Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (11 page)

“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 Hotel 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.”

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 ankle 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.