Trapline

by Mark Stevens

  All other would-be intruders had to be checked at the door or go through the kind of months-long physical and mental shakedown that would scare away even the most determined suitor. By definition, she was selfish. Snarling at Kerry London had proved the point. She was so determined to keep her world intact and she was so dead set on getting herself drunk on Flat Tops serenity as frequently as possible that she was really no better than a desperate junkie, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, guarding her last score.

  The big question ahead was if she could open up to strangers. If she could commit to Colin, if she could imagine bringing a child into this scary, frightening world and being responsible for its well-being, if she could reconcile with the city and all its crazy crap.

  Choosing to ignore the dark blotch on the high horizon, Allison aimed the binoculars along the edge of the forest, where the open meadows gave way to dark dense timber. She scoured the nooks and crannies, the transition areas. She willed elk from their hiding. She drilled holes through the dim corners with her X-ray vision. Soon, she would have to return to Sunny Boy and the less efficient method of scouting from bush to bush, tree to tree on horseback.

  Out of the waves of green and brown, a flickering orange-red dot.

  Flickering orange meant only one thing. Flickering and dancing orange confirmed it was the one thing. With her naked eye, the dot didn’t register. Had her survey position been an inch to the left or right, the dot might have been obscured by a tree. The dot was more than a mile away, maybe two. It was hard to gauge its size, but at least it wasn’t growing. And that meant it was being tended and that meant campers or scouts and human activity and that meant the odds plummeted for seeing elk or deer in this stretch of the Flat Tops.

  Allison scrambled down quickly, no melancholy good-bye to her precious view. Sunny Boy was happy to see her—ears gently forward, a relaxed whinny. His ears said it: what’s next? They rode up the throat of the valley, a wary eye on the darkening cloud, now producing intermittent flashes of jagged white cracks that connected ridge and cloud. The flashes were silent and carried no clout.

  “Stay put,” she told the storm. “Or, at least, hold your horses.”

  As if in spite, the air cooled and the treetops swayed like they’d been kicked in the gonads. The light dimmed. Allison caught a whiff of smoke. She tied Sunny Boy to a thick fir. Now that she was near the orange dot, she had the gut-grab sensation that she didn’t like the firestarters. But since the fire was a fire and she wanted to make sure it was being tended and didn’t pose further risk, she was obliged to investigate. It was her duty, given the badge she’d pinned on her chest and the silent oath she’d administered to herself.

  The fire sat in a neat fire ring, minding its own business. Its flames were waist-high, bending a bit to the oncoming wind. No Hollywood special effects expert could have created a more typical, well-groomed campfire. It must have been recently fed or tended, but the camp looked empty. No pots or dishes rattled in the small canvas wall tent. If someone had gone to the trouble of building the fire, then why wasn’t it being used or enjoyed? The camp looked old and well-worn, but it wasn’t on Allison’s radar. It was fifty yards off the main valley, tucked away. Private. Every bone in her body said get the fuck out.

  But there was the fire, ridiculously perky and cheerful, waiting for a circle of hunters or cowboys and bottle of Wild Turkey or Patrón Silver, her new favorite.

  “Help you?”

  The man stood by the opening to the tent, but Allison hadn’t seen the flap open.

  “Saw the fire,” said Allison. “Going down the valley. Saw the fire back in here.”

  “Hiking?”

  “My horse is—” She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “I’ve got a horse. Saw the fire.”

  “Fire’s not going anywhere,” said the man.

  “I can see that,” said Allison.

  And in my permit area, she wanted to say.

  The man was a beefy six-footer. Even so, his head was disproportionately large with thick curls of gray hair and matching muttonchops. His cheeks could have been stuffed with acorns. His jaw was slack and his mouth didn’t look like it ever closed. He wore a navy baseball hat with a round insignia in white but it was too small and too far away to read the words. It had a quasi-military look. He wore green camo pants, thick brown boots and a maroon pull-over, the sleeves yanked up to his elbows, revealing weightlifter forearms. He could probably pick her up one-handed for a chat like she was Fay Wray.

  “We like it neat,” he said. No offer of an introduction.

  “Do I hear female?”

  A second man from the tent was taller and had gaunt cheeks and pinched, deep-set eyes. His blue-jean jacket had a large American Flag patch over the front pocket. He wore a black baseball cap that said “iPack” in the same font as all the Apple gear. His neck was heron-long.

  She didn’t like the camp. She didn’t like them. She also didn’t like the fact that they had both managed to quietly emerge from the tent and she hadn’t heard a grunt, a fart, a cough, a clang, a step, or a word. She hadn’t interrupted a Buddhist sit. They weren’t opening the hand to thought. Every follicle in her scalp buzzed with alarm.

  “You’re a long way from home,” said the second man. Was he implying he knew who she was?

  “On horseback,” said Allison.

  “We’ve already covered this,” said the first man. “She’s got a horse around here somewhere. Guess he’s shy.”

  Allison did a fast-scan check of the camp. No bows. No quivers. No black powder guns. The ground around the tent looked well-trampled. Steady use had pushed the forest back. She saw a hitching rail and turned slightly to double-check—it was a double-wide rail with room for ten or a dozen horses. The apron of dirt around the well-trampled camp was, in fact, covered in horse tracks. Two horses stood at the rail for now. A crooked blaze gave one horse a lopsided-look. A small star dotted the forehead on the other, a chestnut Spanish Mustang.

  Sunny Boy opted right then to issue a call of boredom or alarm, a forceful but distant whinny. Maybe he’d known she was studying other horses.

  “There’s your guy now,” said the second man. “Why did you tie him up so far?”

  “No reason,” said Allison. “Just wasn’t sure what this fire was all about. I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  The men were inert. There wasn’t a welcoming gesture between the two of them. Maybe she needed to leave before someone else arrived. Their beefy silhouettes didn’t reek of Brokeback Mountain, but the thought flashed. The inhospitable undertones reeked of conspiracy, not love.

  “Glad to see the fire has an owner,” said Allison. “You guys have a good one.”

  Allison had the distinct feeling that the tent held another warm body or two, that they were guarding something or somebody. Backwoods etiquette wasn’t exactly in the well-established protocols of say, a White House dinner, but she’d venture to say that in the chapter covering chance encounters it was considered polite to offer coffee, water or a scrap of something edible. Staring and glowering were likely listed as don’ts. Allison got their message, no semaphore decoder needed.

  To add to the chilly reception, the sun blinked off. It wasn’t a slow fade. It was if someone had turned down the Flat Tops rheostat setting from noon to dusk with a twist of the hand, no different that dimming a dining room chandelier so mom could walk in with the birthday cake all aglow. The accompanying chill was instant. Wind cut through the woods with a cold bite and the flames in the fire pit cowered like a scared puppy. Embers fired horizontally across the camp like red bullets. The sky went black.

  The men didn’t flinch.

  Allison wanted to peek inside Tent Sing Sing but had the sensation it would be easier to penetrate Fort Knox.

  “Something’s moving in,” said Allison.

  “Or already has,” said muttonchop
s. Maybe he liked good news.

  Allison gave a two-finger salute from the brim of her hat and instantly felt like a dumb cliché. She turned to head back, ignoring the holes being drilled in her back by their stares. She scanned the ground before the bare dirt gave way to forest floor. There were plenty of horse tracks but there were smaller, equally distinct marks too.

  Canines.

  Everywhere.

  twenty-eight:

  wednesday, mid-day

  As far as Bloom was concerned, being inside was progress, but not enough. He sat with Trudy at the small dining table. One of two women buzzing around—Bloom wasn’t clear of their relationship with Tomás—had brought him horchata de melon. The tasty drink had a hint of vanilla and lime but it couldn’t counteract the heat of the mobile home.

  Tomás played the role of shuttle diplomat, scurrying between the kitchen and the back room. Bloom had yet to see Alfredo, but the scraps of information from Tomás, doled out in bits and pieces, were plenty vivid. Bloom knew he wouldn’t write a word or trust a word until he had seen Alfredo in the flesh.

  But he couldn’t wait all day.

  Twice he had punched off his cell phone when Coogan had called.

  Bloom texted his reply: “Heck of a lead. Will call soon.”

  Coogan expected tight communication. Bloom was taking a gamble. If the cops had a breakthrough and were about to announce something, Coogan was screwed. His only other option would be to instantly inject Marjorie Hayes with hard news skills and hard news touch. So, really, there was no other option.

  Police bulletin or not, he didn’t want to stop watching Trudy. Her entire essence focused on the health of Alfredo Loya. Bloom knew the phrase “give your undivided attention” from dozens of grade school teachers, but he now knew precisely what that phrase meant. Trudy did one thing at a time. When she spoke, words flowed from a calm center. Her mood owned the room. Alfredo Loya trusted her. Tomás trusted her. Tomás’ girlfriend Candy was the last to fall under her spell.

  From what Bloom could gather, Tomás’ girlfriend knew someone who knew someone who knew a doctor who could come to help. Tomás’ girlfriend wasn’t going to settle down until Alfredo was receiving medical care. Still, Trudy kept calm. She was the first visitor escorted back to see Alfredo. Maybe they thought she could sprinkle some magic dust on his wounds.

  Bloom waited, wondered if he was making a mistake. Should he call Coogan? Check in? Tell him what he’d come across? He was torn—with the police now working every angle imaginable from every resident in Glenwood Manor, it would be easy to miss a breaking story if he stayed with this odd tangent. But Alfredo had a story. Every instinct told Bloom to stay put.

  Surely how he handled this situation today could help him get invited to Trudy’s kitchen again and possibly manage another encounter with the enigmatic Allison. Trudy would be his ticket. Possibly. And if nothing else he would have Trudy’s friendship. He didn’t want to overlook that possibility. But Allison Coil was the one he wanted to unlock.

  “It’s not too bad,” said Trudy. Her expression hadn’t changed. She smiled like she was greeting a long lost friend. “Bruises, a sprained ankle, not severe. Exhaustion more than anything.”

  Bloom nodded, made sure she was finished. “I need to talk with him directly.”

  “I explained,” said Trudy. “With the girlfriend’s help, of course. Right now he’s scared. He feels cornered.”

  “I need ten minutes,” said Bloom. “Maybe fifteen. Of course I’d like more, but that would be enough for starters.”

  “He won’t be here long,” said Trudy. A moment of genuine concern flashed across her face. “Tomás figures they’ll know to come here, to look for Alfredo.”

  “Who?” said Bloom.

  “The people who picked him up,” said Trudy. “Alfredo said he was in a jail of some sort with others, too. People were giving orders. It was organized.”

  “I need a few minutes,” said Bloom. Already the story was writing itself in his head.

  Bloom’s cell phone rang.

  “We’re thinking of taking him up to my place,” said Trudy.

  And what if Alfredo’ captors were legitimate, some official branch of ICE? Or similar? Then wouldn’t Trudy be aiding and abetting?

  “I’ll take my chances,” said Trudy, who must have read Bloom’s mind. “Something isn’t right.”

  “I want to talk with him before you move him,” said Bloom, ignoring the phone. “I can’t come to your place. Not today or tonight, anyway.”

  “Let me ask him,” said Trudy.

  Bloom glanced at his Caller ID. Coogan.

  “Yes,” said Bloom, standing and letting himself out of the mobile home. He stepped down three metal steps to the street and the heat. Two boys kicked around a soccer ball, taking aim at imaginary goals on the asphalt.

  “Cops are holding a big-deal news conference right now on the steps of City Hall. How far away are you?”

  Five minutes, thought Bloom. If he had a bridge or a zip line straight across the river, even less.

  “I’ll swing by there as soon as I’m finished,” said Bloom.

  “Where are you?” Coogan’s voice snapped with authority, a certain pissed-offness.

  “I’m outside the door of a guy who was picked up by ICE or by someone and tossed into a holding cell,” said Bloom. “He’s illegal—undocumented, anyway. And he escaped. He’s going to tell me the whole story here in two minutes.”

  “Cops have a person of interest,” said Coogan. “We need all the details on the website eight seconds after the news conference ends.”

  Maybe Kerry London would let Bloom view the whole raw footage from whatever the cops had to announce. Maybe DiMarco would tell him if this was a genuine lead or pure smokescreen. Maybe his ass was in a sling or halfway out the door and he didn’t know it.

  “I’m on it,” said Bloom.

  “The Denver Post has already sent out a news alert and the New York Times has a teaser on their site,” said Coogan. “I will not be the caboose on this fucking train.”

  Coogan was ramped up, but he said it with all the matter-of-fact narration of a civil war documentary on public television.

  The line went dead.

  twenty-nine:

  wednesday afternoon

  Turned toward the barn, Sunny Boy perked up.

  Sunny Boy was about to be seriously disappointed.

  Allison made it look good. In case she was being followed or watched, she did everything by the book for a quarter mile, then stopped and went through a long exercise of pretending to adjust the fit on Sunny Boy’s saddle, all while catching glimpses back the way she had come, to see if she had company.

  Nobody.

  An Engelmann spruce made for good cover and provided a post for Sunny Boy deep under a broad canopy.

  “Looks like rain, big fella,” she told him. “Maybe worse.”

  She tied a halter hitch, sure that the sight of it was giving Sunny Boy the lone horse blues. The sky scowled.

  The wind at ground level was steady. It was cooler, stiffer. August in the Flat Tops was only August when it wasn’t performing dynamite impersonations of September or October. On the Flat Tops, the season blender was set to puree.

  The key was to maintain a bearing. She had kept careful track of distance. She needed to cruise along a parallel track in the woods back to asshole muttonchops and his buddy and get the real story. Allison had seen a hundred hunter camps and met hundreds of hunters. She had never met a twosome as dripping with secrets.

  The woods were clean and open, as if the forest floor enjoyed regular maid service, all swept and tidy. No blow-down timber to hurdle, no creeks to cross, only serene stretches of well-spaced spruce and fir, a soft carpet of pine needle droppings and mulched-up tree detritus. The smell was seductive.

  The first r
ain drops suggested it was best to stay focused. The drops were cold and intermittent. They exploded around her feet like sniper fire. Her jean jacket took a couple of hits, her hat took a dull, wet thwack. The water bullets bordered on hail. As soon as she thought the word, pea-size marshmallows started dancing off the forest floor and pinged her hat with purpose.

  Hang tight, Sunny Boy, she thought. Hang tight.

  She slowed. Her internal GPS suggested she was getting close. Something about the change of the slope, the mix of trees. She was nearing the place where Sunny Boy had been abandoned the first time. Open valley to her left. She found herself crouched as she ran, head low like she was bracing to bash a brick wall. The hail spat thicker and she told herself she’d take no more than twenty minutes. More than that would be unfair to all horses everywhere.

  Allison slowed to a careful walk. A patch of aspen felt familiar. The view through the woods clouded up in a wet, white misty gauze. A tank crashing through the woods at full torque probably wouldn’t be heard amid the pounding shrapnel from the sky. By comparison to the heavy artillery, her footsteps were like a squirrel doing a grand plié. She couldn’t hear her own footfalls amid the ground level thunder.

  Hail—good for sound-proofing her approach, bad for boosting the chances that muttonchops and his sidekick would be outside doing much of anything.

  The camp popped into view. Had the men been standing around the fire, which was struggling to retain its dignity, she would have been easily spotted. But the camp was empty, the formerly dirt hard pack apron around the fire pit now layered in white like an oversized doily.

  The hail relented. For a moment, at least, calm was restored. The outer ring of the storm had passed, but there was more to come. She stepped back into the woods and found cover, laying low behind a lodge pole with Sumo-respectable girth.

  Rain replaced the hail. Steady, but not as threatening.

  Fifteen minutes more in this spot, ten back to Sunny Boy.

  Home for a late dinner and then raid her stash of tequila and she’d thank the crew for their hard work and no doubt on the return trip she would spot fresh elk trails or maybe the real thing and no doubt her day would feel like a complete success, including the part where she figured out what these backwoods assholes had in mind and including the part where there was a speedy report back from the cops about the half-corpse and all would be revealed.