Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) Read Free

Ripplecreek. You could never be too sure, given the echoes and funny way mountains absorbed sounds, kicked them around. He hoped the bullet had found its mark, hoped a hunter would soon be dragging a carcass down to his truck so all the granola-crunching protesters would gape at the corpse, get angry and make more of a stupid fuss than they were already generating. Maybe the evidence that their protest had not worked would make them give up and go home. And get haircuts.
    Rocky crouched next to a smooth boulder high up in Ripplecreek Canyon. He was a few hundred yards above timberline where the taller trees in the forest gave way to irregular clumps of scrubby bushes scattered among vast, open stretches of loose rock. At his feet, a big bull elk lay on the ground, alive but unconscious. The huge animal took furtive breaths as Rocky gingerly slipped the collar and GPS unit around its neck. He worked carefully to avoid bumping the valuable rack. These were trophy antlers destined to one day hang on the wall of a hunter’s den. Some fat cat would pay ten Gs or more to stand in the woods and kill the elk later. The animal was probably wondering if it was dying. The collar, as thin as a shoelace but made of leather, snapped together.
    Rocky patted the elk on its chest as if it were a puppy dog.
    The air over the upper bowl of Ripplecreek tasted wet. He was lucky to be doing this work during the morning’s relative calm. He had hiked far enough up the valley that the mayhem from the protesters was no longer a factor. None of them would venture this high, especially with the sky turning into a snow-sopped sponge. There was a storm coming. The damned hippies had better have skis.
    Rocky stepped over to his backpack and dug out a small grease-stained notebook from a side pocket. He jotted down the GPS unit number and a note about the location and time of day, along with a few details about the animal.
    The elk was theirs. Tagged. Marked for death, though the date was unknown.
    “Nice work, as always,” said a voice behind him. Rocky whirled around.
    Grumley.
    Rocky’s boss was dressed for a week’s worth of icy air, goose-down pants with beaver-skin mittens dangling from his belt. He was holding a rifle in his right fist. A rusty Eddie Bauer watch dangled from a leather lanyard around his neck. There was a story to that watch. Grumley treasured the timepiece and insisted he would be buried with it around his neck. The watch had been taken from the stomach of a bear he’d shot. The bear had invaded a Boy Scout camp up near Meeker. None of the scouts had been hurt, but the scoutmaster had been mauled to death. It had taken Grumley three days of tracking through rugged high-country terrain to catch up with the bruin. When he had hoisted the bear from the branch of a tree for bloodletting, the watch had fallen from a slit in its belly. Grumley tried to bring the watch back to the scoutmaster’s next of kin, but they wanted Grumley to keep it as thanks for his efforts to protect others. The watch was still ticking.
    “Did I take you by surprise?” said Grumley.
    This was a loaded question. It was never a smart move to admit being taken by surprise in the high country, but there was no advantage in lying to Grumley.
    “Fuck, my heart’s pounding. Jesus, don’t ever do that again.” The notebook quivered in Rocky’s hand.
    Grumley had a peculiar look on his face.
    “Is that the bull we were after?”
    “Has to be,” said Rocky.
    “Good,” said Grumley. “A bonus.”
    Grumley wiped his beard and lips with the back of his hairy hand. He had a habit of scratching or twiddling at the thick, three-inch tuft of gray-white beard on his chin.
    Rocky didn’t understand what Grumley meant by “bonus.” Maybe he was supposed to know, but he didn’t ask. Grumley was not the kind of man who liked being pestered with questions.
    The elk began pawing at the dirt. It was starting to recover from the knockout drug injected by the