Read Online Trapline by Mark Stevens - Free Book Online Page B

campaign akin to Ben & Jerry’s. They had the “we’re different” vibe of Paul Newman’s line of grocery items. The brand oozed organic street credibility. Shippable products danced off the shelves of Whole Foods and similar stores with barely a promotional blink. Jerry had a sixth sense for negotiations and hiring. Her staff, in fact, had grown and she had met everyone at one point or another. But she couldn’t really say whether their paperwork was all in order, whether the feds wouldn’t frown. Or worse.
    The day after the shooting in Glenwood Springs, the view from the highway made it look as if even more media had arrived. Trudy could only glance. Going sixty on the tight curves by the hot springs in Glenwood, she wondered if she would ever see the footbridge without thinking of Lamott and the blood. It wasn’t the memories, it was also the sounds and the nausea that went with thinking about Lamott and the inconceivable anger behind whoever pulled the trigger.
    Trudy steered off the highway and looped over the bridge through downtown, heading south to her headquarters in a small business park, the Valley View, seven miles south of downtown. Down to Earth was squeezed in between an electric supply company and a used car lot. The green-gray building sat up along the highway, directly across the Roaring Fork River from a sprawling golf course and down the hill from one of the Colorado Mountain College campuses, to the east. Inside were cubicles for the staff and the guts of a warehouse with all the stuff of their business—bottles, soil, herb pots, hoses, lumber, planters, shovels, rakes, fertilizer, seeds, packing materials.
    Jerry sat at his desk in an open-door corner office. Trudy was surprised to see him, alone, given the number of times she had pictured the sheriff or federal immigration authorities poring through her files or lining up her workers, giving them all the third degree.
    Files flopped open on Jerry’s desk and steam floated up from a mug of coffee at the ready. His look was grim, but she didn’t want to know. Not yet.
    A kiss, a hug, and she poured herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, an unoccupied cubicle nearby.
    â€œBottom line,” said Trudy.
    â€œWe have issues,” said Jerry.
    â€œI thought we confirmed every match,” said Trudy. “Or tried to.”
    â€œWe’re waiting on about seven, maybe more. The socials didn’t match at first. At least, the system kicked them out and now we are supposed to have the employee contact the Social Security Administration, to see if it was a typo or some other clerical error.”
    â€œOut of how many employees now?” Trudy hadn’t kept up since they passed two-dozen. Jerry knew the needs and knew how to hire.
    â€œThirty-nine,” said Jerry.
    The number scared her—all the promises bound up in each paycheck.
    â€œLast time I checked—” said Trudy.
    â€œI know,” said Jerry. “New greenhouse over in West Glenwood, we bought a bottling plant in Rifle, plus running around the maintenance work. It’s all labor.”
    â€œHave we told these seven what they’re supposed to do now?”
    Trudy felt she had dropped a ball she didn’t know she was carrying.
    Jerry’s prematurely gray hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. He checked the hair tie’s tightness as a security tic. He wore checked flannel shirts, favored prints in green. He was taut and lanky underneath, his yoga ritual unchanged for years. The casual appearance and physical health belied the business intensity. “They won’t do it,” said Jerry. “They won’t contact authorities. So why ask?”
    â€œBecause we’re supposed to,” said Trudy. “At least the responsibility would shift to them, right?”
    â€œFor a while,” said Jerry. Despite being two years younger than Trudy, he came across these days like the one with the