Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1)

by Mark Stevens

  And when they did start, there went the sales clerk job at the clothing store in Glenwood Springs and gradually her sense of independence. When George was gone for one of his long stretches, either on a hunt or flying his plane up to a remote neck of the woods, a member of his crew was given the task of visiting once in the morning and once in the afternoon to check on her, to make sure she hadn’t keeled over in a fit and to do any odd chores she wanted done. They called it “Trudy Duty.” It hadn’t taken her long to get over the strange feeling of having what amounted to a personal valet. Few of them refused a warm plate of her best food—Chinese chicken, Thai beef salad, or pork chops in apricot-ginger marinade. It was one way of saying thanks to those who helped her out. She could get chauffeured into town when she wanted to go to the bookstore or eat lunch. Groceries were delivered once a week. She had a satellite dish for entertainment. Trudy was made to feel her illness was being compensated for and accommodated. But it was not treated.

  George had stalled when it came to her desire to travel to Denver where specialists were perfecting fixes for her type of seizures. They could peel off a chunk of your skull, attach a bunch of probes, reattach the skull, wait for the next seizure, determine precisely which part of the brain was going haywire when the seizure took place and then, if the part of the brain involved didn’t seem crucial to memory or speech or motor control, snip it out.

  “Wait until they perfect the procedure,” George had said. “We don’t have insurance or the thirty thousand dollars to put up front. And what’s wrong with the way things are?”

  That’s where Rocky Carnivitas had offered a refreshingly different point of view. There was a sweet and amiable side to Rocky, despite a slightly tousled and unschooled manner. He had drawn “Trudy Duty” three days in a row earlier in the summer and had held her and comforted her through a fierce seizure that came on while they sat in the car in the dirt parking lot after the annual rodeo in Eagle. The rest of the night Rocky had stayed close, like a first-time dad. Rocky was the only one of the hands who had shown any interest in her situation. The others all wanted to know as little as possible.

  “If George doesn’t say it, he manages to imply that he doesn’t have the money,” Trudy said.

  “Christ, he’s worth ten times that,” said Rocky. He had driven her up to an overlook in Glenwood Canyon a few months earlier for a picnic. Grumley had flown to Texas to meet new clients. Rocky and Trudy sat on a blanket up on a cliff more than a thousand feet above the river. A bottle of wine and curried chicken sandwiches were slowly devoured. A fleet of rafters bobbed in the sparkling river below.

  “George says some months we barely make the mortgage. I mean, it’s a great house, but from time to time he’ll grumble about business and suggest getting a smaller place.”

  “He’s got the money for your operation,” Rocky had said. “Trust me on that.”

  They slept together that afternoon. A few tentative gropes on the picnic blanket served as prelude. They finished back at her house in the cool sheets of the spare bedroom—neutral territory. She discovered a yearning to be close to him. He was patient and listened to what she knew about plants and herbs. George’s whereabouts weren’t too much of an issue. He was rarely home midday and, besides, Rocky’s presence did not need to be concealed.

  Now Rocky was way overdue. When it came down to it, she realized Rocky had filled an aching gap and she did not want the gap to reappear. Perhaps someone else cared that Rocky was missing, but she didn’t know who that would be. However, amid the crash and crush of the media coverage about the “creative suicide,” a missing guide wasn’t worth a blip.

  Five

  “I suppose Ripplecreek has made a name for itself,” said Slater. “The worst kind. I just saw two local reporters interviewing another reporter from a national television network about why this story has attracted so much attention. They’re getting desperate for new people to interview, I suppose.”

  Slater refilled two crusty plastic coffee cups perched on the flopped-down glove compartment door of his Forest Service truck. The coffee dribbled from a beat-up steel thermos. He and Allison sat in the truck, engine idling, outside Pete Weaver’s Ripplecreek Ranch, which had been commandeered by Sandstrom as a temporary base camp and police headquarters, a place to hold news conferences and issue a few orders.

  Two days had passed since she and Slater had split up their investigation, a half-mile down the canyon from Lizard’s Tongue. Slater had found hunters near a few of the camps, but none had any useful information. Or maybe they didn’t want to involve themselves.

  “It’s perfect for Sandstrom. He laps up the national press while the case drags on,” said Slater. “The guy is sixty-three. He’s not going anywhere, but pretends every case is his next ticket to international fame.”

  “Maybe he’s hoping for one of those movie deals about his side of the story,” said Allison. “Be a good retirement bonus. These days, it doesn’t take much. But it would look better if it was him holding up the deer suit,” said Allison. That’s what the media started calling it: “deer suit.” As if it came with a coat and tie.

  Allison cracked her window for a breath of fresh air and ran the palm side of her knuckles over the straight, bristly hairs on the back of Slater’s neck.

  “Did you ever have long hair?”

  “In high school. Over the ears. I was extremely rebellious. We had military dads, with all their rules and bullshit. My dad had a real, live barber’s chair, for crying out loud. Now I get antsy if it’s not trimmed once a week and my job comes with its own set of rules for grooming. Something I promised myself I’d avoid. What gives?”

  “Indoctrination. That’s the city life, too. It wears you down. Conform or else,” said Allison.

  “Really? I thought the city was where all the weird folks could hide, do their own thing. I thought non-conformity was the point and why people liked living in the city, to watch it all go down.”

  “Conformity at the corporate level, I suppose,” said Allison. “Wear certain suits, read certain books, hang out in just the right places, say just the right things.”

  “Well, you fit in here too,” said Slater. “Half the folks in the mountains out here are runners anyway.”

  “I didn’t run from anything.” “No?”

  “I needed trees and sky. And I knew I’d never fly in an airplane again.”

  “So you needed a new home. I’m no philosopher, but isn’t that all of us? Either happy with our homes or looking for something better?”

  Slater was a relative of a friend of Pete Weaver. Slater had asked Weaver if there was an extra guide he could hire to help him take a Boy Scout troop from Glenwood Springs into the Flat Tops for a late summer daytrip. Allison drew the lucky straw. She led Slater and his scouts up to an aspen grove below a nearby ridge for a cookout.

  She admired how Slater managed to bounce easily among what the kids coughed up, from problem to complaint to fussiness. He often turned a sour moment into a funny one. Slater was the stern but slightly goofy shepherd of the olive-green flock. He showed them environmental damage from mountain bikes, talked about a proposed gravel pit application outside the wilderness area and showed them all how to make the best s’mores going by barely melting the chocolate before loading it into the graham cracker and marshmallow sandwich for the final heating. He danced artfully among small teams of scouts in the afternoon as they did various merit badge projects and he showed no sign of fatigue at dusk as they returned. In order to determine if Slater might be eligible for pursuit, she had separated a few key pieces of information about Troop Leader Slater’s marital status from one of the Eagle Scouts. Slater, easily the best looking man she’d ever approached on her own, was genuinely flattered when she mentioned that she was going to be visiting friends in Glenwood Springs the following week. It wasn’t true, but it sounded good. She had asked if they could meet for a drink. The drink led to a dinner date and the third date was a daylong horseback ride that
ended in her bedroom and lasted until breakfast.

  “And you?” said Allison.

  “And me what?”

  “Conformist?”

  “That’s what being a cop, of any variety, is all about,” said Slater. “Rules, order, everybody in line, make sure chaos is controlled and renegades are reined in. Speaking of which, I’ve got to interview every hunter out of Weaver’s camps.”

  “Six or seven are coming out today and seven more tomorrow,” said Allison. “Today’s won’t be out until early afternoon at best.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They want all the bases covered. In case they saw or heard something, you know. The government thinks of everything. And thinks it’s everything too. You can’t have too many bases covered, even if the bases are way the hell out in left field or foul territory.”

  “Oh, a baseball metaphor.”

  “It’s true,” said Slater. “If there’s anything that makes me madder than wasted taxpayer dollars, it’s stupid use of taxpayer dollars.” He was not amused.

  “Which is there more of?”

  “I don’t know. Some days it’s just ‘do everything’ because in government everything can be done eventually.”

  “Any mention of elk biologists working up in Ripplecreek?”

  “There’s a permitting process and, as always, no coordination among the five ranger districts,” said Slater.

  “They could have come out of any one of them.”

  “You going to tell Sandstrom?”

  “About?”

  “About the dead elk?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit strange?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And confirms that I wasn’t seeing things?”

  “What would I tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all connected. If you’re part of the briefings, mention it, that’s all. Remind Sandstrom and the others about what I saw. Maybe somebody else knows something now. Put two and two together.”

  “Okay,” said Slater.

  “With enthusiasm?”

  Slater bounced his head around, thinking.

  “I can’t believe you don’t believe me,” said Allison.

  “Well, I do. But I also think there’s a reasonable explanation. You know, in all the other stuff with the protester. The elk is strange, no question.”

  “I’ve got this thing about seeing pieces of the world being picked up and put back together. Call it a quirk.”

  Allison lightly kissed the first two fingers on her left hand, pressed them to Slater’s cheek. She opened her door.

  “I’d call it a challenge,” said Slater.

  “Works for me,” she said.

  ****

  “Wasn’t there an Apple something or other who was one of your hunting friends? He was on the news.”

  “Dean Applegate?” said Grumley.

  “That’s the one,” said Trudy. She plopped her watering can down on the cement floor of the greenhouse and started refilling it with a hose.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He was up there where they found that protester, the dead one.” said Trudy.

  “He left with the others,” said Grumley, thinking that Trudy must be mistaken.

  “Tall, lanky guy? Kind of a military haircut. Always looks a bit shell-shocked when he talks? Said his hunting days are over. He’s giving interviews.”

  “Interviews?” said Grumley. “What do you mean?”

  “He and Ellenberg are buddies, by the looks of things.”

  What the fuck?

  Trudy flitted from one plant to the next, poking the soil, shoving in inch-long vitamin sticks, pulling off yellow leaves and generally looking content. He wanted to tell her to stand still, like for a whole minute.

  “They even had a live hook-up with the Today Show this morning,” she said. “I almost woke you up. It’s not often one of your friends gets on national TV, right there in your own house, beamed in.”

  The telephone rang. George leaned back in his chair to reach the wall-mounted phone. He mumbled briefly, covered his mouth and the mouthpiece with a hand.

  “It’s your company-sponsored chauffeur, who didn’t realize I’d be back. Need anything I can’t handle?”

  Trudy wanted to ask which of the helpers it was, or make up an errand.

  “Are you going to be around?”

  “Just the morning.”

  “Tell him to call back at noon and we’ll probably do groceries, okay?”

  “Call back at noon,” George said into the phone.

  “Which hired gun today?” said Trudy.

  “Does it matter?”

  “A couple of them,” said Trudy, “are plain better than others.”

  The doorbell sounded and Grumley cursed. “Never any peace,” he said.

  Grumley retreated from the kitchen. He was secretly glad to remove himself from Trudy’s fussy world. A brown calico was making friends with his boots and he jerked the cat up by the scruff and let him dangle freely as he opened the door.

  Sheriff Sandstrom stood there, needling a toothpick around in his gums.

  “Home playing with your favorite pussy?” Sandstrom smiled, just barely.

  “Yeah, some fun,” said Grumley, flicking the cat aside. It landed with a thud and an accusatory meow.

  “Ooh, that one wants to bite back,” said Sandstrom. “Not my type.”

  “Not generally rated in the top ten,” said Grumley. “Come on in.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your driving all the way out to east bum fuck today?” said Grumley, leading him to the pot of coffee.

  “I wish it was gardening tips I needed. Then I’d know the trip wasn’t wasted,” said Sandstrom. He stood looking down into the greenhouse, his back to the kitchen. “My word,” he said. “Enough jungle for Tarzan and all the apes.”

  “Trudy,” said Grumley with a sigh. “She knows her fertilizer.”

  “Is she around?”

  “She doesn’t get far,” said Grumley.

  Sandstrom plopped down at the kitchen table and wrapped his thick-knuckled paw around a big blue cup.

  “You’ve probably got the biggest pot farm in the West right here and I’m having a cup of coffee like I don’t care.”

  “If that’s true, then I gotta talk about getting my share of the action,” said Grumley, head racing to think what real questions would be coming.

  “Talking about my babies?” said Trudy, striding confidently into the kitchen. Her rubber boots had been replaced by white tennis shoes. The white T-shirt had been covered by a blue-checked shirt, open to the navel. Grumley wanted to say “Shoo,” but had to admit his wife had a certain damn look. He tried to squelch the pride.

  “Just commenting on the quantity,” said Sandstrom, extending a hand to shake without getting up. “They are in beautiful shape.”

  “Thanks,” said Trudy.

  Grumley thought he’d be sitting right across from Sandstrom in the café-style booth. Trudy now occupied the seat. He didn’t want to sit next to either of them but felt awkward standing.

  Grumley pulled over a stool and plunked it down next to the table.

  “My wife,” Sandstrom continued, “couldn’t grow mold on old food. That’s quite a talent you’ve got.”

  “Thanks again,” said Trudy.

  “But I’m not here for how to get my thumb green,” said Sandstrom.

  “The murder,” said Trudy, quickly somber.

  “We don’t know murder,” said Sandstrom.

  “Accident?” said Trudy sharply.

  “Stranger things,” said Sandstrom. “Unless one of the animal protesters had the guts to pull the trigger on his buddy, the one wrapped in the deer suit. That would be murder.”

  Sandstrom took a sip of coffee. Maybe he needed the time to let the concept settle over the room.

  “See what I mean? It’s not hard to imagine. A zealot will do about anything. But that’s not why I’m her
e, to spout loose theories on what makes city people go wiggy in the head. George, your name’s on a list and we gotta check off a few questions. Where were you the day this fella decided to make himself a true fool? Not that I’m taking sides.”

  “Hunting,” said Grumley. “By myself.”

  “Where abouts?”

  “Down east from our camp, away from the protest, for obvious reasons.”

  “Not with your buddies?”

  “No. They wanted to lay low completely, ride out the protest and then get back to serious hunting.”

  “So you were by yourself?”

  “Like I said. Too much business to tend to,” said Grumley. “This year I was only going to join my buddies for opening weekend. Besides, short trip this year. These days, everybody’s so damn busy.”

  Grumley tried to keep plausibility within bounds and be wary of trip wires. But he couldn’t wait too long to answer. He’d already established a rhythm. He tried to remember what he was saying.

  “Didn’t see a small brown humanoid traipsing around?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “But you got no way of proving where you were?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “See any others up and around there? Anything strange? Hear anything?”

  “Nothing that comes to mind,” said Grumley.

  “Well, this visit has been good for high-quality caffeine and bad for solid information,” said Sandstrom.

  “I’m sorry we can’t help,” said Trudy.

  Sandstrom stood up. Grumley followed him to the door and outside.

  “If things settle down and you need a few thrills ... ?” said Grumley, trailing off.

  “Thanks,” said Sandstrom. “The elusive big kahuna will have to wait another year, fatten up for Sheriff Ahab. You always have a way of finding the big ones.”

  “Not likely if it snows like this all winter,” said Grumley. “No forage.”

  Sandstrom plopped himself behind the wheel and snapped the ignition. “I know he’s out there,” he said. The car purred with a low, pleasing warmth. “And I know who to call. What’s your slogan? Best Dag-Gum Guides In The Valley?”

  “Very amusing,” said Grumley with a smile, hesitating, not knowing whether to push his luck. Had he already slipped? Had Sandstrom already picked out an error in what he’d said? Was a key tidbit out of whack? Had anybody noticed that Rocky Carnivitas hadn’t been around?