The Death of Alan Chandler (The Red Lake Series Book 1)

by Rich Foster

  In the kitchen she eased the toaster down, while thinking of Paul Simon’s lyrics about English muffins and Kellogg’s cornflakes. She poured a tall glass of orange juice. Sitting at the kitchen bar top, she waited for her muffin while looking up the number for the Red Lake Market. It was probably too early, during the summer season they would certainly be open, but this only May. She dialed the number; the phone scrunched up on her shoulder, thereby freeing her hands to liberally oil the English muffin with butter.

  “Red Lake Market!” a voice answered. Lilly was about to speak when the voice continued and she realized to her surprise they had an answering machine at the store. “If you would like to place an order for delivery, leave your account number and list your items clearly and slowly. If your list is more than a minute in length you’ll have to call back and continue. Otherwise we’re here from nine o’clock to five during the month of May.” Earl Willet’s gravely voice was followed by a beep.

  “Hi Earl, this is Lilly Chandler, I wondered if Alan was up there? He said he might head that way on his way back from a business trip. If he’s been in, could you tell him to give me a call? Or call me yourself, because I need to reach him in a hurry. Thank you,” the lie once again slipped easily off her tongue. After all it was private business.

  A half hour later, in the hamlet of Red Lake, Earl Willet’s truck, with it’s snowplow still attached, made its way to the market. The weather had been warm the previous day, but at the altitude of Red Lake, what water was left still froze at night sometimes. This being one of those nights, Earl’s truck scrunched as its wheels broke a film of ice, and rolled through puddles in the gravel parking lot. The town was on the north side of the range and long shadows still reached from the peaks to shade much of it. The Lake however sparkled in the sun.

  Earl was a big man, close to sixty-five, and thinking maybe this would be his last year in the mountains. His wife Wilma and he had passed the last few winters looking at real estate fliers for condo developments in Florida. He knew it was age that made each winter seem a little longer and colder, and each summer slightly more hectic and crowded. The reality was that life in Red Lake seldom changed. There were perhaps a few less fish in the lake, and Route 12 had gotten a turning lane, other than that it remained the same season to season.

  He unlocked the door of his store and disappeared inside. From the parking lot one could see the fluorescent fixtures flicker to life. A few minutes later he came back out of the store, looked at his watch, locked the door and ambled to his truck. It broke the silence with a throaty roar as he wheeled out of the parking lot. At the end of Main Street, he ran into 12. Turning right, he followed it as it rimmed the ridge above the lake. About a quarter mile from town he turned left onto a gravel road that led down to the lake. A solitary stream of smoke rose from the chimney of a lone cabin that was occupied.

  The gravel road ended in a boat launch area for the neighborhood. To the side was the drive to the Chandler’s cabin. Earl saw wheel marks in the mud drive but they were just from folks turning around, none led to the house. The drive lay smooth and undisturbed. He ran his four-wheel drive up to the house, kicking large chunks of mud up off his tires. The cabin was bleak, it drapes pulled. Earl slid out of the truck. The garage formed the lower level of the house. He looked in the garage window. On one side was a small sailboat, but the rest of the garage was empty. He returned to his truck and five minutes later he was back at the store. He looked up the Chandler’s number on their store account and made a call. Shortly after that the neon pink and purple open sign came on at the Red Lake Market.

  *

  Lilly had lingered over her coffee hoping to either hear from Alan or from the Willets. At eight thirty she had realized her stomach was in knots. She called her office to see if she had any messages, but once again there were none. Lilly put on a teal jogging suit, a pair of running shoes and a ball cap that said FBI. She had never been assaulted while running but felt the FBI logo might give a mugger pause. True, they sold the caps in the local liquor store, but it might also be real. To the potential mugger, she just might be a fed with a thirty-eight police special strapped to her waist.

  She had taken a self-defense course back in Denver. The instructor had drilled the women in the class over and over on instantly responding to a threat. He had jammed his face into theirs while yelling. Again and again he walked them through how to mount a counter attack, by kneeing the assailant, smashing their windpipe or slamming their hands over the attacker’s ears, rupturing the eardrums. “You have one chance to save yourself and that is by acting first!” They had practiced again and again while the instructor wore protective gear. Lilly was not sure how well it might work in real life. But despite such precautions for safety she foolishly put the rear door key under the mat before setting out on her run. It was the first place anyone would look.

  Her stride was easy and long. She ran in an easy lope. Her pace was steady if not rapid. At the corner she jogged in place as she waited for the light to change and then loped across the street and into the park where there was a modest sized lake in the middle with an asphalt path around it. It was frequented by joggers, roller bladers, walkers, and bikers. All day a steady flow of people rounded the lake. Lilly hit the path and picked up her pace. She passed two men, their breath laborious, their faces red, their bellies jiggling as they fought off middle age, while welcoming a cardiac arrest. They leered and tried to pick up their pace, but she found her rhythm and left them quickly behind. Her breathing was steady and easy; she set her internal autopilot and let her mind drift. Some days she had completed a lap or more and was unable to recall any of it, having been lost in thought.

  Thoughts drifted through her head. What to do? If Alan isn’t at the lake where could he be? If not there I have no idea. But if he were leaving for good he would have taken more than his overnight bag. What about cash? If he was planning this he must have gotten some from the bank. He’s probably at the lake. If he’s not at the lake something must have happened. I should check the bank. A large gaping hole in our balance or credit line might explain a lot. He has to be at the lake. Then why hasn’t he called? Maybe I should call the police? Guess I’ll wait for a call from the Willets. So, her mind ranged across the possibilities. For one of the first times in life she found herself not being able to set a problem aside. It nibbled at her consciousness; she would turn it over in her mind. She created scenarios to fit the facts, some reasonable, some nightmares of the imagination.

  She finished her lap of the lake and slowed to a walk. Now that she stopped her breathing became harder and her forehead became beaded with sweat. She worked the sweatshirt over her head, taking it off. Going back she caught a green light and crossed the street at a slow walk. When she returned to the house she could hear the answering machine in the kitchen. She scrambled for the key and fumbled it into a rose bush by the stoop. By the time she recovered the key she had several scratches on her arm and the phone had fallen silent.

  “Damn, I hope that wasn’t Alan” she thought. “Well I guess I hope it is, I just hope it wasn’t him that I missed.” But, when she turned on the machine it was Earl Willet’s call.

  “This is Earl. I haven’t seen Alan hereabouts. Went by your place and nobody’s been there, at least since the beginning of the spring melt. If I see him I’ll give you a call, but if he’s heading this way he’s not here yet.”

  Lilly ran her hands through her hair in frustration. Where could he be?

  The frustration didn’t leave her as she took her second shower of the morning. While blow-drying her hair she determined to go to the police. They would know what to do.

  *

  The Beaumont Police Station was tucked on a side street near the Court House. It was crowded and obsolete. Parking was difficult. Lilly circled the block three times and the small station lot twice. She was about to give up and return later when she found someone backing out.

  Inside the lobby was small. She told the you
ng woman at the desk she wished to report a missing person.

  “Have a seat, someone will be right out.” said the clerk.

  The only available seats in the lobby were occupied by two young males with body tattoos and pierced body parts. Lilly shrunk over toward the far wall. In the last election the City had sponsored a bond measure for a new facility. It failed. Lilly determined to vote yes if it ever came up again. After a bit, another youth emerged from the recesses of the department. He looked like a misplaced aborigine, complete with a stick through the central tissue of his nose. He joined his two friends and the trio left while complaining about the effing cops. On the way down the walk they turned in unison and gave the glass doors a one-finger salute. Lilly was relieved to have the lobby to herself.

  Ten minutes passed slowly. She tried to pass the time by seeing if she could actually detect the movement of the minute hand on the large round wall clock. Though the hand inexorably moved she could never actually see it. Then the inner door opened and a middle age cop who suffered from graying hair and too many donuts came into the lobby.

  “Mrs. Chandler?” he asked as he referred to the note in his hand. She nodded her assent. He extended his hand toward her. “I’m Sergeant Maddox, come this way please.”

  He led her through the door into the department. Desks were crowded together and there was the clatter of keyboards as officers wrote up reports on their computers. She followed him to the far side of the room where a freestanding partition formed a cubicle. He seated himself at the desk and gestured toward the chair, which was squeezed between it and the corner. A fat person would find an interview here very discomforting she thought. Maddox shuffled a few papers out of the way and pulled his keyboard toward him. He made a few clicks with the mouse and a Missing Person form appeared on the screen.

  “I believe you wish to report your husband missing,” he said.

  “Yes, he left sometime during the night three nights ago. He said he would call, but I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “I don’t know, he didn’t say.”

  “How long was he supposed to be gone?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t a planned trip.”

  Maddox appeared slightly annoyed. “I don’t mean to be rude Mrs. Chandler but you don’t seem to know much. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Lilly suddenly felt uncomfortable as she began to describe Alan’s departure. When she told him about having a fight the night before she sensed the Sergeant had let out a deep sigh, as if to say, “Not one of these.” But she plowed ahead, down playing the intensity of the fight. She made it sound more like a mutual disagreement, while stressing the fact she was sure her husband would have called.

  “I’m certain something must be wrong.”

  “Where do you think he is?” asked Maddox. Lilly imagined he stressed the “you think” too much.

  “He may have headed up to our cabin at Red Lake”

  Lilly forgot to mention she had left word with the Willets and Herb Lanski.

  For the next half hour she answered questions as Sergeant Maddox dutifully filled in his form. Name, age, height, weight. General description. Last known whereabouts and possible destination in Canaan County. He filled in the description of the vehicle the missing person was presumed to be in and when Lilly didn’t know the license plate number, quickly retrieved it from the Department of Motor Vehicles with a few keystrokes. He entered their home address and the address of their cabin. Finally, he entered phone numbers for point of contact. He clicked print on the screen, and the form scrolled out on the printer. He reached over, tore it off, and asked for her signature.

  “There’s not much we can do right now Mrs. Chandler, but we’ll put the plate out and see what turns up. If you should hear from him please be sure to let us know so we don’t waste our resources.”

  She thanked him and left with a feeling of futility in her stomach. There was so little she could do about this, and for once she desperately wanted to change things.

  After the door closed behind her Maddox walked down the hall to the radio room. An equally middle age woman sat spreading on a chair, steaming coffee on her desk and a steady banter of conversation on the dispatch radio. He pushed a paper with Alan’s name, make of car and plate number, in front of her on the desk. She glanced at it in a lull in the radio traffic.

  “Put this out on the list” he said.

  “The hot sheet?” She asked while stretching in her chair.

  “No, just stop for questioning. It’s domestic. A family fight. The guys probably holed up in a motel somewhere doing some skirt from the office. You know, pick a fight so you can break free for a few days.”

  “You’re a cynic, Ray,” she called after him as he left.

  Maddox returned to the front office and handed the missing person report to a young, close-cropped, well-groomed, flat-stomached officer.

  “Delaney, get on the phone to Canaan County and give this to the Sheriff. Also call the highway patrol and give them the information. Specifically, get it to the sub-station that patrols the pass road on State Highway 218. She thinks he may have been headed that way. Ask about any accidents that have occurred in the last seventy-two hours. If nothing matches ask them to keep an eye out for signs of trouble on the grade.”

  Delaney looked at the report.

  “Sure you don’t want to wait another twenty-four hours?”

  “No, go ahead and put it out, but don’t bust your ass over it. The guy will probably come home with his tail between his legs. If not we can start looking for newly turned dirt in the lady’s garden”.

  Delaney’s eyebrows rose and Maddox broke out in laughter.

  “God, I’m just joking! Anything’s possible, but she doesn’t seem the type.”

  *

  Lilly returned to her office. A pervasive feeling of gloom came over her, at the same time the sunlight faded from the walls of her office. Outsides the clouds had gathered and the first drops of rain sprinkled against the sheet glass windows.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Time stood still for Alan. With no place to go and nothing to do, his days were reduced to watching the sunlight progress across the canyon walls. He tried reading On Death and Dying but it merely raised his anxiety levels. For two and a half days he sat by the falls. Small voices of alarm were murmuring at him more frequently. At first he told himself they would come soon. Then he told himself by the end of the day. The next day he tried not to think about it. Now, in the early morning chill, while he waited for the sun’s rays to pierce the canyon, he asked himself, ‘What if they don’t come at all?”

  Longingly he looked at the top of the granite walls where sunlight was playing on the trees. If only he could get out of the canyon. His mouth felt cottony with thirst, but he was reluctant to drink water as cold as the rivers. He knew that every time he drank the water, his body was burning precious energy warming the water up; energy he would need for the next long night.

  As a Scout he had been taught the rudiments of wilderness survival. He recalled very little of it. But he did remember that in importance for survival, water was first, followed by shelter to retain heat, followed by food. The first need he had in abundance but it was at odds with rule number two to save your body heat. Rule number three was limited to food on hand unless a fish threw itself onto the rocks.

  The rules of action were, don’t panic, make a plan, and be creative. He found himself fighting the impulse toward violating the first rule. His options for the second seemed limited by the canyon walls, so he focused on the third. His conical black plastic coffee cup had often kept his coffee hot on the dash of his car. He filled the cup from the river and then set it down where the sun would first reach his ledge.

  Opening the rucksack he pulled out the shave kit. He neatly stacked the contents on the rock and then turned the kit inside out. The kit was nylon with a clear vinyl liner. The liner easily pulled loose, the stitching mak
ing handy perforations for its removal. He set the clear plastic over the cup, like a teepee, creating a small solar greenhouse. The kit was repacked and stowed. Alan waited.

  A half hour after the sun cleared the rim of the canyon he was warm and so was the water. Not hot, but warmish. He gulped it down with relief, and then refilled the cup. Within a half hour he had another warmish cup, which he put in his thermos. He was determined to have a thermos of drinkable water before he lost his sunlight. The solar heater worked so well that he was sure he could have hot water if he were willing to wait. But for now he opted for volume.

  Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He opened his book to distract himself and read about patients who were dying. Step one: Denial or Isolation. He had to laugh, he had already achieved isolation. For a minute he was amused, until he stopped to think for the first time, that he might really die. I am not going to die, he told himself, ironically thereby also denying the situation. He glanced at the next chapter heading “Anger” and threw the book down in disgust. Anger flooded him. “I am not going to die on this rock,” he shouted aloud. “Someone will come!” but his protestations were carried away by the roar of the falls.

  He paced his rock until he calmed himself. A faint chattering screech came from a limb that overhung the gorge. There was rapid movement. He watched carefully and there it was again. Soon he was able to make out two squirrels chasing each other through the limbs. They began to tussle on a long sweeping branch. Perhaps it was play or maybe they were fighting over a choice morsel of food, but suddenly both of them fell lodged in each others grip. He followed their fall to the water. There was a small splash, which immediately disappeared in the waters rush. He saw one head and then the other sweep toward him. They both struggled bravely in the water. The first managed to grab the log that had saved Alan, and scrambled up. The other stared wide-eyed at him, as though pleading for help, as if Alan were the dispenser of mercy and could save him. Then the squirrel was swept off the abyss. One lived, one died. I lived, I might have died!