Read Online Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Stevens
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it.”
The sun mixed with the cold air and snow to make the temperature manageable. If there was a ski lodge right in this spot, and if circumstances were different, they would both be sipping a Heineken, coats off, listening to overly loud rock and roll on the tinny outdoor speakers and letting their faces soak up the rays. Instead, they had to hunt for an animal that was already dead.
In her mind, Allison outlined a section of snow. It was half a football field long but not as wide. It was where they needed to start looking. She walked the perimeter of the area, pounding through hip-deep snow, constantly checking Lizard’s Tongue against her memory of it in the blizzard. This had to be about right. She was hoping for an antler poking through the surface of the snow, or maybe a major indentation where the snow had not accumulated quite so quickly because of the elk’s dissipating heat. The wind had erased the possibility of the latter, the depth of the snow the former.
Slater had two telescoping probes, the kind used to locate avalanche victims. They were aluminum with a pointed, pencil-like tip and T-shaped grip on top. They came folded up but snapped together easily. Stepping slowly side by side, three feet apart, they started plowing their field. The elk had not been directly at trail side, so they started closer to the middle, probing down with their rods every step, hoping she would sense a touch of something different than frozen tundra and something not quite as far down. All the while, Allison knew she should have marked the elk’s location, should have plunked down a flag of some sort that would have helped them now. The probing was tedious, the trudging difficult. At this pace, two hours might be enough.
“Your government dollars at work,” said Slater. “Whatever it takes.”
“At least I can’t moan about the lack of responsiveness from the US Forest Service,” said Allison.
“In more ways than one, if you get my drift,” said Slater. “And drift may not be the best choice of words, given all this snow.”
They huffed and grunted as they worked—stepping out of their last spot, sinking into the next, probing down with the sticks, waiting to see how the feel of the bottom registered on their gloved hands. Allison was dubious this would work, but it beat shoveling or waiting for spring. Slater recounted how he once found a dead hunter this way. The hunter’s tracks led into an area creamed by an avalanche that had plummeted off a windblown cornice a hundred yards up. It was Slater’s probe that found the body and others had come around to see how the probe felt. It had been too late to hope for a rescue, so the moment was used for training. Slater told Allison she would know if she hit elk. It was different .
Step, sink, probe, wait, feel. They hit the hour mark and then 90 minutes. They had snacks and a drink, hot Lemon Zinger from a thermos. Just a quick bite before they were back at it. Allison wondered how long it was worth exploring. What if they poked this whole section and came up empty? In which direction should they look? Would there be time, or even the inclination? They were more than half finished with this plot when Slater stopped his methodical rhythm.
“We got a bite,” he said.
But this find wasn’t a matter of feel or touch. Allison worked Slater’s probe to see if she could feel the body below, but couldn’t register anything. This find was a matter of height. The probe wouldn’t sink as low as it did immediately nearby. End of story.
Digging down and around the elk was hard work, but the effort was eased by the fact that she knew she hadn’t been whacked out and had remembered enough to find her way back to this spot. The frozen elk emerged like a breach birth. It came butt first like a hairy, unwieldy rock. Slater worked from the antlers down and she worked from the rear up, scooping snow off the carcass by hand.
“Nice one,” said Slater, standing back to
The sun mixed with the cold air and snow to make the temperature manageable. If there was a ski lodge right in this spot, and if circumstances were different, they would both be sipping a Heineken, coats off, listening to overly loud rock and roll on the tinny outdoor speakers and letting their faces soak up the rays. Instead, they had to hunt for an animal that was already dead.
In her mind, Allison outlined a section of snow. It was half a football field long but not as wide. It was where they needed to start looking. She walked the perimeter of the area, pounding through hip-deep snow, constantly checking Lizard’s Tongue against her memory of it in the blizzard. This had to be about right. She was hoping for an antler poking through the surface of the snow, or maybe a major indentation where the snow had not accumulated quite so quickly because of the elk’s dissipating heat. The wind had erased the possibility of the latter, the depth of the snow the former.
Slater had two telescoping probes, the kind used to locate avalanche victims. They were aluminum with a pointed, pencil-like tip and T-shaped grip on top. They came folded up but snapped together easily. Stepping slowly side by side, three feet apart, they started plowing their field. The elk had not been directly at trail side, so they started closer to the middle, probing down with their rods every step, hoping she would sense a touch of something different than frozen tundra and something not quite as far down. All the while, Allison knew she should have marked the elk’s location, should have plunked down a flag of some sort that would have helped them now. The probing was tedious, the trudging difficult. At this pace, two hours might be enough.
“Your government dollars at work,” said Slater. “Whatever it takes.”
“At least I can’t moan about the lack of responsiveness from the US Forest Service,” said Allison.
“In more ways than one, if you get my drift,” said Slater. “And drift may not be the best choice of words, given all this snow.”
They huffed and grunted as they worked—stepping out of their last spot, sinking into the next, probing down with the sticks, waiting to see how the feel of the bottom registered on their gloved hands. Allison was dubious this would work, but it beat shoveling or waiting for spring. Slater recounted how he once found a dead hunter this way. The hunter’s tracks led into an area creamed by an avalanche that had plummeted off a windblown cornice a hundred yards up. It was Slater’s probe that found the body and others had come around to see how the probe felt. It had been too late to hope for a rescue, so the moment was used for training. Slater told Allison she would know if she hit elk. It was different .
Step, sink, probe, wait, feel. They hit the hour mark and then 90 minutes. They had snacks and a drink, hot Lemon Zinger from a thermos. Just a quick bite before they were back at it. Allison wondered how long it was worth exploring. What if they poked this whole section and came up empty? In which direction should they look? Would there be time, or even the inclination? They were more than half finished with this plot when Slater stopped his methodical rhythm.
“We got a bite,” he said.
But this find wasn’t a matter of feel or touch. Allison worked Slater’s probe to see if she could feel the body below, but couldn’t register anything. This find was a matter of height. The probe wouldn’t sink as low as it did immediately nearby. End of story.
Digging down and around the elk was hard work, but the effort was eased by the fact that she knew she hadn’t been whacked out and had remembered enough to find her way back to this spot. The frozen elk emerged like a breach birth. It came butt first like a hairy, unwieldy rock. Slater worked from the antlers down and she worked from the rear up, scooping snow off the carcass by hand.
“Nice one,” said Slater, standing back to
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