“I’ve seen the school bus,” said Allison. She felt as if this conversation needed a jolt. And she didn’t want to watch him poke through all eighty or million trays. “Unless the cost of restoring vehicles has gone way down, I’d say he’s got the money to repay you.”

  “If I owed somebody that much, I couldn’t sleep at night,” said Kenyon. “When I call Lenny all I get is something about the Bible, though he says he’ll repay me. I stopped believing it a couple weeks ago. Now I’m getting ready to meet him in small claims court, where the Bible won’t mean quite so much except right at the beginning where you swear to tell the truth.”

  “He scared my friend like he doesn’t even want someone to step foot on the property,” said Allison. “Like he had a security system out there.”

  “Where are you from?” said Kenyon. He located the right washer.

  “Sweetwater,” said Allison. She could have said “Iowa,” but hoped that wasn’t what he meant. “Other side—”

  “I know it,” said Kenyon. “But you’re not from there, either. Am I right?”

  The question stung like a dagger.

  “Iowa,” she said. Her voice was softer than she hoped. “But I’ve lived around the Flat Tops now for—”

  “The thing is that up here there are a lot of people on edge, you know?” Kenyon had stepped back to the Suburban’s invisible wounds, but now squared her up. “They aren’t getting ahead. They don’t want to hear anything more about what the government is going to do—or not do.”

  “You’ve known Lenny awhile,” said Allison.

  “He’s a good kid. Few issues here and there, but one thing doesn’t quite work out for him and, you know, it’s easy to get discouraged and start to think the rules you were taught pretty much sucked. And they don’t like others poking around in their business—telling them how to live like your pal Soto. Like every breath you take means bad things for the planet. As if those people know—I mean, really know for sure.”

  “Did Lenny say something?”

  Kenyon shook his head. “I’ve already said too much. I’m filling you in on the mentality.”

  “And what about Garrett McKee?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he work here sometimes?”

  “You’re looking for him too?”

  “His father has a bail hearing coming up, and his brother is trying to find him,” said Allison.

  “Glad to hear Earl is getting out.” said Kenyon. “You got your ranch at risk, easy to think you might lose your temper. And I saw that even though I know the deputy he smacked. He’s got about six weeks until they let him chew food. Eleven hours in surgery.”

  Allison could hear the crack again and felt the sickening blow as if it had been her own face. Admitting she’d been there, though, didn’t seem like a wise thing to reveal.

  “Surrounded by all those government workers, government walls and government laws,” said Kenyon. “Ironic.”

  Kenyon reached up with a wrench into the underbelly of the truck and gave a yank. A solid stream of black oil poured into a bucket propped on a rolling pedestal.

  “Help me out,” said Allison. “Ironic how?”

  “You know, after leading that charge a couple years back to have the county secede from the state. There was a similar effort over on the Eastern Plains—Weld County, I think. All Earl talked about was taxes, taxes—made the Tea Party look like a bunch of pansies.”

  “Didn’t go well?”

  “He found some supporters—but only enough to get something on the ballot and then it got creamed by the voters.”

  In the big scheme of things, Allison told herself, it wouldn’t hurt much to know more about her boyfriend’s family, to ask an occasional question. Maybe once a month, like paying bills.

  “And Garrett?” Allison lobbed it up like a jump ball. Innocuous. Unspecific. Meaningless.

  “He was here this morning,” said Kenyon. “With all the crews in town for the fire, I’ve needed the help.”

  “I mean in terms of his father’s attitude.”

  The oil stream had diminished to a pencil-thin trickle. Then, drops and nothing. Kenyon re-tightened the plug. He wiped his dirty paws on a dirty rag.

  “I need the help,” said Kenyon. “There’s almost nothing he can’t do, and if he doesn’t know it, he’ll figure it out. But he has to work by himself. I mean, running commentary on everything evil, from the White House to the county courthouse. A chip off the old rancher, but no cattle.”

  Allison’s head was busy re-calibrating everything.

  She thanked Kenyon and headed back out to the street, eager to bounce all this new information off Trudy, her sounding board.

  But Trudy’s truck was gone.

  Allison spun around, looking up and down the road with the certain feeling that Trudy was moving the truck to the shade or circling the block or maybe she’d made a quick run for gas or supplies or food or. . . .

  Nothing.

  “What now?” said Kenyon.

  “Did you see my friend’s truck leave?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “How long ago?”

  “About ten minutes or so,” said Kenyon. “I don’t know.”

  “My friend was driving?”

  “Couldn’t tell you,” said Kenyon.

  Back on the too-empty road, Allison stared at downtown Meeker, a mere half-mile away. Add the heat and sweat factor, and she doubled the distance. She had covered this stretch about eight hours ago.

  The degree of difficulty was low, but that didn’t mean she would enjoy the hike.

  Chapter 46

  Monday Late Afternoon

  Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  Devo sat in the office at Trapper’s Lodge. Nora also declined to make the call. He had to punch the numbers. She said something about wilderness regulations, and how she wasn’t unhappy about how the feds resolved the matter once and for all. Devo didn’t have time to ask questions or get into it.

  The phone rang. And rang.

  It was the fifth time he had dialed.

  Nora stood in the door frame, watching. Her desk was a disheveled affair—notes and doodles on a flat calendar that covered an old wooden desk. Paperbacks overflowed a bookshelf. An electronic device—Devo wasn’t sure if it was a radio or something else—played a German opera. The music was odd and out of place. Faded maps of the Flat Tops and one of the whole state papered the wall. The cordless phone would have let Devo wander but Nora insisted that Devo stay put. He was fine with that request.

  It was three hours since he left the dead man in the river. He had stayed close to the road, looking and hoping for an opportunity to stowaway on a truck or something heading upriver. At a pullout, he spotted a trailer with six canoes hitched to an old Chevy Tahoe. Dad was out taking pictures of the burn scar across the river. Devo tucked himself inside one of the upside down canoes until the Tahoe pulled out and then rode between the stacks up the long road, his eyes tight and his mouth sealed shut against the exhaust and dust when they hit the dirt sections to Trapper’s. He rolled off before they came to a complete stop and wasted an hour lurking around the cabins, hoping for Nora to make an appearance. She was the only one he could trust. Maybe. The cabins were empty. The fire had chased away all the users who wanted to “get back to nature” with their coolers of iced-down beer, packaged hot dogs and canned beans. The campers and hikers were gone, anyway, but a government presence was heavy. A deputy sheriff paced close to the cabin where Devo had been interviewed by Mendoza. Finally Nora came out to check on something, and Devo stepped out from his hiding spot under a cabin. He gave her a start but he managed to calm her down and explain what he needed. And why. Mentioning Allison always helped. She told Devo about a back door to the lodge and said she’d be there in a half-hour, but he would have to find a way to not get spotted—despite the mid-day sun and acres of bald barren space between the cabins and the lodge, which sat up on a knoll across from where cars and trailers all pulled in after their long climb from the river.

  He had taken a wide circle around, crossed the road to the north where he had plenty of space to wait and watch and then slipped down a deep gulley and worked his way back to the lodge, coming at it from the less-populated side. Nora had kept her promise, and he slipped inside and dialed 911. That call hadn’t gone well. The woman wanted his I.D. Wanted to know why he was calling from Trapper’s when the victim was miles away. Wanted to know why he hadn’t called earlier. Devo kept focusing on the location and the urgency. She kept asking for his name. She wanted him to stay on the line. Devo had hung up with a final plea of desperation. He couldn’t tell them about the bus—after all, what would he report? The dead guy would lead to the bus—right? Warrants, etcetera.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  Nothing.

  Who else could he call? He would hate to call her boyfriend.

  And he didn’t know how he would find him, anyway. He would need a last name to even begin to figure that out.

  “No answer?” said Nora.

  “You don’t suppose she’s back over in Sweetwater?” said Devo.

  “You could try there. Or try to reach Colin McKee. I think I know the ranch you’re talking about.” She had listened to his 911 call. “Looks brand new, right?”

  “A vision,” said Devo. “All-American.”

  “The Brandt’s Place,” said Nora. “Gotta be the one.”

  Nora scrounged for a phone number in the clutter on her desk. “Don’t know why I’m helping you.” Her movements were hurried and quick; agitated. “Don’t you think it’s all over now—your experiment?”

  “Not until they drag me out,” said Devo. And if the fire came close to their camp, well, that would be a great episode, if they had to pack and go.

  “Here’s the number,” said Nora, no longer interested in chatting about Latitude/Longitude.

  “Do you watch?” said Devo.

  “Used to. For amusement, anyway.” She dialed the number on the cordless and handed him the phone.

  The phone rang in Devo’s ear and a woman answered. Not Allison. She introduced herself as Charlotte McKee.

  “My name is Nick.” Using Devo would require too much explanation. Nora gave him a look. “I’m trying to track down Colin or Allison, either one.”

  “Allison is looking for Colin, too,” said Charlotte. “It’s not routine around here by any stretch.”

  “Can I leave a message with you to have either one of them call up to Trapper’s Lake Lodge and ask for me?”

  Nora sighed. Shrugged. Sighed again.

  “Only for the next three hours and then there’s no point. I have to push off,” said Devo. Nora shook her head.

  “You might leave a message at the Blue Spruce, too,” said Charlotte. “Kind of a crossroads place.”

  “Neither one might recognize my name,” said Devo. “Tell them I’m their friend from the woods, and it’s urgent.”

  With Nora’s help again, Devo left a message at the Blue Spruce. Then she helped him find the number and call over to Sweetwater. He left a message with a worker at Allison’s business named Jesse Morales. No Allison. No Colin.

  “Give me a job,” said Devo. “I owe you something—some work. I’ll clean your kitchen top to bottom. I want to head out at sunset, and I’ve got a good three hours.”

  “Head where?”

  “Home,” said Devo.

  Nora started to say something and stopped. “Start over?”

  “A few days around the city won’t make that much difference.”

  Nora, for some reason, seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say, how she wanted to approach him. “Your job is to lay low right here to see if anyone calls back.”

  “I’ll leave at sunset if they don’t,” said Devo. “I’m half tempted to call back to the cops and see if they are following up on the dead guy in the river. They’ll do the right thing, won’t they?”

  Nora answered with a touch of exasperation. “One would think.”

  Chapter 47

  Monday Late Afternoon

  Duncan Bloom hoped he would stumble straight into Trudy. He stood in the parking lot of the Blue Spruce—no sign of her truck.

  “Yes, Meeker,” he told Coogan on the phone.

  “What the fuck?” said Coogan. “Get lost? Take a wrong turn?”

  “I called Paonia. I called Hotchkiss. I talked to Delta. I called Ouray and Yampa, too,” said Bloom. “Fires for all. I talked to statewide fire command, and I’ll talk to the folks here, too. The point is there’s fire all over, and I’m going to walk into the Blue Spruce, ask them if I might use their Wi-Fi. So I’ll send you a story within 45 minutes. An hour, tops.”

  “Dante Soto?”

  “The cops have issued a warrant for the arrest of a guy named Anton Hester,” said Bloom. “I need a day on this—a quick story on Hester and the search for him, and then I’ve got to follow up a couple other leads. And I’ll write the fire wrap-up, including Rat Mountain.”

  “And that one is threatening nothing more than bear dens and aspen saplings,” said Coogan. “All the action is in Hotchkiss—that town might get levelled.”

  “So might Meeker.” It wasn’t true. “Anything is possible. I’ve got some great quotes for the round-up.”

  Coogan said nothing.

  “Trust me,” said Bloom. “And when the shit goes down, I’ll be right here and all the other reporters will be in Hotchkiss—sniffing each other’s butts like they were newborns at a puppy farm.”

  Bloom found Daisy Vega at home, a modest bungalow on the downtown flats of Meeker’s western edge. She lived next to a Baptist church. Her house was tucked back from the street. Based on how fast the door opened, Bloom wondered if she had an invisible tripwire.

  Bloom introduced himself, mentioned it had to do with Dante Soto.

  “I don’t want to be quoted about anything.” She cut him off. “But I especially don’t want to be quoted about him.”

  Busy black hair and schoolgirl freckles didn’t suggest innocence. That had evaporated long ago. She wore a dark green blouse over long-ish white shorts, and her feet were bare as if she’d kicked off her shoes after work. She looked like she could be attractive if she put some thought into it. She invited him into a spare, clean living room.

  “I don’t know what I have to do with any of that anyway.” Her eyes were hard, nearly defiant. “I got friends who swear he saved them a bundle and now they run around like the recycling police, but it wasn’t for me.”

  He should know what he needed to know about Douglas Hackl in four minutes flat. Daisy Vega was a talker.

  “I don’t need to quote you,” said Bloom. A postcard-size portrait of an angelic Jesus in a thick frame dominated the wall. “And it’s not so much what Dante Soto was pushing or selling. It’s about some people he may have run into prior to whatever happened.”

  “Not about me.” She said it like a whip crack.

  “Dug Hackl.”

  “Dug?” She let out a dry chuckle, leaned back on the maroon couch. He had a hardback chair. “He would no more—”

  “Not that he used his—their—services, but that Soto’s people may have seen something Dug and his friends were up to.”

  “Well it’s gotta be right because Dug was always up to something—not much, in fact, as it turns out, but he always had an idea of what was next. Each week it was some new thing. But that’s all I know. We haven’t been together for years.”

  “Is it d-u-g Dug by the way?” said Bloom. “That’s what someone told me.”

  “That’s the genius I married,” said Vega.

  “Why d-u-g?”

  Vega shook her head. “Fifth-grade spelling bee. Think he was third or fourth and he got pissed off. Said he was going to change the spelling of his name, so there were no silent letters. When he was old enough, he found a judge and switched it. How many times did I have to correct people? I don’t know. How did his name came up?”

  “Does the name Lenny Brandt mean anything to you?”

  “Weirdest friendship ever.”

  “Goes back, does it?”

  “Off and on at first. Then, something clicked, and they were inseparable. These days, if I see either one I know the other is around the corner. Kind of spooky.”

  “Lenny Brandt?”

  She knew what he meant.

  “I’m not being quoted.”

  Bloom showed her empty hands.

  “Glenwood Springs, you said?”

  “Where my newspaper is based, yes,” said Bloom.

  “How will I know you don’t cross me?” A tear boiled up on her eye, and she stared down at her feet. “Sorry.”

  “What I write goes online.” Once lies started, they came easily. “We already know.”

  “We?”

  “My editors.” She looked back up, but didn’t hold his eye. “And what happened to Dante Soto is their top priority.”

  Another one.

  “Aren’t the police, you know?”

  “Sure,” said Bloom. “But someone told us about an encounter at Lenny’s place.”

  “Which one of the places?”

  “His mother’s. There’s another?”

  “Well, he doesn’t own it but he spends a lot of time out there--an old junk farm a ways out of town where they rebuild stuff and hang out.”

  “County Road 15?” said Bloom.

  “Back there, yeah,” said Vega. “How did you know?”

  “Heard about that place, too. Who owns it and do you know where it is?”

  Bloom knew both answers.

  “It’s complicated. The bank owns it now. What happened at the mother’s place?”

  “We don’t know,” said Bloom. “It seems clear they got run off or chased away. There was a school bus out there. Something to do with a summer camp.”

  “Summer camp?” She couldn’t have been more surprised if he had said hair salon. “That is bull crap right there. I don’t think Dug grew up hurting kids. Something changed around Lenny, and it was all darkness. Darkness and doom. Impossible to be around. Besides, what summer camp? Around here?”

 

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