Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1)

by Mark Stevens

  “Maybe one of your people actually saw something, but may not know it was important. Do me a favor and ask around.” Sandstrom slapped the steering wheel. “Almost forgot. I’ll need a list of where to reach all your hunting buddies and your guides, too. Could you give me that? Addresses and phones too? Have it called in or dropped off down in Glenwood Springs, say, by afternoon?”

  “Sure,” said Grumley. “So, say, uh ... this must really be quite the scene. All the media, all the questions.”

  “There’s more cameras here than at Kodak HQ,” said Sandstrom. “But I’m telling ’em who has got the information and when they’re going to receive their daily dose.”

  “Anything else going on?” said Grumley. He hoped Sandstrom viewed him as casually curious, nothing more.

  “Jesus, ain’t this enough?”

  “Course it is. I’m just making conver—”

  “You seem worried.”

  “Not me,” said Grumley. “Just wondering. One of my guys said he heard someone who said she saw something way the hell up there. Didn’t know if it was related, or might have been.”

  “Oh, the little guide that could. A little screwy in her mind, I think, with her directions. Women. Maps. You know. She heard a shot, she thinks. Hey, you go to see a waterfall, there’s going to be a splashing noise. It’s hunting season. Well, you get my point. She didn’t have much worth taking to the bank.”

  “Who was it? Anybody I’d know?” Grumley tried for a casual tone.

  “Now that seems like confidential police information.”

  Grumley stared.

  “Allison but I can’t remember the last name. Kind of a small gal.”

  Popeye had been right.

  “Yeah,” said Grumley. “Seen her around. Where was she?”

  “When?”

  “When she saw what she saw.”

  “Coming off Black Squirrel Pass.”

  “Sounds like you know your mountain terrain.”

  “Not really,” said Sandstrom, who started backing out. “Only telling you what I heard.”

  Grumley imagined he was listening to one of Trudy’s revelations about a new plant she had brought home. A look of complete indifference. “Thanks for the visit,” he said.

  “Onward and sideways,” said Sandstrom. “Sideways and onward.”

  ****

  It was a glorified motel with a few hotel-like amenities such as room service. Nice enough. The lodge sat off the interstate in downtown Glenwood Springs. From his motel room, where FATE had set up a “PR camp” to exploit the media frenzy over Ray Stern’s dramatic exit from Planet Earth and milk the story of one odd hunter’s miraculous conversion, Dean Applegate could see the ever-wafting steam billow up from the city’s public hot springs a block away. Day or night, it didn’t matter. The steam was endless. He badly wanted a dip to soak off the last days of worry and fatigue. It bugged him that the camera crews, reporters and even Ellenberg sported a slightly sulfuric perfume that had become telltale proof of a thorough soak.

  Applegate had gotten used to the cameras and the lights and waiting for crews to set up. He even knew how to loop the microphone cord behind his shirt buttons so it didn’t show. The repetitious questions were getting old, so he had started to embellish his tales a bit, as a means of entertainment. Maybe in his old hunting days he hadn’t felled the most stunning elk, but he could say he had helped his buddies stalk them. Maybe he hadn’t filled his freezer with venison every season, but he could talk about the thrill of the hunt and what he used to believe was an energizing, manly sport. His description of his conversion never wavered, how the realization of Ray Stern’s protest stopped him in his tracks. But his hunting yarns were sometimes spun with a tougher or more interesting weave.

  The camera crews were legion. All the news stories. The morning shows. The magazine shows. The networks and the independents: how could anybody really tell the difference? Same questions, same faces, same line of thinking. Between interviews, he listened to various agents from New York and Los Angeles wanting the right to pitch a movie deal based on his story. One working title was I Will Kill No More. They whispered great sums that made sleep a dicey prospect. He thought about a debt-free existence and Caribbean vacations.

  Even Ellenberg’s close scrutiny showed respect. She was not nearly as cool or militant off stage, it turned out. He had even seen her drink a few glasses of Chardonnay and get rather giggly. Applegate had fantasies about the ex-hunter making an item with the Queen of Animals. Ellenberg was cool. Her laugh was throaty and full. She tucked her long chestnut hair up and over her ear like a high school kid who realized, for the first time, that boys watched every move girls made. She had skinny hips and a hippie-dippy look. He wanted to buy her champagne and tickle her toes, just to hear her laugh. He’d never felt this natural joy from being around any other woman.

  More than anything, Applegate felt a new, warm cocoon of family. There was a near-religious bond inside the group, a touch of zeal mixed with a few common beliefs about how the world should work. He would not let them down. Suddenly Grumley and the others were the ones out of touch. Hunting was uncivilized, unnecessary and cruel. What was the point? How could mankind consider itself decent and refined when it spent so much energy and showed so much interest in slaughtering lesser beasts? The hunting culture could claim they were following centuries’ worth of instinct. Individual hunters could say they did it for the meat. And the state-sponsored so-called experts could say hunting was vital to managing wildlife populations. But it all came down to a rifle and an innocent animal being shot and killed to tease and excite a man’s base instincts.

  Applegate watched the surging steam and yearned for a dip. He was exhausted. He poured off three fingers of bourbon in a plastic cup from the bathroom and fetched ice from the machine near the lobby. He sat on his bed, sipping away as he watched the late news on CNN and thought about his stupid, but brilliant, mistake.

  His last.

  ****

  “What’s in the woods?”

  “A chance to get naked,” said Allison.

  “I don’t like getting naked when it’s below a temperature that can freeze certain tips of one’s anatomy.”

  “I love it when you’re reasonable,” said Allison, climbing out of Slater’s truck and making a point of showing him she had grabbed the keys. “Freeze here or come with me.”

  Allison led the way, using a flashlight to follow the tracks of others through the crusty snow. The night was noiseless, as if the temperature had convinced the wind to lay low. She led the way, trudging a couple of hundred yards down through a densely wooded slope to a small clearing that opened to a canopy of stars. Allison slipped a five-dollar bill through a slot in a metal box that had been nailed to a tree. The money paid for upkeep and the ever-present pile of wood, dried and split. A fire burned casually, kicking a glow across the hot springs. A giggle bounced across the water, high and clear. Two heads bobbed in the center of the pool.

  “Come on,” said Allison, peeling off her parka and hanging it on a branch. She took the wine bottle from Slater and nestled it in rocks next to the pool, untied her shoes and pulled down her jeans. “In two minutes you’ll be so warm and relaxed you’ll never want to leave.”

  “Strangers,” said Slater.

  “Come on, Mr. Boy Scout. You’ve seen one weenie, you’ve seen them all. Besides, those two could care less about you.”

  “Oh, thanks,” said Slater.

  “And if you’d noticed,” she whispered, “it’s two women and they’re not hugging because it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other.”

  Slater took a tentative look over Allison’s shoulder.

  “Don’t stare,” she said.

  “You are quite observant,” said Slater.

  “Like I’ve been trying to tell you. Now, let’s go.”

  Allison was down to her underwear. She peeled them off and stuffed her clothes in a plastic bag. “If you leave them out to the ele
ments, the steam from the pool gets them soaked and then they freeze. Put yours on top of mine before you get in. That is, if you decide to join me.”

  Allison waded in, ignoring the hot shock to her toes. The bottom was rocky. Finally, at hip level, she pushed off the bottom and floated away. Slater was down to his American flag boxer shorts and then slipped those off. She admired the view of his taut, slightly hairy stomach and the fire’s golden glow on his skin.

  She found the bottle in the rocks and they drifted to a corner of the pool. Slater came up close next to her, gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and turned so they both faced out, looking across the water.

  “So in their minds there is only one case?” said Allison. Slater had been permitted inside a day-ending inter-governmental briefing, closed to the press.

  “Sandstrom’s got a laser beam on Ray Stern. He’s got a large army of crackerjack specialists buzzing in a swarm, but they’ve got zip-oh. They need a break, someone with a morsel of useful information.”

  Slater cautioned her that all the closed-door information was confidential and then went into detail. The autopsy, he explained, left few clues. The bullet had come to rest against the victim’s spine, the seventh vertebrae. The dense material of the deer suit had slowed the missile down, but it couldn’t have been a rifle that was overwhelmingly powerful. There were traces of THC in Stern’s system, enough that he had probably smoked dope in the twenty-four hours prior to his death. Two other marijuana cigarettes had been found in his tent. The doctor who performed the autopsy reported that leukemia patients often were prescribed marijuana for its therapeutic and pain-relief benefits. Sandstrom told the press that Stern’s brother confirmed he was one of eighteen patients in the state who had been permitted medicinal use of dope. In fact, Stern had joined a class-action lawsuit against the FDA, which was trying to declassify marijuana as a beneficial drug.

  “So Stern got high,” said Allison. “Doesn’t change what he did.” “Enough people will think it means he wasn’t in control of his actions,” said Slater. “Taints it a bit, diminishes the impact of a totally sober decision. But I haven’t told you the best part.”

  Slater sat up off the water and on a rock. His concern for strangers’ eyes was no longer an issue.

  “Okay, the best part,” said Allison.

  “Stern’s lunch,” said Slater. “He had a Tupperware container with him—but it was empty. Remnants indicate it was cheese and crackers, probably cheddar and a kind of salty thing, most likely Ritz.”

  “So he ate it.”

  “No. That’s the point. He didn’t. He had an empty stomach.”

  “How do they know it wasn’t an old, empty Tupperware?”

  “The cheese crumbs.”

  “Cheese crumbs?”

  “You know, cheese bits. They were fresh.”

  “So whoever shot him also ate his lunch?”

  “It was no bear or raccoon that resealed a snug-fit plastic lip.”

  “Yuck,” said Allison. “Ooo, so you’re looking for a stupid, really bad hunter who might steal your lunch too. Any fingerprints on the plastic?”

  “No. He probably kept his gloves on. Stern’s water bottle was emptied, too. The guy needed food and water.”

  Slater sipped some wine, passed the bottle.

  “So, is Sandstrom going to see this through?” said Allison. “I mean, does he know enough, care enough, to get it done?” “He’ll need luck,” said Slater.

  “Until you get lucky, you gotta plug away. So, where is the sheriff ’s department going to be plugging?”

  “I don’t think they publicly reveal all aspects of an investigation,” said Slater. “Especially to key witnesses.”

  “Even to you—or to the feds?”

  “Like two snarling cats. Teamwork is unheard of. My boss, Bridgers, isn’t even told when and where the task force meets. It’s pathetic.”

  “So you don’t even know the strategy?” said Allison.

  “Do what I’m told, which isn’t much now that every hunter in the state has been quizzed.”

  “What if I heard the shot that killed Ray Stern? Reports say Stern wasn’t too big. Maybe he got shot and then the killer needed to move him. Dragged him for a ways, got tired, plunked him in the middle of nowhere, but off the trail.”

  “Long ways from where you were. And how’s that fit with your elk?”

  “I want to know why nobody thinks these things are related, that’s all.”

  “Long way to carry anybody from up near Lizard’s Tongue all the way down to where Stern’s body was found. Think how weird you’d feel moving a corpse around.”

  In the drink of Long Island Sound, she had bobbed around with a few others who hadn’t been so lucky. Slater was right.

  “One question, okay?” said Allison.

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “What’s to believe?”

  “I was wondering if you think I’m making things up.”

  “Of course not,” said Slater.

  The women were climbing out. Steam flew from their skin. The vapors were quickly zapped by the cold night. Slater slipped back into the water and Allison watched him as he watched them.

  She eased her hand down Slater’s chest, over his stomach. She let her hand linger where the hair on his belly, a few inches south of his navel, was wet and curly. She felt further down and found him limp.

  “Those two naked girls didn’t do it for you?”

  He answered by reaching over with a free hand to cup her breast. He kissed her on the mouth.

  “Relax,” she said. “We’re all alone now. Just us and the steam and the night.”

  “I’m getting relaxed,” he said.

  “Not all of you, apparently,” she said.

  She passed the bottle back to him and he took a drink. Slater inhaled with a soft moan as she stroked him. He nuzzled and kissed her under the ear. He was harder now. Her fist splashed gently in the water where his hips broke the surface. The sound was like a frustrated fish working its way upstream. Slater raised his hips above the water and the splashing subsided, but not his desire. Allison pressed against him and he turned and gave her a full, warm kiss as she stroked. His hand was reaching for her and she felt that wonderful ache as he touched her. She rested her head on his chest and took in the view down his chest and the water, ripples gilded by the fire. The tight loop of pleasure and yearning was worth savoring and she slowed down, worked her hips around and enjoying his touch. Was the journey better than the destination? In this case, she would cast an emphatic vote for yes. He counted down “three ... two ... one ...” in a half-moan, half-whisper and his body quaked and he turned to her, holding her tight and then not. He sunk into the water and let out a long sigh. He shuddered and rolled over, his back to her. Allison picked up the wine and sipped, letting the wine tingle on her tongue.

  “You’re next,” he said.

  “Promises,” she said.

  “I’m not a man of my word?”

  “It’s worth making sure,” she said. “Never hurts.”

  Slater rolled on top of her, kissed her gently on her forehead, eyes, cheeks, stomach, hip bones and down.

  As she closed her eyes and felt the ache surge, her mind drifted maddeningly and immediately back to Ray Stern. It was hard to connect the death of Ray Stern with what she’d seen and heard. Hard, yes, but not impossible. Was the man dragging Ray Stern? She could not stop thinking about the man and his awkward, nearly angry, work—tugging something like he was taking out the trash and none too happy about the chore. As Slater found a rhythm with his tongue, Allison leaned further back and concentrated on banishing all thoughts of worry and problems and questions and theories. What mattered was right now. What mattered was each millisecond after the next and staying out on that road, enjoying the journey.

  Six

  “Who else is left?”

  “It’s a freelancer. Some guy says he needs to stay in his room at the Hot
el Colorado. He’s working on a book or something, parts are gonna run in Rolling Stone. His theme is the dilapidated state of the American protest movement. Says he wants to use our organization as a success story and he wants to talk with you.”

  Applegate sighed. He felt spent. However, a candle-size glow of self-esteem continued to burn steadily deep in his guts and it wouldn’t hurt to feed the flame.

  “No problem,” he said.

  Applegate was relaxing with a Bloody Mary in one hand and the television remote control in the other. Wheel of Fortune numbed him like an ice bath.

  “We’ll go over later and jump in the hot springs,” Ellenberg said. She walked over to his bed and sat down next to him. “The manager called. Turns out he’s one of us. Said he saw you on CNN this afternoon and wanted to offer us a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

  They had commandeered a section of the hot springs’ pool deck that afternoon for a live-via-satellite debate with the editor of a prominent elk journal, Bugle. Applegate had taken the editor on with all the emotion and passion he could muster. The words came quickly and easily. He was polite. He listened and didn’t step on the other guy. He waited his turn and objected—strongly. He challenged every claim and talked in warm and clear tones about the senseless destruction of natural beauty. With fervor he made up a story about having seen a hunter drop an extra elk for the pure joy of it while packing out the carcass of another. The second elk was left to rot, its antlers cut off and hidden in a spot where the hunter would return later and retrieve them.

  He focused on the issues and he remained composed. That was one of the tips from Ellenberg: to appear reserved and relaxed. Ellenberg said it was important to “out-friendly” the hunters.

  “You were great today, Dean,” said Ellenberg, casually putting a hand on his leg.

  “When does the freelancer need me?”

  “Twenty minutes or so. Stop by my room when you’re done. We’ll see about dinner and the soak.”