Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens Page A

heard, anything you found?”
    “No,” said Allison bluntly. “Except an elk. Dead one. Good-size bull, too.”
    “A carcass?” said Sandstrom.
    “Yeah, carcass. But a fresh kill.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “He was still warm.”
    “And where was this?” Sandstrom showed a flash of impatience.
    “Right at the spot where I saw the guy, near the base of Lizard’s Tongue.”
    “Good Christ,” said Sandstrom. “A dead bull in the wilderness. I’m sure all of the cows are upset, but we’ve gotta start with our missing boy and keep this investigation focused on the Homo sapiens. Okay with everybody? Thank you, sweetheart.”
    Allison squeezed her way out of the circle of Sandstrom’s huddle.
    “We’ll need a good bloodhound to find the trail of the missing protester,” Sandstrom said to Slater.
    “Maybe that one in Grand Junction isn’t busy. The one that followed the bomber home,” suggested Slater.
    “Call and find out,” said Sandstrom, snapping as if his authority extended to all branches of government.
    “Done,” said Slater, who was known fairly well in Glenwood Springs and around. He had mediated a dispute between mountain bikers and hikers on a popular National Forest trail and had settled a long-standing feud between backcountry outfitters competing for access to one of the best elk herds—a spat that had to do with camp locations in the wilderness area. But Slater’s role kept the “accidental” shootings to one. Still, Allison thought Slater might roll his eyes at her any second, as if to say, get a load of this old cop . But Slater played right along. His attitude made Allison smile.
    The last full-fledged boyfriend she’d had after the airplane accident was hung up on every mystical song Van Morrison had ever sung. He was a mental drifter, a searcher, who calculated the price of belonging to every structure or organization as a personal sacrifice. Not Slater. He saw his place, or knew how to pretend he did. As a result, the picture of comfort and suggestion of stability that he presented was strangely inviting.
     

Four
    “Something tells me we’re getting close.”
    This was Applegate, who had pulled up behind Ellenberg as they trudged through the snow.
    “What makes you think so?”
    “A hunch, I don’t know. If he wasn’t well to begin with, it’s hard to imagine he got much farther, even with better conditions.”
    “True,” said Ellenberg.
    A fresh set of clothes turned up. They fit a bit loosely, but they worked. Jeans and a fleece sweatshirt. He had shaved and cleaned up. He looked more at ease, less severe, out of the camouflage.
    Ellenberg and most of the others had spent the evening in the camp’s oversized canvas tent, singing along with a trio of acoustic guitars to everything from John Denver to Neil Young to Kurt Cobain, Nirvana Unplugged . The mood of the singers had been subdued and earnest. It was not a party, it was a bonding. Everyone was thinking about the lost protester, whose identity was now in steady circulation. His name was Ray Stern. Everyone was thinking about Ray.
    “Sleep okay?” said Ellenberg.
    “After that great serenade,” said Applegate, “of course. Thanks for the loaned tent.”
    “Not a problem. Thanks for your help, by the way,” Ellenberg said.
    “My pleasure.”
    “I hear the interviews went okay.”
    “The reporters all ask the same five or six questions,” said Applegate with a smile. “I thought one of ’em from The New York Times was gonna write my life story though.”
    “Didn’t I see you being tortured by that slick-haired guy from Channel 9?”
    “A strange breed, that one. He figured I was set up by you guys to look like a hunter.”
    She had urged the reporters to all visit the sing-a-long, to show the group’s strong common beliefs and sense of community.
    “Did you convince him?”
    “I remembered I had a picture of myself with a big old elk that I killed several years back. Nearly trophy class. The picture