Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1)

by Mark Stevens

  “Where we going?” said Alvin.

  Grumley turned his horse around and headed down. On the other hand ...

  He pictured a bullet in Bobby’s forehead.

  “Are you okay?” said Bobby.

  “Never better,” said Grumley. He pulled out his pistol, the ’58 New Army Texas, a .44. A replica. It should do the job.

  “Hey,” said Alvin, as he started to dive. But it wasn’t a dive. An invisible force separated him from his saddle. He landed in the snow on his side.

  The sound of the shot echoed in Grumley’s head. There was something satisfying about making a decision.

  ****

  A week after her taste of the harbor, Allison had been in decent enough shape to ask for the newspapers that covered the accident. Her parents had flown in and her dad, a chronic newspaper hound, brought the stack of past issues of The New York Times. She glanced at the pictures and scanned the copy, grating at the notion that a see-it-all-writer looking down from above could use the verb “flopped,” as if the jet was a human form that could choose between a cannonball or a headfirst dive on its entry into the water. “Flopped” wasn’t what had happened inside the cabin. “Flopped” had a fun and frolicking tone to it. There was nothing frolicking about the crash. The newspaper headline was the first time she had known how many had died, but she certainly hadn’t needed to be told that many had, in fact, perished.

  Walking now with Bear, she thought of Peter McBride, one of those naturally open, relaxed people who were always seconds away from a comfortable smile. He wore round wire-rims, sported short but tousled hair, and was about her size—compact, trim and lean. He had bright, clear eyes, like blueberries in a pool of milk. They were talking like good, old friends in the terminal long before they boarded. Their flight was late departing because the plane hadn’t even left Baltimore at boarding time. Within a few minutes, she recalled, he had mentioned Zen. And she had pressed him a bit, discovering he had spent a week in the equivalent of a closet, meditating on the trouble his life and his being had caused his parents and others around him. He told her they were asked to break their lives down into three-year blocks and consider all the ways their mere existence had impacted the lives of those around them, right down to the nitty-gritty details of contemplating the number of diapers their parents had to change, no questions asked, before they could deal with their own shit.

  Her mind had jumped at the exercise. Even as they continued to chat, her mind had gone busy scouring the memory banks. She scraped together bits and pieces of things she hadn’t thought about in years. At four, she had pretended that a neighbor girlfriend had fallen from the roof of the house. They had poured ketchup around where she had “fallen” to give her mother a jolt, at least from a distance. She recalled old tantrums, battles with her mom over not wanting to waste time in the stupid grocery store and fights with her brothers over who knew what.

  When she had the stack of newspapers, she felt it before she read it. And her parents probably assumed, when she started to bawl, that it was the overwhelming reality of reading about the accident that had caught up with her. But it was the name in newspaper ink. Too real. Too painful. PETER McBRIDE, 28, Boulder, Colo.

  It didn’t seem possible at the time, it didn’t seem possible now. Time hadn’t fixed that one. Bear picked his way in the general direction that would dump them out on the road, perhaps a mile or two down from her A-Frame. It was three o’clock and going on dusk in the ravines. They had slurped water from creek beds. She had found an old granola bar in the otherwise empty saddlebag. Bear won the snack. She felt hungry, but couldn’t imagine depriving him of a morsel.

  Working on Peter’s problem, she thought of the rooms in the houses where she had lived and how memories were mostly place. Nothing could happen without a place for it to occur. She remembered Peter tapping her on the shoulder. He boarded last, a stand-by. He could have been in this place, this space, this airplane. Or inside the terminal, bumped from the flight. What if each city had a dozen more good jobs for traveling businessmen, through a slightly better economy, and what if there had been no room for stand-bys on that flight? Peter would have stayed behind, safe and dry.

  The woods thinned out. The grade turned gentle. The day’s light was being given a brief reprieve as they moved out and away from the darkened north face of the ridge and through an expanse of aspens, spaced like they had been purposely planted a horse-width apart. They wound their way to the edge of a broad clearing that fell away, not so gently. The pitch was dotted with bush-size evergreens and scrub oak. The ravine ended a few hundred yards down, but so steeply she couldn’t see the bottom. The other side climbed as quickly, but was topped by a small section of familiar looking guardrail. A stretch of no more than a few dozen feet was all she could see. And down to the right, to the east, a cherry-red house, a farmhouse, basked in the soft glow of the setting sun. It was a mile off, maybe more.

  Behind her, someone followed.

  She dug her heels into Bear. No coaxing, no time to be choosy. Bear lowered himself down on his hindquarters as his front legs paddled and scraped and pranced, hoping for footing and braking when they started to slide. She tapped Fishy’s rifle, scooted low in the saddle and kept her weight back to help Bear stabilize. The guardrail disappeared and so did the farmhouse as they burrowed down in the hole, too steep. Bear angled off on his own compass, sensing an extra degree or two of grade that was beyond his capabilities.

  She risked a glance back up. He was a big man, Grumley-size, but all she had was the three-quarter silhouette of him, on horseback. He watched her, standing where Bear had stood.

  Bear was halfway down. The far side of the ravine was better lit. And it didn’t climb fast enough to do her much good, provide any cover. Nobody would think twice about a couple of gunshots, if there was anything left to hear after the ravine swallowed up the noise.

  She turned her head around to look back up the hill as Bear reached the bottom. Her pursuer was halfway down, making it look easy. She let Bear take a few strides in the relatively gentle pitch of the ravine bottom. There was no creek but it was rocky and uneven under the snow. Bear balked and hesitated, shot forward when he reached the far bank and found better footing, heading up. She worked to keep a straight line and hoped the cherry farmhouse would come into view when they crested the top.

  The sound of the rifle shot had been in her head all along. She flinched at the crack and waited. Bear kept his stride, what was left of it. She took a second to find her breath again and wished she could meld into the saddle. She couldn’t find a clear thought. She hoped for the farmhouse.

  Boom.

  Bear’s nose plunged into the snow. She waited for her own flick of pain as Bear’s front legs buckled and his rear rolled sideways and the snow came up to whack her. Suddenly, the background of farmhouse and dog pens and sky tumbled. Bear struggled to bounce back up, worked to right himself out of instinct, snorted and growled at his own frustration. And agony. Allison found herself splayed across his neck staring into his skyward eye. She rolled off and buried herself behind his shoulders, already starting to mourn before she saw the wound and the blood gushing from his haunch. Bear’s head settled down onto the cool snow.

  She tried to think of what to say, anything. His eyes turned milky and distant.

  The rifle. She slid the rifle from the scabbard, thinking it had been fifty-fifty that she would have been able to reach it at all. If it had wound up under Bear, no way. She held it up to show the bastard what she had, in case that alone would make him scram. She propped it on Bear’s sweaty chest and lined up the man’s— was it Grumley’s?—frame in her sights. She turned the rifle over, found the safety, hoped for ammunition, and put him back in her sights. He stood there.

  She aimed at his head and moved it off a barrel’s width to the west, her finger still hesitating.

  The blast of her rifle spun the man around on the spot as he realized he was the wide-open target and she was the one wi
th cover. He kicked his horse around and scampered off. Her ears rang. She stood and placed the rifle at the back of Bear’s skull, between the ears, wasting no time for a good-bye with the next shot. Her heart cried as Bear sank another inch lower and she turned and ran through the calf-deep snow toward the dogs.

  Her legs churned on an untapped source of power and fear. Two large pens flanked the farmhouse. A dozen or more dog-houses were scattered around both pens and each dog was linked by rope to its own house. The dogs howled and scraped the dirt, desperate for a ringside seat. She dashed up between the house and the pens, followed a beaten-down path along the side of the house and around to the front.

  A woman stood on the front steps, holding a bundled-up toddler in her arms. An older girl stood wide-eyed next to her mom. Long red hair poked out from the hood of the toddler’s jacket. A sack of groceries stood in the driveway, plunked down in the mud. There were more groceries in the back of a Subaru station wagon, the rear door open.

  “Oh my,” said the woman, clutching her daughter more tightly. “No, no. Don’t worry,” said Allison. She held up her free hand like she was stopping traffic. “It’s over. I think. I hope.”

  “What? Who are…?”

  “I was being chased,” said Allison. “Shots. My horse.”

  “They were shooting at you?”

  “My horse,” she said, but barely this time. The two words took forever to utter. “Shot my horse.”

  Bear. Could it be?

  Her breath was a draining search for oxygen.

  “Oh my, oh my,” said the woman, pulling the toddler closer, panic on her face. “Come in the house—now.”

  Allison stood inside the massive farmhouse with its wood-plank floors and bright braided rugs. Stacy Burnett introduced herself, her older daughter Valerie and toddler, Kirsten.

  “But you’re okay?” said Stacy.

  “I need a phone,” said Allison.

  “Of course, this way.”

  Stacy showed her to a telephone on the wall next to the kitchen table. Valerie tracked every move.

  Allison dialed Slater’s number. Her world wobbled crazily, off-kilter. Her breathing was deep and unsettled. From the kitchen window, she scanned the wide field that swooped down toward the ravine. She could make out Bear’s inert, prone hulk in the snow. She wiped tears from her cheeks.

  Slater was out, checking on a few stray buffalo that came from a farm up toward Craig. She didn’t feel like telling anyone else.

  Should she call Sandstrom? Or Trudy? Or Weaver—to tell him about Bear?

  Sandstrom. The female receptionist on the phone took notes. She was composed and maddeningly cool. She decided after a minute to relay her to a deputy, who took another set of notes for a minute and put Allison on hold while he tried to patch her through to Sandstrom in his sheriff ’s car.

  “Ms. Allison,” said Sandstrom, when he came on. “What’s this—a shooting?”

  “At me,” she said.

  “Jesus H.,” said Sandstrom. “You staying put for a few minutes? Never mind the question. You are staying put.”

  “Cops are on their way up,” Allison said to Stacy, cupping the mouthpiece.

  “No problem,” said Stacy. “They have to come.”

  Allison relayed the address; Sandstrom said he knew the kennels.

  Stacy brought homemade chicken soup and wheatberry bread while they waited. Connecting with the authorities offered a touch of calm, along with the steaming broth. She found her focus. She concentrated on everything but Bear. She tried Trudy’s number while she waited. No answer. It was a strange no answer, one she didn’t expect. She tried Slater’s trailer, in case he was home. His voice mail answered but she didn’t know what to say except, “Call me when you resurface, there’s a lot going on.” She tried Trudy’s number again and still it rang on and on, into the void.

  Sandstrom and two deputies arrived more quickly than she’d expected, in three separate cars. Gerard, who gave her a wink, followed her boot prints down to Bear, after she pointed him out. The other one, a green-looking kid, Sandstrom sat in the living room with Sandstrom, her going over it all. The kid took the notes. “I don’t get why someone tracked you down clear over here,” said Sandstrom, after she had finished.

  “May I show you something? In private?”

  The deputy and Sandstrom exchanged glances. Stacy said they could use the kitchen, she’d keep Valerie out of the way, or even better, they could use the walk-in pantry. Allison picked up Fishy’s rifle from the kitchen, where she had left it, and led Sandstrom to the well-stocked food closet, shutting the door behind her.

  “Dramatic,” said Sandstrom.

  “Necessary,” said Allison.

  “Whose is this?” he said.

  “You got Rocky down yet?”

  “We’re getting to it, we’re getting to it. Jesus ... I’m not into tricks.”

  Sandstrom stared at the rifle.

  “Then I’m here to cut a deal.”

  “Everybody always is. That’s life. What’s yours?”

  “First, I wanna hear you say I wasn’t crazy.”

  “We get the body down, I’ll give you that.”

  “It’s there.”

  “If it is, you’re not.”

  Allison found that a bit of steam and energy were mixing in naturally with her anger over Bear and Grumley and Rocky. She hadn’t mentioned Grumley yet by name, and couldn’t. She wanted to light a fire that would jack-up all the issues at once.

  “What’s with the rifle?”

  “I stole the rifle. As a kid, though, we used to call it ‘borrowing back.’ I went over to get route and trail information from Grumley’s place. I was talking to Bobby Alvin. He’ll tell you all of this.” The words were coming easily. She could also clearly see the spot where she could nail Sandstrom. “I spotted this Sako. I took it, and a couple of men chased me. I have a pretty good idea who, but I’m not sure, so I’m not saying. This rifle’s a bit unusual, I think you’ll agree. But check the initials here. A guy named Sal Marcovicci sold it to Dean Applegate.”

  “Mr. Turncoat.”

  “Correct. A few years back. Chances are it’ll match up like a bad recurring nightmare with the bullet you pulled from Ray Stern.”

  She waited a second to see if Sandstrom could soak this up. “Now you can decide if you want to book me on a theft charge, make a nuisance out of that. Or, if you agree to let it go, and if you agree to make a very concerted effort to find out who shot Rocky Carnivitas, then I’ll give you the rifle, and you can do experiments and see if you can solve this nasty migraine called the media that’s been tormenting you for weeks.”

  Allison decided she would hold the Sako until Sandstrom made his choice clear.

  “Theft?” he said.

  His jowls quivered and he stared her down.

  “Hey, I’ll return it, through you. Unless you want to test it first.”

  “How do you know this is the one?” said Sandstrom.

  Allison thought for a few seconds, wondered if there was any chance that she’d been set up, that Fishy was in on something, that this was all a fancy charade to make her feel better.

  “Call it a hunch,” she said. “Call it one big, fat hunch.”

  Fourteen

  “What loose ends?”

  “Things I had to deal with—there’s no point in boring you with the details.”

  “We don’t like you gone. I missed you, you big lug. Plus, secrets. They make me queasy.”

  “It’s over, done with. History,” said Applegate.

  It was early evening. They strolled the cool, wet streets of lower downtown Denver after dinner. There had been waves of food with hummus and eggplant, all laced with garlic. And two bottles of wine had been safely tucked away as stew for their brains. The alcohol had erased any chance Applegate had of connecting all the dots from his bizarre journey.

  “Another circle-the-parking-lot protest isn’t going to cut it,” said Ellenberg. “Makes us b
oth look unimaginative, anyway.”

  “What you need is a major non-violent disruption, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “You need a surprise attack, get national attention. And you need something soon.”

  “Tomorrow would do.”

  She sat down on a street bench, pulling him down with her to snuggle for warmth. He walked through the idea slowly.

  “Caravan goes up the interstate. Say twenty cars, unmarked. No banners, no nothing. Not obviously together. Maybe there’s a news crew with you—one, so it’s not that obvious. You drive into the canyon two across, ten deep, maybe a hundred deep. All going the same speed. The cars come to a halt, cap the breakdown lanes too, and then pull out the banners and stuff. March down the highway, do whatever you want. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. However long it might take to draw a heavy response, make the point, make sure there’s good video and one helluva long traffic jam behind you. That’s what you want, a heavy response. As many cops as they got, bring ‘em on. For a half hour you clog the only major east-west artery in the state and give old Sandstrom another stroke.”

  “It’s brilliant,” she gushed. “I love it.”

  The scheme made her giddy. They ran it through a few times to test for trouble spots, but it was foolproof. Nothing could go wrong.

  “Maybe we should cut off the highway in both directions at the same point.”

  “You’ll make it too difficult for the sheriff to reach you,” countered Applegate. “And then he’ll be really pissed. Plus, you want the cops, lots of ’em, to make for a confrontation.”

  A fine mist of snow had begun. Breathing felt like drinking. She hugged him around the chest as they walked and she buried her head against his coat. They weaved through a crowd of kids hanging out around a late-night dance club, but otherwise the streets and sidewalks were nearly empty. Applegate felt the solid buzz from the wine as they negotiated their way back to her place.

  Ellenberg jumped on the phone, starting to spread the idea around, her face lighting up at the response. The word came back quickly: tomorrow. He heard her say “Dean’s idea” and “Dean thought it up.” Applegate poked around her brick loft, feeling useless as she chatted on the phone. Suddenly he felt very sober.