Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (27 page)

Allison stood inside the massive farmhouse with its wood-plank floors and bright braided rugs. Stacy Burnett introduced herself, her older daughter Valerie and toddler, Kirsten.

“But you’re okay?” said Stacy.

“I need a phone,” said Allison.

“Of course, this way.”

Stacy showed her to a telephone on the wall next to the kitchen table. Valerie tracked every move.

Allison dialed Slater’s number. Her world wobbled crazily, off-kilter. Her breathing was deep and unsettled. From the kitchen window, she scanned the wide field that swooped down toward the ravine. She could make out Bear’s inert, prone hulk in the snow. She wiped tears from her cheeks.

Slater was out, checking on a few stray buffalo that came from a farm up toward Craig. She didn’t feel like telling anyone else.

Should she call Sandstrom? Or Trudy? Or Weaver—to tell him about Bear?

Sandstrom. The female receptionist on the phone took notes. She was composed and maddeningly cool. She decided after a minute to relay her to a deputy, who took another set of notes for a minute and put Allison on hold while he tried to patch her through to Sandstrom in his sheriff ’s car.

“Ms. Allison,” said Sandstrom, when he came on. “What’s this—a shooting?”

“At me,” she said.

“Jesus H.,” said Sandstrom. “You staying put for a few minutes? Never mind the question. You are staying put.”

“Cops are on their way up,” Allison said to Stacy, cupping the mouthpiece.

“No problem,” said Stacy. “They have to come.”

Allison relayed the address; Sandstrom said he knew the kennels.

Stacy brought homemade chicken soup and wheatberry bread while they waited. Connecting with the authorities offered a touch of calm, along with the steaming broth. She found her focus. She concentrated on everything but Bear. She tried Trudy’s number while she waited. No answer. It was a strange no answer, one she didn’t expect. She tried Slater’s trailer, in case he was home. His voice mail answered but she didn’t know what to say except, “Call me when you resurface, there’s a lot going on.” She tried Trudy’s number again and still it rang on and on, into the void.

Sandstrom and two deputies arrived more quickly than she’d expected, in three separate cars. Gerard, who gave her a wink, followed her boot prints down to Bear, after she pointed him out. The other one, a green-looking kid, Sandstrom sat in the living room with Sandstrom, her going over it all. The kid took the notes. “I don’t get why someone tracked you down clear over here,” said Sandstrom, after she had finished.

“May I show you something? In private?”

The deputy and Sandstrom exchanged glances. Stacy said they could use the kitchen, she’d keep Valerie out of the way, or even better, they could use the walk-in pantry. Allison picked up Fishy’s rifle from the kitchen, where she had left it, and led Sandstrom to the well-stocked food closet, shutting the door behind her.

“Dramatic,” said Sandstrom.

“Necessary,” said Allison.

“Whose is this?” he said.

“You got Rocky down yet?”

“We’re getting to it, we’re getting to it. Jesus ... I’m not into tricks.”

Sandstrom stared at the rifle.

“Then I’m here to cut a deal.”

“Everybody always is. That’s life. What’s yours?”

“First, I wanna hear you say I wasn’t crazy.”

“We get the body down, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s there.”

“If it is, you’re not.”

Allison found that a bit of steam and energy were mixing in naturally with her anger over Bear and Grumley and Rocky. She hadn’t mentioned Grumley yet by name, and couldn’t. She wanted to light a fire that would jack-up all the issues at once.

“What’s with the rifle?”

“I stole the rifle. As a kid, though, we used to call it ‘borrowing back.’ I went over to get route and trail information from Grumley’s place. I was talking to Bobby Alvin. He’ll tell you all of this.” The words were coming easily. She could also clearly see the spot where she could nail Sandstrom. “I spotted this Sako. I took it, and a couple of men chased me. I have a pretty good idea who, but I’m not sure, so I’m not saying. This rifle’s a bit unusual, I think you’ll agree. But check the initials here. A guy named Sal Marcovicci sold it to Dean Applegate.”

“Mr. Turncoat.”

“Correct. A few years back. Chances are it’ll match up like a bad recurring nightmare with the bullet you pulled from Ray Stern.”

She waited a second to see if Sandstrom could soak this up. “Now you can decide if you want to book me on a theft charge, make a nuisance out of that. Or, if you agree to let it go, and if you agree to make a very concerted effort to find out who shot Rocky Carnivitas, then I’ll give you the rifle, and you can do experiments and see if you can solve this nasty migraine called the media that’s been tormenting you for weeks.”

Allison decided she would hold the Sako until Sandstrom made his choice clear.

“Theft?” he said.

His jowls quivered and he stared her down.

“Hey, I’ll return it, through you. Unless you want to test it first.”

“How do you know this is the one?” said Sandstrom.

Allison thought for a few seconds, wondered if there was any chance that she’d been set up, that Fishy was in on something, that this was all a fancy charade to make her feel better.

“Call it a hunch,” she said. “Call it one big, fat hunch.”

Fourteen

“What loose ends?”

“Things I had to deal with—there’s no point in boring you with the details.”

“We don’t like you gone. I missed you, you big lug. Plus, secrets. They make me queasy.”

“It’s over, done with. History,” said Applegate.

It was early evening. They strolled the cool, wet streets of lower downtown Denver after dinner. There had been waves of food with hummus and eggplant, all laced with garlic. And two bottles of wine had been safely tucked away as stew for their brains. The alcohol had erased any chance Applegate had of connecting all the dots from his bizarre journey.

“Another circle-the-parking-lot protest isn’t going to cut it,” said Ellenberg. “Makes us both look unimaginative, anyway.”

“What you need is a major non-violent disruption, right?”

“Sure.”

“You need a surprise attack, get national attention. And you need something soon.”

“Tomorrow would do.”

She sat down on a street bench, pulling him down with her to snuggle for warmth. He walked through the idea slowly.

“Caravan goes up the interstate. Say twenty cars, unmarked. No banners, no nothing. Not obviously together. Maybe there’s a news crew with you—one, so it’s not that obvious. You drive into the canyon two across, ten deep, maybe a hundred deep. All going the same speed. The cars come to a halt, cap the breakdown lanes too, and then pull out the banners and stuff. March down the highway, do whatever you want. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. However long it might take to draw a heavy response, make the point, make sure there’s good video and one helluva long traffic jam behind you. That’s what you want, a heavy response. As many cops as they got, bring ‘em on. For a half hour you clog the only major east-west artery in the state and give old Sandstrom another stroke.”

“It’s brilliant,” she gushed. “I love it.”

The scheme made her giddy. They ran it through a few times to test for trouble spots, but it was foolproof. Nothing could go wrong.

“Maybe we should cut off the highway in both directions at the same point.”

“You’ll make it too difficult for the sheriff to reach you,” countered Applegate. “And then he’ll be really pissed. Plus, you want the cops, lots of ’em, to make for a confrontation.”

A fine mist of snow had begun. Breathing felt like drinking. She hugged him around the chest as they walked and she buried her head against his coat. They weaved through a crowd of kids hanging out around a late-night dance club, but otherwise the streets and sidewalks were nearly empty. Applegate felt the solid buzz from the wine as they negotiated their way back to her place.

Ellenberg jumped on the phone, starting to spread the idea around, her face lighting up at the response. The word came back quickly: tomorrow. He heard her say “Dean’s idea” and “Dean thought it up.” Applegate poked around her brick loft, feeling useless as she chatted on the phone. Suddenly he felt very sober.

People would take the day off from work and would do whatever it took to make a difference. Mention doing something in the name of Ray Stern and an instant army was at your disposal.

They all wanted to get it going immediately. No questions asked. Ellenberg had a news editor friend who was sympathetic and the friend checked the advance log for the following day’s scheduled news. It was a slow news day. That cinched it. The phone tree, dry timber, was on fire.

When she was done and when the phone stopped ringing, Ellenberg lit a dozen candles. Applegate had to stop and think if it was still the same day he’d wailed on Bobby Alvin. It was.

“Come here,” said Ellenberg. She stood in the glow she’d created, unbuttoning her white cotton blouse, the one with the red and blue flowers embroidered on the pockets. Braless. She hooked her pants down, pulled back the quilt comforter and stood there in her powder blue short-cut panties, trim and lean.

“You going to stand there?”

“Enjoying it,” said Applegate.

“Hurry up and get naked,” she said. “We gotta get to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

****

The garage door was open and so was the door that led from the garage into the house. She heard one soft meow off in the distance and another, lower pitched and more like a siren. She shut the door behind her, stepped over a chair lying on its side and sprayed the room with the beam from her flashlight.

“Trudy?” she called out. Allison’s heart fluttered. Scampering cat feet everywhere made it worse. Add trespassing to the list of charges, thought Allison, as if the cops don’t have enough to worry about. This last piece, finding Trudy, was simply a matter of closing the loop with the only other person who cared about Rocky. And now she was beginning to wonder if anything was simple.

Allison stood in a ransacked kitchen. The table was turned over, there were smashed plates and a skid of food or slime covered the floor. Bits of broken glass and a bottle of mustard had smashed and exploded, leaving brown-yellow shrapnel everywhere. The light caught a pair of green eyes staring back at her from the floor. Another feline, this one jet black, crouched low in the middle of the mess. Careful of putting her footprints in any gobs of food, she picked her way around the clutter and upended table to the other side of the kitchen.

More meows. More cat eyes, pairs by the dozen.

She took the stairs up to the bedrooms. One bed was a mess, with squirming balls of fur in the middle of it. A mother and her new brood, hours old at most.

A bathroom was empty; a second bedroom empty, too. Allison went to the greenhouse. Nothing. She poked her flashlight down the basement stairs. The chorus of meows grew in strength as she stepped down, with one cat doing a figure eight between her feet. She found the light switch and snapped it on. A cat sprinted up as she cautiously descended.

Allison found the tub of cat food and slipped the plastic cover off the giant vat. It didn’t seem to make much of a sound, but the stairs behind her were quickly cluttered with cats. They pounded their way down and assembled at her feet like an alluvial fan of bubbling fur. They rubbed their chins on her ankles. There were five bowls, all licked clean. The cats jostled for position, spreading out and around until every munching station was full and the pecking order established.

“Knock yourselves out,” she told them. And sneezed.

She went back upstairs. The house was clearly empty, but the mess didn’t look good. Finding Trudy would depend upon how far she had decided to go and how long ago she’d left. Allison found herself standing next to a leafy fern-like plant in the living room. She jabbed a finger into the potting soil, to the first knuckle. The surface was dry, but the dirt below stuck to her skin. No more than a few days without water, she guessed. Trudy wouldn’t have gone too far, wouldn’t have left her cats and plants to the winds.

****

The motel room bugged her. There was so little room to move that it felt like a cell. All the surfaces were hard. There was nothing green. The only activity was on the TV. Worse than that, there was no news. CNN, sure, but no real news or developments. There was nothing on the local channels, either. The media needed a real slice of something meaty now for the next chapter to begin; anything but another loosely hinged sidebar about a remote aspect of animal rights, creative suicide, or the history of Ray Stern.

She needed Allison but wondered if she would still want to help. There hadn’t been any answer at Allison’s house the few times she had called. She left a message at Pete Weaver’s barn, but the mumbling guide who worked for Pete was unreliable, at best. She decided to go right to the top. If anybody could find Allison Coil, it was Pete Weaver himself. The phone at his farmhouse rang uselessly the first four times she tried it, on the hour, until after dusk.

“Weaver.”

The fifth time was the charm.

“Hi, Peter. It’s Trudy Grumley,” she said. The Grumley-Weaver tension had always been polite, but real. They were competitors after the same market in the same valley showing off the same wilderness, hunting the same herds.

“What can I do for you?” said Weaver.

“I’m looking for one of your guides. Allison Coil.”

“Popular girl,” said Weaver. “Been plenty busy, anyway. I’ll leave her a note on the message board down at the barn. You tried her home?”

“Yes. No answer.”

“Probably up on her routes,” said Weaver. “How about her boyfriend? The ranger?”

“Don’t know him.”

“David Slater. Forest Service ranger. Lives down in Glenwood Springs or down that way.”

Trudy said goodbye quickly, checked the directory for Slater, found a D Slater, no address, and dialed the number. She let it ring until she heard the message machine start. She hung up.