Trapline (10 page)

twenty:
tuesday afternoon

The story took an
hour to write, fing
ers only a second behind the brain. This one was all Duncan Bloom's personal observation, of the cops moving like bees swarming to a new hive. All the reporters saw it, but he would be first in getting a solid story up on the website.

The police had gone for forty-eight hours looking in the wrong location.

Bloom couldn't be that blunt, but close. He was beginning to think of things to do when he was done writing, like use the reverse phone directory and call every resident at Glenwood Manor.

It wasn't hard to imagine that someone in the building might have been an accomplice, unwitting or not. The investigation was back to square zero, as an old Denver editor liked to say. Bloom always liked the image of a square zero—something you couldn't picture. It was worse than square one. You were screwed.

When the phone rang, Bloom thought about ignoring it, but that went against every fiber in his reporter bones.

“Go easy.”

DiMarco.

“Just the facts,” said Bloom.

“You can soften them.”

“I don't write for NBC or the
L.A. Times
,” said Bloom. “Are you making a hundred of these calls? Think they'll listen? Can someone tell if the apartment building was even considered, checked, analyzed?”

The edge in his voice surprised him.

“This isn't that kind of call,” said DiMarco. “You'll have your chance
to ask those questions.”

“Anything on the convenience store and the temporary phone?”

Bloom leaned back in his chair, hit save on his computer, looked around the newsroom. Marjorie Hayes sat up straight, hands poised over her keyboard like the first day of typing class. She stared at a blank screen. White wires descended from her ears to an invisible iPod. She was partial to old-school Johnny Cash.

“Matter of fact,” said DiMarco. “We found him. He's a big-time fan who wanted a chance to shake Lamott's hand. Showed us the autograph he got. He was by Doc Holliday's bar before Lamott went up on the bridge. Took a selfie, as they call it.”

Bloom silently lamented the loss of a lead that he hoped had gone
right through his telephone. “You sure this is an immigration thing?”

DiMarco paused, but not too long. “What are you saying?”

“You focused on the idea that this is immigration-related violence, a hate group or something?”

“We need a suspect first and then we'll work on motive,” said DiMarco.
“How you going to play this?”

“I'm not
playing
anything.”

“It's where you give credit—to the woodswoman or to the cops for bringing her in.”

“I think most people care that you're on the trail,” said Bloom. “The town wants a suspect in a bad, bad way. The whole state. The whole country. Give us something to work with.”

DiMarco paused. It felt odd to have him on the run.

“Believe me,” he said. “Every cop feels the pressure, rookie to chief.”

“Is that why you called, to help me select the attitude in my prose?”

“Just wanted to see if you're going to keep the editorial page where it belongs,” said DiMarco.

“Appreciate the counsel,” said Bloom. “Maybe if I'm a good boy, at least in your mind, you might owe me a favor down the line.”

“Now we're dreaming,” said DiMarco.

“Okay, I'll give you a chance to show this is a working relationship. You know about this dead guy they brought down from the Flat Tops?”

Since the chat with Allison Coil, Bloom had this fleeting fantasy of somehow winding his way to her doorstep, developing a friendly relationship. At least for starters. He was good at being friends first. It wouldn't hurt to know someone in the hunting and outfitting business. Bloom imagined the chances were pretty close to zilch with Allison since he possessed no horse, hunting, or outdoor skills—but Allison Coil hit that sweet spot between cute and beautiful, with her confidence and toughness binding the whole package together. Didn't every “woodswoman” crave a city boy?

“Know of the body,” said DiMarco. “Being processed. We've checked
against missing persons reports and nothing lines up. Going statewide next, see if we can get a bite. Probably a hiker got caught by a storm or zapped by lightning. In fact, I heard something that it might be a mountain lion kill. Wouldn't be the first.”

“Not every day,” said Bloom.

“Think a broad daylight assassination attempt is a bit more out of the ordinary,” said DiMarco. “Up in the woods you got wild animals, dumb hunters, and then the whole easy-to-do fuck-up category called lost. That's child's play. Open to all.”

“I want to know if you get an ID,” said Bloom. “And I got another question.”

Bloom knew he wanted to hit ‘send' on his story in five minutes, but didn't want to miss the opportunity.

“You're at your quota,” said DiMarco.

“The van the other day,” said Bloom. “Where do the illegals get taken?”

Bloom needed the mental picture filled in. When the unmarked ICE van arrived, it was like a shadow government had been waiting in the wings and pulled back the curtain to stage its own bit of legal theater. Bloom wanted to make sure he hadn't been memory-zapped like the citizens in
Men in Black
who inadvertently witnessed alien creatures.

“Aurora, Colorado, USA,” said DiMarco. “At least as far as I know. Trust you know it.”

“You're hilarious,” said Bloom.

Aurora hugged Denver's eastern border. It was a sprawling, complex suburb.“There's a detention center there,” said DiMarco. “And if they can't produce the right paperwork, it's a swift bus ride back to their mama's tortillas and home tequila.”

“They get taken straight down the highway to Denver, just like that?”

DiMarco paused, almost like he wanted Bloom to answer his own question.

“You're resourceful,” said DiMarco. “All that big-city training. As soon as you're done tearing us apart, it'll give you something to do.”

twenty-one:
tuesday afternoon

The day was now
an abbreviated version of itself.

Allison walked through and around the barn, thinking she could feel the sun sink with a hard clunk as each minute ticked by.

It was four days until archery season opened and there was an overwhelming list of chores to plow through. All the “to-do's” revolved around the barn and the horses and the camp gear. She reminded herself that any semblance of stress was entirely self-inflicted
.

Trudy's car had been gone when Allison passed her house and Colin was taking a string of three pack mules to Lumberjack with weed-free hay. Jesse Morales, another of her wranglers, was out in the field sewing up two small tears in the canvas wall tents while they aired out. After a season of woodstove smoke, cigar smoke, and indoor cooking of animals and fish, then being packed away for months to marinate, the canvas needed the full spa treatment. There were saddle bags to patch. Fly rods needed a tune-up. Tackle boxes needed a spruce-up, too. The barn needed cleaning. The vet was coming tomorrow for routine annual check-ups on half of her twenty-two animals, including vaccinations. One propane stove needed its jets cleaned, another needed an hour with steel wool and an energetic elbow. Running down the mental checklist of chores, Allison kicked herself. Her cell phone had developed a nasty habit of deciding on its own to freeze up at particularly inopportune times. When it happened, she may as well have been holding a rock. If she had been thinking, the morning would have been a good time to swing by the phone store in Glenwood Springs, but she'd forgotten. Now, it would take an extra half-day round trip, all for the most techno-centric item she kept.

To Allison's mind, an outfitter offered hunters ten essential things. First, horses to ride. Second, horses or mules to carry loads of stuff. Third, the know-how to load and balance the animals. Fourth, the outfitting permits. Fifth, a guide to help glass and stalk if you felt you needed it. Sixth, a cook if you wanted to be spoiled. Seventh, horses or mules to help you pack out your kill. Eighth, food planning and menu prep. Ninth, someone to explain all the state rules, if needed.

But when it came right down to it her main business was the tenth item: putting hunters on their prey. Most of what hunters paid for, she could control. The only thing out of her control was the wildlife.

But how could she stop thinking about the half-corpse? Now that the police were on the right track at Glenwood Manor, she wanted the half-corpse to move up on their priority list and she wanted to call Chadwick again, to express some impatience. She wished she had given names to Duncan Bloom—names like William Sulchuk and Larry Armbruster to see if anything registered.

Her cell phone sounded, string chimes that might sound good in a
zendo
. Trudy had picked the ringtone.

“Allison, it's Kerry London again.”

One fear she'd had since leaving Chadwick was that her name would be splashed out, that reporters might want her analysis of the cops and their work.

“Yes,” said Allison, going for indifferent. She really didn't have time for Kerry London's needs, either.

“It's a beautiful afternoon and we were wondering if today might work, maybe later this afternoon, come get some shots of the area up there, do the interview we talked about.”

“Well, I—”

The slight delay in the connection, which wasn't good on the best days, failed to give Allison a chance to wedge herself in.

“The sunset light in the mountains, homes, and the ranch and everything,” said London. “Might be perfect.”

“You can't get very far up in the time that's left and I've really got my hands—”

“We don't need much,” said London. “Don't really need to go very far. It's the way of life we want.”

Maybe an all-nighter of cleaning and organizing would give her a chance to catch up. The pressure from energy development really hadn't eased and she wanted to show what was at risk.

“Know the way?” said Allison.

“GPS loaded,” said London. “We're actually already out of the canyon and just turning off the interstate right now.”

They had answered their own request to come visit long before she had answered the phone. Presumptuous? Shit. She thought she might have two hours alone while they packed up and headed out but now she was down to about forty minutes, max. She could kiss the daylight good-bye.

twenty-two:
tuesday afternoon

Tomás Loya didn't know
a lick of English. He stood as he was introduced to Trudy and stayed upright, tucking his hands far up into his armpits. He spoke with his head down. Anguish filled the room. Tomás knew Diaz. There was a comfortable familiarity between them.

Tomás poured three glasses of tap water, carefully turning the water off and on for each glass. Trudy liked him instantly. He smiled politely through his nerves.

They were on Teakwood Lane in the Riverside Meadows mobile home park on the west bank of the Roaring Fork River across from downtown Glenwood Springs. Trudy had never seen the mobile home park. At least, she'd never let it register. There was pride in the neigh
borhood. The landscaping was maintained. Inviting mini-patios
were perfect for watching what little of the world came down this way. The
interior of the Loya home was bright and smelled of onions and
cinnamon. A pot simmered on the stove. A small crucifix was the sole item on the wall above a red-topped kitchen table.

“He's leaving tomorrow,” said Diaz. They had chatted, Trudy trying to pick up the flow.

“Where?” said Trudy.

“Home,” said Diaz.

“His brother is missing
here
,” said Trudy.

Diaz shrugged. “There's not much he can do.”

“Any more brothers or family here?”

Trudy heard “
otro
,” “
familia
,” and “
aquí
” in Diaz's question.

Their conversation was being watched by two women who sat side by side on a small couch. One was sewing an elbow patch on a jean jacket. The other watched and fanned herself with a section of newspaper.

“Just the two brothers,” said Diaz. “At least, in this country.”

“What does he think happened?”

Tomás launched into a long story and looked like he was concentrating. The Spanish flew. Diaz probed whenever he need clarification.

“He was there,” said Diaz when Tomás was done.

“He was where?” said Trudy.

“Sometimes they fish in the early morning,” said Diaz. “There's a spot down along the river, by the bridge. They have good cover. They were walking back when Alfredo realized he had left some string and bait back by their spot. Tomás waited while Alfredo went back. Tomás could see Alfredo come back up on the road from their spot when a van pulled up behind him and stopped. There were two men and they grabbed him.”

Tomás watched Diaz while the story was recounted, nodding occasionally.

“A police van?”

“Unmarked,” said Diaz. “He made a big point of this. A blue van. Plain.”

“
Sí, azul
,” said Tomás.

“New?” said Trudy.

Diaz shot a question at Tomás, who replied carefully.

“Newer,” said Diaz.

“Did they talk to him first?”

It was mid-afternoon and plenty warm outside, close and stifling inside. Tomás' forehead shined with sweat.

“Not for long,” said Diaz. “A few seconds.”

“And then what?”

“And then the van drove away. It drove right past Tomás, who hid in the thicket along the side of the road.”

“Did Tomás by any chance get a license plate?”

Another rapid-fire exchange. One question, one answer. One follow-up question, another answer.

“The van was going fast,” said Diaz. “And Tomás was of course scared. He looked at the last second. Only half of it, CL9. If not 9, then 7, but he's pretty sure it was 9.”

“And Alfredo lived here?”

“Yeah,” said Diaz. “Here.”

Trudy felt as ill as Tomás looked. “How is Tomás getting home?” she said.

“There are ways,” said Diaz. “There's always someone going. People know. Small cash payment here, help out there. Help load, help drive. It's not hard.”

Glenwood Springs was where she'd been raised, but standing in this motor home with Tomás Loya and the two women on the couch, Trudy had the strange sensation she'd stepped into a parallel universe that coexisted through some trick of intergalactic physics. She couldn't be standing at a much lower elevation and still be in Glenwood Springs, unless she dug a tunnel under the river.

“He needs to stay and help.” Trudy heard a desperate edge to her words.

“Needs?” said Diaz.

Tomás must have caught the drift. When he spoke, he shook his head with authority.

“What do you think he's going to be able to do?” The new voice was from one of the women, the one who had been sewing. She put down her work. She stood slowly, as if she hadn't been fully erect for a week. It didn't feel like a hand-shaking moment. “He needs to go home.”

Her English was clear but the words were steeped with a thick Mexican accent. Her hair was pulled back in a long braid.

“
Sí
,” said Tomás.

“One brother is enough,” said the woman, sharpness to her gaze. Her brown eyes revealed warmth but she looked worn down, too.

Behind a closed bedroom door somewhere down the short hall to
the bedrooms, a baby fussed.

“Tomás' daughter,” said the woman. “Three months.”

“Oh my,” said Trudy.

Tomás didn't budge at the sound.

“Yes. One brother is enough,” she repeated. “No place to go, nobody to tell. Nobody.”

Trudy remembered what it was like to live in a delicate bubble of uncertainty, the years before her ex-husband's unraveling. Before she had met Allison. Before doctors found the part of her brain that randomly decided to convulse and misfire of its own volition. Those years had been like living in an earthquake zone, not knowing if any moment the earth would crack and you'd suddenly be free-falling toward a hot ball of fire.

“I know it's hard,” said Trudy. “But there are people here who realize this isn't right.”

“People are scared,” said Diaz. “Very scared.”

“The hatred gets all the attention,” said Trudy.

“Tomás?” said one of the women, the one sewing. The Spanish flew between them, the woman dominating, instructing. Trudy though
t she heard one question in the mix and Tomás paused, pondered a response. Finally the woman turned back to Trudy.

“What are you going to do?” asked the woman. “If he stays?”

Tomás looked as scared as if she was holding a shotgun on him right now. No fully-formed plan had yet jelled, but Trudy knew Tomás' story was worth more in Glenwood Springs than if he took it with him back to Mexico.

“We need his story,” said Trudy. “We need to tell somebody what happened.”

The woman shook her head. “And who is going to listen?”

“I have to figure that out,” said Trudy.

The baby's sobs ramped up to full-bore bawl.

“Tomás wants to go home, but he also doesn't want to leave his daughter,” said Diaz.

A door opened and the volume of the scream doubled. The mother
was as white as a freshly painted picket fence. She might be twenty-one, she might be eighteen. She bounced her crying baby carefully in both arms. She came to Tomás' side as if it was the only place she belonged. The baby wore nothing but a diaper and a pink bow in hair so short Trudy wondered how the bow stayed in place. The pink bow matched the highlights in the mother's blonde hair. The baby's skin was a beautiful light chestnut. In one seamless move, Tomás scooped the baby to his shoulder. The baby took two more furtive sobs and decided all was right with the world.

“What's going on?”

The young mother had a gold nose ring that looped tightly around her left nostril like a clamp. Her eyes were amber, her hair was straight. It was clear she was bonded with Tomás, but there was no ring on her left finger.

The pint-size kitchen felt cramped. Trudy fought the urge to step outside.

“This is Miss Down to Earth,” said the woman. “She's here to help.”