Trapline (23 page)

forty-seven:
friday afternoon

The bounty in Trudy's
refrigerator gave up a wedge of eggplant lasagna, fat red grapes, crackers and homemade hummus laced with roasted red peppers.

It wasn't exactly typical breakfast fare, but worked fine. Delicious. Allison had broken camp at 7 a.m., certain that Dillard and the dogs would return as soon as she left but also certain she couldn't wait forever.

More than Trudy's food, she needed her phone. This was no time for lame-ass cell signals and wimpy phone batteries. Allison needed the full artillery.

Trudy first.

“I'm eating your leftover lasagna,” said Allison as a greeting.

“Dig in,” said Trudy. “Might need salt. See if you spot anything missing from the house, will you?”

“What do you mean?”

Allison ate but her thoughts turned sour as Trudy told her the story of Alfredo, bringing him up to her house, avoiding the prowlers, following them down, losing Alfredo and working alongside the reporter to start to figure out who was on their tail. The reporter was the one Allison remembered after coming down from the rooftop of Glenwood Manor and Allison thought Trudy went on a bit too long and with a touch of giddiness in her voice.
Duncan this, Duncan that.

“We're in Rifle now,” said Trudy. “Duncan just walked into a warehouse to ask a few questions. Pipeline Enterprises—that's the name of the company.”

“And anything new on the shooter?”

“They're looking for someone. A woman who lives in the apartment building saw two men carrying rifles or equipment. Now there's a drawing all over everywhere. Flip on the TV. I'm sure they'll show it.”

Trudy's TV was a twenty-year-old number connected to a satellite system and all Trudy had to do was switch on the power button, no inscrutable remote involved. A Denver news station came on and the first view was an aerial of a thick clog of cars, eight lanes wide in the hot summer haze. Allison toasted the Flat Tops, and its utter lack of traffic jams, with a swallow of orange juice.

“What's going on with you?” said Trudy.

Allison took a breath. Dogs. Injuries. Fire. Helicopter. Camp. Blindfold. Telephone number. The worthless exercise of spending the night camped nearby. Allison spared no detail or any conclusions. Trudy listened without comment but uttered “oh my” at the appropriate moments, quizzed her for a few more details when she was done.

“I'm horrified,” said Trudy. “It's inhuman—beyond belief.”

Trudy's voice was small. She was seeing everything Allison saw—staring into the abyss.

“Give me the number,” said Trudy, perking up. “You won't believe what Duncan can do with a telephone number. Turn one telephone number into someone's life story.”

The half-envelope had been transferred to her clean pair of Cruel Girls. “I guess that last nine could be a four,” said Allison. “Handwriting is like scratches.”

“Can you find out if the guy they flew out of there is okay?” said Allison. “How he's doing?”

“I suppose,” said Trudy. “If they're saying. What did he look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Describe him more,” said Trudy.

Flashes came. “Hispanic,” said Allison. “Darker skin, anyway. He was contorted and it's not like I ever got a full-on view of his face, but I'd say Hispanic. Medium-height, trim. If he was more than one-fifty, I'd be surprised. Short hair, black. He kept it short.”

There was silence on the line, but Allison knew the moment for what it was—pure Trudy instinct, something beyond intangible forming itself into words and taking its own time to render.

“It's connected back to where Alfredo was being held,” said Trudy. “Somehow connected. The holding cell or whatever it is.”

Allison let the idea settle, rolled it around.

“How did he look?” said Trudy. “I mean, really look?”

“Borderline,” said Allison.

“We've got to get that blindfold looked at.”

Allison didn't realize she'd been staring at the television news when the drawing flashed full screen. Prime suspect number one had a heavy, round face and a thick neck. He was bald. Two thick clamps squeezed his ears. A tattoo like a maze for rat experiments covered his face—forehead to chin, cheekbone to cheekbone.

“Holy shit he's ugly,” said Allison.

“They're showing it?” said Trudy.

“You've either seen him,” said Allison, “or you hope you never do. His mama must be so proud.”

“He better be in a hole in the Grand Canyon right now if he doesn't want to get caught,” said Trudy.

The sketch, in fact, made Allison queasy. The look alone said hideous things.

“Think you're the last person on earth to see it,” said Trudy. “What about the blindfold?”

“DNA?” said Allison. “Possible. Some sweat. Or lots of sweat. Dried sweat now.”

“You need the cops,” said Trudy.

“My next call,” said Allison. She had a hunch they would want her to drive down to Glenwood Springs, something she didn't want or need.

“Will you talk to Duncan?” said Trudy.

Suddenly Allison could see where her discovery of the injured man would grow too big, too fast and possibly get too ugly. “You mean to be quoted?” said Allison.

“It's going to be a story,” said Trudy. “You were there.”

“The next time they come up here they won't be the genteel, steal-nothing burglars,” said Allison. “We may as well put a target on our backs.”

“No names,” said Trudy.

With Kerry London still buzzing around, the last thing she needed was her name splashed around in the papers. Having shared some quality time with the fine gentlemen of Burning Fire Camp, ditto.

“Not yet,” said Allison.

And, she hoped, never.

“Can I tell Duncan then?”

The other end of the telephone connected to a jumbled, uncontrollable world where information transformed from a single sheet of paper to a million bits of confetti within the first nanosecond of its arrival. Each consumer latched onto the scrap that matched their view of the world and held it up like a 24-carat version of Dewey Defeats Truman.

“You trust him?” said Allison.

Lightning couldn't have flashed in the time before her answer. “I do.”

“You haven't known him long—”

“Going on what I feel,” said Trudy. “Good heart.”

“Okay,” said Allison. “But only to help with the bigger picture of what happened. And no names.”

“We'll start on that phone number,” said Trudy. “Are you going to come down with the blindfold?”

“Have to get it to the cops somehow,” said Allison. “Since I don't have a dog to show them.”

Wasn't there a carrier pigeon that could save her the trip? The thought of a day trip to Glenwood Springs and waiting her turn in the world of the officialdom held zero appeal. She might have to succumb, given the importance of the blindfold. If she was playing by the book, or at least pretending to, it was her obligation to provide her side of the story, probably the only “side” the cops would ever hear.

“If I have to come down, I'll let you know,” said Allison.

“I hope that goes without saying,” said Trudy.

Allison smiled, said good-bye and hung up.

She zapped a secular prayer in the general direction of the Grand Junction hospital. She needed her patient to live and tell the story of being hunted, for sport, by other men. And to see if he could identify any of the hunters.

forty-eight:
friday afternoon

“We don't talk to
reporters.”

“Glenwood Springs,” said Bloom. “Not Rifle.”

“The difference is?” He was tall and fit. He had a densely-forested moustache that curled down so the whiskers obliterated his upper lip.

“I'm looking for a passenger van.”

“Try a dealer.”

“A specific van. Registration lists it here.” Bloom was in no position to study the surroundings with care, but Martha Stewart might have been in charge of the cleaning and organizing. A neat freak reigned. In general terms, the inside of Pipeline Enterprises was a cavern of equipment and trucks and heavy gear. There was ample room to hide a passenger van. Or ten.

“You're on private property.”

“The cops know about the van, too.”

“We will give them a tour,” he said. “When they get here.”

The dog that had greeted him so warmly was now tethered to a corner of the industrial office on a lead that looked no stronger than well-boiled spaghetti. The dog's snout was short, somewhere between Rottweiler and Boxer. Its size and thick chest were closer to the Rottweiler, but its hair looked longer.

Off to Bloom's right, two men had closed ranks. The timing of their arrival—and their bouncer-like presence—would have made synchronized swimmers envious. Each stood three feet back. Bright yellow earplugs dangled near one guy's ears; the other wore safety goggles. Bloom had no trouble deciphering the message.

He realized immediately he'd seen the one on his right before. He was older, calmer but glaring like he practiced the look at home. Or maybe it was permanent.

“Does Pipeline Enterprises own any vans?”

Behind the men, off and to the side, stood a pallet stacked high with green bags, probably fifty pounds each. The bags were held in place by giant sheets of pink-tinged shrink wrap. The shape of the bags looked familiar, but not the brand.

“Did you happen to hear what I said about reporters?”

“How about if I tell you about this story I'm working on? See if any of it rings a bell?”

Somewhere, he'd found the nerve. Maybe it was standing near the open doors. Surely they could see the pickup. They must have known he wasn't alone.

“You're working on a story, go dream some shit up.”

“It's about immigration,” said Bloom. “It's about the cops not doing their job, being lax about letting the illegals go.”

“Really?” said the man.

“We've been following them around, long before the shooting,” said Bloom. “It's obvious they know when they're talking to someone who doesn't belong here.”

Maybe he could sucker them in, pull them over.

“The fuck.” The man took a step toward Bloom, leaned forward. “We like the cops.”

“This isn't going to look good, you know,” said Bloom. “The fact that you wouldn't even answer a few—”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Bloom held the stare. The man's two buddies hadn't budged.

“Okay,” said Bloom. “We'll go with what the registration shows and put you down for no comment. Can I get your name?”

Trudy's pickup fired up when he was twenty steps away. He tried to walk normally, but his knees shook. He half wondered if each step was his last.

Reporter Gunned Down.

Hey, it happens.

“You okay?” said Trudy when he'd closed the door.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You're white.”

“You're supposed to say ‘like a ghost.'”

“Like a ghost,” said Trudy.

“Funny,” said Bloom. “I may as well have been talking to one in there.”

“What did they say?”

“Not much,” said Bloom. “But we've got the right place.”

“Meet Reyes?” said Trudy.

“No names on the first date,” said Bloom.

Trudy pulled away and Bloom glanced back. His friendly Wal-Mart greeter was now joined by four others, a blur of heft and muscle. A new dog, no leash in sight, barked in staccato triplets.

“So how do you know?” said Trudy.

“I don't,” said Bloom. “Not really. But the overall vibe suggested one thing—score.”

Trudy turned right at the end of Buckthorn Drive, retracing their route back to the highway.

“Your instincts are probably right,” said Trudy.

“And the craziest thing. You know, there are dogs around of course, but they either ordered a lifetime supply of food for him and all his puppies and grand-puppies or there are a whole lot more dogs somewhere.”

“Dog food?”

“A pallet like the ones you see in the warehouse stores. Could have come straight off a semi.”

Trudy edged over on the narrow shoulder and then pulled a slow U-turn, inched back to the top of Buckthorn Drive, looked back down the street. Stopped.

Bloom didn't need another encounter with the friendly Welcome Wagon from Pipeline Enterprises. But Trudy's expression read complete determination.

“Allison just called—while you were inside,” said Trudy. “The guy they airlifted to Grand Junction from the Flat Tops. She and Colin were the ones that found him.”

“They just
found
him?” Bloom didn't know the Flat Tops well, but what were the odds?

“He was attacked by dogs,” said Trudy. “Allison and Colin heard the howls.”

“The hell,” said Bloom.

“And I've got a phone number that Allison pulled from their camp. She went to their camp, which was empty, but she got this phone number off of something.”

“It's not the only lead,” said Bloom. “Hang on.”

Bloom punched in Coogan's number, knew Trudy would follow along on speaker.

“Two days ago,” said Bloom. “Late afternoon. A man in your office, not very happy.”

“Tell me the cops are getting close,” said Coogan. “That's all I really I want to hear.”

“Who was he?” said Bloom.

“What's going on?” said Coogan.

“Let's say I ran into him.”

“He's in the energy business,” said Coogan. “Drilling. Name is Adam Paxton.”

“And why was he talking to you?”

“What's this got to do with anything?” said Coogan.

“He's smack in the middle of the whole immigration business,” said Bloom. The statement wasn't a stretch as far as he was concerned. “There's money being made. Pipeline Enterprises—does Paxton own it?”

“Don't know the name of his business,” said Coogan. “Think he's involved in several.”

“Then it's more than drilling,” said Bloom. “Why was he in your office?”

The brief pause meant that Bloom had pushed too hard. Or that Coogan was thinking.

“Marjorie saw a fight,” said Coogan.

“Marjorie Hayes? Our Marjorie?” said Bloom.

“She was down at City Hall for a story around those zoning issues with the library and parking structure downtown. She was coming out of a hearing and, completely unrelated, Adam Paxton was going at it with Troy Nichols. I guess Adam had his hands around Troy's throat, practically nose to nose.”

Nichols' post-shooting quote came rushing back to Bloom—the same quote he had discussed with Marjorie Hayes and that Hayes had failed to recognize as incendiary.

“
A certain inevitability to the shooting.”

The phrase had rattled around in Bloom's head since he'd read it. It had been uttered by the Chamber of Commerce board member, Nichols.

“Marjorie had stepped out of the hearing to make a call,” said Coogan. “They're scuffling, fighting—hands on each other. She starts asking questions since she knew Nichols, who was rattled but not hurt. Paxton stormed off but Nichols told Marjorie he was glad there had been a witness, told Marjorie he was the one who had been attacked.”

“So Paxton wanted you to keep it out of the paper,” said Bloom.

“Nichols didn't press charges,” said Coogan. “It was a close call.”

“Any word on what the fight was about?”

“Not from either of them,” said Coogan. “But Marjorie did some digging.”

Digging?
Maybe in her garden.

“I know,” said Coogan, reading Bloom's mind. “I gave her a few pointers. But she said something didn't seem right. Then she got intrigued. I don't discourage it when a reporter gets p.o.'d. So anyway Paxton had his name on a contract over in Mesa County, a contract to run a detention center for ICE.”

Trudy shook her head slowly.

“I know of only one, in Aurora,” said Bloom.

“Marjorie is checking into it,” said Coogan.

“And where does Nichols come in?”

“Paxton only asked to keep the scuffle out of the paper. Couldn't get much out of him on the substance of his fight with Nichols, though I did try.”

“Maybe Nichols wanted in on the action,” said Bloom.

Trudy nodded, mouthed: “I know.” Something had clicked.

Bloom suddenly wanted off the call.

“Where are you now?” said Coogan.

“Rifle,” said Bloom firmly. “Near Paxton's business. At least, one of them.”

“And nothing going on with the cops?” said Coogan.

“Checking every minute,” said Bloom. A lie.

“Hound them,” said Coogan.

“I'll check in now.” He needed more slack, not less. But there was no margin in hinting at disobedience. “Where's Marjorie?”

“She's down at the courthouse pulling records and then she's going to check the Secretary of State's office online, Motor Vehicles—all that good stuff,” said Coogan.

Imagining Marjorie Hayes sifting through a stack of folders or cruising databases online was like picturing Mary Poppins in a dark parking garage getting details on the Nixon White House from Deep Throat.

“Call me if she gets any hits,” said Bloom. “I'll check with the cops on Lamott.”

Bloom punched off the phone.

“Troy Nichols?” he said to Trudy.

“Always coming around Jerry's old store before he sold it,” said Trudy. “Always trying to get Jerry to carry these Mexican cheeses and Mexican products—avocados and other things. Later, Jerry went strictly with local products but for a while there he was taking some goods and Nichols had shipments from the border twice a week. Straight from El Paso.”

“I don't mean to be dense,” said Bloom. “But, so?”

Trudy took a second, dialing in a thought. “He was really putting the pressure on Jerry, especially after Jerry stopped taking the shipments from Mexico. He kept coming around.”

“Trying to fill his trucks,” said Bloom.

“So maybe Paxton and his crew from Rifle thought they had the Glenwood Springs turf covered,” said Trudy. “Somehow they find out Nichols has a dark side of his business, transporting illegal immigrants, and there's some sort of clash and fallout.”

“Maybe Paxton wanted a piece of Nichols' action.”

“And maybe Nichols' wouldn't crack,” said Trudy.

DiMarco must have known about the expanded version of Pipeline Enterprises.

Some company names are pure genius.

“Alfredo said it wasn't that long of a drive,” said Bloom. “Rifle would fit. But where?” said Bloom.

Trudy gave him a look like he should try adding two plus two.

“Where the dog food is,” she said.