thirty-eight:
thursday morning

The inside of his Camry felt as warm as a walk-in freezer in Siberia in the long lonely days of March. It was August in the Flat Tops Wilderness, or at least smack on the border of the designated wilderness, and Bloom simply had not calculated how cold the inside of a car could get sans heater, at elevation.

Chilly? Sure. He could have handled a chill. He had found a light jacket in the trunk and curled up on the back seat. He thought that would be enough to fend off whatever punch the night might throw. Instead, the car magnified the cold, about the same as it might do with sunshine on a hot summer day in an asphalt parking lot in the city.

Now the sun was up. The broad, beautiful meadow was coming to life. The temperature might not provide any relief for an hour two, but relief was on the way.

Three fingers tingled with numbness. His chest shuddered of its own accord.

Dawn told him what he already knew. Trudy’s house and Allison’s A-frame, tucked off in the corner of the field, were empty. He’d knocked on both doors at 11 p.m., when he had arrived. Then, he had hopes he would have perhaps woken Trudy. It would have been a tad awkward, but Trudy would have taken him in. His plan had been to interview Alfredo, maybe get lucky enough to chat with Allison, or perhaps catch her where they could talk, really connect. These were G-rated fantasies involving whiskey and beer and some genuine bonding. That was the dream.

It didn’t happen.

His breath formed wispy clouds that quickly evaporated. He yawned so hard his eyes watered. His breath and body odor had curdled into an inhospitable stench. His neck throbbed from the awkward sleeping positions. Each position had held its own tortures, a hard spot in the bench seat or a cramped place where he had to wedge his foot. He hadn’t really slept.

And he was in the wrong place. The trip up had been useless.

Where was everyone?

Where would Trudy have taken Alfredo?

Why hadn’t he turned around last night and headed back down the hill? He’d be waking up in his bed and he wouldn’t be giving Coogan a fresh chance to question his ability to set priorities.

Bloom started his car. It answered with a tinny cackle. The mechanical sound in this serene meadow sounded like a Harley revving for a drag race.

7:47 a.m. He must have fallen asleep—somehow.

Bloom backed the Camry to the road. He remembered the stables and barn another mile or two west. Maybe he’d take a quick cruise around up there, see if anyone was stirring. If not, he’d take the long drive down to Glenwood and get back on the rails.

Bloom’s cell phone sounded. The number looked familiar.

“Hello?” he said. He barely recognized his own raspy voice.

“Duncan, it’s Trudy.”

The signal was weak and choppy.

“Am I calling too early?” she said.

“No,” he said.

“Where are you?” she said.

Bloom looked around. A shot of sun nicked the top of Allison’s A-frame.

“Why? What’s going on?” he said.

A pause. Too long. Bloom thought maybe the signal was dropped.

“Two men came to my house last night. They were after Alfredo. We got out and followed them.”

“Jesus,” said Bloom.

“I know,” said Trudy.

“They didn’t see you?”

“Don’t think so,” said Trudy. “But here’s the deal. Alfredo wants to bolt for home. Like, now. If you want to talk with him—and I’m barely hanging onto him by a thread—can you get here soon?”

Bloom started a one-handed, three-point turn. “Maybe,” he said. “Where are you now?”

Bloom gave the Camry some juice. He felt like the lone kid at camp who thought it was time for arts and crafts when everyone else had hiked the half-mile down to the lake for swimming.

“We’re outside the Hotel Colorado,” said Trudy. “On the west side.”

A massive buck, straight off the insurance company logo, stood in the field off the road, its head up and chest broad and proud. His antlers were so large Bloom wondered how he held his head up. The sight took his breath away. In the sun, the deer’s tawny hide made brown the new red.

Bloom had the car moving at a clip that was slightly reckless, especially given the one-handed steering. In spots the washboard grooves threatened to shake him off the road.

“Everyone okay?” said Bloom.

“Well … sort of …”

Words from space.

The line went black-hole dead. He was holding a rock to his ear. The Camry flew up over a short, blind rise and it was a damn good thing nobody was coming from the other way.