Trapline (24 page)

forty-nine:
friday afternoon

Deputy Sheriff Chadwick sounded
weary.

“Heard about Search and Rescue up your way,” said Chadwick. “Think they've got an investigator assigned and should be calling you pronto.”

“I'm available,” said Allison. “But one lone investigator isn't going to cut it. You need a whole pack of cops up here now—there are people hunting other people.
With dogs.”
She paused. “
For sport
.”

“What the hell?” said Chadwick.

“I know,” said Allison. “But this isn't a case for a lone investigator. You're going to need some troops.”

Carefully, Allison walked Chadwick through the same details she'd given Trudy.

“Do you think those guys are coming back to that same camp?” said Chadwick. “And you can find it again?”

“On a moonless night walking backwards,” said Allison. “I spent last night waiting for them, but they didn't come back before I left this morning. If their dog is injured or worse, you could check with some of the vet clinics down there. Track who brought the dog in, you're on your way.”

Chadwick asked her to double back over key parts of the story one more time. “We need the doctors to work some magic in Grand Junction,” he said, speaking with about as much urgency as a cop might ever let on. “A witness would change everything. And I need that blindfold as soon as possible.”

Allison didn't want drive it down—shouldn't the cops come get it? But another idea was brewing and she was the lone candidate to do what needed doing.

“What's new with the hunt for Lamott's shooter?” For a second she thought the call had dropped.

“Manhunt,” said Chadwick. “Picture your big Hollywood movie manhunt and quadruple it.”

“I've seen the sketch,” said Allison.

“If you've even uttered the word immigration in the past five years, we are in the process of tracking you down to find out if you've seen this guy.”

“That's a lot of people,” said Allison.

“That's a whole heck of a lot of people,” said Chadwick.

“And so far?”

“Still looking.”

The news station switched back to a live shot of a reporter standing on the pedestrian bridge. He appeared to be college-fresh. But he already had the appropriate reporter face: weighty dejection.

The mug shot sketch replaced him on the screen. If you wanted to attempt assassination in broad daylight, it was about the least advisable look you would want to adopt.

The mug shot stared back with fury. In her mind, she converted the sketch to flesh. “What time of day?” asked Allison.

“What do you mean?”

“Was it high noon when this guy was spotted?” said Allison. “Broad daylight?”

“Pre-dawn,” said Chadwick.

“And he had help, right?” said Allison.

“From one Emmitt Kucharski,” said Chadwick. “Resident of Glenwood Manor.”

Allison had the sound down on the television but knew that was the other mug in heavy rotation. This wasn't a drawing of Kucharski, but a photo from a previous arrest.

“A third-rate tire mechanic is about Kucharski's highest professional accomplishment,” said Chadwick. “He had about thirty-five lives and as many jobs before he moved here fifteen months ago. He's got some backcountry experience, by the way, so maybe he slipped off into the hills.”

An uplifting thought.

Kucharski's mug shot from an earlier burglary arrest showed a man with serious issues. He had short, disheveled hair groomed by scissors and mirror. His gaze could have been that of a stoner, but there was something clear-eyed and calculating about his stare.

“Can't find him either?” said Allison.

Silence answered her dumb question and then he said: “We have some leads.”

“I need two things,” said Allison.

“And I need two
people
,” said Chadwick. “But, fire away.”

“I need an ID or some indication or whatever you've got on that body we found.”

“Thought I saw that we got something back on that,” said Chadwick. “Nobody called you?”

This time Allison let Chadwick decipher the silence to his own satisfaction.

“I'll get the initial finding and call you back but I remember His
panic male, approximate age of twenty. A pretty youthful coccyx bone
from what I remember. There were traces of cocaine in his jacket or what was left of his jacket. More than traces. Enough to suggest he was transporting.”

“Cause of death?”

She heard her own sudden hesitance, like she didn't want to know. Not really.

“Still not clear. Too much of him was gone. An animal of some sort got to him and might have consumed some evidence but he was healthy and fit from the internal organs they had to work with.”

“And the sticks? His clothes? DNA?”

“Nobody called you?” said Chadwick.

In this conversation, silence was the equivalent of saying “dumb question.”

“I had a retired cop friend who was headed for Mount Rushmore,” said Chadwick. “With his family. August and all, and they delivered the material that day on the way through Wyoming. I guess maybe they thought the evidence was somehow all tangled in the Lamott mess so they put a rush job on it and they e-mailed a report back to the office here two days ago. I asked that you be called. The only thing on them is fingerprints—one set of fingerprints over and over.”

A firm knock on the door.

“—I haven't checked my e-mail yet today but they were supposed to send down images of the fingerprints, too,” said Chadwick.

“The people who found him—at first there were kids, then the adults—might have moved the sticks.”

“One set of prints,” said Chadwick. “All I know.”

A firm knock again.

Allison flashed on Trudy's intruders, felt her breath shorten at the thought.

Colin would let himself in
…

The door was unlocked
…

“Okay, thanks,” said Allison. “Can I call you back?”

She was ready to yell “it's open.”

She didn't want to lose Chadwick.

And it wasn't her house.

“Of course,” said Chadwick. “And I need that blindfold.”

She hung the phone back in the cradle, stepped lightly to the door. She could sure use a peep hole but that was a city touch, not common out here.

Cracked the door.

Smiled.

“Colin—why didn't you just—”

Something in his look. Downcast.

Message in his eyes.

Bad news.

Trouble.

He didn't move, but shifted his gaze slowly left.

The gun came from that same direction, gripped by a hand attached to a forearm like a four-by-four. The gun pointed at Colin's temple.

“Trudy Heath?” came the voice.

Allison took a step back, held the door open, focused on the gun.

“Don't fucking move,” said the voice.

Silence, in fact, was golden.

fifty:
friday afternoon

Trudy parked across and
up the road from Pipeline Enterprises, maneuvered the pickup in between a cluster of flat-bed trucks that looked unused since the shale boom went bust about six years ago. Trudy's pickup joined the industrial cemetery.

If they had stirred the hornet's nest at Pipeline Enterprises, all the hornets had flown inside to buzz and huddle. Bloom pulled a pair of fit-in-your-palm binoculars from a jacket pocket.

“Free with my subscription to
National Geographic
,” he said.

If the men from Pipeline Enterprises weren't happy with Bloom's questions and related interruption to their day, they certainly would be none too thrilled to look up the road and see the same pickup still in the vicinity and a pair of binoculars pointed back at them. Trudy felt her breath tighten.

“The buildings are connected—or at least related to each other for sure,” said Bloom. “Two men walked between them and there's a top to a chain link fence behind the buildings where the ground slopes away.”

Bloom passed the binoculars to her. The smaller building filled her entire field of vision, but Trudy couldn't get the image to settle.

“Take a long, slow breath,” said Bloom. “Or prop your elbows on the steering wheel.”

“That obvious?” said Trudy.

“Hey, my heart is jumping, too.”

Bloom's voice was reassuring.

The view steadied. Trudy adjusted the focus. The binoculars packed more power than their size suggested.

“Couple guys walking back to the bigger building,” said Trudy. “Maybe the same two. And two dogs on leashes.”

Golden sun drenched the men. One wore a blue work shirt over black jeans and brown work boots. The other wore a green hoodie over blue jeans and dark running shoes. Green hoodie was taller. The dogs kept the leashes taut. Halfway between the two buildings, the men put their backs to Trudy's view, disappeared as the land sloped away to the east.

“I want to go down that hill,” said Bloom.

“But you're not,” said Trudy.

Trudy handed the binoculars back. Without magnification, the smaller building was a dwarf. Easy to overlook.

“If I was Paxton I'd want my detention center hopping.” Bloom lined up his smart phone with the camera app up. He attached a pencil-thick tube like a miniature telescope. “Telephoto. We need a witness who has been inside—like, say, Alfredo, if he could identify it.”

Trudy was surprised Jerry hadn't called to check on her. She knew she wouldn't answer if he did. “How long are we going to wait?” she said.

“Don't know,” said Bloom. He snapped pictures. “Unless I get a call and something is happening back in Glenwood with the cops. We don't have reinforcements, do we?”

“While you were at the newspaper,” said Trudy. “I made a trip to the store.”

From behind Bloom's seat, Trudy produced a lunch-size cooler with slices of prosciutto and Muenster from Rocking W Cheese. “Made in Olathe,” said Trudy. Crackers, a bag of plump grapes, two bottles of cold water.

Bloom laughed. “Did you wave a wand or something while I wasn't looking? I was just thinking it was time to see if we could do something with the telephone number Allison found at that camp.”

He started tapping on his phone with two thumbs. Finally he pressed one last key and held up the screen for inspection.

“Good old IRB account again,” he said. “Of course I could dial the number and pretend I'm selling home security or carpet cleaning.”

“Too easy,” said Trudy. “And what if they have Caller ID?”

“Now you're thinking,” said Bloom. “Come on, IRB, spit it out. How long will it be before we have a powerful cell tower within ten feet no matter where you go? Is that asking too much?”

He smiled. He was open to the world, still thinking it through.

“Patience?” said Trudy. Tried to keep a straight face. “No reporter classes on patience?”

“In fact, they go in and surgically remove that trait,” said Bloom. “Not a virtue in my business.”

“Maybe we stop, use a computer at a library or ask at a hotel or motel at the Rifle exit,” said Trudy.

The exchange of warmth and friendship with Duncan felt a bit like she was cheating on Jerry. Oddly, it gave her a lift. It was as much danger as she wanted to taste but there it was, like a perfect pinch of salt.

“Here we go,” said Bloom. “The electronic device speaks.”

He peered at it, scrolled, peered at it some more and scrolled again.

“That number belongs to a Joseph C. Harbor. Hometown of Colbran, Colorado. Address on Spring Street. A friend took me fly fishing once in Buzzard Creek. We were hoping for bullheads or brookies but got a bunch of pumpkinseed sunfish.”

Colbran was another hour west. It sat back up off the highway to the south, toward the Grand Mesa. It was on a list of second-tier towns where Down to Earth didn't yet have a retail outlet. Jerry had a list of untapped markets.

“And looks like Allison's got a winner. Lists his company as Pipeline Enterprises Inc. Lists a wife, Abigail Harbor, and five little Harbors.” Duncan looked up, stared out at the highway. “Not made for the big ocean liners, those little Harbors.”

“Not a problem in western Colorado,” said Trudy. “Could they handle a kayak?”

“Possibly,” said Duncan. He returned to his screen. “The five little Harbors are Sarah, Eunice, Joanna, Ruth, and Mary. I bet they've got a Bible in the house, maybe one for each room or exposed surface.”

“All roads lead to Pipeline Enterprises,” said Trudy.

“At least, the scrawled telephone number that Allison finds at a camp up in the woods and a van that plucks unknown illegals off the streets both track back to the same company.”

“Better call her back, give her a heads-up,” said Trudy. “You or me?”

“I'll do it,” said Bloom.

“But no questions about finding the body,” said Trudy. “Not a peep.”

“Promise,” said Bloom.

Bloom dialed, waited. He held the phone away from his ear, shook his head.

“Allison Coil's probably never known for instant accessibility,” he said. “She's already slipped back into the woods and gone off the grid.”

fifty-one:
friday afternoon

“Where the fuck is
Alfredo Loya?”

The tip of the gun pressed the back of Colin's left ear.

“I don't know,” said Allison.

Trudy's phone rang. That was one call that would have to wait.

“He's your no-good illegal wetback motherfucker and we know you had him up here.”

The man was all shoulders and chest. He towered over Colin. He had a head like a block, face like a pinched turnip and the creased-up rough skin to go with it. Needed boiling. The flesh on his cheeks flashed red—a touch of youth. Gin blossoms. Was he even thirty? Allison held his stare. His dark eyes jumped. She didn't study what he was wearing, but the basic message was black.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Allison.

“Don't give me that crap,” he said. He moved the barrel off Colin's ear and jabbed it in the soft spot under his jaw. The tip of the barrel disappeared in Colin's neck.

“There's nobody here,” said Allison. “Nobody. Maybe you got the wrong—”

“The hell,” he said. “You're Trudy. This is your place.”

Colin was wide-eyed.

“I can say it again,” said Allison. This guy hadn't studied his brief. Nobody would mistake her for her best friend.

“Alfredo was here last night,” he said. “Why don't we have ourselves a little look around?”

“Why don't you put the gun down and I'll give you the grand tour?” said Allison. The man moved the gun to Colin's temple. “How do you know he was here last night?”

Maybe there was something about Trudy's absence she needed to know.

The man's cheeks flared a fresh coat of scarlet. He was plenty
mean-looking but might still be carrying rookie status.

“I am not, as you may notice, in a position where I am the one who has to answer questions. You are the one—”

Patience, if that's what it was, evaporated. The man flicked Colin aside with a shove. Colin stumbled sideways and slammed into a floor lamp, which did nothing to break his fall. Colin tried to cushion the fall with his outstretched arms, but his chest took the blow on the hardwood floor and the lamp crashed next to him. He rolled over and groaned, facing away.

The gun switched targets in a flash. She stared up at the barrel,
inches from her nose and an unwavering extension of his locked-
elbow grip.

Colin moaned, turtled up on his hands and knees. The unwelcome intruder had made a big mistake by letting Colin go free.

She stole a glance. There was blood on Colin's face.

The gun didn't budge.

“Doesn't change anything,” said Allison.

“Alfredo fucking Loya,” said the man. “Now.”

“I'm telling you,” said Allison. “Let's have a look—”

Colin used the couch as a launching pad. He was mid-air when the man turned to defend himself. Too late. Colin was airborne and had aimed at the man's right flank. Colin came feet first. His left boot jammed into the man's torso with a crack. The man reeled back. Allison figured his fists would clench in reflex and she turned and ducked, ready for the gun to fire. No shot. The man's head snapped back on the wall with a thump. Colin whacked the man's right wrist like karate on a woodblock and the gun hit the floor with a clatter. The man staggered like a drunk and Colin kicked him hard in the groin and he let out a powerful bellow, all agony. As the man reached to protect himself, a flash of Colin's fist went straight to his face and the man's nose exploded in a gusher. He landed with a thud, blood pooling as quickly as if a bag of maroon paint had been slashed open from the bottom.

The man brought his legs up in a curl, out of reflex, to protect his balls. As if that would ease the pain.

Allison picked the gun off the floor.

They took in an angry bleat of epithets in a multitude of colorful combinations, fucker this and fucker that.

“You okay?” said Allison.

An inch-wide gash oozed blood on Colin's right cheek. He panted hard as she spread the gash with her fingers, knowing it would hurt, and Colin yelped. A piece of glass—no doubt a bit of light bulb—shined back at her from the wound. She handed Colin the gun so he could watch their visitor and she went for a cup of water and a wet
wash cloth. She poured water over Colin's tipped head and the wound came clean. Colin never complained, though the same couldn't
be said for the man still writhing on the floor.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” he said.

On her next trip, Allison found a bandage in Trudy's bathroom. She hoped Colin didn't need stitches.

Colin put the gun down, his former captor was seriously focused on the pain and nothing else. Colin jerked his arms around behind him to tie him up.

“Watch him,” said Colin and took off for the kitchen where Trudy kept a magical always-be-prepared drawer of wonders.

“My pleasure,” said Allison. “Your cheek okay?”

“Stings a bit,” said Colin from the kitchen.

“Fuck you,” said the man. “What about me?”

His nose looked broken. It throbbed purple-red.

Allison said a quick thanks to Trudy's oak floors. Though they had a rustic finish, most of the blood would clean up.

“Who the hell are you?” said Allison.

Colin returned with long leather shoelaces and duct tape.

“Fuck you.” The enunciation was lacking, given the problems in the nose and mouth area, but the spirit was there.

“Watch him while I call the cops,” said Allison.

“Wait.”

“Your name,” said Allison. She cocked the gun so he could hear it, pointed it to the ceiling. Colin produced a clean kitchen towel and tossed it over the pool of blood.

“I came for Alfredo.” Each word was followed by a painful breath. “Give me a second.”

“A name,” said Allison. “Yours.”

Allison would have no problem with a swarm of cops. An even dozen should do it. Perhaps they could arrive by helicopter, pronto.

“Let me go,” he said. “Pretend this never happened.”

“Cops it is,” said Allison, heading off.

“Wait.”

“I'm short on time,” said Allison.

“It's Boyd.”

“First or last?” said Colin.

Boyd was on his side, head tipped away. “Junior Boyd.”

“Given name?” said Colin.

“Carl,” he said.

“Who the hell is Alfredo?”

“Thought he was your dude, your worker,” said Boyd.

“I'm not Trudy,” said Allison.

Boyd rolled over as far as he could go, looked at her hard. “You ain't Trudy?”

“I was lucky enough to be the one to be here. Who the hell is Alfredo to you?”

“Actually, you don't match the description,” said Boyd.

“Who is Alfredo to you?” said Allison.

“What's your name?” said Boyd.

“My questions,” said Allison. “Tell me about Alfredo.”

“I'll be on my way,” said Boyd. “Soon as I can walk. Pretend this never happened.”

“Hard to do,” said Colin, daubing at the bandage on his cheek. The blood was coming through.

“Alfredo,” said Allison. “Tell us.”

Colin gave Boyd's boot a kick.

“Bounty.”

“Bounty?” said Colin.

“He's an illegal. He was on his way back to that shithole country he comes from and he slipped away.” Boyd took a breath. “Hell my nose hurts.”

“Why the gun?” said Allison.

Boyd continued: “This guy tried to play dumb.” He meant Colin. “He wanted me to think I was in the wrong county. Knew I wasn't. I want Alfredo, wherever the hell he is.”

“Who's paying bounty?”

Boyd looked down like he hadn't heard the question.

Allison came down close to his side, put her face up close. “If I have to ask you again, I am going to be on the telephone to the cops faster than—”

“The detention center,” said Boyd. Choosing his words carefully.

“What detention center?”

“I don't know,” said Boyd.

“Whose?”

“Same answer.”

“How much bounty are we talking?” said Colin.

“Enough,” said Boyd.

“How much?” said Allison, with more bite.

“A thousand,” said Boyd.

Boyd strained like he wanted to sit up. Colin pulled him by the shoulders and he slumped against the side of Trudy's couch. Boyd winced. His nose would be puffy and sore for weeks.

“So there are others looking, others who know about the bounty?” said Colin.

Boyd rolled his head around. “Everyone who knows is looking and helps.”

“Helps with?” said Allison.

“Helps with keeping a lookout for the fucking illegals. Help with getting their asses off the street. This guy escaped. He needs to go back.”

“Where to?” said Colin.

Boyd let his broad chest rise and fall. The question brewing for Allison was what they were going to do with Boyd once this exchange was over.

“I don't know,” said Boyd.

“Hell,” said Colin.

“I got a number to call. I call it. They come.”

Boyd was out of gas, defeated. His tone was matter-of-fact.

“I don't think they want me to see it,” said Boyd.

“And who pays you?” said Allison.

“I don't need an ID,” said Boyd. “Bye fucking bye is all.”

Allison stood up straight, walked outside. Boyd's Taurus stared back, its doors flung open and the interior dome light on. The last thing anyone needed was a dead battery and the need to jump a car. Swift kicks delivered to each door and the doors slammed shut with authority. The inside of the Taurus looked like a hoarders' exhibit, the back seat piled to the gills with papers and junk. If Colin had been forced to ride in the car, even for a minute, he'd need the equivalent of a Karen Silkwood hose-down.

“Whatcha doin'?”

Colin stepped outside on the porch. Boyd was behind him, only his legs visible.

“Thinking,” said Allison.

“Noisy way of thinking,” said Colin.

“It helps,” said Allison.

“Can I get you a sledgehammer or maybe a crane and a wrecking ball?” said Colin.

“You're not pissed off ?”

“I was the one with a gun to my head,” said Colin.

A mumble came from inside the house. “What did he say?” said Allison.

“He said he wasn't going to use the gun,” said Colin. “If I had known that, I would have hit him earlier.”

“Hey!” said Boyd. And then another mumble.

“What now?” said Allison.

“He said he was helping his country. He's a patriot in case you didn't know.”

“Patriot?” said Allison. “He said
patriot
?”

“His word,” said Colin.

Allison was up on the porch and she passed Colin in a flash.

“You know anything about hunting dogs?” she said.

“Seen them in movies,” said Boyd. “Brits chasing the fox, that sort of thing. Blowing horns.”

“Around here?” said Allison. “Ever seen them? Heard them? Heard about them? Nasty games with hunting dogs?”

Boyd's face was a dull dead blank. “No,” he said.

“Then how about this?” said Allison. She pulled the half-envelope
from her back pocket. “Is this a number you recognize?”

Boyd studied it like an algebra problem. “I don't know,” he said.

“Look at it.” Her order was an uppercut.

“I don't know,” said Boyd. “I never could remember numbers. But I've got a cheat sheet in my wallet.”

Colin helped Boyd to his feet, gingerly pulled the wallet out of Boyd's back pocket.

Like Boyd's car, the wallet was an overstuffed home for crap. Worn papers jutted from the main billfold compartment, notes and receipts and newspaper tidbits.

“Not much of an organizer,” said Boyd. “I can find the paper if you—”

Colin opened the wallet upside down. Papers and junk fluttered down on the couch like confetti.

“Hell,” said Boyd. “Never going to find anything again.”

“Where are your numbers?” said Allison.

“I laminated the card,” said Boyd. “It's still in the wallet in an inside flap.”

The business card encased in plastic sported a list of phone numbers.

No names.

No instructions.

A dozen or so numbers altogether, handwritten.

All 970 area code.

The fifth number down was a dead match.