Trapline (12 page)

twenty-five:
wednesday morning

“I'm calling to see
what you've come up with. What anyone has come up with.”

She had reached Chadwick on his cell phone after a series of aggravating chats with clerks and other cops who had to be cajoled into making the effort to locate an individual officer in the middle of what was still a high-alert situation.

“Still no ID,” said Chadwick. “No one has contacted us, either. And the sticks and that stuff that covered the body is on its way to that lab in Wyoming and I'm not sure we can—”

Allison cut him off. “The more I think about it, the more I know there's something wrong with the whole picture, the whole mountain lion scenario, everything about it.”

Certainly her credibility was in reasonable shape, given the bullet shell in the bush.

“I can place a call.”

“And can you find out if there's any information on the body? Anything?”

She turned Sunny Boy to face the early morning sun. She'd left at dark, her system on overdrive and her head chasing itself in ugly circles, one furrow of recriminations for letting herself fall into the reporter's trap and another for how she'd treated him.

“Sure,” said Chadwick.

“This hasn't been setting right all along.”

“I would think the ME would have something soon,” said Chad
wick.

“What's soon?” said Allison. An awkward delay in the signal. “But this guy was a person, too—and he was a person not that long ago. Somebody was expecting him.”

Had she sounded pushy? Not a bad thing.

Allison said good-bye, thanked Chadwick and turned off her phone. She might check messages soon, she might not. She'd made the call because she had to. The rest of the day was built for maximum solitude and minimum civilization.

Sunny Boy walked like he was wearing ankle weights, looking for the right gear. Maybe he was channeling her heavy, black vibes. She'd give herself another couple hours of brooding before challenging her heart to open up. She wasn't ready. She wanted to wallow in her shit. It had been a long night. She tried a large tequila and then a second that was more like a double and then another. She insisted on sex, which Colin happily obliged, and she insisted on talking afterward, not falling asleep. She told Colin about Kerry London and Colin listened and asked questions, but he didn't get it, not down deep. A second round of romping with Colin, this time even sweatier and more determined. More goal-oriented. Love was in the room, but it cowered in the corner and didn't ask to be recognized. Colin had to know this session wasn't about him. She took control, stayed on top, used his shoulders for grips, buried her nose in his warm neck, helped herself to as much as she could take. The sex was selfish and gritty. She still couldn't sleep. She'd spent an hour on the couch. Colin slept soundlessly. Chamomile tea had the same effect as espresso. She spent another hour outside on the mini porch, watching the stars and letting them blur into personal constellations,
all the fire-folk sitting in the sky.
Gerard Manley Hopkins. One of her father's favorites. It surprised her how the line came roaring back.
Down in dim woods the diamond delves! the elves'-eyes!
Too many exclamation points for the moment. There were no elves off in the woods. She couldn't feel their eyes. She kept seeing Kerry London right before he said the word
airplane.
He may as well have cut out her stomach with a ballpoint pen.

Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scare!

Ah well! it is all a purchase, all is a prize.

When she had finally accepted the sleeplessness, an hour before dawn, she slipped out quietly and left a note: “I'm scouting. Will you and Jesse clean today and start putting together a supply list? P.S. Tell Trudy I'll catch up with her tomorrow. P.P.S: I love you. P.P.P.S: I promise to let you run the show next time. Thanks for being my punching bag.”

Now, with the morning sun to her back, she was paying the price. The morning sun lit up the scenery like a spotlight. Normally these moments were worth a week-long cleanse at a health spa, but not today. Her tequila-woozy head didn't appreciate having to process any visual information and it fought the same running banter of crap from the London face-off.

She let Sunny Boy trudge, didn't push him.

It was Wednesday morning. The hunt started in three days.

Allison had one group coming in that wanted to move immediately up to higher elevation to get acclimated and start scouting. They were six guys coming from Oklahoma City. They would hunt for a week. All six had drawn cow tags and, based on the steady flow of e-mails, all six expected to go home with freezer meat. The success rates during hunting season suggested otherwise, but they were welcome to their fantasy. Allison felt like she would be doing her job if she gave them either fresh sign or a close look at the actual prey.

The second group was from Davenport—not too far from her childhood home in Cedar Rapids. Allison had come recommended. The client was a professional friend through her father's teacher networks in Iowa. Their expectations were a bit less bloodthirsty. She wanted, instinctively, to work harder for them than the pushy crew from Oklahoma. Even if neither group managed to take a shot, Allison knew little ways to click up the comfort level for the Iowans, make the food and service top-notch.

Allison worked to focus on one thing, tried to focus on giving her mind a single track.

Elk.

Elk could vanish by the dozens, en masse, in fresh snow in October. It was if every herd had a bull that practiced Santería. He could sneak up on you and spit some foul chemical-laced substance on you that made it impossible to see any four-legged mammal over 500 pounds. Elk were tricky and supremely skittish this time of year, and the only thing that made August or September hunting possible, of course, was sex. The ability to call an elk in close—close enough for a bow and arrow, anyway—made late-August hunting possible. Finding them without calling them in, which Allison planned to do, would require luck, a sharp eye, and a clear head.

As for the last ingredient, she didn't expect to get back to equilibrium for weeks. It was as if Kerry London's question had triggered an earthquake and she was left to wobble, knee-deep in rubble. She had carefully assembled the house where she lived—the mental house. It was a simple place, function over form or beauty. More than anything, it kept strangers at bay. Enough time had passed that there were whole long stretches—first a day, then two, then maybe a whole week—when the airplane crash had lost its power. When she could almost believe the events didn't happen. When they must have happened to a previous incarnation of herself. Whenever she had chosen to think about the airplane crash recently, it was her choice to pull it down off the shelf and hold it in her arms, see if it sparked rage or sadness or, occasionally, nothing. It was her story, her event, her details. Time helped. The Flat Tops had helped more. The new scenery, so utterly devoid of machines and machinery, kissed her daily with the sensation—no, a deep-down-in-the-bones truth—of rebirth. That it was possible. After years now, the airplane crash was finally parked in a well-guarded place and nobody was going to come along and make her spill it all over the page or convulse for the cameras. Nobody. And she resented the hell out of Kerry London's baffled expression, which implied she should thank him for the opportunity to go public.

Ugh
.

The trail cut straight up a grassy knob to a high ridge line ahead, the view beyond obscured. Lumberjack Camp was less than an hour away and at that point she would need to decide on her options to go look for elk or their sign.

Either one would work fine.

Anything would be better than thinking about Kerry London and his hideous, self-assured smirk.

twenty-six:
wednesday morning

Pesca. Rio. Van azul.

A thin bead of sweat formed on Tomás' upper lip and his hands trembled. He looked to Diaz for reassurance. He pointed down the road to an innocuous spot and said, emphatically,
allá—
where he was waiting when he saw the
van azul.

Duncan Bloom was respectful, patient. He smiled, gave Tomás space.
Tomás talked about his upbringing in Chihuahua. The family
business was a bakery. When he talked about his mother, tears formed and Tomás had to take a breath. Trudy realized the enormous
risk he was taking, the trust he was extending.

Bloom asked for personal details about his skills and interests. Again
Tomás fought hard to keep it together, with only partial success.

“A gold mine,” said Bloom to Trudy. Diaz listened in. “What I really need is the blue van, of course, and where it went.”

Bloom looked up and down the road, as if it might reappear if they waited long enough.

“Now what?” said Trudy.

Bloom put his pen in his pocket, his notebook in a back pocket. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a simple red short-sleeve shirt. He folded his arms, leaned on the hood of his scruffy green Camry, the hood splotched white where the paint had lost its battle with the sun.

“In the 1920s, Congress passed a series of immigration laws and at the time Asians were among the excludable aliens, except the Japanese,” said Bloom. “Been reading up. You look back, it's a mess—laws jerking policy one way and then the other.”

“The laws don't seem clear now,” said Trudy.

“So Alfredo worked for you?” said Bloom.

“Yes,” said Trudy. “But—”

“Don't worry,” said Bloom. “I want the whole story, not the surface. Not this sliver. The question is where in the hell do they go?”

“Denver?” said Trudy.

“One person in a van all the way to Denver?” said Bloom. “Expensive cab service.”

Bloom produced a palm-size camera, shot pictures of Tomás from behind—hiding his face—as Tomás pointed down the road to the
spot where Alfredo had been nabbed. Tomás was a stiff model. He looked tired from the interview and uncertain.

Lingering probably wasn't a smart idea. Curious drivers would notice them and her truck, the company logo.

“Can you start in Aurora?” said Trudy. “See how they arrive? Look for vans?”

“Maybe,” said Bloom. He studied the road again, looked up and down. “I could ask if Alfredo is being held in the system. At least that would confirm that was the destination—the ICE system. It's worth a shot. I just can't imagine seeing your brother snatched from the streets—no surprise he wants to get the heck out of here.”

“But he's dealing with leaving his girlfriend and daughter,” said Trudy.

Bloom froze like he was playing a game of statue.
“What?”

“A baby,” said Trudy.

“I can't believe I missed that,” said Bloom. “I must be losing my touch.”

Bloom re-engaged Tomás and Diaz for another round as Bloom soaked up the details.

“And you would leave your baby?” asked Bloom. “No problem?”

Tomás welled up and his eyes glistened and he started speaking.

“His mother can't afford to lose another son,” said Diaz, when Tomás was finished answering. “He'll come back when things settle down. If things settle down. He feels terrible. He is torn.
Indeciso.
”

Tomás wiped his eyes on his sleeves, turned away to fight more tears.

“I want to meet her,” said Bloom. “Your girlfriend. And I want to meet the baby, too.”

Diaz translated. Tomás' eyes were still moist.

“No names. Girlfriend or baby,” said Diaz.

“
Sí
,” said Bloom. “Same rules.”

“It's okay,” said Trudy. Her instincts were solely based on how Bloom treated her when he wrote the profile. His auras were blue—good principles and maybe some psychic talent. Bloom cared. She remembered him sitting in her kitchen, how he settled in, made the transition from professional to person before her eyes.

Tomás took an unsteady breath, muttered to Diaz.

“He doesn't want to put his girlfriend in trouble,” said Diaz.

“It's to show how this impacts families,” said Bloom. “That families are being ripped apart, that babies will grow up without fathers. And it's about our two countries. About getting along. It's what Tom Lamott was saying.”

Bloom followed Trudy's pickup, with Tomás and Diaz on board, to Riverside Meadows, a quarter-mile south.

Tomás went inside to smooth the way while Trudy, Bloom, and Diaz huddled under a tree. A skinny calico cat stepped out from a gap in the wood skirt that covered the gap between mobile home and ground. It promptly plopped down on a patch of grass in the shade. A distant air conditioner whirred. The sun felt as if it had decided on a day trip to visit the moon.

It suddenly occurred to Trudy that Tomás lived in the same community with the same roads and buildings but had to go through the
day with his head down, hoping to stay invisible. It was half a life, or
less.

“I've got a question for you,” said Bloom.

“Okay,” said Trudy. “I guess. But not about my business.”

“No,” said Bloom. “Allison.”

Trudy waited. Every time others mentioned Allison's name, Trudy knew they wanted a piece of her friend.

“Yes?” said Trudy when Bloom failed to fill the void.

“Is she around?”

“I don't keep close tabs,” said Trudy. She wished Allison had a permanently embedded GPS. There had been times when Allison disappeared for days.

“I'd like to talk to her about what she found up on the building,” said Bloom. “The roof. That's all. Plus, it would be nice to come up, if you want to know the truth. To look at the sky up there. Down here, you almost feel like you're in a hole. The day I spent with you and Allison—well, it's locked in my memory forever.”

Trudy knew how guys looked at Allison.

“We're not gate keepers for the Flat Tops,” said Trudy. “But I doubt Allison would talk about what she did for the police. I can ask her—”

“Please,” said Bloom.

Tomás' girlfriend stepped from the mobile home and sat down on the middle of the three-step entrance. Tomás followed. She wore a white T-shirt with an oversized basketball across the front. A white cap with a large visor shaded her face. Bits of hesitant female Spanish floated across the still, hot space. She held the baby in a thin white wrap.

Candy's expression was inscrutable. She stared off and on at Bloom. This should be a simple yes or no, Trudy figured, but the back-and-forth between Tomás and Candy lasted longer than she would have expected.

There was an unexpected hiccup. Something had changed. Trudy felt like she was intruding. Candy peeled the wrap back like a banana and revealed the top of her baby's head, kissed her gently.

Tomás headed their way, head down.

“Something's up,” said Bloom. “Though you don't need a translator to tell you that.”

Tomás fought off tears. But he was smiling, too. He took a deep breath, blew it out with puffed-up cheeks, put his head down and then he was beside them, gathering himself. He gave a fist pump at mid-chest like a coach exhorting a team to do its best. Despite the tumble of emotions, Trudy sensed the bottom line was something good. Underneath it all, Tomás looked relieved. He gave the news in two rapid-fire sentences to Diaz, who replied with a one-word question.

“¿
Aquí
?”

Tomás took a breath. “
Si
,” he said.

“It's Alfredo,” said Diaz, summing up. “While Tomás was out with us, Alfredo turned up. Last night he was out, alone. He was hiding and running. He was being held somewhere. He really needs a doctor and he is very, very afraid.”