by Rich Foster
He considered his options. To hang here was impossible. His legs would become permanently dead from lack of circulation. In the daylight it might be possible to retreat, but there was no telling how long the river would be up. Most likely it would be flooded for days. If anyone was looking for him it was unlikely they would spot him hanging from the rock. Any search would be scouring the canyon bottom for a body. His only option was to go up.
The last tree he had put his trust in proved sadly disappointing. The thought of committing himself to the tenuous support of the gnarled roots made him sick, but he had no choice.
For ten minutes he did flexing exercises to get the blood flowing in his legs again. Then for another ten he suffered the pinpricks of the damned as once again the feeling came back to his flesh. At last he felt he could trust his legs to support him. Pulling himself out of his jury-rigged sling was more difficult than getting in. The wet pack clung to his legs and his arms were occupied supporting his weight. With a struggle he wormed his way free. He leaned against the rock gasping for breath. Without the safety of his harness he didn’t dare look down lest his legs buckle in fear.
Another five minutes passed as he carefully returned his meager possessions to the rucksack. He slung it over his shoulder. Then Alan began to inch his way up the exfoliation until he was at the apex of the rock. The rock face tilted back, a less precipitate incline up toward the tree. He stood up slowly, balancing on the apex of the stone and spreading his weight against the receding stone. He leaned against it, held on by friction and sheer will.
“Breath deep” he said. “Hold it, now let it out again.” He practiced breathing control while muttering, “I will not die here!”
Calmness returned to him or as much as was possible given his circumstances. The closest tree roots were a foot beyond his reach. Still spread against the rock he took his belt, held the bitter end of it and then tossed the buckle end through a circular loop formed by one of the larger roots that left and then returned to the cliff face. Carefully, he buckled the belt into a loop. He pulled on it, lifting his feet ever so slightly off the rock below. There didn’t seem to be any movement. Slowly, he completely off-weighted his legs while keeping them carefully over the slab he had been standing on. It was solid.
He shimmied up the rock and his left hand seized the tree root. Then his right hand held the trunk. Heaving himself up, he slipped one foot into the belt loop. Standing up he was able to put the other foot against the base of the tree. Shortly, he found himself in a moderately comfortable perch. The tree trunk curled out from the rock, leaving an almost level portion where he could place both feet. The branches curling up in front of his body offered him some semblance of safety. He leaned against the cliff face, taking deep easy breaths to work off the adrenaline pumping through his system. Alan savored the moment of well-being.
The tree had rooted at the base of a fissure in the rock. It was little more than a foot and a half wide at the base but opened up gradually to three or four feet at the top. As the crack went up, it also went more deeply into the cliff. Water flowed down the back of the fissure. At the bottom the water fell away to the canyon floor. On a post card, it would have been scenic.
The crevice was not wide enough to enter with his rucksack. Crouching down he freed his belt from the root. Then he ran it through one loop of his pants and through the straps of the rucksack. He let go of the rucksack and it dangled at his side. He reached over to the edge of the crevice. Running his hands along the fold in the rock he found a good handhold. With a sweeping motion he pushed off with his leg, pulled up with his hands, and drove his body into the opening. He kicked with his foot, driving it as far in as possible. The two walls seemed to grasp him and wrap him in their hold. His chest was pushed hard against the granite and he had to force air into his lungs. The small cataract cascaded around his feet. However, he was so wet it did not matter.
Alan felt a sense of relief equal to when the rucksack held the night before. His body was fatigued to the point of collapse under normal circumstances, but he didn’t notice. The adrenaline and the light above drove him upward. At first he had to inch and wiggle his way up. After a bit he was able to force his knees against one wall and his back against the other. Steadily he rose up the fissure. Soon he had one foot pressed forward and the other back and he made more rapid progress. The climb was higher than he had guessed. The opening at the top was also wider, probably four to six feet. He was forced to jamb both feet against one wall and his hands against the other. His body arched, forming a human bridge. Now he found himself looking down as he crab walked up the walls. He recalled doing this for fun in college. In the dormitory they would start on the floor of the hallway and try to work their way up until their butt touched the ceiling. He wanted to forget the number of times he had failed.
At last he was at the top, but the problem he faced was how to abandon his human arch without falling. The edge appeared fairly abrupt. He felt he could get a good hold on it. Alan bent his arms until his face was close to the wall, his legs almost straight. He then pushed back hard with his arms, bent his legs, as though compressing a spring and then recoiled forward. He let go of the wall with his arms and threw them up over the top of the edge as his legs drove him up and away from the far wall. The rock drove into his belly. He slid back a bit. His hands worked frantically, seeking a hold. And then he was safe. His face was pressed in the dirt as he lay bent at the waist, his legs still dangled down the fissure’s face, but he had made it.
It was simple to wiggle up over the ledge. He found himself looking at a pine forest. The ground sloped steeply upward but it was walkable. Through the foliage he could see the outline of the ridge. He turned around and on all fours worked his way toward the edge. Lying on his belly, as though he thought the whole cliff might fall away, he looked down. Another day it might have been thrilling but to Alan it reminded him of looking down off the edge of Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. He felt a wave of nausea as he traced the route he had come.
When he began that morning he had felt numb with cold. The hour of work achieving the top had made him warm. Sweat had dripped from his face as he made the ascent. But now a light breeze and his sodden clothes left him shaking. He turned toward the peak where he could see the welcome sunshine.
A fifteen-minute scramble brought him to the top. On a normal hike it would have been considered hellish, for the hill was steep and his feet slipped in the loose pine needles and duff, but by comparison to the morning’s climb it was easy. There was a clearing near the top. A small crag extended higher and he took shelter at its base. A cool breeze came down from the higher mountains above. He pealed off his clothes. Their clammy grip felt colder than the sun on his naked skin.
He opened his rucksack and pulled out the bag of nuts. “Only a few,” he promised himself, but soon they were gone. He pulled out his cigarettes that had survived in their plastic wrappers, lit one with his lighter, and relaxed. For the first time in eighteen hours he believed he would survive. He puffed on what he considered the best cigarette he ever had, “damn their health risk.”
It was late morning and the sun was warm but it was breezy and certainly was not a warm day. He set about collecting firewood. Despite the rain, the pine forest offered an abundance of dry kindling. Soon he had a small pile of needles and twigs. He snapped off dead branches from downed trees and broke them into useful sizes. It wasn’t long before Alan was sitting before the cheering warmth of a blazing fire. He spread his clothes out on sticks to dry, turning them frequently so they would not scorch.
He determined to spend what remained of the day and that night in the shelter of the rock. During the afternoon he stacked up rocks to increase the size of his lair in case the wind gained in strength. When his clothes had dried he wandered the woods and gathered pine cones. They formed a small mound at his camp. He set to picking out their seeds and nibbling them. Most of the cones were old and picked clean by birds and whatever small animals fee
d off them. But he had nothing else to do and thereby had a meal after some time. He stoked his fire regularly, and piled up more wood than he would need for the night. Having once been cold he did not want to risk losing his source of warmth. He prepared for the coming night by digging a trench in the soil with a stick. He found large flat rocks and set them around his fire. When the sunset came it was a beautiful panorama of pinks and gold. He drank some water from his thermos and wished he had filled it before he had climbed to the top of the ridge. A short time later he felt weariness overtaking him. So he pushed the stones into the trench and covered them with soil. Laying on the warm ground, with his rucksack for a pillow he had his first completely restful sleep in three days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Canaan County Sheriff’s office was located outside Red Lake, on Route 12. It was an inexpensive structure. The roof for some inexplicable reason was flat, which necessitated shoveling it clear of snow in the winter. The sides were sheeted in rough sawn plywood. Overall, it had the appearance of a stubby mobile home. On Wednesday morning, one patrol car idled outside the office. Inside a lone deputy sat at the front desk. Behind him, through a large plate glass wall, the Sheriff was visible at his desk.
Gavin Gaines had been elected seven consecutive times for a five-year term. Most people had never known another Sheriff. Gaines was a tall wiry man. At sixty-seven his uniform hung loose on his frame hiding the raw strength in his body. Only an out-of-towner would be foolish enough to go up against him. The locals knew better. On Saturday night if Gavin Gaines said to go home, the meanest drunk began walking.
He knew all the people that mattered, whether for better or worse. If the department needed some money he could drum up the County Council’s vote. If there were trouble he knew where and for whom to search. Feared by a few, he was respected by all.
Gaines smoked a cigar as he verbally abused his computer. The cigar violated several state and local work place regulations but any deputy was free to file a complaint. Of course he let it be known they would also be free to find a new job.
He was doing battle with his computer and his mumbled cursing was caused by changes in his recently upgraded e-mail program. The computer said he had mail, but he couldn’t access it. He clicked the mouse with a violence that contributed to his computer problems and gave up. The front Deputy entered with a paper and passed it to the Sheriff. It was a “be on the lookout notice” from Beaumont. He scanned it quickly, glanced at the clock and stood up. While strapping on his holster and positioning his hat he spoke to the other deputy.
“I’m going to check out the house of a missing person. I’ll be back.”
A few long strides carried him to the door. He let it slam behind him; shortly it was followed by the patrol car door slamming too.
The Sheriff eased his cruiser out onto the highway. Rain clouds still lingered overhead, but they were breaking up. Traffic had dried the asphalt. He turned south on Route 12, and held it at a steady forty-five. The Sheriff was not in a hurry, but he was of the opinion everyone else was. He knew a cop driving forty-five was a sure way to slow down folks in Red Lake; especially the tourists from down the mountain.
Five miles south, he braked and turned left toward the lake. The dirt road was rutted from the spring thaw. He didn’t know the Chandlers by name, but if he saw them in town he would have recognized them as summertime locals. Their address was familiar. The cabin had been Hughie Thompson’s place before he had died six years ago. Hughie left behind a wife, two kids, and a pile of past due bills including a foreclosure notice on his mortgage. Gaines knew how hard Hugh had tried, before life had beaten him down. Some men were like that; they always drew bad luck from the cards. The Sheriff managed to convince the jury at the coroner’s inquest to bring back a verdict of accidental death. Paragon Life, which held the $15,000 term life policy screamed about it. They claimed it was impossible to shoot yourself while cleaning a shotgun. But in the end they had to pay. Sheriff Gaines hadn’t directly lied and he didn’t see his opinions as obstructing justice, but rather, as assuming the best about people. Surely Hughie hadn’t meant to put the gun in his mouth; he was only inspecting the barrel.
One dead man, now a missing man, thought the sheriff as he pulled up to the drive. Perhaps the house was just bad luck. Instead of pulling into the drive, he parked and walked up to the house. Fresh tire tracks ran up the mud. They were slightly flattened by the rain but were definitely recent. The tread was distinctive the tracks wide apart. It was most likely a jeep. Footprints lead over to the garage and looped back to where the vehicle had been parked.
He climbed the wooden steps to the front door and knocked twice. When no one answered he tried the handle. It was locked. He put his face against the window and peered into the living room through a crack in the drapes. Nothing seemed amiss.
Out of curiosity, he swung the green shutter beside the front window away from the wall. Hughie’s old key still hung on the backside of the shutter. Presumably it was the same one Gaines had used the day he found Hughie on the living room floor. The Sheriff unlocked the door and swung it open. He didn’t enter. If there was a crime committed here, he didn’t want the evidence thrown out for lack of a warrant. For a minute he breathed deeply, smelling the air. It was stale and musty from being shut up. There was no scent of decay or death. He locked the door and returned to his patrol car. As he reached the patrol car, a sedan pulled up behind him. Herb Lanski, the realtor from Bay Shore Realty stepped out.
“Something wrong here, Sheriff?”
“No, just checking the house. Have you seen Mr. Chandler around?”
“No, not for maybe three months,” replied Herb.
“Have you been out here earlier, Herb? Like maybe in a jeep or truck?”
“No, I only came out looking for Mr. Chandler at his wife’s request. She left a message day before yesterday, saying she needed to reach him. I was out of town so I just got out here, now.”
“Did she say anything about him being missing?”
Herb shook his head slowly. “Nope, she said he might stop off on the way home from a business trip.”
“Thanks Herb. Do me a favor, stay away from this house for a while” Gaines swung the squad car door open.
“What’s going on Sheriff? I mean, I’ve got the house listed and all.”
“I don’t rightly know. When I do I’ll let you now. Meanwhile don’t show it until you talk to me.”
Herb heard the Sheriff’s tone and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, you’re the boss.”
Sheriff Gaines was certain no one had been in the house for a while but the tracks in the driveway made him curious enough to make some stops around town to ask a few questions.
Homer Benson at Red Lake Gas, Auto and Towing thought he knew whom the Sheriff was referring to. He identified people by their cars.
“Gotta a jeep as I recall?” he said. “Serviced it last summer when it blew a water pump coming across the pass. The guy needs to take better care of his car. But no, can’t say I’ve seen that jeep around town.”
At the Canaan Grill, Becky Fenton was finishing her shift. She leaned against the wall puffing a cigarette, which along with three kids had prematurely aged her face.
“Sure I know him. He was a regular the last couple seasons. He’d sit and read the Sunday paper, while drinking a couple gallons of coffee. He also favored the cheese Danish.”
She blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
‘He’s alright, kinda, cute, and a very good tipper.”
The Sheriff sipped a cup of coffee and waited patiently as she gave this testimonial about Mr. Chandler’s character. Finally he learned that Becky hadn’t seen him since sometime last winter.
Outside, Gaines left the cruiser at the curb and walked across the street to the Red Lake Market. For being the month of May, it was mobbed by Red Lake standards. A half dozen people filled the aisle. Three people waited in line at the register and two were waiting at the meat counte
r. Gaines exchanged greetings with those he knew by name and nodded at the rest. Having a crowd, he asked if anyone knew the folks who now owned Hughie Thompson’s place, people by the name of Chandler. One person in line said they knew the lady, Lilly Chandler, but hadn’t actually met her husband, though she’d recognize him if she saw him. At the register Wilma Willets finished entering in a handful of coupons. She looked up, “Earl told me he went out that way the other morning, but we got busy and he never had a chance to tell me why.”
The sheriff walked to the rear of the store and leaned against the counter. Earl was weighing large scoops of hamburger.
“What took you out to Hughie’s, Earl?” the sheriff asked.
“Mrs. Chandler called and asked if I’d seen her husband. Said he was maybe coming this way on his way back from business. Said she had to get a hold of him”
Earl wrapped the hamburger in white paper, marked the price with a black crayon and handed it to the waiting customer.
Gaines stroked his cheek. It was dark and would soon need a shave. “You pull up the drive or park out front?”
“Up the drive. I looked in the garage window, didn’t see a car, and came back here.” Earl looked slightly annoyed. “What’s this all about Sheriff? I called Mrs. Chandler and told her no one was around, why’s she got you chasing after him?”
Sheriff Gaines answered this question with a shrug, “Guess I’ll have to ask her.”
*
Harold Voss returned to his fourth floor office having had a three-highball lunch. His office came with an expanse of glass, plush carpeting, oak paneled walls, and a door, which read “President, Voss and Associates. During lunch, he had dreamed up a question, which only Alan Chandler could answer. This was not actually true, but he considered it a reasonable pretense for calling Alan’s home. Voss felt personally victimized if employees used sick leave when they were not sick. He also resented having to make accommodations for the handicapped. Harold also felt victimized by workmen’s comp and unemployment payments. He was sure that every red-blooded person in his employ would bleed him dry if given the chance. In consequence of which he dedicated a small portion of each day to checking on sick leaves, seeking out abuse, and a portion of the annual budget trying to bust anyone who was collecting workmen’s comp. He tried to make employees quit before they were laid off. If that failed, he would try to find “just cause” for firing them. If the employee filed an unemployment claim, Voss would file a formal appeal. If a handicapped person applied he would eliminate the position and fill it later under a new description.
