Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1)

by Mark Stevens

  The prospect of the date alone sent Applegate out the door of the Roaring Fork Inn with an extra lift in his step. The hotel was a few blocks away. In the fading light of day, a steady flow of cars plodded along, most heading east on the interstate from Aspen and Carbondale. A day of strong sunshine had turned the streets and sidewalks into sandy, sloppy muck. He passed a gas station where cars waited for the pump. He passed BJ’s Velvet Freez, a one-hour photo shop and a spiffy new café that advertised espresso drinks. Across the river, an Amtrak train was coming to a stop at the station.

  He had a flash that the pickup truck at the end of the block looked a lot like Grumley’s. He was about to cut across the street and duck out of sight when the voice came up behind him, distinctive and clear. The voice said the door was open and to go ahead and climb inside.

  “Hey, whatcha doing? How’s it going?” said Applegate. Something told him this encounter was not a coincidence, but he thought he’d start by pretending otherwise.

  Grumley started driving, pulling a U-turn. He honked his way across the lane of oncoming traffic, made a nuisance of himself to edge ahead.

  “George, I—”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’ve gotta get back to the hotel for an interview.”

  “With Rolling Stone ...”

  “Yeah—how did you ...?”

  The truck screamed west on the interstate for less than a mile, pulled off at the only other Glenwood Springs exit. Grumley turned behind a convenience store into a muddy lot that was empty and dark. Applegate flipped the door open and stumbled from the truck, wondering which way to run.

  Grumley climbed down and came around the front of the truck. His fist landed on Applegate’s jaw. Applegate spun helplessly to the ground, coming to rest with his shoulder in a pool of brown water and sharp pebbles embedded in his cheek.

  “Your interviewing days are over,” said Grumley. “I saved your miserable butt up there in a blizzard and the way you say thanks is to go saddle up with the animal huggers.”

  “You don’t know how I felt shooting that guy,” said Applegate.

  “Shit.”

  “Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know,” said Applegate. Was Grumley going to hit him again?

  “Christ,” said Grumley. “Cops all over the place. You don’t really know who saw what or what they can figure out.”

  “They’ll get nothing outta me.

  “The idea was to lay low and you plaster your face on every TV screen from here to Timbuktu.”

  Applegate touched a spot on his left jaw where the pain was sharp, hoping the physical punishment was over.

  “We got a guide who said she saw you.”

  “Huh?” mumbled Applegate. The statement did not connect. The idea of a witness had never entered his mind. “No way.”

  “Bullshit. You think you could see everything?”

  “What’d he see?” said Applegate.

  “She,” said Grumley.

  “She?”

  “The guide. A she,” said Grumley.

  “What the hell is she saying?”

  “Beats the shit out of me. She’s talking to the cops. The sheriff was out at my house asking all sorts of nosy-ass questions. He’s got something, count on it. But you’ve made it a lot harder for yourself to slip around unnoticed and find what the fuck it is. What a joke,” Grumley said with a scowl. “Mister tough guy hunter one week, mister softie the next.”

  “The cops haven’t even come to me. They can’t. I didn’t do nothing,” said Applegate. “Nothing.”

  “And what if they ask to see your gun?”

  “They won’t.”

  “They might. And your alibi?”

  “There are lots of hunters out by themselves.”

  “And what if she got a good look at you and your equipment?” said Grumley. “Something. Anything. You got your hands full and you’re out there with your face all over the TV.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What?”

  “We. You can’t do anything except disappear.”

  “How?”

  “Tell them you need a break. Get back in the truck.”

  Applegate studied the open door, pondered his options. He didn’t move.

  “Back in the truck,” said Grumley, grabbing him by the arm, practically winging him inside. “You’re leaving town.”

  “What about my stuff, my friends?”

  “Fuck your friends,” Grumley shouted, bouncing the truck crazily through the potholes in the parking lot, flooring it as they hit the ramp to the interstate. Grumley didn’t say anything. Applegate didn’t know how or when to start. It was a short run to the Glenwood exit. There was little time to think, to come up with a plan.

  Grumley guided the truck up the overpass above the interstate and turned to the left, cutting in front of a lumbering dump truck and speeding up a busy side street toward the train station. A silver Amtrak train sat idle.

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a ticket.

  “Go,” he said.

  “My things, my stuff.”

  “Have your animal friends pack it up for you and send it down.”

  “You want me to lay low, okay. But I ain’t going to Denver now.”

  He was thinking of his promised soak with Ellenberg.

  “You’re getting on the train. You’re staying on the train,” said Grumley. “You’re getting off in Denver. You’re going home. You’re going back to tinkering with computers or whatever the hell it is you do. You’re gonna dig yourself a hole in the backyard and stick your head down there for about a year and mind your own business. If you don’t get on the train now, maybe your rifle will get dropped off at the sheriff ’s by one of my guides who happened to fuckin’ find it two hundred yards from where poor Mr. Stern was dropped. That would make things a lot simpler. I’m already in it by helping you cover all this up. We can get this over with real quick. I’ll risk taking my bumps. I know where to find the sheriff. That would be good pee-are for you and your nutcase friends. Go.”

  Applegate studied the ticket propped in front of his face, took it. He got out and headed onto the platform, pissed off and unsteady. What the hell was happening? How could Grumley do anything? He showed his ticket to a man in a train uniform, one of the last people hanging around outside, who said his car would be three cars up but he better climb on here. The train started moving. Applegate hopped on and headed up the interior stairs to the second level. He walked through three cars of private sleepers and sank down in a row of empty seats.

  “Hey,” said a young cowboy who looked like a rodeo escapee with his tough-boy jaw and his red bandanna. “Don’t I know you?”

  Applegate sprang out of his seat and told the kid to save it, he’d be right back. The next car up had a snack bar where Applegate ordered a Budweiser and bartender poured it in a plastic cup. Applegate found a seat that swiveled so he could face away from all the others and look out into the dark. The interior lights on the train created a reflection on the window. Headlights streaked along the highway on the opposite side of the canyon.

  The train snaked through the canyon, in no apparent hurry. Applegate chugged the beer, found the stairs from the snack bar down to passenger seats below, where travelers were settling in. He opened the sliding door between cars and stood on the swiveling steel platform. The floor bounced and wiggled. The canyon widened. A conductor passed through and asked to see his ticket. “I’m up in general admission,” said Applegate. “Just taking a tour.”

  “Keep touring. You can’t stay out here.” The conductor moved on.

  The train slowed. Applegate prayed it down to a complete stop. It would be a long drop, but he hitched his legs over the barrier between the cars and lowered himself until he was hanging by his fingers. He let go. The rocks and wood ties were rough and he tumbled to absorb the impact.

  He crouched low along the side of the train, stayed in its hissing shadow. His right an
kle throbbed, his left shoulder was probably bruised. He dangled his arm, shook off the pain. The night was cold. Three more sections of train and it came to an end. He was headed back toward Glenwood Springs, where he belonged. All he had to do was follow the tracks.

  ****

  The voice on the other end of the phone was tentative, small.

  “Allison Coil?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know this may sound crazy, but there’s only a few people I know to call.”

  Allison stood in the middle of Pete Weaver’s barn, using the phone in the saddle shop. She had been out in the corral brushing down a mule when the phone rang. She didn’t think she’d reach it in time but she had run.

  “My name is Trudy Grumley.”

  Allison took in the name.

  “George’s wife?” Grumley ran an outfitting service that competed with Weaver’s—and Grumley always booked big, noisy camps full of rowdy clients with high-maintenance needs. Grumley’s operation was gritty, old school and swaggered. It was geared for hard-charging high rollers. By comparison, Weaver ran the friendly neighborhood corner outfitting service. Anyone was welcome and even complete greenhorns were treated with patience and care. Allison knew she was a better fit with Weaver’s team.

  “Forgive me for interrupting. This won’t take a minute. I’ve already talked to most of the guides who work for my husband. And they haven’t been able to help. So I thought I’d check with a few others.”

  The woman was so hesitant that Allison instantly wanted to reassure her. And could this really be George’s wife? The voice was docile and small.

  “I know this sounds—”

  “Please,” said Allison. “How can I help?”

  “I was wondering if you might have seen a friend of mine?”

  The word friend was surrounded on both sides by a moment of silence.

  “Who?”

  The pause was agonizing. Allison thought she heard the woman swallow and for a second she worried that they’d been disconnected.

  “It’s so hard to know who knows who,” said Trudy.

  The world around Allison screeched to a halt. The voice, in its utter meekness, commanded her total attention.

  “Do you want to know if I’ve seen somebody?”

  Another pause.

  “I know it shouldn’t be that big a deal. It seemed all right to ask the others who work with my husband. Now, I feel like ...” She stopped.

  “Where are you calling from?” said Allison.

  “My home.”

  If she remembered correctly, Grumley had tucked his home up at the end of a long driveway near the mouth of the canyon. Weaver had pointed out the driveway but she had never been up there. She was having a hard time imagining this voice as belonging to anyone in Grumley’s orbit; it didn’t match his gruff, rough-edged world.

  “Who’s missing?”

  “Missing isn’t for sure.”

  “Overdue.”

  “I don’t know if you know him. Rocky.”

  “Rocky Carnivitas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. Everyone knows him.”

  Trudy waited for the answer.

  “No, I haven’t seen him,” said Allison.

  Allison had nearly finished her work for the day. There was a saddle repair that could wait; minor surgery. And Slater was off on one of his backcountry treks. It could be a day or three, depending on what he encountered or how long he felt like being gone. She was never sure how he decided to stay out or return home.

  “Oh well,” said Trudy. “Thanks, I’m sorry—”

  “I did see something, but ...”

  “I know about that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The blotter. You must have filled out a police report.”

  She had done that, as much an exercise in accuracy as anything else. Sandstrom had insisted on a written record.

  “The newspaper picked it up, ran a few paragraphs. It was probably straight out of your report, I don’t know. They stuck it in their weekly police blotter.” The voice had gained a bit of courage. “That’s one reason I called you. Rocky isn’t usually so late. I was wondering if the police figured out what it was that you saw.”

  “No, they haven’t. How long has he been overdue?”

  “A few days. He wasn’t due back at any set time.”

  Now it was Allison’s turn to pause.

  “Is your husband worried?”

  Rocky, after all, was George’s worker. He was a legendary guide, skilled hunter and notorious loner.

  Allison remembered Rocky on the trail the first time. She was heading up on a training mission with her boss, Pete Weaver, and a crew from Minnesota that oozed “golly gee” all about them. They were true young bucks on their first hunt. Weaver had them wide-eyed and mesmerized with his expertise. Rocky was heading down on his own with supplies and a three- or four-horse string.

  Weaver stopped to chat with Rocky. Weaver introduced Allison, who had been bringing up the rear, from thirty or forty yards away. But then Weaver signaled her to climb down and come up to see how not to pack a saddlebag. Rocky sat smiling as Weaver, known throughout the valley as an overly fastidious know-it-all, unpacked one of the bags on Rocky’s string and showed her how the weight was all wrong: bad knots on the manty rope, no quick-release knots on the basket hitches that connected the string, slipping D-rings. The loads weren’t balanced. A case of Mountain Dew here, boxes with canned food there, a bow case thrown here, a duffel bag tossed there. The trail was littered with stuff. Weaver was busy showing her what he meant about the science of a well-packed horse. Rocky was watching, amused.

  Allison thought, then and there, that Weaver’s outfit had been a bad choice all around. Rocky worked for Grumley’s Double X Ranch and she should have held out for a slot, even though they said they were all full. Weaver had taken her “on spec.” Too many city folks, he’d said, had come up on a whim and couldn’t stick it out through all the barn duties, wrangler business and odd guide jobs. But Weaver’s treatment of Rocky at the time—it wasn’t until later that she got a peek behind Weaver’s cool exterior—had sent her sympathies to this hapless kid and his badly packed train.

  Rocky eventually got restarted and the next time she met him was in a bar over in Eagle. Off his horse, Rocky was smaller than she’d remembered. He had deep-set brown eyes surrounded by a weathered face that had the ability to flash an off-center but slight grin. There was a bare glimpse of mangled teeth. They finally got around to a dance by the jukebox and Allison tried to come up with one solid reason why she should not encourage him.

  When she moved to the mountains, she had made a promise to not be so picky. But she found it puzzling how the personal electricity between them turned cool, like a switch, after hours of talk and several rounds of bourbon and beer. She felt sobered up and disinterested. She always felt as if she was peering around the next corner, doing everything possible to look into the next room in her life. All she could picture was his likely hairy back and no emotional connection. It was easier to change your handwriting than your attitudes.

  Rocky pressed against her as they stood by the hood of her secondhand Blazer. She let him grope for a minute and gave him a good kiss or three and wriggled out, said something about another date down the road. She left him in the dirt parking lot with a bulge in his pants and nothing but hope on the brain.

  “If he’s worried, I wouldn’t know,” said Trudy. “I’ve probably taken up enough of your—”

  “Could I stop by?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Is anybody looking for him?” said Allison.

  “Not that I can tell, no.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Well,” said Trudy. “That is one thing I need help with. And, if you won’t mention it, I happen to have a key. Can you stop by and pick it up?”

  ****

  Trudy hung up, shaking.

  She hadn’t been able to say good-bye and
realized she had expected Allison Coil to know where she lived. They hadn’t discussed directions. Perhaps everyone in the whole valley knew. Maybe this was all stupid, unnecessary. Maybe she had gone too far, stirring up questions. Maybe Rocky would slide through the door at any second. But Trudy knew better.

  Trudy busied herself by straightening the house. She plucked a few not-quite-yellow leaves, fed the cats and topped off their water trough. She paced in the darkened living room. She badly wanted to hop in her car and go find Rocky. But being out and about alone was a scary prospect. What if she had a seizure? How could she explain it if she wound up stuck where she wasn’t supposed to be? She remembered the key to Rocky’s trailer. He had given it to her “in case” she ever needed a quick hiding place that was not too far away. She dug it out of her dresser drawer and clutched it in her hand.

  The trees down the road caught a glow and a pair of headlights worked their way up the drive. Trudy stepped back to the kitchen so there would be appropriate waiting time after the doorbell sounded. She stood with her arms folded, making a mental note to keep the visit brief. It was possible George could return, which would really screw things up.

  ****

  “Trudy?” The door opened a crack. “Allison Coil.”

  “Come on in,” Trudy said. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Really, not a problem.”

  Trudy Grumley had extraordinarily long hair, thick and flowing. She was trim and pleasant looking, earthy. Allison noted her tentative movements, her hesitant way of moving. She and Trudy were identical in height, neither of them very tall, but Trudy carried more femininity. Her features were soft. For someone who lived in the mountains, she looked like she could use a bit more sun.

  “I probably sounded like a weirdo on the phone.”

  “Hardly, please.”

  Trudy led her into an oversized living room as a swarm of cats came to check out the visitor. Trudy and the cats led the way to the kitchen, as if they knew the routine. A table and waited for them. The back of the kitchen opened to a lush greenhouse.

  “I’m more comfortable here,” said Trudy. “Tea?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think I can spare only a few minutes. I really—forgive me— don’t want George to see I’ve got a visitor. He’s a little funny like that.”