Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (32 page)

He was shifting now, moving away, daring her to shoot. “Shit, Trudy, whatchya’ doing?”

“The obvious.”

“Nobody saw nothing,” he spewed.

A tear shuddered up inside her, with anger and images of Rocky. “For a pittance you could have fixed me up,” she said. “A little scrap. And you’d be on your way outta here. Gone. Do you believe that? Do you know that?”

“Always knew it was an option. And Rocky pressed the point, although he wanted a huge chunk of cash for his troubles to keep quiet about something or other.”

“So you saw—”

“Never said I saw anybody anywhere.”

“A pittance, George.”

“Shit,” said Grumley. “You have it easy. What are you gonna do?” He turned and headed to his truck. “Nothing is what you’re gonna do.”

Aiming was easy.

So was pulling the trigger.

She watched him reel and flop down to the dirt. She kept the gun on him as he crumpled and yelled in agony.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s only an ankle.”

She stepped over to her husband, who was scraping his way along the dirt. He winced in pain, his face a wicked snarl. He dug into the ground with his hands and good leg. He crawled toward the truck, attempted to stand and collapsed. Blood oozed from his ankle.

“A scrap,” shouted Trudy

“Shit. My leg.”

“A scrap,” said Trudy.

George Grumley spread himself out on the ground, one hand searching for a grip on the tread of the truck tire. His face turned upward, pleading.

Trudy sensed Allison at her side.

Defeat edged across her husband’s face. It was a look she’d never seen before.

“You’re going where I’ve been,” said Trudy. “Only yours will have real guards and lots of barbed wire.”

****

The neighbors stood around watching, including one grizzled old man in a tight white T-shirt who tried to take charge, fetching bandages for Grumley and telling other neighbors to go down to the entrance and point the way for the cops and the ambulance to make it in as quickly as possible. The man smoked as he worked, keeping others at a distance, barking out orders like he’d seen it all before. The cops had split into two groups: one at 101 East Table, the other with Sandstrom overseeing the search of the trailer.

Allison leaned on Trudy’s 4Runner and looked back into the eyes of neighbors who were staring at the scene and wondering what all this could be about.

Trudy was inside her truck, sobbing quietly. Allison went to join her, thinking about Pete Weaver. She had tried his number right after she’d called 911. No answer.

“You heard they arrested Applegate?” said Trudy. “And the reporter said he was cooperating.”

“Sandstrom mentioned it,” said Allison. “I don’t think he’s too happy with this happening now, drawing attention from his big bust. You okay?”

“I suppose. How’s George?”

“He’s hurting. You did what you had to do.”

“I could have let the cops chase him, catch him. It felt so easy, shooting him. Too easy.”

“George would be long gone if you hadn’t shot him. It might have ended up being a bigger mess.”

“What about your David?”

“That’s next,” said Allison. “Finding him.”

An hour later, Sandstrom arrived and went over the statements, realizing there would be no way to charge Trudy with anything, realizing that Allison had fought in self-defense and that Grumley would probably face attempted murder.

Slater’s boss Bridgers arrived after the ambulance had departed and Sandstrom asked Allison to go over again how she had found out about the secret factory. Nothing about the factory needed explaining. Bridgers had four other rangers in tow and they were quickly on their own radios, calling for an evidence crew. After the tour of the antler dust factory, Bridgers sighed with extreme exasperation.

“Check the Polaroids,” said Allison, pointing to the bulletin board. “Couple shots of him grinning with hunters.”

The neighbors had all drifted away. The unnecessary cops had gone back to other assignments. The initial furor was dying down.

“This day is like a sack of woe,” said Sandstrom. “Trouble follows me wherever I go.”

“Been a busy one,” said Allison.

They were all huddled around Sandstrom’s car, wondering what Sandstrom would do next.

“You gotta find Slater, too,” said Trudy.

“Check,” said Sandstrom. “We could put out an all points bulletin but Slater’s probably listening on his own damn radio, but I don’t know how else to alert the others.”

Sandstrom barked into his radio. Sandstrom’s limits had finally been reached. He was pissed. Sandstrom spoke in code and numbers, but they all got the gist of his message to the others: find and stop David Slater.

“I’ve got something else to show you,” said Allison to Sandstrom. She led him inside Slater’s trailer and pulled Weaver’s letter from her pocket.

“I found this sitting on the television,” she said. “It was open.”

Sandstrom scanned the letter.

“So Slater’s profits from his exports were going to buy a base for his empire?” said Sandstrom.

“I’ve been trying to reach Pete Weaver on the telephone,” said Allison. “I’m worried. I’m positive Weaver has no clue what Slater is really doing.”

“You’d have an easier time getting a bird to stop flying than you would corrupting Pete Weaver,” said Sandstrom. “Everybody knows that.”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” said Allison. “I’m going up there.”

“Well,” said Sandstrom, “I think we’re done here anyway. Hard to believe this day has one more surprise, but right about now I wouldn’t bet more than a nickel on that.”

Allison took a minute to tell Trudy they were going to check on something back up in the valley and that she’d catch up with her soon. Trudy said she’d head back home and they hugged. Trudy started to cry. She patted her heart as if she might be able to find the handle to the faucet, to turn off the tears. But it wasn’t anywhere to be found. In fact, it had the opposite effect. And Allison gave her another hug.

“I’m not sure I did the right thing,” sobbed Trudy.

“When it comes time to hurt somebody, I don’t think most good people know,” said Allison.

Allison climbed into Sandstrom’s police car, slowly letting go of Trudy’s hand, knowing there was at least one person she could trust.

****

Sandstrom drove within the speed limits. Allison wanted him to dig in his spurs and give it a kick. They had turned off the interstate and were heading up toward Ripplecreek.

“I say you go up to Lizard’s Tongue next spring and dig around after the snow’s melted,” she said. “Look where Rocky landed. Near where that elk was, you’ll find the shells from the bullets that killed Rocky. They’ll be Grumley’s.”

“We got Applegate,” said Sandstrom. “One step at a time.” Allison had tried her how-Grumley-and-Applegate-might- have-hooked-up theory on Sandstrom. He mulled it over like a professor digesting a crazy theory from a challenging student.

“He’s a steady fountain of interesting information,” said Sandstrom. “Just like that, information just flowing out of him. But I’m having trouble figuring out David Slater.”

“We can form a club,” said Allison. “I’ll be president.”

“Ranger wages aren’t much, but forest rangers are usually straight arrows who love the outdoors. You’re more likely to encounter a corrupt cop in the city.”

“You’ve never been tempted?” said Allison.

“Sweetie, the world is full of people who try to influence you. Some days you feel like nailing every speeder going a whisker over the limit. The next you couldn’t care less if they’re turning Main Street into the Indy 500. I can’t say I’ve looked as hard into every questionable allegation as maybe I should have. But you can only do so much. Government in general, it can only do so much. People like Slater, flaunting it, doing their own trip, clearly operating outside the law. That’s a different story altogether.”

Allison leaned forward and took a deep breath, wishing she could will Sandstrom into picking up the pace, wondering if she was being given a line. Nothing made sense, particularly the greed. She kept seeing Grumley killing Rocky and later running into Applegate, the beginning of the end for Grumley, too many pieces starting to fray.

Sandstrom parked forty yards away from a point where the skirt of porch light flared out from the house.

“It’s Slater’s pickup,” said Allison.

“Forest Service anyway,” said Sandstrom. “No jumping to conclusions.”

“Shit,” said Allison, hopping out.

“Wait,” said Sandstrom. He turned to grab his shotgun off the rack.

Allison bounded ahead, then waited while Sandstrom ambled out. It might not be a bad idea to work together. Sandstrom put his hand on the hood of Slater’s pickup and nodded his head to say ‘yes.’ It was still warm.

Sandstrom led the way into the glassed-in porch. Wicker chairs and a wicker couch, large plants, a hammock. The door to the house was ajar. Sandstrom gave it a shoulder and it stopped.

“Christ,” he said, giving it a heave so Allison could squeeze under his arm and in.

Pete Weaver was on the floor behind the door. He stared back, but he wasn’t seeing anything. His legs climbed the wall, his forehead was gone. His arms went directions they shouldn’t.

Allison backpedaled and went faint.

A drawer or door slammed shut and she heard a muffled shout. The cry came from deep within the giant house, maybe upstairs. Dishes and books were piled up on the floor, tossed haphazardly. Stuff was strewn everywhere.

“Weaver’s behind the door,” said Allison. She was back on the porch, catching her breath. “Dead.” Each word was a struggle.

“I’m going in,” said Sandstrom, backing up against the door, pushing hard, and squeezing through. Allison followed.

A gentle gurgle came from the kitchen. Sandstrom went first, shotgun at his waist. Allison stayed in the shadow of his frame.

“Something on the stove,” said Sandstrom. “Beans.” Sandstrom crossed the kitchen to turn off the gas. “Basic fire prevention there,” he whispered. A back door from the kitchen led to a dining room and Sandstrom started that way when Slater stepped out of the shadow holding a rifle by the barrel and the stock already on the move like a baseball bat, catching Sandstrom’s head flush and hard with an ugly, wet smack. Sandstrom crumpled in a heap.

“Allison,” said Slater. A butcher-block table separated them. He looked relaxed, at ease. “I love these big houses with the back staircases.”

Sandstrom lay in a lump. Allison backed away from the table. Slater plucked the shotgun from Sandstrom’s hands and put it up on the counter behind him.

“I had it all arranged for us,” he said. “We were going to be set up for life.” This was delivered as matter-of-fact. He could have been stating requests for a grocery list.

“We?”

“You and I. The whole valley. We would have run the whole valley.”

“What does that mean, run the valley?”

“Make money, enjoy ourselves,” said Slater.

“There never were any biologists or researchers.”

“Oh, well, probably not,” said Slater. “But how do you know? Know for sure? That’s government information.”

“Do you know who strung me up from that tree?”

“Not me,” said Slater. “Not for sure. But you might ask George Grumley. He’d probably have an idea.”

There was a taste of seawater in her mouth; was that possible? And a wet sensation from her clothes, but maybe this time she wouldn’t be able to swim, keep her head screwed on straight.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

As if nothing had happened.

“Why all this?”

“Oh, I could tell you a story, little missy, make your hair curl.”

“Try me.”

Hands behind her, fingers feeling for something useful, anything.

“A story about the government,” said Slater.

“Who cuts your paycheck,” said Allison.

“Fuckers, that’s who,” said Slater, still calm. He was spinning a campfire tale, nothing more. “The government. Govern nothing. Swiped my parents’ land. Section 9 of the Endangered Species Act of 1973, as amended. But the government wouldn’t issue a special rule pursuant to Section 4-d. No 4-d, land gone. 4-d, 4-d, fucking 4-d. Here’s your compensation, your land is gone, and they pay a nickel for every dollar it’s worth. Timberland. Ten thousand acres of prime timberland, a retirement bank account, ready to sell for harvest. Land that climbed a gorgeous hillside in the western Cascades. Everything mortgaged to the hilt for this tidy little investment. Little, hell. Gone. The owls won. The government won.”

“Jesus,” said Allison. “Revenge?”

“Revenge, shit,” said Slater. “Just playing within the same bendable rules. They rip off my family for their political needs, and that’s money. I play with the wilderness, hurt nobody, and that’s money. My parents had the bad luck—God rest their weary souls—to buy land in what became an SEA, a Special Emphasis Area. Where the fucking Forest Service had determined that it was necessary and advisable, based on God knows whose advice, to apply broad protection—”

He stopped. He sucked in a sharp breath and let it settle. Allison let her hands drift behind her on the counter, wondering if there might be a knife rack.

“—from incidental take. Incidental take to protect a few spotted owls.”

“No different than a little incidental take on the Flat Tops?”

“Where there’s plenty of deer and elk and nothing’s endangered. Nothing.”

“Jesus,” said Allison again. “Rocky was ‘incidental take’?”

“Ask Grumley about his own damn feelings about Rocky. Not my business. However, based on what I know, I wouldn’t say the victim was innocent.”

“Just hunt anything anywhere, anytime?”

“You’re a stickler like old Mr. Weaver, I suppose.”

“Selling antler dust to the Asians?”

“Just another market. And where’s the harm?”

Her fingers were coming up empty. She needed a weapon, something. She scooted a couple of inches to the stove, tried to make it look like she was shifting weight.

“It’s all come apart. You’re done,” she said.

“I’m going to find my cash and be gone. You’re my last problem.”

“Problem?”