Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens Read Free Book Online

source of amusement. This relationship wasn’t necessarily forever, she thought, but even that idea didn’t seem unbearable. He didn’t seem to have the typical government mentality. Also, he was strong and straightforward. Allison had never before been with a man who could be classified in the “straightforward” category. Slater was a trim six-footer with an engaging face, dark eyes over a slender nose. His jaw was strong and his teeth, neat rows arranged by a perfectionist, sparkled on cue when needed. Allison liked the way he moved and talked, careful and in control, but he could flip over to the relaxation mode without much effort.
    “Are you going to report this?” said Slater.
    “Report what?” inquired Allison. “Dead elk in the woods? I can see the headlines.”
    “The dragging part,” said Slater. “Maybe it fits in with our missing protester. Maybe not.”
    “I’ll report it. You never know what it’s worth,” said Allison. “But I’ve gotta go. We’ve got two crews heading out today. It’s practically every horse in the outfit.”
    “Me too. Hell,” he said, looking at his watch. She leaned up for the kiss at first, and then stood all the way up. He gave her a warm, powerful hug. Slater was a long-term possibility.
    Slater grabbed his coffee cup and headed out. She stood in the doorway as he climbed in behind the wheel of his government-green pickup and grabbed his radio, trying to raise somebody.
    ****
    “Hear someone’s missing?”
    It was Popeye Boyles, retired Navy cook turned guide and all-around barn helper.
    “No,” Grumley replied. It couldn’t be Rocky, Grumley thought. Hunting guides were always off in the wilderness. It could take a week before anybody even asked the first question.
    “I caught some chatter on the radio this morning,” said Boyles.
    His hobby was playing amateur cop. He was wedded to a scanning gizmo that picked up every police frequency that bounced around in the narrow canyons and hollows of Ripplecreek. It never hurt to know who was poking around or headed their way. Most of Grumley’s guide service was completely on the up and up. But a few clients and an ever-growing list of their friends and acquaintances could request and pay for a hunt that minimized their time in the field and maximized their chances of success—all the way to one hundred percent. Grumley considered his work nothing more than that of a good advance team. He found the prey and tracked the prey. Next, the clients were whisked into position to site down the barrel and pull the trigger. This made for an efficient use of time, who didn’t mind parting with up to seventy-five thousand dollars for the convenience factor. The size of the fee depended on the number of hunters, the size of the prey they were after and the degree of difficulty they desired to make them feel, for a day, like Teddy Roosevelt of the Flat Tops.
    “What did you hear?” said Grumley. Boyles teased. He always had to be asked.
    “One of them eco-freaks.”
    “Them?”
    “Protesters. Kids. I first heard that Dawn Ellenberg chick all concerned, talking with a sheriff’s deputy last night, getting ready to contact Search and Rescue.”
    Boyles talked like he was explaining a batch of overdone scrambled eggs to the commander of an aircraft carrier.
    “The guy’s tent was empty last night and when they went to check it, they didn’t even open the thing.”
    “How do you know?” said Grumley.
    “Because one of the deputies asked them on the radio.”
    “But the missing guy had definitely gone up with the protest, hiked up the canyon?”
    “That’s what the cops asked,” said Boyles. “And Ellenberg says yes, he was in the woods with the rest of them. But get this. The cops asked Ellenberg if they had actually looked inside the tent, you know, to make sure he hadn’t passed out or was sleeping. But they hadn’t looked. They didn’t want to invade his privacy.”
    “His privacy?” said