Read Online Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Stevens
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refrigerator for a wedge of cheese and four slices of ham. From the headquarters of George G’s Custom Carnage, as he liked to think of it, Lizard’s Tongue was only half the distance of the main trail up Ripplecreek. However, it was twice the grade in spots. He had to go back up to fix the problems caused by the meddlesome Allison Coil. Even if it wasn’t until next spring, he didn’t want anyone flipping over the elk to discover it was bulletless.
****
They didn’t yank Ray Stern from his white grave; they first dug out around him in a square double the size that would have been necessary to simply extract the body. The scene looked to Applegate like a slightly faster version of an archaeological dig in snow.
The body looked like a toy. The brown blanket had fused itself to the corpse. They unrolled enough to wave Ellenberg over for a peek. She approached the body cautiously, buried her face in her hands. She returned to where Applegate and the others stood. The television guys didn’t miss a moment.
“It’s a fake animal skin,” said Ellenberg. “A huge wrap. He made himself a target.”
“He didn’t want to waste his death,” said Applegate.
“It won’t be wasted,” said Ellenberg. “Believe me, it won’t be wasted.”
They carried the frozen lump of Ray Stern to the nearest clearing, up and over a small ridge no more than a hundred yards away. One of them carried Ray Stern’s frozen torso around the shoulders. Two others carried the legs. The brown blanket flopped along like a shroud.
Within a few minutes a mountain rescue helicopter hovered overhead and lowered a sled. The group watched as Stern’s body was winched slowly up, cameras rolling.
Applegate couldn’t watch. He knelt in the snow and bowed his head, knowing his life would never be the same.
****
The landscape was frighteningly white.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
Allison looked at Slater. He understood. As they climbed the hillside on horseback, the snow depth increased with every hour. Bear was starting to wade slowly. Walking was hard work. The snow-covered landscape altered her bearings and the intense sun was disorienting. The remaining half-mile of slope up to Lizard’s Tongue was a vast, bumpy, lumpy snow farm. It was eight city-sized blocks of chunky terrain and she was looking for a dead elk lying on its side, the equivalent of a couple of flopped-over Harleys.
The helicopter drone, echoing up the canyon, had disturbed the peaceful walk for the last fifteen minutes. She turned to watch as it levitated from a position close to the treetops. The helicopter banked hard and flew off, leaving behind a wonderful silence.
And a weird sense of displacement.
This didn’t even look like the same slope, but here was Lizard’s Tongue and there was Black Squirrel Pass. They were on the right trail.
Bear worked along on his own internal radar headings. The snowfall had not thrown off his sense of direction. There was a slight indentation in the terrain that tracked the trail. Slater, who knew the intricacies of the Flat Tops like most people know their way to work, never questioned Bear’s judgment. It was helpful having Slater along. The cops were so consumed with the missing protester that the concerns she had registered were treated like an ordinary citizen complaint about a barking dog or partying neighbors. Slater had been told by his people to interview hunters in three specific backcountry camps. He was on his way to fulfill that assignment. They would split up at Lizard’s Tongue, if and when she could find the elk.
Finally she told Bear to stop. By her sense of mental triangulation, this spot was right.
“The cops have a bloodhound,” said Slater. “Maybe he’s done now and we could borrow him.”
“I wonder if he’d need the scent of any old elk to do his tricks or if it would have to be this particular bull?” said Allison.
“Probably have to be this one,” said Slater, “now that you mention
****
They didn’t yank Ray Stern from his white grave; they first dug out around him in a square double the size that would have been necessary to simply extract the body. The scene looked to Applegate like a slightly faster version of an archaeological dig in snow.
The body looked like a toy. The brown blanket had fused itself to the corpse. They unrolled enough to wave Ellenberg over for a peek. She approached the body cautiously, buried her face in her hands. She returned to where Applegate and the others stood. The television guys didn’t miss a moment.
“It’s a fake animal skin,” said Ellenberg. “A huge wrap. He made himself a target.”
“He didn’t want to waste his death,” said Applegate.
“It won’t be wasted,” said Ellenberg. “Believe me, it won’t be wasted.”
They carried the frozen lump of Ray Stern to the nearest clearing, up and over a small ridge no more than a hundred yards away. One of them carried Ray Stern’s frozen torso around the shoulders. Two others carried the legs. The brown blanket flopped along like a shroud.
Within a few minutes a mountain rescue helicopter hovered overhead and lowered a sled. The group watched as Stern’s body was winched slowly up, cameras rolling.
Applegate couldn’t watch. He knelt in the snow and bowed his head, knowing his life would never be the same.
****
The landscape was frighteningly white.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
Allison looked at Slater. He understood. As they climbed the hillside on horseback, the snow depth increased with every hour. Bear was starting to wade slowly. Walking was hard work. The snow-covered landscape altered her bearings and the intense sun was disorienting. The remaining half-mile of slope up to Lizard’s Tongue was a vast, bumpy, lumpy snow farm. It was eight city-sized blocks of chunky terrain and she was looking for a dead elk lying on its side, the equivalent of a couple of flopped-over Harleys.
The helicopter drone, echoing up the canyon, had disturbed the peaceful walk for the last fifteen minutes. She turned to watch as it levitated from a position close to the treetops. The helicopter banked hard and flew off, leaving behind a wonderful silence.
And a weird sense of displacement.
This didn’t even look like the same slope, but here was Lizard’s Tongue and there was Black Squirrel Pass. They were on the right trail.
Bear worked along on his own internal radar headings. The snowfall had not thrown off his sense of direction. There was a slight indentation in the terrain that tracked the trail. Slater, who knew the intricacies of the Flat Tops like most people know their way to work, never questioned Bear’s judgment. It was helpful having Slater along. The cops were so consumed with the missing protester that the concerns she had registered were treated like an ordinary citizen complaint about a barking dog or partying neighbors. Slater had been told by his people to interview hunters in three specific backcountry camps. He was on his way to fulfill that assignment. They would split up at Lizard’s Tongue, if and when she could find the elk.
Finally she told Bear to stop. By her sense of mental triangulation, this spot was right.
“The cops have a bloodhound,” said Slater. “Maybe he’s done now and we could borrow him.”
“I wonder if he’d need the scent of any old elk to do his tricks or if it would have to be this particular bull?” said Allison.
“Probably have to be this one,” said Slater, “now that you mention
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