the lawn and the driveway.

"I might be able to work with that," he said.

"Just a thought," Walt said. But his mind had made a leap to Boatwright and Wynn and the dead man, Gale. Like the trees, if he and Boldt could keep the men from extending their reach to their handlers and attorneys, maybe they'd have half a chance to get some piece of the truth out of them. The secret might be to isolate them, but Walt had no idea how to go about that, given e-mails and cell phones, and the intricacies of both men's businesses. Unless he could find a way to turn one against the other. One of the two must at least have heard from Gale, whether or not they had a connection to the man's death. Given Boatwright's reliance on a team of personal secretaries, there might even be a paper trail to follow.

He walked the grounds wondering if Gale had done the same some night after being refused an audience with Boatwright, wondering if that was what had happened to Wynn the night the agent had fired his gun into the dark.

Boldt climbed into the Jeep forty minutes later and Walt started up the motor and drove off the property.

"Everyone has secrets," Boldt finally muttered. "But this guy. What a piece of work. My guess is he's got a couple vaults full of them."

"It went that well, did it?"

"Treated me like I was the water boy."

"Is there a connection to Caroline Vetta?"

"He knows a heck of a lot more than he's telling," Boldt said, "that's for sure. But he's done so many deals for so many years, has told so many lies, that he's an expert. Or maybe he's so old he believes them."

"Are you done with him?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Any chance you'll subpoena his personal calendar?"

"Gale?"

"That's what I was thinking," Walt admitted. "I'm told the secretaries run his life, manage every minute of his time. Surround him."

"It may very well come to that," Boldt said.