by Mark Stevens
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 San
dstrom. “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.
“Sleep okay?” said Ellenberg.
“After that great serenade,” said Applegate, “of course. Thanks for the loaned tent.”
“Not a problem. Thanks for your help, by the way,” Ellenberg said.
“My pleasure.”
“I hear the interviews went okay.”
“The reporters all ask the same five or six questions,” said Applegate with a smile. “I thought one of ’em from The New York Times was gonna write my life story though.”
“Didn’t I see you being tortured by that slick-haired guy from Channel 9?”
“A strange breed, that one. He figured I was set up by you guys to look like a hunter.”
She had urged the reporters to all visit the sing-a-long, to show the group’s strong common beliefs and sense of community.
“Did you convince him?”
“I remembered I had a picture of myself with a big old elk that I killed several years back. Nearly trophy class. The picture was sufficiently faded. Now even Time has it, Time magazine.”
“Fantastic,” said Ellenberg. “Are you dealing with this okay?”
“I’ve never felt better,” said Applegate. “I feel, I don’t know, cleansed. Purified.”
Applegate took a deep breath. Whether it was from plowing through the snow or from thinking things over, Ellenberg couldn’t tell.
“My decision seems so small if it means prompting someone else to think about animals in a different way.”
The day had dawned clear and strong. It revealed a valley frozen in white, from cornices on the wind-whipped ridges to the west, to the rounder hills off to the east. The scene was defined by what was not white: the south-facing trunks of trees, the occasional boulder large enough to avoid a complete cover of snow and wisps of grass or bush that poked through the surface. A giant, invisible razor had given the scene its final grooming touches, turning the snow blanket smooth and clean-shaven.
The bloodhound led them up through a stretch of valley where the walls closed in and the woods grew dense. The entire troop— twenty cops, friends and fellow protesters—came to a complete stop as the dog poked around. A TV helicopter buzzed overhead for an aerial shot.
Applegate realized he was breathing harder than normal. Through binoculars Ellenberg could see the bloodhound working a series of concentric circles from the point where he had first pulled up. The handler and Slater stood rock still. It was remarkable that the dog could smell anything in the cold.
The bloodhound suddenly plunged off into a thick stand of trees, stopped suddenly and started pawing at the surface. His handler smiled.
“I hope Ray Stern felt release,” said Ellenberg. “A moment or two.”
Applegate buried his face in one mitten-covered hand and put the other on her shoulder.
****
Grumley was anxious to get a grip on his entire operation. He wanted time alone in his office, a small square of space in the center of the barn, between the shop and the saddle room. The office was big enough for a couple of old desks, a sagging red couch, a telephone, a space heater and a stocked rifle rack that circled the room on three sides. The rack was now home for Applegate’s Sako, a beautiful weapon much too nice for the likes of such a pathetic “hunter.”
He didn’t really need Popeye Boyles nipping at his heels, but the guy might sulk if you didn’t scratch him behind the ears.
“You look refreshed.” It was Boyles, toting a shovel coated with muck.
“Nothing like home cooking,” said Grumley.
“And being the old sailor I am, I know you don’t mean food.” Grumley grimaced.
“What’s up with the search?”
“They’re up there now, bashing around,” said Boyles.
“They?”
“A bloodhound from Grand Junction, a bunch of cops and rangers, a pack of them protesters and the dead guy’s brother.”
“Dead guy?”
Boyles stopped for a second and cocked his head to the radio strapped to his waist. Grumley could hear a soft voice but could not make out the words.
“Just someone sending out for donuts,” said Boyles. He stood there as if he hadn’t been asked a question.
“Dead guy?” Grumley repeated.
“Pretty sure dead. A bloodhound can track the trail of a filet mignon hanging out the window of a car door three days later, as long as you have a piece of the original steak. He’ll find it.”
“Where’s the sheriff on all this?”
“Sandstrom on a hike? In the snow? Uphill? Please.”
“Well?”
“He’s monitoring things from base camp over at Weaver’s place. What’s gonna be interesting is if they wind up where that one guide said she saw somethin’.”
“One more time, Popeye.”
“One of the guides over at Weaver’s place said she saw some strange goings-on up near Lizard’s Tongue.”
For a split second the announcement didn’t seem connected to Grumley’s world. How could anybody have seen anything?
“Strange what?”
“She’s tellin’ the cops about hearing a shot and seeing somebody. Most of it was garbled, you know, fuzzy. But she got herself a few minutes with Sandstrom.”
Grumley tried to think of the questions that a normally curious guy would ask. The key was to settle on a point between overly interested and not nosy enough.
; “Name?”
“Allison something.”
Grumley remembered her, a city girl with a lot of want-to, trust-me in her eyes. She’d come around, at one point, looking for a job. “Allison Coil?” He remembered her. She was stunning in her own small-boned way. Cute and very green.
“That’s it.”
“Why does she think it’s anything?”
“Have to ask her. Oh, something about a dead elk, too.”
Grumley suddenly realized how everything could unravel. Heard a shot. Saw something. She might make enough fuss that they’d go look. There was no chance of finding the body until spring even if someone gave enough of a shit to keep complaining that Rocky Carnivitas was missing from the face of the earth. Even then all the cops would have would be a dead guy and a bullet, right? Hunting accident. Applegate was the complicating factor.
Boyles shuffled off, turning up the volume on his police radio.
For two hours Grumley made routine calls while the working part of his brain sorted through various scenarios of cop investigations. Two clients were due next week, one for a bull elk, the other for a trophy-class mountain goat. Both were repeat clients, a Hollywood B-movie producer and a San Francisco banker. The banker didn’t want things to be “too easy” this time. There should be two crews getting both animals ready. They would have to tranquilize the bull and tie it down one or two days before the scheduled hunt date. Rocky’s bull would have worked fine, but that was water under the bridge. The mountain goat could be moved after he was sedated.
Next, he made a call down to the store. Sales were good, not spectacular. They had run out of camouflage vests because of a screw-up with the distributor, but there was no shortage of ladies’ swimwear.
The schedule showed two two-man crews out servicing camps. One camp was due to break the day after tomorrow. Both were five-man groups, one supplied with a cook and one without.
According to the chalkboard, two other guides were following back a messenger from a third camp who had come for help quartering and packing out a kill. Boyles was scheduled for barn clean up. A guy named Gilliam was on “Trudy Duty,” the thankless job of watching Grumley’s wife to prevent any unattended seizures.
