Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (17 page)

“I meant to tell you,” said Slater. “A team from CSU got a federal grant to study herd size or something, a five-year grant. Your taxpayer dollars at work. I should have told you sooner. They were supposed to notify us which herd they were going to track. But they’ve been working it all through the Meeker district office.”

“So this is coincidence?”

“I’m saying there are biologists all around.”

“And why the dead elk?”

“Shock? Overdose? I don’t know.” Slater studied a sheet of paper as if it was the last document on earth.

“Overdose?”

“I can’t explain it, that’s all.”

“We should have taken a piece of the dead elk,” said Allison, “and sent it to the lab for tests.”

“To find out what?”

“How it died, maybe. Wouldn’t you want to know if these biologists screwed up?”

“I should have taken a sample,” said Slater.

“I’ll get you one,” said Allison. “I’ll be up there soon, I’m sure.”

Slater stood up, found a chair and brought it over. “What else?” he said. Finally, a hint of warmth. And a smile.

“I don’t know. What was Rocky doing with GPS gear?”

“I don’t know,” said Slater. “We’ll ask him.”

“If he shows up.”

“Rocky? He will. It’s not like these people are on a schedule. You should know.”

“I have a bad feeling. Plus, it pisses me off that Sandstrom thinks I don’t know where I was.”

“He said that?”

“I know where the heck I was,” said Allison. “To the inch.”

“Of course, of course,” said Slater.

She told Slater about her place being ransacked, then reporting it to the cops and running into Sandstrom. In a genuinely concerned tone of voice Slater asked if she was frightened and if any valuables had been damaged or ruined.

“Can’t you do something?” said Allison, knowing he couldn’t. She didn’t even want to go into the business at the airport. What business was it anyway? Just hunting and hunters, fancy style.

“What would I do? Declare stupid cops are banned from these parts? Or go find Rocky myself?”

“What if Rocky and his buddies use GPS to track game?”

“Then they’d be bad boys. We’d step right in, no question. But you need more than parts in his trailer. You’d still need Rocky, to ask him about stuff.”

“You don’t seem that concerned.”

“Lots of speculation.”

“About everything, including who shot JFK.”

Slater threw her an eyebrow-popped glance. “At least there you had a body,” he said.

“I know, I know. But you didn’t hear the shot. I did. You didn’t see this guy dragging a load. I did. It wasn’t down the hill where they found the deer suit guy. It was right there in front of me, down a ways, but in front of me.”

“Yes,” said Slater. “But it took you a while to come off the pass. By then, you know, he—”

“Who?”

“He, whoever, could have covered lots of ground. Even in shock, from having killed this guy, he would have had his adrenaline pumping. He might have considered turning himself in and admitting to the accidental death. The adrenaline runs out, he’s tired of carrying the body. He decides to hide it in the woods. And decides there’s no way they can figure out who killed the guy. And so far, he’s right—one hundred percent right.”

“And the dead elk?”

“A fluke. A separate deal, but a fluke. Give Rocky a chance to turn up.”

He’s had a zillion chances, thought Allison, and hasn’t taken one.

She stood up, hiding her exasperation, not wanting to challenge Slater’s logic.

It made sense to a point, but it didn’t connect with what she felt.

“I’m going home. Maybe I need a rest,” she fibbed. “I’ll be there later, if you want to swing by. Up to you.” She smiled.

“I’ll see,” said Slater. “I’m pooped myself.”

She looked around and gave him a quick kiss. “Any federal rules about that?” she said.

“If there are,” he said, “I’m going to court.”

****

Ted’s Taxidermy took up all of a low-ceilinged barn that faced the Colorado River halfway between the interstate and the main road up Ripplecreek. The truck served as signage, always placed in the same strategic spot near the road for maximum impact.

Ted Slowik was tall, thin, graying and forever with a pipe in his teeth, whether or not the sangria-smelling tobacco was lit. He had a couple of helpers and had grown to know all the outfitters in the area. He was the best taxidermist in the county, the most meticulous. He really didn’t need to advertise. From head mounts to full body mounts, Slowik prided himself on high-quality work.

Allison parked and walked into the barn, which was constantly heated by a pumping wood stove. Two German shepherds looked up from their naps and a black rabbit, Midnight, hopped over to greet her. Nobody new. The dogs went back to sleep; Midnight was quickly distracted by a stray wood chip. Allison picked up the bunny, found a pile of browning lettuce near her cage and offered nibbles by hand.

“Another one?” said Slowik, who was spreading a skin out on his workbench.

“Nope. Just stopped by. I wasn’t sure if I’d given you the name and address for that doe I brought over yesterday.”

“The head mount? Sure you did. Standard procedure for us. Let me check.”

He pulled a file from a shelf above the bench. “Here it is. Trabowski, Oak Park, Illinois. Got it.”

“Wow, that’s a beauty,” said Allison, admiring the bull and its enormous antlers.

“Biggest rack so far this season. Weighs forty pounds alone, bank on that.”

“Whose?”

“Who else?”

“Again?”

“Well, Grumley’s client, anyway,” said Slowik.

“But George always brings ’em in. Who was the client?” It was an innocent question.

“Jeez, you should have seen this guy’s jet. Huge. Brand new. Engines that burn more fuel in a minute than you and I use in a month. George introduced me, but damned if I remember the name. Not without looking it up.” Back to the files. “Dabney Yount. Houston, Texas. Thought I smelled oil money out there at the airport.”

Allison traced the antler rack with her hand, felt its sharp points and the smooth woody sensation. It was hard to believe blood flowed through the antlers like sap in a tree.

“Grumley’s crews are lucky.”

“Or good,” said Slowik. “And rich. They bring in more full body mounts than any other outfitter, that’s for sure. That one’ll take time.”

“Quite the gash,” said Allison, eyeing the ripped skin near the spine.

“That’s the easy part,” said Slowik, putting a match to his pipe, making it puff. “Try finding the inside thing for this guy that brings him back to life.”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Allison. “If you had elk lungs, elk heart and elk innards, I’ll bet you’d know where all the parts go. You better than anybody else.”

“Maybe. All except the on-off switch,” said Slowik. “That’s the one funny one. I’m never sure where to put it.”

****

Applegate tried to stop fixating on what the cops were thinking and doing: whether they would burst through the door any day with the bloodhound sniffing a path to his heels. And if that happened this second, if they could get through the door unannounced, the dog’s nose would be working overtime as it took in the lush, slightly acrid aroma of sex, minutes old. Or perhaps they didn’t need the dog. Maybe there would be another incriminating scrap of evidence, a piece of fabric from one of his mittens they found at the scene. Or a cast of a boot print. Maybe they had a new technique to identify boot prints even after a new snowfall. Was that possible? And they would ask to see his outdoor equipment and a wise old scientist would be standing by to confirm the match. The dog would wag its tail.

Applegate had days of unbridled fear, registered as a constant chatter that chewed on his other thoughts, the ones up front, the ones he was supposed to be concentrating on. He wanted to whack down the voice in the background, but the ideas it articulated were hard to ignore.

Ellenberg shifted on her side. Her naked breast grazed his chest and she sighed. In his book, which was a thin one, it had been a gangling, awkward half hour of tumbling. But it had also been satisfying.

Ellenberg had come to his room with a bottle of red wine. They sat on the bed cross-legged, facing each other. She poured and told him it was time to pack up and leave Glenwood Springs. And then one toast ended with a kiss, more like a tap on the lips, nothing deep, and that was that. She was a kindred spirit. He admired her spunk. The kiss made him think it was possible to wriggle free from his old snakeskin and put on a new layer.

She pushed him over on his back. They hugged and explored each other’s mouths, her long brown hair creating a private pup tent. She smelled of Ivory soap behind her ears. With the wine, the kisses carried a perpetual tingle. She did not object to a hand on her slender rear and he had slipped worked his way up underneath her red-checked, flannel shirt. She buried a wet tongue in his ear, jammed her pelvis down on his and offered a throaty growl of approval before she stood by the side of the bed and stripped casually, displaying a bit of pride in her lean body, boyish hips and cone-shaped, high-set breasts.

Standing naked, she unlaced his shoes and pulled down his pants and underwear in one swoop, stopping to give his erection a red-wine smack of its own. She helped him off with his shirt and made him feel that being able to make love with him was the grand prize in a long-odds contest. She straddled his knees and licked him. He kneeled on the floor and tried his unskilled best to return the favor for a few minutes between her spread legs. She spun around on top of him and lowered herself down. She pumped slowly, her hair tickling his face to the rhythm. He tried to hold back for a minute, but couldn’t. He bucked her wildly from below as she grabbed his chest, looking for a handhold.

“Eye yie yie,” she said when he was done. Her hair had stuck to her warm cheeks. “Now that we’ve got the ice broken ...” She let the thought dangle.

She rolled off and snuggled down alongside him, a hand returning to cup his crotch and give it a pat. Was this a deal, he wondered, that Ellenberg would want to take public? Perhaps she did a lot of the guys. Perhaps this had been a thank-you screw, a kind of sympathy fuck to put a cap on the protest.

“Dean?” She thought he was dozing. Actually, he was picturing the bloodhound leading troops to their motel. “You know it’s not over,” she said. “Your work with us, I mean.”

“It’s not?” he said. How do you hide a look of surprise? It wasn’t easy.

“We don’t worry a whole lot about titles, but everyone would like to see you come on board and keep doing what you do, plus a lot more. You won’t believe the projects we have in mind. The spring bear hunt, the new aquarium in Denver. We’re getting information about nasty experiments with rats at the university.”

“Rats?”

“There’s so much to do. Besides, you can’t crawl back in a hole. Not now.”

“What would I do exactly?”

“We tend to let the roles evolve. It’s more natural than making up a job title and job description and then wedging people into them. You start hanging around, we’ll find stuff for you to do. Don’t worry.”

“Manager of stuff.”

“Now there’s a spiffy title.”

She rolled back over on top of him for a hug. Her skin was warm. He ran his hands down her back as she buried her nose in his neck. Relax, he told himself. Enjoy it.

****

“She’s very curious. Enough for a whole cat house.”

“Yeah?”

“Nosy. Lots of questions. Wondering about Rocky.”

Grumley shifted in the squeaky swivel chair behind his desk. Alvin looked nervous, perhaps half unsure why he was telling his boss any of this. Boyles sat on the couch, running his fingernails over the tip of a pocketknife.

“Wondering what?” said Grumley.

“When he’s going to turn up, stuff like that. She thinks the cops need to talk to your other buddies, the ones besides Applegate.”

“And why not him?”

“I suppose she figures they’ve already grilled him, I don’t know.”

“You told her who was who?”

“I told her it was none of her damn business, that she oughta let the cops do their thing.” Alvin looked proud of what he’d said, like it was a difficult message to send.

Jesus, Allison Coil was a pain. First with his own damn wife, right there in his own house, then questioning Boyles. And now this.

“Thought you’d like to know whenever your name is being mentioned behind your back,” said Alvin. “Especially in connection with—”

“With what? I’ve talked to the cops and I don’t care if you’re working for the fucking cops or you are a fucking cop yourself, it doesn’t have much to do with me.”

Alvin studied his mucky boots. Boyles stopped fiddling with the knife.

“I suppose Miss Coil has theories about the death of the jerk in the elk suit?” said Grumley.

“No,” said Alvin.

“But I do,” said Boyles.

“Care to fill us in?” said Grumley.

“It was an animal hugger that pulled the trigger—had to be. No real hunter would’ve mistaken a 120-pound man wrapped in a brown cape for the real McCoy. So they staged the whole thing and tried to hang it on the hunters. They even had a plan for destroying the gun. It’s a fucking ruse.”

“I like it,” said Alvin.

“Best one I’ve heard,” said Grumley.

“Cops said they talked to all the protester types, too, but let’s be serious, okay?” said Boyles. “What would the chances be—that on that day they would have run up against a hunter with the IQ of a brick? They had to do it themselves, trust me on that one.”

“So they killed a human being to prove a point about killing animals. Makes sense to me,” said Grumley. “Allison Coil comes snooping around again, holler, okay?”

“Will do,” he said.

Alvin muttered something about mucking a stall and headed off.

“Some people can’t leave well enough alone,” said Grumley. “Sure seems that way,” said Boyles, standing up and sliding his knife into a sheath on his belt. “What’s next?”

“I don’t know,” said Grumley. “I got a business to run. I need these headaches?”

Boyles knew better than to answer. “So what is Miss Allison doing?” “Trying to get the authorities curious.”