Buried by the Roan by Mark Stevens

Author:Mark Stevens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: hunting, mystery, environment, colorado, water, wilderness, oil, gas, fracking, hunting guide
Publisher: Mark Stevens

Six

Monday Afternoon

“A sample of the allegedly bad water?” asked Deputy Durkin.

“What we don’t know is whether the poison was still strong and effective when we pulled the sample,” said Allison. “But it’s from the same pool where a man with a backpack was seen pouring something into the water.”

“That’s what Mr. Zamora was trying to tell me earlier this morning when he gave us the whole rundown, running into this Devo guy and everything,” said Durkin. “But now that we’ve actually got the water, there’s a chance the health department can tell us what in the world might be going on.”

The brown Nalgene bottle sat on the corner of the steel gray industrial desk, which sported a calendar decorated in spiral-theme doodles, three side-by-side-by-side telephones, a charger box that was home to an imposing walkie-talkie and a tan-shelled computer with its companion keyboard. The office was a forest of brown and blacks, no primary colors allowed.

Durkin, clearly the doodle artist, tapped the ink end of a red Bic pen on one of his recent creations. Allison stood behind one of the two plain wooden chairs that faced the desk. Terry Zamora, fidgeting like a two-year-old, sat in the other.

“Since Mr. Zamora was in here the first time this morning, there are two bits of news that have developed,” said Durkin. “The most important things need to come straight from the horse’s mouth and he’s around here somewhere.”

With that, Durkin picked up the walkie-talkie. He leaned back in his padded swivel chair, which issued a bristling squeak, and held the walkie-talkie sideways to his mouth like a corn cob. He replaced the radio after the fastest exchange of indecipherable verbal code Allison ever heard. He tapped his pen twice on the calendar.

“Big cheese?” said Zamora.

“The sheriff himself,” said Durkin. “He’s pulling up outside.”

“About time,” said Zamora. “I’ve been trying to light a fire under him all day.”

When Allison had arrived at the motel at five minutes before midnight, her body ready to implode from hard-core fatigue, she had left a note for Zamora. The note asked Zamora to wait to go see the sheriff with her because she had the sample. But clearly Zamora felt compelled to start the ball rolling before she managed to roust herself after eight delicious hours of sleep. He had returned to the motel and waited for her to emerge from hibernation.

A back door crashed. Zamora shook his head, reeking of impatience.

Sheriff Christie sported the same sharp uniform from Loretta’s house. He looked tired and drawn.

“Good afternoon,” Christie said with a half smile, quick and businesslike. He issued a few polite greetings at the introductions but plainly appeared to want to skip any small talk.

“The coroner ran all the tests,” said Christie. “He has ruled Mr. Keating’s death a case of hypothermia, nothing more and nothing less. Brought on by a blood-alcohol level that the coroner said rendered him impaired. Extremely impaired. He probably fell over and drifted into unconsciousness.”

“No traumas?” asked Zamora. “He’s sure?”

“One bruise on the back of the skull, exactly in the spot where his head landed,” said Christie.

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