Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (13 page)

She knocked on the trailer door. And waited. Hoping nobody was watching, she inserted the key, gave the door a push. She called out: “Rocky?” The key wasn’t necessary. The door opened before the lock turned.

The trailer was empty.

There were no notes, messages or signs of struggle.

She examined a few pictures up on the cupboards: Rocky with his kills, all decent-sized animals. She stepped to Rocky’s kitchen table, picked up a three-year-old motorcycle magazine and flipped through it, wondering about the world of a lonesome, thirty-fiveish guide in the mountains and about his personal hopes and dreams. Was he working for anything, toward anything?

The catalog underneath the magazine was cheap and crudely made. At first it didn’t even register—the cover photo of a man kneeling in a field, holding up a palm-size gizmo only slightly larger than a cell phone. It wasn’t really even a catalog, but more of a brochure. She leafed through it.

Unprecedented accuracy
said the caption beneath. A photo of two men hunched over a mountain lion, attaching a radio collar.
AUDITRACK. Features: auxiliary sensor data, long-term data storage in animal unit, operates under canopy.
Allison flipped the page over and a clear picture stared at her. It was the identical GPS gear she had found next to the bulletless elk.
Download by radio. Built in transmitter. Spreadsheet to determine battery life. Adjustable neck. Durable.
On and on.

The brochure was addressed to Rocky Carnivitas at a P.O. Box in Glenwood Springs. Allison stuffed it into her back pocket.

She explored the trailer more purposefully, meticulously and found a matching GPS collar in a closet off the bedroom.

This one sat next to an unplugged battery charger.

Rocky the wildlife biologist? Allison had a simple answer for her own rhetorical question:
I don’t think so.

****

Allison called Trudy from Weaver’s barn and had a quick conversation to let her know that Rocky’s trailer was empty and that she’d keep looking. Trudy thanked her profusely and didn’t even ask if Allison could return the key.

Throughout a day of packing up a new hunting party and delivering another group’s kill to a nearby taxidermist, Allison ran through the odds of Rocky not being involved with the dead elk. The answer was obvious.

After leaving the taxidermist, she drove up to Grumley’s barn and sat in her Blazer next to the corral for a minute, to let the moment settle. She had to have her questions ready—and what if there was a convenient explanation about Rocky? This was the same spot where she had parked on her very first visit to the canyon, responding to a small ad in the Glenwood Springs paper:
Guides needed. Horse exp. required. Will train other skills.
Grumley had done the interviewing and clearly didn’t trust her city looks and soft exterior. Her background. She had sat in the car too long beforehand, brewing up a mild panic attack and questioning if she could complete the long strange trip from ad exec to mountain woman, via plane crash. She hadn’t interviewed well, in part because she had left a mental door ajar where self doubt could creep in. She couldn’t let that happen again.

Remembering the packed gun rack in the office, Allison got out and knocked on the doorjamb inside the barn, asked for George Grumley.

“Not around,” said an older, whiskered man in brown chaps. It looked like who was getting ready to ride. Maybe it was a permanent condition. She recognized him from the talk with Sheriff Sandstrom under the eaves of Weaver’s barn.

“I’m actually looking for Rocky,” said Allison.

“Why didn’t you say so?”

Allison didn’t reply.

“Haven’t seen him, now that you mention it. But it’s not too unusual.” He pronounced it
unuzle
and relished mangling the word.

“Is he up with the camps?”

“No doubt.”

“Have you seen him since the big dump?”

“Can’t rightly say. But—no,
probly
not. My name’s Boyles. Yours?”

“Allison Coil.” She noticed a walkie-talkie on his belt. “I work down at Weaver’s.”

“I’ll ask the boss when he comes back.
Ack-shoo-lee
, we have a chalk board right over here.”

Boyles led the way to a board mounted between two stalls. “Says Rocky ... well, it says nothing about Rocky. Looks like someone erased his last destination. Now sometimes that boy will get deep in his cups and need a few days to come out of it. His trailer is—”

“There was no answer at his trailer. No sign of him. Would anybody else know?”

“What?”

“If he’s been around.”

“Not likely. I’m here more than anybody else: chief cook and bottle washer. Believe me, he’ll turn up.”

“Thanks,” said Allison. “It’s really no big deal. It’s just that I know someone who wants to talk to him.”

“Whatever,” said Boyles. “No doubt the storm slowed him up a bit. But in any tough situation I’d put my money on the old Rockster. No question.”

Allison thanked him and left, wondering about the gnawing in her guts, possibly the same sense of dread that was gnawing at Trudy.

****

Grumley showed Boyles where to park the truck, tucked down and out of sight from the road that split the valley. Boyles punched off the headlights. Across the road, An A-frame sat nestled against a stand of trees straight across a broad, moonlit field. One window revealed a soft glow from inside the house.

“Allison’s place,” said Boyles. “City girls.”

“What do you mean?”

“The old leave-one-light-on bit. You know, when nobody’s home. A city thing.”

“You can tell she’s not home?”

“I’d bet dollars to donuts. Do we want her home?”

“Not exactly,” said Grumley.

“What are we doin’?”

“Pokin’ around. And, if nothing else, delivering a message.”

“No time for US mail?”

“Not exactly. She needs something to think about.”

“One inquiring little bitch,” said Boyles. “Probly thought I was going to get all alarmed, like she was the only one to notice Rocky ain’t been around.”

The sight of Trudy talking with the Allison Coil pest had been enough. But hearing Boyles tell about her asking questions, probably on Trudy’s behalf, well, that called for a shot across the city girl’s cute little bow.

They crossed the snowbound field quickly, skirting the edge by the creek bed, so they could come up behind the house through the trees.

Boyles knocked innocently. He would make up a story on the spot if she or anyone else answered. A second knock. Grumley hung back in the darkness.

Still nothing.

Boyles tried the handle as Grumley came up onto the porch. “Locked,” said Boyles.

“Give it a shoulder.”

The door rattled but didn’t open.

“How un-neighborly,” said Grumley. “Give it the old linebacker tackle.”

“I played wing.”

“Whatever.”

Boyles took a step back and lowered his shoulder.

“Are you sure you want this much damage?” said Boyles.

“You got any better ideas?” said Grumley.

“We could try the kitchen window. Sometimes people get careless.”

The kitchen window slid up an inch or two. Boyles shimmied it the rest of the way. He put his heel in a cup formed by Grumley’s gloved hands, eased up and disappeared through the opening.

Grumley heard a thump and right behind it a crashing sound. He waited at the front door, which opened a minute later.

“Goddamn flowerpot right underneath the window.”

“Like
we
care,” said Grumley. Potting soil covered the counter around the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

Grumley positioned Boyles at the door to stand guard. “This won’t take long.”

First he emptied the closet, throwing everything out in a heap. He emptied the dresser, all five drawers, flinging underwear and sweaters on the floor. Toss the bed, leave all the cupboards open. He was not quite sure what he was looking for—something he had overlooked from the spot where Rocky went down in the snow, something he couldn’t get a grip on. Clothes and belongings were scattered everywhere, leaving nothing in its original place. Upstairs, there wasn’t much to do but turn over the twin beds and mess things up.

“Lights on the road,” said Boyles. “Slowing.”

Grumley was balling sheets and blanket into a knotted wad.

“Turning on the driveway,” said Boyles.

“Shit.”

“The mess in the sink,” said Boyles. “I don’t think it’ll stand out.”

“Fuck it,” said Grumley, skipping down the stairs. “Fuck it.”

The headlights were snaking their way in across the field, bumping up and down.

“Come on,” said Grumley. They jumped off the porch and ducked off to the side as the headlights swept the front of the cabin.

“Christ,” muttered Grumley, after they jogged across a few yards of open clearing between the A-frame and the stand of trees to the back.

Boyles crouched down as another light clicked on inside.

“Message delivered?” said Boyles.

“Shit,” said Grumley. “I was just getting started.”

Seven

The sheriff ’s office, one block off the main drag in Glenwood Springs, was cool and clinical. The receptionist, Officer McNabb according to her nametag, pointed Allison toward a deputy who waited a minute to stop reading a newspaper and finally grabbed a clipboard. His nametag said Deputy Gerard. He was plump, bored and had seen it all. Allison ran through the details of the burglary at her cabin, what she’d found, the hours she had been gone.

“Anything missing?” said the deputy.

“Nothing so far. Even a stash of cash, a couple hundred dollars, was overlooked.”

“Sometimes you don’t realize what’s missing for a while.”

“I know.” Allison had been hit in Denver once and had not realized for weeks that a camera was gone, along with the obvious TV and DVD player.

She wanted to remain calm about the explanation. But the sensation of dread she had felt when she realized a stranger or strangers had been stomping around in her private place came back to her. It wasn’t a big deal compared to a swim in icy Long Island Sound with airplane parts and dead bodies as your companions. But it had rattled her.

“A geranium by the kitchen window was smashed. The door wasn’t broken, so that’s how they must have gotten in.”

“They?”

Deputy Gerard shifted back in his chair and studied her.

“I think ‘they.’ There were two sets of footprints in the snow this morning that led away from the house.”

“But they didn’t take anything?”

“I don’t have much.”

“No idea what they were after?”

“No. None.”

A radio crackled. Gerard cocked his head to listen.

“Big cheese is pulling in.”

Gerard stood up and took on a more professional air.

“Anything new on Ray Stern?” said Allison.

“Zip. Of course, that’s not official. Of course, I didn’t say anything.”

The front door opened and Sandstrom clomped in, trailing two deputies. One was guffawing, maybe at a bad joke. He spotted the presence of a woman and squared up. Together the three officers created a huddle of leather jackets, olive green uniforms, guns and thick black belts. Their angry boots had lost of bit of shine to the mucky streets.

“It’s the guide,” said Sandstrom. “Allison something.”

“Coil,” she said.

“What’s new?”

“I was burgled. Your staff has a report.”

“Ransacked,” said Gerard. “Nothing stolen.”

“Unusual,” said Sandstrom.

“There is something else. Someone missing,” said Allison.

“Who?”

“A guide named Rocky Carnivitas. Works for George Grumley. He hasn’t been seen since before the snowstorm. You need to know.”

“And why do we need to know?”

“It’s part of this situation.”

“And you’re sure he’s missing?”

“Nobody has seen him.”

“Which means he could be out on a trip and out of communication range, correct?”

“Possible. Unlikely.”

One of the deputies shifted a toothpick back and forth in his mouth and offered a squinting grimace.

Allison was tempted to tell Sandstrom about the GPS collar and the brochure in Rocky’s trailer, to add spice to her information. But how would she explain it, or what it really meant?

“You weren’t that far off from where the bloodhound found Ray Stern,” said Sandstrom.

“A half mile up the hill. That’s a long way.”

“Not that far if you really think about it,” said Sandstrom.

“A whole different terrain; if you’d go up there, you’d see.”

“I believe you saw the guy who was trying to hide Stern’s body. And it’s possible with the storm that you weren’t exactly where you thought you were. Correct?”

“Wrong.” Sandstrom’s stubbornness was maddening. “I could show you the precise spot Bear was—”

“Bear?”

“My horse. I could show you the spot Bear was standing. It was a ways up from where they found Stern.”

“A ways?” said Sandstrom. “No chance of a mix-up? Have you thought of that?”

The chant started low, but clear.

“What the—?” said Sandstrom.

The chanters were stepping off a school bus.

“Two, four, six, eight—don’t forget to investigate. Three, five, seven, nine—maybe murder isn’t a crime.”

“What the—?” Sandstrom said again.

There were about twenty of them in a neat formation on the sidewalk. They all sported bright yellow sweatshirts with big blue letters across the front: FATE.

Sandstrom stepped outside and Allison was right behind him. Based on Ellenberg’s elated response, Sandstrom’s move couldn’t have been more perfect for her needs. Ellenberg wielded a mini megaphone and shouted the loudest. After one refrain of their chorus, the group pointed its placards squarely at the gaggle of cops thirty yards across the parking lot.

Ray’s Killer: There’s a Home on the Range

Cops Are a Hunter’s Best Friend

Cops and Hunters, Birds of a Feather.

Four television cameras panned over to focus on Sandstrom and his deputies, who watched the proceedings with idle curiosity, nothing more.