Trapline

by Mark Stevens

  Now, with the morning sun to her back, she was paying the price. The morning sun lit up the scenery like a spotlight. Normally these moments were worth a week-long cleanse at a health spa, but not today. Her tequila-woozy head didn’t appreciate having to process any visual information and it fought the same running banter of crap from the London face-off.

  She let Sunny Boy trudge, didn’t push him.

  It was Wednesday morning. The hunt started in three days.

  Allison had one group coming in that wanted to move immediately up to higher elevation to get acclimated and start scouting. They were six guys coming from Oklahoma City. They would hunt for a week. All six had drawn cow tags and, based on the steady flow of e-mails, all six expected to go home with freezer meat. The success rates during hunting season suggested otherwise, but they were welcome to their fantasy. Allison felt like she would be doing her job if she gave them either fresh sign or a close look at the actual prey.

  The second group was from Davenport—not too far from her childhood home in Cedar Rapids. Allison had come recommended. The client was a professional friend through her father’s teacher networks in Iowa. Their expectations were a bit less bloodthirsty. She wanted, instinctively, to work harder for them than the pushy crew from Oklahoma. Even if neither group managed to take a shot, Allison knew little ways to click up the comfort level for the Iowans, make the food and service top-notch.

  Allison worked to focus on one thing, tried to focus on giving her mind a single track.

  Elk.

  Elk could vanish by the dozens, en masse, in fresh snow in October. It was if every herd had a bull that practiced Santería. He could sneak up on you and spit some foul chemical-laced substance on you that made it impossible to see any four-legged mammal over 500 pounds. Elk were tricky and supremely skittish this time of year, and the only thing that made August or September hunting possible, of course, was sex. The ability to call an elk in close—close enough for a bow and arrow, anyway—made late-August hunting possible. Finding them without calling them in, which Allison planned to do, would require luck, a sharp eye, and a clear head.

  As for the last ingredient, she didn’t expect to get back to equilibrium for weeks. It was as if Kerry London’s question had triggered an earthquake and she was left to wobble, knee-deep in rubble. She had carefully assembled the house where she lived—the mental house. It was a simple place, function over form or beauty. More than anything, it kept strangers at bay. Enough time had passed that there were whole long stretches—first a day, then two, then maybe a whole week—when the airplane crash had lost its power. When she could almost believe the events didn’t happen. When they must have happened to a previous incarnation of herself. Whenever she had chosen to think about the airplane crash recently, it was her choice to pull it down off the shelf and hold it in her arms, see if it sparked rage or sadness or, occasionally, nothing. It was her story, her event, her details. Time helped. The Flat Tops had helped more. The new scenery, so utterly devoid of machines and machinery, kissed her daily with the sensation—no, a deep-down-in-the-bones truth—of rebirth. That it was possible. After years now, the airplane crash was finally parked in a well-guarded place and nobody was going to come along and make her spill it all over the page or convulse for the cameras. Nobody. And she resented the hell out of Kerry London’s baffled expression, which implied she should thank him for the opportunity to go public.

  Ugh.

  The trail cut straight up a grassy knob to a high ridge line ahead, the view beyond obscured. Lumberjack Camp was less than an hour away and at that point she would need to decide on her options to go look for elk or their sign.

  Either one would work fine.

  Anything would be better than thinking about Kerry London and his hideous, self-assured smirk.

  twenty-six:

  wednesday morning

  Pesca. Rio. Van azul.

  A thin bead of sweat formed on Tomás’ upper lip and his hands trembled. He looked to Diaz for reassurance. He pointed down the road to an innocuous spot and said, emphatically, allá—where he was waiting when he saw the van azul.

  Duncan Bloom was respectful, patient. He smiled, gave Tomás space. Tomás talked about his upbringing in Chihuahua. The family business was a bakery. When he talked about his mother, tears formed and Tomás had to take a breath. Trudy realized the enormous risk he was taking, the trust he was extending.

  Bloom asked for personal details about his skills and interests. Again Tomás fought hard to keep it together, with only partial success.

  “A gold mine,” said Bloom to Trudy. Diaz listened in. “What I really need is the blue van, of course, and where it went.”

  Bloom looked up and down the road, as if it might reappear if they waited long enough.

  “Now what?” said Trudy.

  Bloom put his pen in his pocket, his notebook in a back pocket. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a simple red short-sleeve shirt. He folded his arms, leaned on the hood of his scruffy green Camry, the hood splotched white where the paint had lost its battle with the sun.

  “In the 1920s, Congress passed a series of immigration laws and at the time Asians were among the excludable aliens, except the Japanese,” said Bloom. “Been reading up. You look back, it’s a mess—laws jerking policy one way and then the other.”

  “The laws don’t seem clear now,” said Trudy.

  “So Alfredo worked for you?” said Bloom.

  “Yes,” said Trudy. “But—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bloom. “I want the whole story, not the surface. Not this sliver. The question is where in the hell do they go?”

  “Denver?” said Trudy.

  “One person in a van all the way to Denver?” said Bloom. “Expensive cab service.”

  Bloom produced a palm-size camera, shot pictures of Tomás from behind—hiding his face—as Tomás pointed down the road to the spot where Alfredo had been nabbed. Tomás was a stiff model. He looked tired from the interview and uncertain.

  Lingering probably wasn’t a smart idea. Curious drivers would notice them and her truck, the company logo.

  “Can you start in Aurora?” said Trudy. “See how they arrive? Look for vans?”

  “Maybe,” said Bloom. He studied the road again, looked up and down. “I could ask if Alfredo is being held in the system. At least that would confirm that was the destination—the ICE system. It’s worth a shot. I just can’t imagine seeing your brother snatched from the streets—no surprise he wants to get the heck out of here.”

  “But he’s dealing with leaving his girlfriend and daughter,” said Trudy.

  Bloom froze like he was playing a game of statue. “What?”

  “A baby,” said Trudy.

  “I can’t believe I missed that,” said Bloom. “I must be losing my touch.”

  Bloom re-engaged Tomás and Diaz for another round as Bloom soaked up the details.

  “And you would leave your baby?” asked Bloom. “No problem?”

  Tomás welled up and his eyes glistened and he started speaking.

  “His mother can’t afford to lose another son,” said Diaz, when Tomás was finished answering. “He’ll come back when things settle down. If things settle down. He feels terrible. He is torn. Indeciso.”

  Tomás wiped his eyes on his sleeves, turned away to fight more tears.

  “I want to meet her,” said Bloom. “Your girlfriend. And I want to meet the baby, too.”

  Diaz translated. Tomás’ eyes were still moist.

  “No names. Girlfriend or baby,” said Diaz.

  “Sí,” said Bloom. “Same rules.”

  “It’s okay,” said Trudy. Her instincts were solely based on how Bloom treated her when he wrote the profile. His auras were blue—good principles and maybe some psychic talent. Bloom cared. She remembered him sitting in her kitchen, how he set
tled in, made the transition from professional to person before her eyes.

  Tomás took an unsteady breath, muttered to Diaz.

  “He doesn’t want to put his girlfriend in trouble,” said Diaz.

  “It’s to show how this impacts families,” said Bloom. “That families are being ripped apart, that babies will grow up without fathers. And it’s about our two countries. About getting along. It’s what Tom Lamott was saying.”

  Bloom followed Trudy’s pickup, with Tomás and Diaz on board, to Riverside Meadows, a quarter-mile south.

  Tomás went inside to smooth the way while Trudy, Bloom, and Diaz huddled under a tree. A skinny calico cat stepped out from a gap in the wood skirt that covered the gap between mobile home and ground. It promptly plopped down on a patch of grass in the shade. A distant air conditioner whirred. The sun felt as if it had decided on a day trip to visit the moon.

  It suddenly occurred to Trudy that Tomás lived in the same community with the same roads and buildings but had to go through the day with his head down, hoping to stay invisible. It was half a life, or less.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” said Bloom.

  “Okay,” said Trudy. “I guess. But not about my business.”

  “No,” said Bloom. “Allison.”

  Trudy waited. Every time others mentioned Allison’s name, Trudy knew they wanted a piece of her friend.

  “Yes?” said Trudy when Bloom failed to fill the void.

  “Is she around?”

  “I don’t keep close tabs,” said Trudy. She wished Allison had a permanently embedded GPS. There had been times when Allison disappeared for days.

  “I’d like to talk to her about what she found up on the building,” said Bloom. “The roof. That’s all. Plus, it would be nice to come up, if you want to know the truth. To look at the sky up there. Down here, you almost feel like you’re in a hole. The day I spent with you and Allison—well, it’s locked in my memory forever.”

  Trudy knew how guys looked at Allison.

  “We’re not gate keepers for the Flat Tops,” said Trudy. “But I doubt Allison would talk about what she did for the police. I can ask her—”

  “Please,” said Bloom.

  Tomás’ girlfriend stepped from the mobile home and sat down on the middle of the three-step entrance. Tomás followed. She wore a white T-shirt with an oversized basketball across the front. A white cap with a large visor shaded her face. Bits of hesitant female Spanish floated across the still, hot space. She held the baby in a thin white wrap.

  Candy’s expression was inscrutable. She stared off and on at Bloom. This should be a simple yes or no, Trudy figured, but the back-and-forth between Tomás and Candy lasted longer than she would have expected.

  There was an unexpected hiccup. Something had changed. Trudy felt like she was intruding. Candy peeled the wrap back like a banana and revealed the top of her baby’s head, kissed her gently.

  Tomás headed their way, head down.

  “Something’s up,” said Bloom. “Though you don’t need a translator to tell you that.”

  Tomás fought off tears. But he was smiling, too. He took a deep breath, blew it out with puffed-up cheeks, put his head down and then he was beside them, gathering himself. He gave a fist pump at mid-chest like a coach exhorting a team to do its best. Despite the tumble of emotions, Trudy sensed the bottom line was something good. Underneath it all, Tomás looked relieved. He gave the news in two rapid-fire sentences to Diaz, who replied with a one-word question.

  “¿Aquí?”

  Tomás took a breath. “Si,” he said.

  “It’s Alfredo,” said Diaz, summing up. “While Tomás was out with us, Alfredo turned up. Last night he was out, alone. He was hiding and running. He was being held somewhere. He really needs a doctor and he is very, very afraid.”

  twenty-seven:

  wednesday, mid-day

  Late summer raspberries hung on the bush, dabs of bright and pale red. Allison grazed her way around the edge, ate enough to call it a light meal. Juice burst in her mouth, a delicate balance of tart and sweet. The berries could have used a bowl of vanilla ice cream. She wished she could pick a few pints and bring them to Trudy for jam or compote.

  It was high noon. She’d seen elk sign, but nothing fresh.

  Actual elk? Nada.

  Actual deer? Double nada.

  Any mammal worthy of a hunt? She may as well have been scouting in Times Square.

  When she had passed Lumberjack Camp an hour ago, she had stopped for a long stare, using the vista up the hill as a movie backdrop and imagining chase scenes playing out, scenes from National Geographic specials, the ones she watched as a kid with cheetahs flashing across the African savannah, streaking low and so fast the background was an indecipherable smudge of green grasses. The scenes had scared the crap out of her. She’d cover her eyes whenever the cat leapt at the wildebeest or other frightened prey of the day. The ten-minute stare down of the area around Lumberjack produced no such imaginary documentary that was credible. It was all science fiction, B-grade stuff. At least the mountain lion problem and the half-corpse question had taken her mind off Kerry London and his evil proposition.

  Back on Sunny Boy, she worked her way out to the broad east-west plateau.

  East would take her back past Lumberjack and offer a straight return to Sweetwater in plenty of time to check on progress around the barn. West, more scouting.

  Allison chose south. A rocky high point beckoned. The ridge jutted into the valley like the prow of the Titanic. She tied Sunny Boy to the largest tree in a small thicket of aspens. An animal trail snaked up the treeless east side of the high knoll. The valley floor dropped away. Allison let her thoughts tumble and drift.

  The half-corpse drew the most hits, with the rooftop of the apartment building a close second. She observed the ideas from a distance, found a way to not let them gnaw.

  Blue flax dominated the route up, other than the usual green smudge of late-summer grasses. She inhaled with her eyes. If a wildflower bloomed on a hillside and nobody was there to see it, was it really color?

  The ridge top was no wider than a country road. The opposite side dropped farther and steeper than the one she’d climbed.

  The knife edge narrowed down to sidewalk width at the prow of the rock ship. The view opened her heart. The view was real and the view cared nothing about her trivial woes. She didn’t exist. The view sent the same message it had delivered when she first plunged into the Flat Tops. You ain’t nothing. She was meant to be here, at this spot and at this point in time. She would look for elk, sure, as soon as she took in everything else.

  She wondered what this spot looked like as the mountain ranges crumbled, as seas moved in and receded, as the land masses took after each other in their slow-motion demolition derby. Basalt from volcanic eruptions formed the Flat Tops, but the geological violence that shaped it was impossible to picture. If the resulting evidence of their clash was this beauty, and its dense kaleidoscope of nature, let a million more battles commence. What was impossible to accept was that the scene before her was changing, evolving still. That the continents were relaxing between rounds in their respective corners, getting water squirted into their mouth and their cuts patched while they waited for the next round in the ring. She was watching evolution. Time ticked. Sand dripped. Rocks eroded. Gene codes cooked, stewed, adapted. The universe, said the experts, was flying apart. In three billion years, this would all be ice. Somewhere out there were elk, deer, big horn sheep, bears, coyotes, rabbits, porcupines, chipmunks, squirrels, mice, voles, beaver, muskrats and every kind of bird and waterfowl that enjoyed a lush, elevated alpine climate and a hundred million or billion bugs at the bottom of the food chain. Her kind of melting pot. But Allison’s view was wonderfully inert, a still-life landscape for some future painter to add the life forms. How could 30,000 elk hide so easil
y? Or 80,000 deer?

  The sun was high, set to braise. Late summer days at elevation in the mountains rarely carried the ferocity, say, of the New Jersey shore boardwalk. Allison thought she could sit there all day, the air temperature matching her skin.

  What about this thing called work? If human activity was low, there was always the possibility of spotting elk out for a graze. She popped a Fig Newton like a happy pill and scanned the broad valley through binoculars, encouraging any brown, four-legged mammals to move a muscle. Nothing. She lay prone, her forearms stiff like iron pipes. She looked a mile down the valley. She inched her way along, trying to accomplish in minutes something that might have taken hours on horseback.

  If she got lucky.

  The vast view overwhelmed her. It sank into her marrow. Her whole system smiled. The scene was either pure design or pure art, take your pick. Or maybe some magic combination of both, a seamless marriage of expression and purpose, of soul and brain. Surely the vista couldn’t be improved. It was a life-giving, life-producing valley that spoke to her like the finest music, the most moving art. It confirmed her humanity and at the same time, made her thoroughly forget it.

  Was she being selfish? Greedy? The question towered up over her like a sudden dark cloud. Coincidentally, Allison noted the shaft of a blue-black thunderhead that had encroached on the otherwise unblemished western horizon. The cloud appeared to be an alien renegade, an interloper who drifted into the wrong party on the wrong block in the wrong city on the wrong planet. It looked fat and loaded.

  “Scram,” said Allison.

  The thought ground into her—the happy loner was by definition selfish. She was keeping all this to herself. She had re-wrapped herself in a precious cocoon and wasn’t going to allow one strand to come unraveled. Colin fit fine inside her tight little world because she had found him there. Trudy fit fine inside her tight little world because she had found her there. Trudy belonged, a natural student of the earth.