by Mark Stevens
“When?” said Bloom.
“Tomorrow would be fine.” Coogan handed Bloom a scrap of paper. “Her cell. Go get ’em.”
Hayes went back to packing up—headed to Grand Junction. The dog bite victim Allison had found on the Flat Tops had woken up after surgery and might be willing to talk. They were two for two. Bloom to the east, Hayes would head west.
“Wait as long as it takes for that interview,” said Bloom.
“All night and all day,” said Hayes.
“Marjorie?” said Bloom, looking straight at her. “I know for a fact I underestimated your abilities.”
Marjorie gave a pursed smile. “Thanks—and I probably thought you were only here long enough to work your way back to the big city. Never thought you’d care so much about little old Glenwood Springs, never thought you’d put your back into something up here.”
“We wouldn’t have made it to this point without you,” said Bloom. “You know that for a fact—and Coogan knows it too.”
“Thanks,” said Marjorie. “Then you and me have a whole new deal.” She packed her all-in-one bag, ready to head out. Her rituals wouldn’t change, but Bloom had a whole new view.
“Got a problem,” he said to Trudy.
“What’s that?” said Trudy. Looking concerned.
“There is no way I can write with you sitting right there.” He said it low-key, took her hand, felt her fingers fold with his.
She studied his face.
“You want me to go?”
“Not what I want,” said Bloom. “What I need.”
“Go where?”
“You go home,” said Bloom.
“Can you come up? Remember the way?”
“I’d love to,” said Bloom. “I’ll stop at home and get cleaned up. Leave here in an hour. Two at the most.” And he pictured leaving early the next day for Denver, filing an exclusive story that every reporter in the country would be required to credit.
Trudy smiled. “Okay. If that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“What can I bring?”
She gave him an earnest look, thinking things through.
“If you want, bring your toothbrush in case you have an extra glass of wine.” She smiled. “Or three.”
seventy-two:
saturday, late afternoon
The elk stepped out the clearing like she owned the meadow, which she did. The plump cow made quick work of aspen sprouts and a patch of milkweed. From what Allison could tell through the binoculars, she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Let’s hope the view is as good as this for the Oklahoma Boys,” said Allison.
They had briefly discussed taking a detour to Button Down Camp, opted to head home in hopes Trudy might be back. Allison wanted to hear every detail.
“You doing okay?” said Colin.
“Whipped to the core,” said Allison. “Inside and out. Other than that, fine.”
For the last hour, riding quietly, she wondered where the anger had gone. It was there, but it was stuck to her bones. Stubborn. They were taking a break, sitting cross-legged side by side on a high ridge looking east. They had an hour left to ride. They were sitting as close as two people could sit, her knee tucked under his, sharing water and Fig Newtons. At this pace, they would arrive back exactly at dark. For now, the light was a golden kiss of serenity and order.
“Mighty quiet,” said Colin.
“Mighty got-a-lot-to-think-about,” said Allison.
“You recognized Woodrow right away?” said Colin.
“Hardly,” said Allison. “Like reverse-space drawings. You finally blink and see it the other way.”
“Think Sulchuk was above it all or you think he was out there hunting Mexicans, too?” said Colin.
“It might not be his style to get his hands dirty at that level,” said Allison. “But it will all come out.”
During one lull in the police interviews at Lumberjack, Duncan Bloom had given her a rundown from their night of research, more than a few mentions of Trudy along the way. She was happy for Trudy. Allison’s interviews with the police had taken two hours. No doubt she wasn’t done.
“So Armbruster was working against a friend?”
“A business partner,” said Allison. “Armbruster was hoping the whole hunting with dogs thing would be exposed and he’d have room to move in.”
Sunny Boy exhaled as if to say look at the time, look at the time. She was sitting on his lead rope. He had hay buffet on the brain.
“Armbruster was a soldier in the operation and wanted to find his own way to get promoted,” said Allison. “Best I can figure.”
“Kind of a long shot, do you think?” said Colin. “That somehow he could bring down the empire and keep his fingerprints off it?”
She was worried how she had reacted to everything, beginning with Kerry London. Maybe the arrival of the reporter and the helicopters had interrupted any chance for the emotions to erupt.
“As a way to stage a coup, it wouldn’t have been my first choice,” said Allison.
She found her heart focused on the half-corpse, his journey north, his hopes. Snagged in the wrong snare.
She thought of her patient in Grand Junction and sent another bundle of secular prayers his way.
She put an arm around Colin’s shoulders, kissed his sweaty cheek. She felt as if she took too deep a breath that she might sob on exhale.
The cow stopped eating, stood up straight and, for no reason that she could see, bolted into the woods. She tipped her forehead on Colin’s shoulder, reached an arm up and around his neck, pulled him close. He couldn’t hold her hard enough.
The weight suddenly enveloped her and it came shuddering up through her system. The half-corpse. Her patient in the woods. The dogs. Trained dogs.
She felt it now. She let the weight press down, let it crush her.
I see the workings of battle …
The thought came and she cried, anger right there.
I observe the slights and degradations …
She pulled Colin closer.
… cast by arrogant persons …
She couldn’t get every line, but recalled the essence.
All these—all the meanness and agony …
She exhaled. The dogs, the hunt, impossible inhumanity.
… without end.
about the author
Mark Stevens lives in Denver. He worked as a reporter for The Christian Science Monitor, The Rocky Mountain News, The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour and The Denver Post. He has also worked in school public relations. He is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, and the Colorado Authors League.
Author photo by kentmeireisphotography.com.