Killer Weekend Read Online Free PDF

aside.
       The crowded space became more chaotic with passengers wielding bags. The terminal's automatic doors clapped open and shut. Walt spun a full circle, his frustration mounting. Another few minutes and the terminal would be all but empty.
       He signaled Brandon and caught his attention. The two men stepped outside in concert, each through a different door. Together they inspected the parking lot for anyone who'd managed to slip past unnoticed.
       Brandon stood by the taxi stand and hotel/van pickup. He leaned his head into several of the vehicles, scanning the boarding passengers.
       Over Walt's radio came Brandon's voice. "I've got zilch."
       "Ditto," Walt replied.
       "Hang on . . . we've got a situation inside," Brandon announced.
       Walt turned and hurried back into the terminal.

Six

    A wall of onlookers blocked Walt's view. He crossed the room and forced his way through the small crowd that had gathered. At the same time, Brandon reached the center of the huddle.
       It was Nagler, the blind man again, kneeling on the floor in front of a cream-colored kennel. He was crying, or cursing, patting the floor violently, feeling for his cane. Catching it with his right hand, he lifted it roughly as if to whip the confused baggage handler. Walt jumped forward and grabbed the man's forearm and peeled the cane from his fingers.
       "Hold it!" Walt said sternly.
       "Sheriff?" Nagler's face was flushed and splotchy. The sunglasses had slipped down his nose, giving Walt a fleeting glimpse of a milky eye with no iris, no pupil. Only a sickening, yellow-white bulb.
       "There's been a tragic accident," the baggage handler said.
       "Bullshit!" Nagler said. "They killed my dog. They killed Ricky!"
       "The heat," the handler said. She fingered a large neon orange tag attached to the kennel's metal grate door. "The release spells it all out."
       "You think I read your stupid release?" Nagler shouted. "Is it in Braille? Give me a break! They said it was a formality, an insurance thing. That it was a short flight—an hour—and that people flew their pets all the time."
       "It's true, they do," the baggage handler said. "But it's the middle of the day, sir. And a hot one at that. And—"
       "My dog is dead," he wailed. "Do you have any idea—"
       "There's nothing more to be gained here," Walt said. "We're sorry for your loss. Let's get you to where you're going. Get you settled."
       "Settled? I'm not leaving Ricky."
       "We'll get him to the local vet. You can decide how you want to . . . handle things from there. Didn't you say someone was meeting you?"
       "That would be me." A twenty-something woman with a fresh face and freckles stepped out of the small crowd. "Karen Platt. I'm a greeter for C 3 . I'm Mr. Nagler's greeter. His driver." She turned toward Nagler. "I am, like, so sorry about the dog. Ohmygod, I can't imagine . . ."
       Nagler came to his feet. Walt placed the cane back into the man's hand.
       "Promise me you won't hit anyone with that," Walt said.
       "Ricky and I . . . ," Nagler said but was unable to finish. He threw his head back, looked to the ceiling, and took a deep breath. "You have no idea."
       "We'll see if we can't do something. Maybe we can find a dog for the weekend."
       "It doesn't work like that. Ricky and I have been together six years."
       "Maybe we can do something."
       "Did you check any luggage, sir?" Brandon spoke up, his low voice drawing Nagler's attention. Ever the practical one; always thinking ahead.
       Nagler fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a ticket sleeve. Stapled to the inside of the sleeve was a bag tag. He handed it in Brandon's direction. Brandon took it and passed it to Nagler's driver. She went down the line of the few remaining bags and, checking baggage strips, pulled out a hard-shelled Samsonite.
       "No one read me the release," Nagler muttered. He swung his