Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens Page B
Authors: Mark Stevens
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was each millisecond after the next and staying out on that road, enjoying the journey.
Six
“Who else is left?”
“It’s a freelancer. Some guy says he needs to stay in his room at the Hotel Colorado. He’s working on a book or something, parts are gonna run in Rolling Stone. His theme is the dilapidated state of the American protest movement. Says he wants to use our organization as a success story and he wants to talk with you.”
Applegate sighed. He felt spent. However, a candle-size glow of self-esteem continued to burn steadily deep in his guts and it wouldn’t hurt to feed the flame.
“No problem,” he said.
Applegate was relaxing with a Bloody Mary in one hand and the television remote control in the other. Wheel of Fortune numbed him like an ice bath.
“We’ll go over later and jump in the hot springs,” Ellenberg said. She walked over to his bed and sat down next to him. “The manager called. Turns out he’s one of us. Said he saw you on CNN this afternoon and wanted to offer us a few minutes of peace and quiet.”
They had commandeered a section of the hot springs’ pool deck that afternoon for a live-via-satellite debate with the editor of a prominent elk journal, Bugle. Applegate had taken the editor on with all the emotion and passion he could muster. The words came quickly and easily. He was polite. He listened and didn’t step on the other guy. He waited his turn and objected—strongly. He challenged every claim and talked in warm and clear tones about the senseless destruction of natural beauty. With fervor he made up a story about having seen a hunter drop an extra elk for the pure joy of it while packing out the carcass of another. The second elk was left to rot, its antlers cut off and hidden in a spot where the hunter would return later and retrieve them.
He focused on the issues and he remained composed. That was one of the tips from Ellenberg: to appear reserved and relaxed. Ellenberg said it was important to “out-friendly” the hunters.
“You were great today, Dean,” said Ellenberg, casually putting a hand on his leg.
“When does the freelancer need me?”
“Twenty minutes or so. Stop by my room when you’re done. We’ll see about dinner and the soak.”
The prospect of the date alone sent Applegate out the door of the Roaring Fork Inn with an extra lift in his step. The hotel was a few blocks away. In the fading light of day, a steady flow of cars plodded along, most heading east on the interstate from Aspen and Carbondale. A day of strong sunshine had turned the streets and sidewalks into sandy, sloppy muck. He passed a gas station where cars waited for the pump. He passed BJ’s Velvet Freez, a one-hour photo shop and a spiffy new café that advertised espresso drinks. Across the river, an Amtrak train was coming to a stop at the station.
He had a flash that the pickup truck at the end of the block looked a lot like Grumley’s. He was about to cut across the street and duck out of sight when the voice came up behind him, distinctive and clear. The voice said the door was open and to go ahead and climb inside.
“Hey, whatcha doing? How’s it going?” said Applegate. Something told him this encounter was not a coincidence, but he thought he’d start by pretending otherwise.
Grumley started driving, pulling a U-turn. He honked his way across the lane of oncoming traffic, made a nuisance of himself to edge ahead.
“George, I—”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve gotta get back to the hotel for an interview.”
“With Rolling Stone ...”
“Yeah—how did you ...?”
The truck screamed west on the interstate for less than a mile, pulled off at the only other Glenwood Springs exit. Grumley turned behind a convenience store into a muddy lot that was empty and dark. Applegate flipped the door open and stumbled from the truck, wondering which way to run.
Grumley climbed down and came around the front of the truck. His fist landed on Applegate’s jaw.
Six
“Who else is left?”
“It’s a freelancer. Some guy says he needs to stay in his room at the Hotel Colorado. He’s working on a book or something, parts are gonna run in Rolling Stone. His theme is the dilapidated state of the American protest movement. Says he wants to use our organization as a success story and he wants to talk with you.”
Applegate sighed. He felt spent. However, a candle-size glow of self-esteem continued to burn steadily deep in his guts and it wouldn’t hurt to feed the flame.
“No problem,” he said.
Applegate was relaxing with a Bloody Mary in one hand and the television remote control in the other. Wheel of Fortune numbed him like an ice bath.
“We’ll go over later and jump in the hot springs,” Ellenberg said. She walked over to his bed and sat down next to him. “The manager called. Turns out he’s one of us. Said he saw you on CNN this afternoon and wanted to offer us a few minutes of peace and quiet.”
They had commandeered a section of the hot springs’ pool deck that afternoon for a live-via-satellite debate with the editor of a prominent elk journal, Bugle. Applegate had taken the editor on with all the emotion and passion he could muster. The words came quickly and easily. He was polite. He listened and didn’t step on the other guy. He waited his turn and objected—strongly. He challenged every claim and talked in warm and clear tones about the senseless destruction of natural beauty. With fervor he made up a story about having seen a hunter drop an extra elk for the pure joy of it while packing out the carcass of another. The second elk was left to rot, its antlers cut off and hidden in a spot where the hunter would return later and retrieve them.
He focused on the issues and he remained composed. That was one of the tips from Ellenberg: to appear reserved and relaxed. Ellenberg said it was important to “out-friendly” the hunters.
“You were great today, Dean,” said Ellenberg, casually putting a hand on his leg.
“When does the freelancer need me?”
“Twenty minutes or so. Stop by my room when you’re done. We’ll see about dinner and the soak.”
The prospect of the date alone sent Applegate out the door of the Roaring Fork Inn with an extra lift in his step. The hotel was a few blocks away. In the fading light of day, a steady flow of cars plodded along, most heading east on the interstate from Aspen and Carbondale. A day of strong sunshine had turned the streets and sidewalks into sandy, sloppy muck. He passed a gas station where cars waited for the pump. He passed BJ’s Velvet Freez, a one-hour photo shop and a spiffy new café that advertised espresso drinks. Across the river, an Amtrak train was coming to a stop at the station.
He had a flash that the pickup truck at the end of the block looked a lot like Grumley’s. He was about to cut across the street and duck out of sight when the voice came up behind him, distinctive and clear. The voice said the door was open and to go ahead and climb inside.
“Hey, whatcha doing? How’s it going?” said Applegate. Something told him this encounter was not a coincidence, but he thought he’d start by pretending otherwise.
Grumley started driving, pulling a U-turn. He honked his way across the lane of oncoming traffic, made a nuisance of himself to edge ahead.
“George, I—”
“Shut up.”
“I’ve gotta get back to the hotel for an interview.”
“With Rolling Stone ...”
“Yeah—how did you ...?”
The truck screamed west on the interstate for less than a mile, pulled off at the only other Glenwood Springs exit. Grumley turned behind a convenience store into a muddy lot that was empty and dark. Applegate flipped the door open and stumbled from the truck, wondering which way to run.
Grumley climbed down and came around the front of the truck. His fist landed on Applegate’s jaw.
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