Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

“He’s a goner unless he was a professional mountaineer,” said Boyles, just making conversation. “But from what I gather, he was the kind of guy who would have had a tough time with a sleepover in his own backyard.”

“Nasty up there,” said Grumley.

News delivered, Boyles drifted off.

“One other thing,” said Grumley. Boyles stopped like a dog on a choke chain. “Find someone to go tell my hunting buddies that they’re on their own for a few days. However long they want to hang around is fine. Tell them I got pulled away, make some shit up. Marcovicci knows his way around; he can handle anything.”

“Done,” said Boyles.

“And tell ’em, too, that Applegate headed off. Might be back, might not. Tell ’em I’ll be back to check in a few days. Make up a juicy story, okay? Tell ’em I got busy digging out a backcountry camp. Whatever. Make it good.”

****

Grumley plunged his old Ford pickup down the slope through the bog birch and parked it in the pristine powder covering the dirt driveway. No one had been in or out of Rocky Carnivitas’ mobile home for a day or more. The handle turned. It was unlocked, a typical backwoods practice.

The interior of the old Streamliner was cramped, more like a steel cave than a home. It was only five short steps from front to back. In the middle, where the airplane-sized bathroom and storage closet faced each other on opposite sides of the floor plan, Grumley’s shoulders scraped the walls. There was a bedroom in back.

Small wonder, Grumley thought, that Trudy’s company and Trudy’s closeness held a certain appeal.

The refrigerator yielded nothing but sour milk and a half loaf of stiff, moldy white bread, the cheap stuff.

Everything looked normal. The kitchen was straightforward enough, including the photographs taped to the cupboard doors: Rocky in various poses with hunted game, in various seasons and in various terrains. The game included a mountain lion, a bighorn sheep and a half-dozen elk and deer. There wasn’t much Rocky hadn’t killed. One of the elk sported a towering rack, near trophy size. Rocky had wedged himself in between the antlers and flashed a wicked grin. He looked simultaneously ecstatic and angry, as if his main spring was wound one crank too tight.

Grumley took forty-five dollars out of a tin box next to a tape deck on a ledge above the bed. He checked the tiny bathroom for secret compartments. Fuckin’ Rocky, he thought. The business now produced more cash in a month than the sporting goods store generated in a year and it was not to be messed with by anyone. Rocky had been among the best. Until he got stupid.

Grumley went back to the elk antler photograph. Rocky wasn’t quite as sheepish as his quiet manner had suggested upon first hire. Christ, that grin. Another poser. Grumley was sick and tired of the fakers and their bullshit. Rocky had been a coward and a fool for having been sucked into Trudy’s world. He had wanted something for nothing. Worse, he’d been a major irritation. Staring at that semi-leer between the elk’s huge headgear, Grumley wished he could kill him all over again.

****

Suddenly, reporters. A whole flock. Maria Nash was back, but she was now flanked by a stringer from The Denver Post and two—count them, two—television cameras from two Denver stations that had managed to show up at precisely the same moment. One of these TV types was proving particularly obnoxious. Ellenberg wanted to clock him, but it probably wouldn’t look good on TV.

“So you didn’t find the note until this morning?”

“Correct.”

“And he had left it on his sleeping bag?”

“Correct.”

Ellenberg tried to remember her training in media management. Never reveal anger. Be calm, especially with cameras recording every blink. She counted six television cameras, five photographers and ten reporters. They fanned out in a semi-circle in the trampled field.

Ellenberg was tired and emotionally drained. The walk down from camp to the county road through the snow had been grueling. A thin snow was still falling, but splotches of blue could be seen through the clouds to the east.

“But you knew this individual was missing more than twelve hours before you looked in his tent, correct?”

“Yes,” said Ellenberg. “There didn’t seem to be much we could do.”

Ellenberg noted that the reporter’s oversized parka included a fur fringe. She wanted to point out how animals were being used to make him appear warm.

“What do you think the note means?”

This question was from good old Maria Nash. Ellenberg wondered if she would hear the phrase “meat-eating statistics” if Robert P. Calkins III was not there.

“I’m not sure.”

Never get trapped in a cycle of speculation. Answer facts and always bring questions back to your themes and issues.

“Did you have any standards, were you doing any checking for physical fitness for your ... your whatever you call it?”

The badger again—Robert P. Calkins III.

“Protest,” said Ellenberg.

“So the answer is no?

“That is correct.

“And so you basically would have let anybody join your event?”

“It was a peaceful protest against a particularly invidious form of violence,” said Ellenberg, with an ever-so-slight smile. “Not an event. We welcomed all those who wished to help show the world about the level of barbarism being committed every day right here in Colorado.”

“Would you have called it off had you known that the snowstorm would be this severe?”

“I think,” said Ellenberg. She checked herself. “Yes,” she said, working to be emphatic. The reporters stood around waiting to see if the badger had another chomp left. Calkins looked at the others, who stared back. The badger tucked away a pen he had never used. The press conference was over.

Ellenberg took a deep, invisible breath and drifted off toward the FATE trailer that had been used as headquarters throughout the protest. A giant banner had been draped along the trailer’s side: FAIR IS FAIR. LET’S ARM THE ANIMALS. She reached the door of her trailer, turned around with a feeling she was being followed.

She fought the impulse to gasp.

The man stopped inches away. For a second she remembered one friend’s suggestion that she consider having a bodyguard. The man was solidly built and over six feet tall, dressed head to boot in hunter’s camouflage. His face was smeared with green-black paint and the look on his face was serious, cast in a snarl.

“Dawn Ellenberg?”

Maybe he was a reporter for
Field And Stream
(
“Fire And Aim,”
as they called it).

“I wanted to tell you ...”

“What ... ?

“Your protest. I mean, I’m a hunter. But I’m finished. What happened here has...”

He stopped to fight back tears.

“What is it?” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“I stopped and thought ... what’s the point?”

“It’s okay,” said Ellenberg.

“No, it’s not. I’m giving up hunting. I want to help.”

“Help?”

“Volunteer. Help. Whatever.”

“There’s certainly plenty to do.”

“It took guts to do what you did.”

“Several hundred others, too,” she said.

“I admire you all.”

“And you’re from—”

“Denver, just outside.”

“I think reporters might be interested in your change of heart. Very interested.”

If he remained decked out in camouflage garb, she realized, the story of his conversion could be extremely effective.

“I’m not doing this for anything like that,” said the hunter.

“Your story might pay certain dividends for us. I’d be grateful. I’ll introduce you to the whole PR team.”

“I was going to head back to Denver, but I could stay.”

“Splendid,” said Ellenberg.

“Thank you,” said the man. “I’m starting to feel so much better already.”

“If there are no reporters who are interested now, it might be tomorrow. I’m sure we can find you a spot to make camp. A tent, sleeping bag. We’ve got to get you out of those clothes for now. You’re likely to spook a whole bunch of folks around here.”

“It’s all I had.”

“That’s okay. Thanks,” said Ellenberg, holding out her hand for a shake. “And your name is?”

“Applegate. Dean Applegate.”

****

The more they asked questions, the more Allison realized how little she had seen and heard. A shot. A man. A shadow. A shape. A moment of activity. A dead elk lying in the rocks.

The ring of officialdom had stopped their search planning long enough to listen to her tale. Sheriff Sandstrom had wanted to designate a low-level deputy to have her sketch her route and key landmarks on a topo map. But then she said it: “It might have been a human body.”

Slater had helped her nail down a minute with Jerry Sandstrom,
Sheriff
Jerry Sandstrom, with the spiky ear hair and backwoods gruffness. He had been sheriff since Nixon was president and was recently given another four-year deal from the voters. Jerry On-The-Spot Sandstrom. He always liked to be there in murder cases before the last wisp of steam rose from the corpse, according to Slater. Sandstrom stood next to Slater’s boss, District Ranger Gary Bridgers, who was intent but clueless. He took notes and tried to look as if he might have a good idea any second now. A seasoned old cowboy stood near Bridgers. She recognized him from the trails. He was an overly nosy sort and one of Grumley’s crew.

They all stood under the canopy that jutted off the barn that was the heart of Pete Weaver’s Ripplecreek Ranch. Weaver was long gone. He had headed off with the two groups of hunters, but not before Allison had pulled him aside and told him she’d probably be busy with the authorities and why.

“What makes you say
human body
?” said Sandstrom. “How far away were you?”

“As the crow flies, hard to say,” said Allison. “It was the way load was being dragged, the way the man was pulling it.”

“And you had a good look at it even through a friggin’ storm?”

“With binos. Good ones.”

They took her to the hood of a pickup truck with its nose protected by the canopy. A topo map was taped to the green metal. The map already sported a series of red dots and trails marked in felt-tip pen. One said “D.E.’s camp.” Dawn Ellenberg’s.

“Where were you?” said Sandstrom.

Sandstrom’s head shook and bobbed even when he wasn’t talking. The rooster-like flap under his jaw amplified the condition. He towered over Allison, so she got an unwelcome look at the quivering pouch.

“Here,” said Allison, quickly finding the tight concentric circles that indicated Lizard’s Tongue. She showed him Black Squirrel Pass and where she had camped the night before. The officials huddled around Sandstrom and tried to figure out if it was possible for their missing protester to have traveled that far.

“What time was this?” said Sandstrom.

“Late morning. Maybe noon.”

Allison found Slater’s face in the huddle of men and he offered encouragement with a faint smile.

“Anything else unusual or out of the ordinary occur?” This was Bridgers, wedging himself into matters. “Anything you saw or heard, anything you found?”

“No,” said Allison bluntly. “Except an elk. Dead one. Good-size bull, too.”

“A carcass?” said Sandstrom.

“Yeah, carcass. But a fresh kill.”

“You’re sure?”

“He was still warm.”

“And where was this?” Sandstrom showed a flash of impatience.

“Right at the spot where I saw the guy, near the base of Lizard’s Tongue.”

“Good Christ,” said Sandstrom. “A dead bull in the wilderness. I’m sure all of the cows are upset, but we’ve gotta start with our missing boy and keep this investigation focused on the Homo sapiens. Okay with everybody? Thank you, sweetheart.”

Allison squeezed her way out of the circle of Sandstrom’s huddle.

“We’ll need a good bloodhound to find the trail of the missing protester,” Sandstrom said to Slater.

“Maybe that one in Grand Junction isn’t busy. The one that followed the bomber home,” suggested Slater.

“Call and find out,” said Sandstrom, snapping as if his authority extended to all branches of government.

“Done,” said Slater, who was known fairly well in Glenwood Springs and around. He had mediated a dispute between mountain bikers and hikers on a popular National Forest trail and had settled a long-standing feud between backcountry outfitters competing for access to one of the best elk herds—a spat that had to do with camp locations in the wilderness area. But Slater’s role kept the “accidental” shootings to one. Still, Allison thought Slater might roll his eyes at her any second, as if to say,
get a load of this old cop
. But Slater played right along. His attitude made Allison smile.

The last full-fledged boyfriend she’d had after the airplane accident was hung up on every mystical song Van Morrison had ever sung. He was a mental drifter, a searcher, who calculated the price of belonging to every structure or organization as a personal sacrifice. Not Slater. He saw his place, or knew how to pretend he did. As a result, the picture of comfort and suggestion of stability that he presented was strangely inviting.

Four

“Something tells me we’re getting close.”

This was Applegate, who had pulled up behind Ellenberg as they trudged through the snow.

“What makes you think so?”

“A hunch, I don’t know. If he wasn’t well to begin with, it’s hard to imagine he got much farther, even with better conditions.”

“True,” said Ellenberg.

A fresh set of clothes turned up. They fit a bit loosely, but they worked. Jeans and a fleece sweatshirt. He had shaved and cleaned up. He looked more at ease, less severe, out of the camouflage.

Ellenberg and most of the others had spent the evening in the camp’s oversized canvas tent, singing along with a trio of acoustic guitars to everything from John Denver to Neil Young to Kurt Cobain,
Nirvana Unplugged
. The mood of the singers had been subdued and earnest. It was not a party, it was a bonding. Everyone was thinking about the lost protester, whose identity was now in steady circulation. His name was Ray Stern. Everyone was thinking about Ray.