Trapline (6 page)

eleven:
monday afternoon

The police staged the
media briefing at the gazebo shelter in Sayre Park, not far from where Lamott first stepped off his campaign bus before his long meet-and-greet stroll through town and his appointment on the pedestrian bridge.

Sheriff Allen Marrs handled the news conference flanked by deputies, City Council members, the mayor, and a bevy of state and federal types whom Bloom had never seen. Today, they were props. It wasn't hard to imagine the cluster-fuck cop meetings and, without anyone in custody, the tension.

Facing the scrum of media, Sheriff Marrs looked tired. He was smart not to shave. You didn't want to show up looking like you'd thought about primping. Marrs had a high forehead, dark eyes, and a moustache that curled down at the corners.

The main theme was reassurance. Sheriff Marrs was seasoned enough to follow the script, which was fluffier than cotton candy. He used lots of words, but added nothing new.

Every possible resource devoted to the manhunt.

We have leads but I can't go into detail.

Glenwood Springs is a safe and caring community.

We urge anyone with information to step forward.

Reward funds have been established for the successful prosecution …

No mention of the disposable phone.

Bloom had been in big media hordes in Denver and this one was right up there—national and Denver crews, national and local print reporters, Grand Junction, Spanish-language news stations, magazine writers. On the national news scale, the attempted assassination of a U.S. Senate candidate rated a nine or ten. The immigration theme would make Glenwood Springs a trough for media feeding for weeks and months to come. Editors were making notes to do anniversary stories. For Bloom, the teeming pack of reporters brought back the old days of Denver, the occasional flare-up of news that drew the outside buzzards.

This first wave brought the high-powered reporters with access to private jets and staff to help with logistics. Waves of others were moving out, the army of grunts. Bloom wanted to work alone but also relished the challenge. This was his town, his story. It might not be a bad time to outwit his old Denver-based cohorts.

The general working theory rested on the idea of shots coming from somewhere in the first few hundred yards of trail that led up Lookout Mountain.

There was a trail to the top of a high knoll overlooking the confluence of rivers, but it was lightly travelled and mostly by locals.

The possible escape routes numbered two.

The first escape route would be the trail up and over the Lookout Mountain peak. Perhaps the shooter quickly transformed into a backpacker and walked innocently away. He might be still walking.

The second escape route would be straight down through the scrub to the streets on the eastern edge of Glenwood Springs.

If the up-and-over theory was correct, the shooter would have had a healthy head start and, obviously, he didn't have to stay on the trail.

The cops preferred the mingle-with-civilization theory and they indicated that somebody probably saw the shooter escape, but didn't realize it. They were urging everyone who might have been hiking or driving in the area to recall everything they had seen.

Bloom thought one other theory was being overlooked—a variation of the return-to-civilization theme. What if the shooter came down the hill but hopped over the train tracks and went down to the river to a waiting kayak or raft? Maybe there was too much exposure—the river would take the shooter right under the footbridge—but recreational kayaks and tourist rafts were common.

Distance was the big problem with Lookout Mountain as the shooter's perch. The reports so far had settled on 500 yards. The distance would depend on the height of the shooter's precise location on the hill, which sloped up and away to the east. For every foot of elevation the shooter might have wanted, he had to add four or five yards more distance. The shot wasn't impossible, but it would require skill, practice, and balls the size of grapefruits.

The questions from the reporters made it clear that this was the over-arching consensus, that someone, probably a lone gunman, had known enough to plan the shot and was one helluva shooter with sophisticated military-esque or at least special hunting gear. And, most likely, a bug up his ass about immigration.

Or, at least, hated Tom Lamott.

With the media beast fed and as the questions grew lame and repetitive, Sheriff Marrs thanked everyone and walked away. Reporters tried to worm their way in for one-on-one time, but they were waved off. No individual spoon feeding allowed, only mass distribution of the dry breadcrumbs they'd been asked to swallow.

“Hey, stranger.”

“The one and only Kerry London,” said Bloom. “Don't you have a flight to catch?”

The man hug was quick. Kerry London looked like he wasn't used to the Colorado altitude or the summer heat. He was short and a bit tubby. He had an unlikely television face—more nosy weasel than handsome fox.

“Looks like I better rent an apartment,” said London. “Maybe a long-term lease. I didn't hear anything that makes me think they have a hot lead. Do the local cops know their way around a case like this?”

London was the ubiquitous newshound for NBC. He could cover a messy celebrity murder in Miami one day and mudslides in Puerto Rico the next. London spent less than a year in Denver on his meteoric rise to the network, but he had been a good friend.

“They're getting a shitload of state help,” said Bloom. “You know I'm not based out of Denver anymore, right?”

“Oh no,” said London, surprise on his face. It would have been nice to think that Kerry London would have spotted the Duncan Bloom byline on
The Glenwood Springs Post-Independent
front page this morning. “You're the last reporter that should have been shown the door.”

“A kind sentiment.”

“And now?” said London.

“I can walk home in about five minutes from this spot,” said Bloom. He pointed generally to the north. “Or five minutes from the office downtown.”

They were walking back to Grand Avenue, but London stopped in overly dramatic fashion.

“Right here?” he said.

“Coming up on two years.”

“You've got the inside track.”

“Ideas, at least,” said Bloom.

“I'm sick of parachutes,” said London. “Barely enough time to get acclimated. Speaking of which, how long does it take to get used to this thin air?”

“A week or so. It's only 5,700 feet, a bit higher than Denver. We could go hike Mount Sopris or haul up into the Flat Tops, jack you up another six or seven thousand feet. Then you'd feel it.”

“No thanks,” said London. “Lucky you—you're actually in town long enough to know the ins and outs and you're completely adapted to living at elevation in an oxygen-free zone.”

London's faux jealousy amounted to a kindness. Bloom tried not to think about London's network salary. Deep down, Bloom knew he wouldn't switch places. Airports, road food, hotel rooms, strangers.

“So what are the local cops really saying?” said London.

“You got something to trade?” said Bloom. Bloom was unlikely to cough up anything, but he could make a flake of fool's gold flash in his palm if London was willing to barter.

“Me?” said London. “I'm a big zero up here. Come on, you probably owe me anyway.”

“Nothing from the feds or FBI?”

“Nothing,” said London. “Look, when I say ‘local sources tell me' on my live shot tonight, you'll know it was you.”

“I'm bone dry,” said Bloom. It wasn't true, but that was Bloom's prerogative. “The cupboard is bare.”

“I get the picture,” said London. “Hope you don't mix your metaphors when you write.”

“Funny,” said Bloom. “A TV guy who knows the definition of metaphor.”

London smiled. “I plead guilty.”

“Speaking of prose, I've probably gotta get back and start writing.” The network boys always got a jump on this kind of story. With federal agencies moving in, Bloom wouldn't know one federal face from the next. He might suddenly be disconnected to the power center of the investigation. “How long are you going to be around?”

“Few days at least,” said London. “The whole country is watching this one, you know.”

“I think the cops know it,” said Bloom.

“I covered some of that Arizona law,” said London, “about making it easier for cops to stop possible illegals. The people out there who hate illegals really fucking hate illegals.”

“We got our share,” said Bloom.

“So you think the killers are local?” said London.

“Somebody had to have known the possibility of using that hill for cover.”

“Helluva shot,” said London. “Seems they would have found something up there in the woods. Floodlights like a Hollywood premiere.”

“I've told the cops they need to bring in a real tracker,” said Bloom.
“Someone who can spot shit, literally, in the woods. If the shooter was on that hill, they might need someone who knows the woods, not the city.”

“Or maybe Devo,” said London. “I see he's back up there somewhere with his grubby band of devolutionists. Everyone knows he makes his home in the Flat Tops.”

“But still nobody knows exactly where. He must have some ingenious underground network to get his videos in and out, the video gear and supplies. He's a hit, though.”

“Ever meet him?” said London.

“Of course not,” said Bloom. “Not that I haven't tried. Wrote a whole feature about him and talked to some people who met him. It was like trying to put together a story about Bigfoot with a sit-down over the campfire.”

“If we settle in for a long siege here in Glenwood Springs, I might have to put together a quick feature on Devo. More elusive than Sasquatch, a modern throwback shunning technology. I've got one of my producers trying to find his pal with the ultralight that ferries the videos in and out. We're trying to send a message that we'd like to come up and do a profile, spend some time with him.”

Bloom had a hard time imagining how Kerry London had time to do anything else. Squeezing in the Devo story was a stretch, but he had remembered hearing about a guy named Ziggy from Paonia who drove over McClure Pass once a week to fly his ultralight into the Flat Tops and make runs for Devo. The rumor was that Devo's flock was closing in on forty fellow devolutionists. The story idea was a good one and Bloom wished he had thought of working through Ziggy.

“And if there's time,” added London. “Between snooze conferences I gotta work on my book.”

“Book?” said Bloom. London reminded him of the old phrase,
if you want something done, ask a busy person.

“Project I've been working for quite some time. There was this plane crash in New York, at LaGuardia. Right on takeoff. You remember it. Thirty-one passengers died, the rest were in the harbor, big mess.”

“I remember it,” said Bloom. “Who doesn't?” He had an instant hunch he knew where this was going. How had London triangulated things so quickly?

“Lawsuits over de-icing and payouts.”

“Remember,” said Bloom.

“I'm going to publish a look back. It's called
Seven Seconds.
I'm interviewing all the survivors. There was some real heroism that day, people who fished others out of the water. It was one of the first big stories I covered. Plus, there's what happened with the legal payouts, how people fared. And one name comes right back to this area. In fact, her name popped up on a Google alert last fall around the same time as Devo's. I've been meaning to get out here. She's got an outfitting business.”

“Helluva project,” said Bloom, a bit in awe and more than a little jealous that one of the most ubiquitous reporters on television would also have a long-term project making steady progress. Smart to have several back-burners simmering.

“I think it's going to be good,” said London. “Lots of angles.”

“Let me guess,” said Bloom.

“You know her?”

“Sure,” said Bloom. “I've met her. But I can't say I know her. Allison Coil.”

twelve:
monday evening

After hearing the rundown
of her day, Colin was kind enough to focus first on the three oddballs on horseback.

“He looked like a prisoner?”

“He reeked of it,” said Allison. “His shoulders, his head. His whole body slumped.”

“You're positive?” said Colin. “Even from that distance?”

It was late. She had arrived back at her A-frame after nine. Colin had heated a pot of pork-less posole, poached from Trudy's freezer, and he had opened a bottle of organic red wine that carried Trudy's stamp of approval.

They stood side by side at the counter, a few swallows of Cabernet left in their glasses.

“Your alarm has sounded,” said Colin.

Was that an accusation or an observation?

“Wish I'd been the one to find the body,” said Allison. “And that I'd been there before all the commotion and activity. And I wish the cops had the manpower to focus on this.”

“But you said Hickman's dogs lit up,” said Colin. “Isn't that enough?”

It would serve her well to down a slice of humble pie in Colin's presence. She should choke down a big hunk of the stuff and leave no crumbs on her lips or chin. She should wipe the plate clean and maybe take a second helping. But the idea didn't sit well. She had told Colin about the faint tracks, but he didn't seem persuaded. The overriding point was the fact that Hickman's hounds, based on the last report anyway, were hellbound. She should concede defeat, but couldn't find the words.

“I can tell when you're all tangled up,” said Colin.

“Really?” Was this the second time today a guy would try to interpret the look on her face? “Tangled up? Tangled up how?”

Colin wasn't ready for a challenge. He shifted on his feet while she stared him down. His open, always-eager expression didn't fare well when he was criticizing others. He looked down and she stared at the cute raisin-size freckle near his left eye. Hickman's hot trail had earned her the right to listen carefully, but Colin wasn't one for rubbing it in.

“I can tell you're being pulled in a few directions—and not wanting to go along with what's turning up. Hell, the houndsman was your idea—you knew one would be needed from the first second. You get credit for that. You practically designed the whole investigation within a few minutes after we climbed the ridge the first time.”

She waited, gave Colin's thought space. Treated his comment with
respect.

“You don't think it's odd?”

“There's always odd stuff out there. And you know that better than anyone,” said Colin. “And now you've got cops and the coroner and a top-flight houndsman all over it so maybe—”

He didn't have a specific suggestion for her but filled the gap by lifting his glass into the void.

“Maybe what?” She chugged her remaining wine, started thinking of all the reasons to open another bottle. “Maybe forget it? You're saying I should just let
whatever
happen, let the chips fall?”

“No,” said Colin. “And I know you'll do what you have to do. But the cops have it covered—at least, they responded quickly and we've got hunters coming in. Were you thinking about chasing men on horseback all over the Flat Tops?”

The thought of the three men on horseback, whose presence had been the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, gave her a shudder. Colin was likely right that she shouldn't pursue them as a rogue
ranger, but she didn't want anyone else, even Colin, defining her world.

Or limiting it. Or telling her how best to watch out for the Flat Tops. Was the issue boundaries? Since moving to the Flat Tops, she was perfectly happy to stay put. Anything but the city. She left the Flat Tops only when absolutely necessary. But limiting her choices within the wilderness? Not likely.

The issue was more than this low-broil feud. The issue had been rearing its head for weeks. What clock or calendar enabled the thought was a complete mystery. It was a sticky thought with gripping power and it had squarely to do with Colin: the “what next” question.

The Flat Tops were supposed to put an end to the “what next” questions. For the first stretch of years of her new life in the woods,
there was no path, no road, no course, no objectives, no career, no arc.
None needed. Surviving the accident had smashed every measure that once appeared to matter. She was happy to heal and happier to dig in her heels and declare a new home, particularly one with the magical power of The Flat Tops.

If she could, she'd order an instant lumpectomy on whatever part of her brain dredged, without her permission, through the thought patterns of her previous life. That sentimental bit of bitchy brain tissue scoured for those pointless questions she used to pose. It refused to forget that she had moved—and moved on. The question grated like the two-note cry from a bully Blue Jay. “What's next?” “What's next?” “What's next?” Staying with Colin meant, or so the active theory went, that she would remain in the Flat Tops forever. Colin was a man of the woods. His whole family was of the woods and the outdoors. His blood was tree sap. He was gun smoke, gutting knives, and hunting grit. He was a fine catch—and he wasn't going anywhere. She wouldn't leave Colin as long as she stayed in The Flat Tops—she knew that much. But the “What's next?” drumbeat toyed with the part of her sensibility that, at some point in time, had preferred that the horizon and the landscape change from time to time. Until lately, status quo was heaven. She suddenly had a desire to see around the corner and quietly loathed herself for not being able to shut the question down. What more could she want?

Perhaps the mild disagreement over the half-corpse was her way of testing a new space with Colin, but even that didn't make sense. The disagreement with Colin and her clear thoughts about the mountain lion bit was based on her years in the woods, nothing more.

Allison put the last touches on cleaning up the kitchen and stood outside for three deep inhalations of cool night air.

Colin was already stretched out in bed when she went upstairs. There was a look in his eye, perhaps encouraged by the wine or the desire to affirm they were playing for the same team. She wasn't opposed. Maybe some physical love would re-prime her heart, which had been running cool since the stop at Lumberjack Camp.

Even in August, nights in the Flat Tops came with a purposeful chill, and even though the heat from the woodstove kept the upstairs loft toasty, Allison preferred the window open so she could smell the evening breeze and hear the occasional coyote. Come morning, a chickadee or raven might provide the morning alarm.

“You're still thinking you should have followed them,” said Colin.

“If you had been there,” said Allison. “We'd still be on their tail. I was tempted. They didn't have any stuff with them, you know, gear. Anything.”

They were lying on their backs, shoulders and hips touching under the thin wool quilt, legs entangled.

“But they could be camping,” said Colin. “Or scouting. Did the guy with the gun look like he was part of the posse in an old western with Clint Eastwood? You know, like Josey Wales. ‘Are you going to pull them pistols or whistle Dixie?'”

“Josey Wales?” Allison had never seen the movie.

“His best line is about Kansas. ‘There are three kinds of suns in Kansas—sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches.'”

Allison laughed. “These guys were sons-of-bitches, trust me.”

“We could always go back to that area, check around Lumberjack, see what the elk are up to and see if we stumble into anything.”

Colin rolled on his side to face her, let a hand fall on her stomach. He made slow circles around her belly button with a finger.

“You're not curious?” she said, doing her best to ignore his touch.

“Couple of whack jobs in the wilderness,” said Colin.

His finger stopped circling and took up a new course, moving back and forth below her belly button, about an inch above her underwear. Back and forth.

“At least I'm not as hard to read as you are,” said Allison.

“I'm a closed book,” said Colin. “Impossible to decipher.” His hand ran a quick scouting mission to check her breasts, a cursory inspection each, and then returned to its teasing pace below the belt line.

“Big word, decipher,” said Allison. “You sure you didn't go to college?”

“Not that I recall,” said Colin.

“Do you think you would have remembered?” said Allison. “You know, college is a school where you pay money to enroll and you might have stayed in a dorm or a frat house and spent all your free time drinking beer and chasing girls?”

Allison pulled her hips up ever so slightly, encouraging his wandering hand.

“Really don't think so,” said Colin, playing the dumb witness. “The chasing girls thing, is that a course where you get credit?”

“Not exactly formal credit,” said Allison. “Although I think you're earning some now.”

“But what's credit good for now?” said Colin. “I'm not working on a degree or anything.”

“You're always working on something,” said Allison.

The fingers took a tentative dip beneath her underwear and then he flattened his hand, the palm moving in slow circles. Warm fire bloomed inside her and she let out a moan.

Colin flipped the covers back. She loved the sensation of being covered and gently smothered. Protected. The weight of him, somehow, added to what little she brought to the equation and she enjoyed the additional flesh like it was her own. He kissed her and she kissed back, hard. She felt even smaller in his embrace, loved the power in his shoulders.

He leaned up and tugged down on the only bit of clothing she ever wore to bed. She reached down and grabbed him, hard like granite.

“Got a condom, big boy?” she asked.

He flicked her underwear away. “For my tongue?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Protect me from all those big words.”

“Funny,” said Colin. “I wasn't planning on doing any talking. None whatsoever.”