Trapline (2 page)

three:
sunday afternoon

“Yes, but that was
after I found the sticks,” said Gail, who had taken a breath. “A pile of brush and stuff. I didn't see at first what was underneath.”

Allison looked at Colin, sure she could read his thoughts.

Mountain lion.

Tact suggested that you didn't utter the deduction out loud unless you were prone to yelling “fire” in a crowded theater.

The odds of a mountain lion attack were about the same as plopping a penny into a slot machine in Black Hawk and watching it transform itself into a thousand dollar bill. There were mountain lions all over Colorado—at least every part of the state west of the Front Range. Sightings were rare, attacks few and far between.

Allison ran her internal range finder and imagined an elk walking at the tree line. It would be a long shot and beyond most shooter's
capabilities, especially uphill, but some nuts would try. She figured six hundred yards to the forest's edge, all uphill.

As much as she had been scanning the tree line where the foursome had been looking, she hadn't spotted any human activity.

Colin pointed to where a man emerged from the woods. The man
peered through a pair of binoculars.

“He's checking on us,” said Hank. “That's my dad. He wants us to all stay here in a group until they come back. Every few minutes, he comes out.”

Allison wondered if Colin might stay behind to keep the kids calm, but knew better than to ask.

“I'm coming,” said Colin.

Had her thoughts always appeared in instant script on her eyelids or scrawled across her forehead?

Allison picked out an indirect route to avoid dense sections of waist-high brush. Peak wildflower season had ebbed, but the undergrowth lit up with yellow touches—sunflowers, daisies, and alpine buttercups. The torch had been passed from the July cornucopia of columbine, blue flax, and fireweed, though some hung tough. The official start of fall waited in the wings, nearly a month away, but its harbingers were right on cue.

The man with binoculars was Larry Armbruster. He was bald, medium height, and his hunting camos probably fit him twenty pounds ago. His chin was home to a wild goatee—long and untrimmed—and the rest of his face sported thick stubble. “Pleased to meet you,” said Armbruster. With no apparent chit-chat skills, he led them thirty paces into the woods.

The ground had been well trampled. Finding a mountain lion track—or the tracks of bear or anything—would be a challenge. Nonetheless, Allison preferred to stare at the ground and not at the destination, which emitted a gut-tossing odor. Colin jammed mouth and nose into the pulled-close collar of his jean jacket. Allison used the crook of her elbow.

It didn't help.

“Not the afternoon we had planned,” said William Sulchuk. No greeting. The odor made talk unappealing. The less breathing, the better.

William Sulchuk was a sturdy six-footer. His hair was conservative corporate under a Denver Broncos cap. He wore a faded jean jacket over dark blue jeans and simple hiking shoes, nothing fancy. The whole presentation said affable, cool—if a bit too put-together.

William introduced Allison to the other two in the group—Arthur
“but everyone calls me Dusty” Brock and Neil Goodwin. Brock had a moustache that looked like it had been a fixture for decades. He was dark and squat. Goodwin stood back and waved from a distance as a greeting. Hunters came in every shape and size, but other than Larry Armbruster these guys all looked like they expected to hunt and hike or camp grit-free.

Allison introduced Colin and then Armbruster headed back to the ridge to check on the young ones.

“The kids tell you?” said Sulchuk.

“Got the general idea,” said Allison. “The dispute about who spotted it first is not going to be settled anytime soon.”

If mountain lion had been the killer, he had feasted first on the legs. There wasn't much left. The head and torso were completely mauled but the shape of the flesh and one intact ear gave plenty of indication of the human form.

The body had come to rest on its right side. The man's left arm ended at his wrist. The right arm underneath protruded at an impossible angle back where no arm could go without being disconnected from its owner. The man's shirt sported no discernible color or style. There was no clear indication of intentions to hunt. A camouflage pattern on a jacket, for instance, might have helped. The shirt looked like it had been wet and then dried. His torso had turned a sickening brown, the same swampy color produced by combining all the finger paints in first grade. His jaw gaped open, his eyeballs were history. Perhaps a snack for a lucky crow. Flies feasted and dense knots of maggots dined where the torso came to an abrupt end. A layer of grit and loose sticks covered the body, but the handiwork was sloppy.

How many people on the planet were so inured by death or a corpse they had no reaction to it? Embalming fluids, silk-lined caskets, and giant flower displays were all designed to soften the grizzly details of what happens to the body when the motor stops ticking. When the death was violent, like this one, the transformation from complex breathing life form to decomposing mass of ex-
Homo sapien
was lightning-quick. The wilderness treats a human's demise the same way a busy highway treats road kill. With indifference.

Allison pulled her phone from her jean jacket, waited for the device to channel its inner coffee.

She wanted wildlife officers on the scene as soon as possible, with a houndsman in tow and a couple of Treeing Walker hounds to pick up a scent. She wanted the coroner's analysis. She wanted the body examined for every scrap of animal DNA, whether it was mountain lion or bear. Sticks and other detritus that the animal had used to cover the body needed checking for DNA and saliva. She wanted the whole scene studied in exacting detail for stray animal hairs and saliva around the wounds. The flies and maggots and birds and other critters, depending on their size, could consume the rest of the corpse in days. Every minute counted.

“Wildlife officers are going to want to track this cat—as soon as possible,” she said. “You don't want a cat out there that's had success with a human. I've got no cell, by the way, at least from my feeble rig.”

“We tried, too,” said Sulchuk. He seemed oddly untalkative.

The three fathers stood back in a semi-circle. They looked defeated and indifferent. She turned to look back through the trees to the ridge. Armbruster had his back to them, binoculars glued to his eyes.

“Triangle Mountain,” said Colin.

“Probably the closest spot,” said Allison. “And only reliable about half the time, when the sun is just right.”

Allison led the way back to the open sky at the top of the hill. The foul cloud from the half-corpse seemed to follow.

“Any chance you packed a tarp?” Allison asked. “A blanket? A sleeping bag we can sacrifice?”

“Day trip,” said Sulchuk. “We've got nothing that big. And if the cat comes back?”

A gentle breeze sliced through the woods at their back as they stood at the top of the open hillside. Arthur Brock and Neil Goodwin started working their way down.

“If the cat comes back while we're gone, we'll have less of the body to work with,” said Allison. “I've got that spare poncho rolled up behind Sunny Boy's saddle. I'll take my chances on the rain—even if it looked like a downpour coming, we've got to keep the critters and birds off. As much as possible, anyway.”

Armbruster volunteered to retrieve the poncho and headed off.

“Any point in taking a picture or two?” said Colin.

Back at the body, Allison and Colin stood on opposite sides of the half-corpse, taking pictures one-handed. Evidence had been trampled by the four children and now, in all, six adults. Allison stared off into the woods, wondering which way the cat had run—if it was a cat—after hiding its cache.

“No matter how he died,” said Allison. “How long do you think it's been?”

They were walking back to Lumberjack. The shadows from the ridge behind them had grown longer.

“Two days at the most,” said Colin, who appeared to have given the question some serious analysis.

“Not a big guy,” said Allison

“Hard to say for sure,” said Colin. “Given the legs. Or lack of.”

“Give me your impression. Head size, shoulders.”

“Compact, maybe. But I wasn't taking notes,” said Colin. “I was trying to breathe.”

“Anything seem odd to you?” said Allison.

The mental movie clip in Allison's head ran in a loop. Victim's point of view, walking through the woods or up the broad hillside. Was he a hunter out scouting? While the clothing on the half-corpse was all one blotchy bloody color now, it didn't appear to be camo. Hiker? Any sign of a backpack, day pack? Hat? Maybe a fisherman headed to a favorite hole? With what fishing pole?

“Not really,” said Colin. “But I've known guys who have spent all their lives in these woods and never seen a mountain lion in person or a mountain lion kill. Tracks, yes. But that's it.”

Possible victim types in the Flat Tops in August comprised a short
list—hunter, hiker, camper, fisherman, horseback rider, what else? Maybe a stray scientist.

“Unusual, sure. But if he was hungry,” Colin. “Every attack is calculated on some primal instinct. The lion figures his odds and starts to chase—or not. You?”

“Nothing looked right to me,” said Allison.

“Really? Nothing?”

“There's some other story going on,” said Allison.

“Why so sure?”

“I can't put my finger on it,” said Allison. “A feeling. I can't picture it happening.”

“Happens so rarely, how do you know what to picture?” said Colin.

“Just going on gut,” said Allison. “So you think it's possible?”

“Hungry lions happen, stray hikers happen,” said Colin. “And possible covers a lot of ground.”

four:
sunday evening

She knew the cop.

“You still live up Sweetwater Road, back in by the Flat Tops?”

“Same general area,” said Trudy. Sometimes being recognized was good for the business. This wasn't a good time.

“What brought you down?” He was a city policeman, not a sheriff's deputy.

“Same as everyone else,” said Trudy.

“You were close to the footbridge?” said the cop. “When he went up?”

“Right there,” said Trudy.

“Did you see him get—”

“No,” said Trudy, cutting him off. “I was lower, down below. I was going to walk over to the hot springs so I was waiting for the bridge to clear. But no.”

They were sitting on two metal folding chairs, face to face. The cop's name was Gary Lemke. She remembered him from high school. Lemke had greeted her warmly.

He was short and stocky. He had brown-red eyebrows and a ruddy round face. After hours and hours of witness interviews, he didn't seem a bit worn out.

The police had taken over the train station—inside and out. Boxes full of packaged snacks and bottled water appeared like an airdrop into a third-world disaster zone. There were reporters, news trucks, a First Aid station, and more cops than Trudy would have guessed worked on the entire Western Slope. The initial burst of panic—when the throng of Lamott's followers flinched and gasped as one—had given way to a trained bureaucracy doing its thing. The whole city remained on lock down.

“Did you hear anyone at all during the day say anything crazy-sounding or angry?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Everybody knows about the freaky protesters. Spooky.”

“Did you notice anything at all?” said Lemke.

Most everyone had pointed to a spot further east, up the river.

“No,” said Trudy. “I looked this way, didn't see anything.”

“A rooftop?” said Lemke. “A window?”

“Not really,” said Trudy.

Lemke took a couple of notes, but they couldn't have been much.

“When are they going to open the bridge, do you think?” said Trudy.

“Not up to me,” said Lemke. He smiled.

Trudy had planned to have a late dinner waiting for Allison and Colin. They were probably back, making do on their own. She settled in for a wait. Her problems were minimal compared to the police effort to find the shooter.

“It's been a long few hours,” said Trudy. “Is there any word about, you know—”

“From what I heard, it's going to be touch and go for a day or two,” said Lemke. “Good the hospital was so close.”

At the image of Tom Lamott on the brink of death, Trudy imagined tubes in his mouth, doctors hovering. She found herself wiping away a tear.

“I remember you from high school,” said Lemke. “You were a year ahead of me.”

The comment caught her off guard.

“Sorry to say I wasn't paying much attention back then,” said Trudy.

“Probably not too many would have pegged you for future entrepreneur—and quite successful at that, am I right?”

Did this mean the official stuff was over? Lemke's posture hadn't changed.

“I feel lucky,” said Trudy. “Things have been going well.” The last big publicity splash, which generated another spike in sales, included a full-page article in
Sunset.

“My mother swears by your marinades,” said Lemke. “On chicken. Slapped on the grill—that one with basil and garlic, incredible. And I've got a couple of sisters who have each taken up gardening because of you—homegrown vegetables, fresh herbs. You are like their guru.”

Trudy didn't know what to say.

“So let me ask you this,” said Lemke. “Don't you employ Mexicans?”

Trudy felt the accusation like a knife slipped between her ribs. Trudy's burgeoning business in West Glenwood stood at a crossroads between regional label and national brand. They had their own greenhouses and contracts with others across the Western Slope, too. A food processor in Grand Junction followed her recipe and packaged the sauces for distribution. The market for her fresh herbs, cross-branded with the sauces, showed staying power. Her produce stands hopped. Investors hovered.

“Sure,” said Trudy.

“So you must have a strong opinion. I mean, on this whole issue.”

“I think the issue has gone way out of control,” said Trudy. “I liked
Lamott's approach.”

“Because it helps you keep cheap labor,” said Lemke. His gaze tightened.

“We do everything by the book,” said Trudy. “If an identity card doesn't match up, we let them go.”

“For the rest of us to deal with,” said Lemke. “You know things have changed in Glenwood Springs. It isn't what it used to be, the drugs moving through here, coming up with the brown tide. It ain't the intellectuals wading across the Rio Grande.”

Trudy squirmed. She thought of her crew and how hard they worked. They were natural gardeners and savvy mechanics. They spread a warm family feeling throughout her operation. They cared about efficiency and floated ideas to improve the work flow.

“You have to realize,” said Lemke, “that if employers only hired people they knew—not strangers on the street, especially if they don't speak English and especially if you don't know where they are really from or how they got here, that we wouldn't be having any of this crap going on. These fights.”

“I can't fix who lives here,” said Trudy.

“But you don't have to hire them,” said Lemke. “You hire them and they send the word. Soon, the brother is here. The uncle. Even with the economy in the shitter up here, it pays better and life is better. Their kids sit next to my kids in class and you ought to see the contortions the school goes through to help these kids learn English.”

Trudy kept thinking about her workers, her team. She tried to
think if any skilled white gardeners had applied when she posted jobs.

“If I were you, I'd clean up my act. You know, check. Make sure.”

“What do you mean?” said Trudy.

“You know exactly what I mean,” said Lemke. “Go through your stuff, your records. Make sure everything really is on the up and up.”

“What are you telling me?” said Trudy. “That someone's coming?”

“It's always coming,” said Lemke. “Now might be a good time to make sure your nose is all-American squeaky clean.”

In a daze Trudy headed back toward her pickup, parked eight blocks south of downtown, halfway back to Sayre Park. A caravan of news trucks had overrun the street by the train station. Television reporters stood in a row. Each reporter had his or her own spotlight.

The traffic crawled crossing the river. A cluster of flashing lights blasted the rise to the east, on Lookout Mountain trail. Spotlights lit up the forest like the spaceship descending in
Close Encounters.
If that had been the sniper's perch, it would make the shot in Dealey Plaza look like the one in Ford's Theater.

Trudy snaked her way through town and came up to speed on the interstate. The pickup climbed Glenwood Canyon, following the tight curves in the road.

Was Lemke's warning for real?

Was it based on
anything
?

The pickup rambled out of the canyon and the traffic sped up. Trudy slowed at the Dotsero exit, ducked back under the interstate and followed the road north, into the black summer woods.

Her thoughts returned to the footbridge, those surreal seconds that had already moved into a section of her memory where all thoughts and all the associated sounds, smells, and sights would be kept in a hermetically sealed container for as long as her heart kept beating.

The planning that must have gone into those seconds of action—and the cold-hearted nerves behind the trigger—gave Trudy a shudder.

She cracked the front window, tasted the cool night air. A freight train ambled along on the far shore of the pitch-dark river, heading in the opposite direction. Piercing squeals of steel on steel floated across the night. Her headlights caught a porcupine scampering across the road. From the rear, the porcupine was a headless ball of spikes. It looked perfectly alien and terribly alone.