by Mark Stevens
People would take the day off from work and would do whatever it took to make a difference. Mention doing something in the name of Ray Stern and an instant army was at your disposal.
They all wanted to get it going immediately. No questions asked. Ellenberg had a news editor friend who was sympathetic and the friend checked the advance log for the following day’s scheduled news. It was a slow news day. That cinched it. The phone tree, dry timber, was on fire.
When she was done and when the phone stopped ringing, Ellenberg lit a dozen candles. Applegate had to stop and think if it was still the same day he’d wailed on Bobby Alvin. It was.
“Come here,” said Ellenberg. She stood in the glow she’d created, unbuttoning her white cotton blouse, the one with the red and blue flowers embroidered on the pockets. Braless. She hooked her pants down, pulled back the quilt comforter and stood there in her powder blue short-cut panties, trim and lean.
“You going to stand there?”
“Enjoying it,” said Applegate.
“Hurry up and get naked,” she said. “We gotta get to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
****
The garage door was open and so was the door that led from the garage into the house. She heard one soft meow off in the distance and another, lower pitched and more like a siren. She shut the door behind her, stepped over a chair lying on its side and sprayed the room with the beam from her flashlight.
“Trudy?” she called out. Allison’s heart fluttered. Scampering cat feet everywhere made it worse. Add trespassing to the list of charges, thought Allison, as if the cops don’t have enough to worry about. This last piece, finding Trudy, was simply a matter of closing the loop with the only other person who cared about Rocky. And now she was beginning to wonder if anything was simple.
Allison stood in a ransacked kitchen. The table was turned over, there were smashed plates and a skid of food or slime covered the floor. Bits of broken glass and a bottle of mustard had smashed and exploded, leaving brown-yellow shrapnel everywhere. The light caught a pair of green eyes staring back at her from the floor. Another feline, this one jet black, crouched low in the middle of the mess. Careful of putting her footprints in any gobs of food, she picked her way around the clutter and upended table to the other side of the kitchen.
More meows. More cat eyes, pairs by the dozen.
She took the stairs up to the bedrooms. One bed was a mess, with squirming balls of fur in the middle of it. A mother and her new brood, hours old at most.
A bathroom was empty; a second bedroom empty, too. Allison went to the greenhouse. Nothing. She poked her flashlight down the basement stairs. The chorus of meows grew in strength as she stepped down, with one cat doing a figure eight between her feet. She found the light switch and snapped it on. A cat sprinted up as she cautiously descended.
Allison found the tub of cat food and slipped the plastic cover off the giant vat. It didn’t seem to make much of a sound, but the stairs behind her were quickly cluttered with cats. They pounded their way down and assembled at her feet like an alluvial fan of bubbling fur. They rubbed their chins on her ankles. There were five bowls, all licked clean. The cats jostled for position, spreading out and around until every munching station was full and the pecking order established.
“Knock yourselves out,” she told them. And sneezed.
She went back upstairs. The house was clearly empty, but the mess didn’t look good. Finding Trudy would depend upon how far she had decided to go and how long ago she’d left. Allison found herself standing next to a leafy fern-like plant in the living room. She jabbed a finger into the potting soil, to the first knuckle. The surface was dry, but the dirt below stuck to her skin. No more than a few days without water, she guessed. Trudy wouldn’t have gone too far, wouldn’t have left her cats and plants to the winds.
****
The motel room bugged her. There was so little room to move that it felt like a cell. All the surfaces were hard. There was nothing green. The only activity was on the TV. Worse than that, there was no news. CNN, sure, but no real news or developments. There was nothing on the local channels, either. The media needed a real slice of something meaty now for the next chapter to begin; anything but another loosely hinged sidebar about a remote aspect of animal rights, creative suicide, or the history of Ray Stern.
She needed Allison but wondered if she would still want to help. There hadn’t been any answer at Allison’s house the few times she had called. She left a message at Pete Weaver’s barn, but the mumbling guide who worked for Pete was unreliable, at best. She decided to go right to the top. If anybody could find Allison Coil, it was Pete Weaver himself. The phone at his farmhouse rang uselessly the first four times she tried it, on the hour, until after dusk.
“Weaver.”
The fifth time was the charm.
“Hi, Peter. It’s Trudy Grumley,” she said. The Grumley-Weaver tension had always been polite, but real. They were competitors after the same market in the same valley showing off the same wilderness, hunting the same herds.
“What can I do for you?” said Weaver.
“I’m looking for one of your guides. Allison Coil.”
“Popular girl,” said Weaver. “Been plenty busy, anyway. I’ll leave her a note on the message board down at the barn. You tried her home?”
“Yes. No answer.”
“Probably up on her routes,” said Weaver. “How about her boyfriend? The ranger?”
“Don’t know him.”
“David Slater. Forest Service ranger. Lives down in Glenwood Springs or down that way.”
Trudy said goodbye quickly, checked the directory for Slater, found a D Slater, no address, and dialed the number. She let it ring until she heard the message machine start. She hung up.
She had moved from one stuck place to another stuck place. But she hadn’t left her house, taken such a risk, only to lie low. There was nothing that said she couldn’t find the Forest Service office, ask around, or even drive out to Slater’s place for a look. It was a matter of working up the nerve.
****
Slater was waiting for Allison at the Waffle Hut, not too far from downtown. He was deep into his third or fourth cup of coffee, judging by the disheveled newspaper in the booth. During the drive down from Ripplecreek, fatigue had briefly unbundled itself from her fears, but it was all back together now in a troublesome cocktail. Her mind was trapped in a box where the name George Grumley echoed with more and more volume.
“Hi,” Allison said, having snuck up behind him, a fearless man with his back to the door. “Breakfast for supper?”
“First meal of the day,” said Slater. “Got trapped dealing with unlicensed hunters from Indiana.”
“You mean poachers.”
“They hadn’t shot anything. Yet. Fine line. We talked. And talked. Aren’t you joining me?”
“I can’t decide.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to sit still.”
“I can imagine, but now you’re with me. Besides, I want to hear it all again from start to finish.”
Over coffee and waffles? She wanted his undivided attention in a private place where she could be held. It was like being back in the harbor, floating and bobbing with airplane parts and everything the broken airplane coughed up. She’d never forget the bear hug clutch of the anonymous firefighter as he wrapped her in a blanket. Slater took a sip of coffee and urged her to sit down on the same bench with him. Not quite the same, but ...
“No idea who it was? Chasing you?” Slater looked cool, unmoved.
“Yeah. But nothing I could prove.”
“Nonetheless, who?”
“Saying it would make it real in your head too. And I might be wrong.”
“So?” He paused, stared.
“It looked a helluva lot like George Grumley.”
“The guy who owns the barn where you picked up the rifle?” said Slater.
“You don’t have to add two and two so qu
ickly.”
“Comes up four every time,” said Slater. “Cops take good care of you?”
“More thorough than I had the patience for.”
“What kind of rifle was it?”
“Which?” said Allison.
“The one you lifted.”
“A Sako.”
A waitress drifted by with a pot of coffee. Slater ordered waffles; Allison asked for juice.
“Finnish,” said Slater.
“Huh?”
“The rifle. Made in Finland. Good precision. Should be easy to match up.”
“Especially with Marcovicci’s initials,” said Allison.
“They’ll need proof of ownership. Or they can pick up Applegate, pretend they’ve got the goods, tell him they found the rifle and get him to confess on the guarantee of a lesser charge? Have the rifle right there, see if he flinches, see if he does a good, solid double take and then spews it all out. No lab work needed.”
“How about photographs of Applegate holding the Sako over the last few years?”
“If they’re available. And very clear. Still have to be the same rifle, with the telling detail.”
“Or maybe there’s somebody who witnessed the sale. That would do, too.”
“Jesus,” said Slater. “You don’t give up.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Nobody believed me. And now there’s Rocky. I never saw anything that had to do with Ray Stern. Trudy Grumley calls and says Rocky is missing. All I did was a favor, running by his place. Speaking of which, now Trudy is missing. I went up to look for her, tell her what I knew, and her place was trashed. Tables turned over, mess on the floor.”
Slater cocked an eye. “Not good,” he said.
“Tell me,” said Allison.
“But that would explain the name on the message on my desk,” said Slater. “It was only the first name, Trudy, and a phone number.”
“Did you call?”
“No, I didn’t know there was any need or rush. It’s on my desk.”
“Can you call and get it?” said Allison.
“Closed up for the night. But we can go back when we’re done. Or it can wait.”
“Tonight.”
“Fine,” said Slater, a slight hint of irritation on his face.
Allison put a hand on his thigh underneath the table and slumped into his shoulder, letting weariness take another run at her. She drank her juice in a few long gulps and tried to suppress her desire to get going, to at least talk with Trudy.
“Do you know if they got Rocky down yet?”
“Don’t,” said Slater. “I’ve been out of the loop. Or out on the loop, depending on your point of view.”
“You don’t think that the dead elk and finding the GPS, meant... ?”
“Researchers?”
“Yeah.”
“Not likely. I’ve already talked to Bridgers. We’re putting a task force together to investigate this one, interview all the appropriate people that Rocky worked with and worked for. Should get going here in a day or two. We want to bring in folks from other districts who don’t know all the players, to make it as fair as possible.”
Slater wolfed down his waffles, whipped cream and a scoop of sticky blueberry compote. Allison tried not to gag.
They walked three blocks to Slater’s office as a freight train lumbered through downtown. Slater unlocked the front door and led her upstairs in the dark to his desk, where he found the message slip among a bunch of others.
Allison dialed the number and asked for the room. “It’s Allison. Are you all right, Trudy?”
“Sort of. I’m fine, yeah. Thanks for calling. You got my message?”
“Yes. Your place, what happened?”
“You went there?”
“Of course, when there was no answer.”
Slater took a seat and plowed into his paperwork as if it was high noon. He moved letters, files and memos one at a time from his inbox to the center of his desk and either to a metal, vertical sorter or to the circular file.
“There was a bit of a scrap,” said Trudy. “I had to get out.”
“Where are you?”
“Sulphur Inn, south of downtown.”
Allison knew the place, with its fake neon steam on the sign. In fact, Trudy was only a mile away. She didn’t want to tell Trudy what she had to tell her over the phone. Since Trudy hadn’t brought it up yet, it was entirely possible she didn’t know about Rocky, especially if the cops hadn’t retrieved his body or released any information. But Allison could not imagine staying awake any longer than the twenty minutes or so that it would require to drive to Slater’s trailer.
“You’re okay for the night?” said Allison. “Can we meet first thing tomorrow?”
She’d have to talk with Weaver. It was hard to imagine going back to routine chores right away. But it was high season. Weaver’s team was thin to begin with.
“I’m okay,” said Trudy unconvincingly. “I’ll be here. Room 141. Look for the 4Runner.”
“First thing,” said Allison. “Count on it.” She said good-bye and hung up.
“She’s okay?”
“Just,” said Allison. “Lonesome and scared, for sure.”
“Are we done?” said Slater, looking up from his now-clean desk. Only a stapler, tape dispenser, and pencil cup stood guard.
“Except the crashing part. Your place okay?”
“Alas, no,” said Slater. “I have to head over to Grand Junction tonight, big pooh-bah from Washington is in town for a regional meeting pep talk thing at o-dark thirty in the a.m. I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
“Again,” said Allison.
“Sorry,” said Slater. “We’re part of the show. Gotta lick boots.”
“That’s okay,” said Allison. “I expect to be conked out for hours to come.”
But already her mind stirred, imagining ahead the conversation with Trudy and thinking how she’d find the way to tell her. Trudy’s airplane had crashed, too, only she didn’t know it yet. How in the hell did you give somebody that kind of news? She would play the role of co-pilot, drift down the aisle, sport a matter-of-fact tone of voice and tell everyone: “Thought you all would like to know. We’re going down.”
****
It was a soft knock, three quick raps, unassuming and weak, no demand involved. Trudy responded instantly.
“Just a minute,” she said, looking for her new Wal-Mart robe and feeling her heart start to pump on a bit of adrenaline generated by the steep climb from parked to flying. It was still dark out.
It was only 5:30: too early for Allison, she thought.
“Yes?” she said at the door in a half whisper. Probably too soft.
“Miss Trudy.”
It was the housekeeper, Mariela. They had chatted twice. Mariela had spotted the cat but didn’t mind covering for the violation of house rules. She was a hard-working immigrant from Guadalajara who had taken the time to learn English.
“Miss Trudy.” Another trio of knocks.
Trudy unfastened the chain, braced for a blast of cool air. She opened the door.
“Miss Trudy. I ...”
Mariela stepped inside without being invited and stumbled awkwardly to the bedside chair, challenging Trudy’s sense of decorum and hospitality. A worried, fearful look had gripped Mariela’s face, only she wasn’t looking Trudy in the eye, but at the door.
George Grumley. Gun in hand, filling the doorway. He was pointing the gun at Mariela, but he was looking at Trudy.
“Nice place,” he said. “Good help.”
“George, what the—she’s not involved.”
“She is now.”
Trudy stayed standing, the back of her knees against the edge of the bed.
“Besides,” said George. “I’m no trouble. This here is sort of a glorified key, that’s all. Harmless.”
George put the gun down gently on the table, grabbed Mariela by the hand, brought h
er up like a small child. He whisked her out the door, a fake smile plastered on his face. Trudy found herself on the other side of the bed, unsure how all this came to be—this moment and all its bare-bones reality. Did the bathroom lock from the inside? Was it worth a try?
“How did you ... ?” she started to ask.
“Hell,” said George. “You left your number all over the valley. Little thing called a reverse directory. Simple.”
He was stepping around her, one hand out and palm up, inviting her to dance.
Trudy kept her own hands pressed between her butt and the wall, flattening herself into the paint.
He put a hand around her forearm and squeezed his fingers down between muscle and bone into a painful spot she didn’t know existed. He flipped her onto the bed.
“What the fuck you doin’?” he said.
He was straddling her hips now, his face in hers. There was no need to answer.
“You almost killed Popeye, know that?”
Fossil watched from a chair by the bedside table. Do something, she thought.
“You fuckin’ bitch,” said George.
His breath was sour, rotten. He reeked of bourbon.
Hand on her breast, he was mauling her.
God no, she thought.
“Husband and wife,” said George. “Motel room. No laws against it. Or maybe you know of one? Just a last fuck. A good-bye fuck. A fuck-you fuck.”
She turned her head away as far as was possible.
“Try to show a little affection,” he said. “It’s me. Your fucking husband.”
He yanked open her robe and leaned up a bit to undo his pants. “You pushed way too hard. But now you have nothing to push against. Nothing. Nothing. Because I’m outta here.”
Trudy kept her head cranked to the side, feeling the powerful clamp on her legs, caught between deciding whether to struggle, or to lie still and disassociate from what was happening.
“Husband and wife,” said George. “Been a long time since we did it in a motel room.”
He jerked down her underwear. Trudy started to shake and buck. George smiled. “Please,” he said. “Husband and wife.”