Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (31 page)

“And you can sell the house, too,” said Grumley.

“Your wife going with?” said Murdock, no different than if he was planning a vacation at the beach.

“She’s got her own plans,” said Grumley. “Besides, to you it doesn’t matter where I’m going, right? I could be right here watching you the whole time, a member of the ethics panel of the Colorado Bar Association, here to make sure you ain’t fucking your clients.”

Grumley heard a snort-like laugh, a cautious one.

“And how will I know I’ve got the right buyer?” said Murdock.

“Because he’ll walk in one day soon, probably within a week. His checkbook will be wide open and he’ll know the exact price. He’ll be the only one. I guarantee it.”

“Well, safe travels.”

He slammed down the phone, dialed another number and told whoever answered, as calmly as he could, to get David Slater.

“Can I help you?” answered Slater.

“Hey little buddy, you fuck.”

“Always nice to hear your voice, Grumley. Did you hear that your good friend, the animal rights prince, got picked up?”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s he saying?”

“I’d have to be a cop to know the answer to that one.”

“Thought you had access.”

“Only when I need it.”

“The kid’s clueless.”

“What did you have against Rocky Carnivitas?” said Slater.

“He was going to blow my fucking head off. Thought he was standing up for Trudy, for Chrissakes, and he wanted a piece of the action for his troubles. Totally self-defense.”

“I’m sure the world’s a better place.”

“Where’s my wife?” said Grumley.

“Wouldn’t have a clue,” said Slater. “So you’re out of here?”

“See Bennie Murdock in about a week. Money goes into the right accounts, it’s all yours.”

Slater would be king, thought Grumley. He would inherit all the custom hunts, all the hot shots, all the antler traffic. He would control the market.

“Is Sandstrom cool?” said Grumley.

“I should think so,” said Slater. “He’s got his plum. The media boys have the picture of the sheriff collaring his man.”

Grumley thought about mentioning how pissed off he was at Slater’s little buddy, Allison Coil. But let him find out on his own that she was piecing things together. By then, he’d be trading in his plane for scrap in Spokane, Alaska-bound.

Grumley wildly packed clothes in a big laundry bag and dug out a small stash of twenties from a cigar box. He’d been building up a supply for years. The last time he checked it was fifteen thousand dollars, enough to keep him liquid for a few months, pay for plane fuel and cover whatever else would come up. He climbed into his truck and sped first to the barn and next to the airport. Only a matter of minutes now, he told himself, and he would be soaring above this mess.

He bolted through the doors to the tarmac, hustled out, but could see from a distance that the cowling was up and wide open to the sky.

“Fuck!” he yelled.

Back to the terminal. The asshole, that meek little airport man, stood by the door quaking.

“Your best mechanic. Now.”

“It’s his day off.”

“Now,” said Grumley.

“He doesn’t live too far—”

“And I’m leaving a pile of stuff here. I want it loaded when he’s done. I’ll call in a couple hours when it’s finished.”

“Couple?”

“Yeah, two. Couple. One, two. Who fucked with my plane?”

“Nobody. Your wife came by, wanted to show it to this other woman. I didn’t know you had it for sale.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A few hours ago.”

“I’ll be back in two hours,” said Grumley. “An extra hundred for you if it’s working by then. Whatever it takes. Fix it. Good as fucking new, okay?”

Back in his pickup he concentrated on the loose ends, imagining Applegate talking and wondering if anybody would make anything of it. And who was there to hear it?

At some point, Applegate would think clearly enough to hire a decent lawyer and offer a trade of information. Even Applegate would have to take that bait, tell ’em how his old pal George helped eat the dead guy’s lunch and took the Sako off his hands.

His truck skidded and bounced as he flew. He would leave it all behind, that was for sure. At a gas station Grumley slammed the truck to a stop near a phone booth. He put two quarters in and dialed.

“Slater, please.”

“Just left. Can I take a message?”

He crunched the phone back in the cradle, dug for more quarters, dialed Slater’s number, listened to it ring and the voice mail beep.

He spoke: “My wife’s going back in the bottle. I think I know how to find her. She’s not going to like the fit. You might want to take care of that little Coil chick. Okay?”

The second he hung up he realized he should never have left such a stupid message anywhere. He kicked the truck door with his boot, good enough to make a dent and rattle his ankle. It would cost him an hour to and from Slater’s place to fix the mistake.

****

The radio switched from Dwight Yoakam to national network news. Top of the hour. Trudy tweaked the dial to improve the reception as she maneuvered through the canyon.

Bombing in Tel Aviv, floods in Virginia, the president worried about unemployment numbers. The announcer said there was an arrest, an update on the case of that “odd, somewhat bizarre, so-called creative suicide by the animal rights activist last month near Glenwood Springs, Colorado.”

Trudy reached for the volume.

“... Police here in Glenwood Springs are now questioning thirty-eight-year-old Dean Applegate, arrested during a massive protest on the interstate inside Glenwood Canyon. The one-time hunter turned activist was leading the demonstration for FATE when he was arrested. Police have not yet indicated if he is cooperating. Other activists said they were sure it was an unfortunate mix-up, but FATE leader Dawn Ellenberg, who has not usually been difficult to find, was not available for comment tonight in Glenwood Springs.”

Allison’s rifle, no doubt, thought Trudy. It paid off. She wondered if the pieces would come around and grab up George in Applegate’s mess and Stern’s death. If they could find George. The key now was to hook back up with Allison; it was unsafe to hang around the house alone.

The first stop was Wal-Mart. Trudy had checked George’s handgun, which was curiously empty.

“I need ammunition for this,” said Trudy. She looked around, not wanting anyone other than the salesman back in sporting goods to see. She lifted the pistol from her pocket a bit so the kid could get a look at it.

“Ma’am, really, it’s not a good idea to be walking around with a concealed—”

“Tell me what I need, please.” She smiled as calmly as she could manage.

“In Colorado it’s not legal to—”

“Help me, please,” said Trudy.

The kid eyed the gun. “44 mag. Jesus. I could get in trouble; just remember I never saw that.”

Back in the 4Runner she loaded the gun below the dashboard, keeping an eye on shoppers coming and going. She felt as if she had swallowed a large stone that was growing in her stomach. Oddly, even as her hands shook, her head felt clear and serene. Things were coming to a head.

****

On top of the television there was an envelope, ragged at the seam and open. Allison picked it up, still searching for what she had missed, determined to uncover any scrap in the trailer. Jitters chewed at her insides. She read the return address. She had to read it twice before it sank in.

Pete Weaver. The Weaver Ranch. 40 Ripplecreek.

“
Mr. Slater
.”

Her eyes flicked down to Pete’s signature. She recognized the distinctive cursive from her paychecks.

“This letter is to confirm acceptance of your offer.”

Her eyes absorbed the date. The letter was a month old.

“...
I know it’s been six months since we broke off talks. If you are still interested ..
.”

Her brain would not let her digest every word.

“...
purchasing my property. I’m ready ... The last price you offered is acceptable ...”

Her eyes leapt to the only figure on the page.

“... $1.5 million ...”

There was discussion of earnest money, ten percent. How to deliver it and when. And if not delivered in two weeks, “I’ll put the property on the open market ... Let me know ... Sincerely ...” Weaver was selling the largest property in the valley to a man with an antler dust factory. Allison thought of Weaver’s prime property and the fact that permits for guides were not held by individuals; they were sold with property as part of the package.

That was the way it worked. Weaver would have no idea about Slater’s real business, would he?

She dialed Weaver’s number while she stared at the blinking light of the old-fashioned answering machine, one of those separate boxes that attached to the line and recorded messages on a tiny cassette. A light blinked. It was a light that had not been there earlier when she’d headed down to the factory. She stood in the kitchen getting a whiff of something moldy from the sink, steadying herself for an answer she couldn’t stand to hear, searching for the words to ask the question.

Three blinks of the red light for each ring in her ear. Another ring.

Blink ... blink ... blink.

No answer.

Hang up.

Blink.

She pressed play.

“My wife’s going back in the bottle.”

The unmistakable voice.

“I think I know how to find her. She’s not going to like the fit ...”

She shuddered at the venom in the words.

“You might want to take care of that Coil chick. Okay?”

The door opened behind her and she spun around.

“David! I was just ...”

“You were just ...?”

It was Grumley, dripping ugly.

“Find anything?” He looked at the pile of stuff on the bedroom floor.

“Why are you here?” she said.

“What did you see on the mountain?”

“I saw you. Dragging Rocky.”

“Rocky was a loser and an asshole.”

“You killed Bear.”

“Just another animal.”

“So it’s any animal any old day? You and Slater both?”

“So what?”

“All the land and all the animals are there for you and you alone?”

“No. For whoever gets ’em first. Winter gets ’em. A wolf gets ’em. Or I do.”

“I think you got more problems than me seeing you dragging Rocky. There’s Applegate. Between the two of us ...”

“The fuck I care.”

He stepped toward her. She backed up to the bedroom, thinking weapon or windows. Those options were so weak they were practically nonexistent.

Sixteen

Stopped at a traffic light, snug up behind a big RV, Trudy studied the stickers on the bumper in front of her.
My Family Dug The Grand Canyon. You’ll Feel Peachy in Georgia. And others: Carmel, Seattle, Juneau, Parris Island.
The RV’s plates were from Arkansas.

She couldn’t imagine a life on the road yet, a home on the highway. Too much dread blurred that vision.

The lane of cars next to her started to move, but the large land yacht didn’t budge. Now its flashers came on. Trudy slapped the wheel with her palm and checked the rearview mirror as the line behind her began to peel off from the rear and move forward. Eight cars to go.

Trudy felt a cloud pushing its way into her brain, the swirl of excitement loading up. She couldn’t tell if this was the brink of a seizure or if she was seeing things more clearly. One blink brought light, the next darkness.

Her breath came in small gulps.

Five cars.

Her mind tried to anticipate what was next, but she worked to stay within the moment. There was a funny taste in her mouth that was either working its way down her throat or working its way up.

Three cars.

She checked the pistol again, resting on the seat underneath a T-shirt.

One car.

Finally she backed up enough to give herself room to maneuver. She came up alongside the RV, ready to gun it, but the light was red again. The elderly driver had the hood up and was poking around the engine. The man’s wife caught Trudy’s eyes and scowled.

The light cycled around again. Trudy pulled out as quickly as she could manage without causing a stir. The 4Runner whined up, a fine blue mist of exhaust chasing her down the highway.

She turned off toward the Blue Sky Trailer Park. The car shuddered over a cattle guard, hit the dirt road. Her rear window was quickly coated with a swirl of red-rock dust. In the distance she saw the entrance to the trailer park. She tried to picture staying focused, tried to picture staying focused, tried to picture staying focused.

****

Grumley stepped up and swatted her down, one sweep of his arm knocking her off balance. She grappled for a soft landing on the couch but her head went first and her neck jammed.

The gun was in his right hand by the time she looked up. She grabbed the side of her neck as it pulsed in agony. His fist and gun came through the air and Allison rolled. She tried to jab his leg with hers. She jumped off the couch, staggered to her feet. A lamp on a side table crashed over as she dodged a windmilling arm. Grumley was like a bear standing one-legged on a rock in the river swatting at a bee. Allison dove at him, hitting his shoulder. He went down, his head slamming a shelf with an ugly thud.

The pistol went off. Allison’s ears rang and it suddenly she was underwater, slow motion and flipperless, unable to find a center of gravity.

She checked herself for bullet holes. None. No blood. Grumley got up on his knees. Allison turned for the door. He grabbed her legs. She kicked backwards, felt her boot land a satisfying blow to his face.

“Fucker!” Grumley growled.

Allison raced for the door, bounded through. And encountered a beautiful sight.

****

Trudy startled as the door burst open, but held her ground. Allison ran behind her.

George was right behind, staggering. He stopped.

“What the f—”

She raised the gun so the muzzle was square with his nose. “Trudy,” he said with disdain. “You’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”