by Mark Stevens
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.”
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.