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

by Rich Foster

  “I know it’s thin, but it smells! I just want to nose around it for a few days. Mrs. Chandler seems like she could be shaken up and rattled. Besides I don’t have much on my plate until I finish testifying in the Gardner Case.”

  “You know this should be on the Dalton’s desk. He’s the Departments detective.”

  “Yeah, but he’s out with that disc surgery. By the time he’s back on the duty roster this will be cold.”

  “All right, give it a couple days. Shake away; just make sure you don’t break anything! I don’t want any harassment lawsuits floating across my desk.” With that the Chief waved his hand and the interview was over.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wednesday night Alan slept warm but tossed on the hard ground. He passed much of the night in an Epicurean dream, feasting on a smorgasbord of tasty delights. In the dream, he so over indulged that he was suffering from a stomachache. Seeking relief he pushed back from the banquet table and went in search of antacid tablets. However, he became disoriented and found himself in a dark garden. He could smell the grass and pines. Blinking, he opened his eyes. The garden gave way to his camp and the ephemeral feast gave way to gnawing hunger pains.

  Overhead dawn was attacking the eastern edges of the night sky. Stars still shone in the west, but the sun’s approach was heralded by a growing crimson streak in the east. He stood up. A wave of vertigo passed over him and was gone. Despite the nights sleep, he was tired. His body was stiff and sore, both from its exertions and from the bruising it had taken in the accident and in the river. He stood there stretching, working loose his tendons and joints. The morning sky was a cheerful pink. Thin wispy clouds curled high in the stratosphere. “What was the old saying?” he puzzled to himself. “Red at night, sailors delight,” he tried to recall the rest of the adage but for the moment it eluded him. As the sun routed the last of the stars, Alan stirred the campfire coals to life. A small stream of sparks climbed skyward. He added a few small branches to the fire. The flames hopped up and began to feed upon them.

  He took out his metal thermos and sipped some water. He recalled learning to boil or disinfect water in the woods and realized he had done neither. Thoughts of Giardia came to mind, a waterborne parasite that would cause severe intestinal discomfort and diarrhea. It is easily contracted and hard to lose. But, there was nothing he could do; at the time he had no fire and no chlorine. Perhaps, they could not live in water as cold as the river.

  Contemplating the future, he wondered what he might boil his water in. Basically, he hadn’t planned on being here very long. However, three days had passed and the only aircraft he had seen were high, small black specks leaving white contrails, in the blue sky. If someone was looking for him, evidently they were not looking here.

  Still thinking about a cooking pot, he unscrewed the glass vacuum bottle from the metal body. He filled the thermos body with some water and set it on the coals. In a short space of time the water was bubbling merrily away. His gloves made serviceable hot pads to lift it from the fire. He let the water cool enough to sip and savored the resemblance to his morning coffee.

  Lilly came to mind and, in his mind’s eye, he saw her face. Each morning it was there, beyond his cup’s rim, reading a portion of the newspaper. He saw her red hair spilling down her shoulders; it’s rich amber color, back lit by the sunlight that filled their kitchen each morning. He thought of her touch and wished he could feel the caress of her cool fingertips on his cheek. It seemed far longer than three days and nights since he had seen her. Diminished by time and distance, the fight had dwindled in significance. Deprived of normal human comforts, he wondered why it had seemed so necessary to get away. “Soon,” he told himself. “Soon I will be home.”

  He had formulated a simple plan. One: hike back along the river to where his car had gone in. Two: look for a place to cross the river. Three, if he could not cross it, build a fire on the hill opposite the road. Though people might ignore smoke in the back country, especially early in the year, if he were visible someone would see him waving in distress. It was a simple plan, and in its simplicity failed to take into account the tortuous difficulty of the land. Most of the hills in the vicinity were at maximum angle of repose; any steeper and their tops would tumble to their feet. The pine forests made it difficult to see in the distance and consequently, harder to walk a straight course. And unbeknownst to Alan a number of side canyons spilled into the gorge, which would necessitate long detours up their streams, until they could be crossed. Each obstacle multiplied the opportunity for mistakes, for the chance to become lost, for disaster to befall. Had he possessed a topographic map of the area, he might have opted to stay put and trust fate.

  An abundance of pine cones littered the ground. Birds and small rodents had gone over them extensively but he still found an ample supply of seeds to eat. Alan wasn’t sure if you could survive on pine nuts. He didn’t even know if he expended more energy collecting the seeds than they provided, but it put something in his mouth and stomach. While he gathered the cones the fire had died down. As he nibbled the seeds he gave his body one last roasting from the bed of coals and then began kicking dirt on the embers. On top of the dirt he piled stones. Without the fire, the chill air of the morning quickly found him. He lit a cigarette for comfort, stowed his meager possessions and set on his way.

  The cliff edge above the gorge proved too steep and difficult to hike. But the brush became dense not far from the edge, so he determined to try to hold to the ridgeline and join the river later. The trees were more openly spaced on the upper part of the ridge. Pine needles crunched under his feet. He set off on a body-warming pace. The ridge ran flat for a distance and then began a steady climb up. He was tempted to drop down and check his distance from the river but the ground fell away hard. If he had to come back up the slope it would be hard going. Besides, he hoped to reach an opening where he could check his location. He decided to save his energy and wait for the ridge crest and descend. For a while it was easy hiking. Then slowly the pines grew denser and closed in around him. He was hiking in shadows. Numerous times he saw a clearing ahead only to discover it was shafts of sunlight playing tricks dancing through the woods.

  At last his eyes did not play him false. He emerged into a clearing. The new grass still sparkled with lingering bits of dew as though dozens of diamonds had been spilled on the meadow. Toward the direction of the river trees blocked his view, which disappointed him, he had hoped to see the road cut on the other side of the valley. Ahead he could see the snowcap on the higher mountains. It seemed that the snow was lower than the first day, but he couldn’t be sure. The peaks didn’t look familiar. Their relative position had changed. He had only seen these mountains from his car, not having spent time hiking on this side of the range. They were strangers to him. He didn’t even know the highest peaks names.

  As he made his way across the meadow he plucked blades of sour grass and nibbled them. Soon he left the meadow behind and his path became brutally rough hiking. The land began to slope and make a gentle fall in the direction of what he believed was the river but the trees and brush grew thick. Time and again he had to choose between walking around large areas or forcing his way through. Whenever possible he held to his chosen course. He fended off branches with his hands and they became sticky and pungent with the odor of pinesap. Yet despite his best efforts, small branches still managed to pop free, snapping back and lashing his face. At times he simply turned around, walked backward, using his back as a plow. And when he was forced to abandon a straight course, he found it difficult to tell when he was back on course. It is easy to tell north by the sun in familiar surroundings, but in the woods the sun only gave a vague indication of where south might be during most of the day. Between sunrise and sunset were many opportunities to veer far off the hoped for course. In fact under heavy tree cover it was easy to simply walk in circles.

  He slogged along. Sweat burned the cuts and scratches on his body. If he wore his jacket in the dens
e brush he had some protection, but it also left him sweating profusely. His limbs felt weak from lack of food and his mind would drift off until he would suddenly realize he was unaware of the last several or tens of minutes.

  Alan struggled backward through a mass of bracken. Reluctant to turn back, he hoped he would soon find an opening or animal trail. He lunged in short bursts pushing and breaking his way through. Then one lunge sent him sprawling on his back. He had come out on a great slab of rock, which jutted out from the cliff. The sound of flowing water came to his ears. Looking over the edge, he saw the river below. The water tumbled and pounded over the boulders. The granite gorge walls had given way to steep banks of loose talus much like the hill his jeep had careened down. The top of the bank was much lower here; it was only forty or fifty feet to the water.

  He found the top of the cliffs more walkable. Though studded with boulders, he had no trouble holding to the river’s route. Occasionally he would cross a rivulet, or small stream descending from the surrounding hills and leaping and tumbling downhill to join the water below. He lit a cigarette and while he puffed, he unzipped his jeans and let a long stream of urine join the flood below. Idly, he wondered where the water would end up. Most would evaporate, the land would absorb some, and pumps irrigating farms and supplying water to cities would suck much up. Grinning at the thought of violating the urban water supply, he hoped some trace of his pee would find its way to Mr. Voss’ tap.

  Voss had been watching him he was certain. For sometime he had felt it. It wasn’t something one could complain of, rather simply be discomforted by. Mr. Voss seemed to take an excessive interest in his work. The scrutiny made him nervous and as a result his work had suffered. His employer expressed concern about his performance, and intimated that perhaps his job was too much for him. “God, I’m not crazy,” thought Alan. Just those two weeks where the anxiety attacks became so bad that I needed a break.” Thinking about work reminded him that his departure was in haste. After sending an e-mail the first day he had intended to call in himself each day. He wondered if Lilly had covered for him with the office. If he didn’t make it back, it would be a moot point, he thought, once again, surprising himself by admitting the to thought that he might not make it.

  He skirted around some large boulders and then began clambering down a jumble of them, which led to the water below. He came to a point where there was a six-foot drop and the only reasonable thing was to jump. Exercising prudence, to avoid a sprain or broken leg, he sat on the edge of the rock and jumped to the level below. He landed easily, but then stumbled and fell face first, sprawled out on the rock. He heard a rattling noise, which made him freeze up. Three feet from his face a rattlesnake lie warming itself in the sun. The rattler’s tail stood up, shaking. It was a fat tail with many rings, and the face of the snake loomed large. Alan had a morbid fear of snakes. In his youth, a friend had picked up what they took for a harmless garter snake. It was in fact a water moccasin. The friend had survived the bite. But Alan was absolutely phobic about snakes from that day on. He lay still. The snake’s head moved lazily back and forth watching him. Its tongue flicked in and out of the gaping mouth, its nostrils held open wide.

  Alan inched backward slowly. The snake was languid from the heat of the sun and seemed to be in no hurry to chase after him. After watching Alan back away the resumed its rest on the rock. At a safe distance Alan stood up, the pounding of his heart still drumming in his ears. Fear and hunger prodded him to seize a large, flat rock heave it at the snake like a hard basketball bounce pass. The rock crushed the snake’s head and it died in warm comfort, ignorant of its own demise. The body continued to writhe. At a cautious distance Alan sat down in a patch of shade and waited.

  Ralphie lingered at the periphery of his thoughts, like a shadow at the edge of his vision. His imaginary friend had taken the place of his real brother and they had carried on long conversations, sometimes to the anxiety of his elders. Now under stress he could feel Ralphie presence and actually welcomed the companionship.

  The snake’s body continued to twitch for several minutes and then stopped. Feeling cautious, Alan put on his gloves and lifted the rock. He felt a wave of revulsion pass through him when he saw the bloodied head.

  “You gonna’eat him?” Ralphie asked.

  Ralphie was eyeing the snake. He wore cut offs and was bare foot. Casually he would pick up stones, put them into a slingshot, and shoot them into the river. However his rocks never made a splash, they just disappeared.

  Alan grimaced. The thought of snake was disgusting. But hunger was a much greater driving force.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “Bet it tastes like chicken, whenever anyone has to eat something disgusting, they always say it tastes like chicken.”

  It was only mid afternoon but Alan decided to make camp for the night. It took time to pass the night in any degree of comfort. He set out to gather firewood. Nearby he came to an open grove of trees. A small brook came down the hillside and meandered through the glade. Beneath the trees he discovered a patch of miner’s lettuce. The leaves resemble water lilies with a small stamen in the middle. They were quite distinctive and easily remembered them day hikes he had made. Immediately he made a snack of several hands full. Then he filled his pockets. Once he finished gathering firewood he built a large blaze a few feet in front of a large rock overhang. The smoke would be drawn up the face. More importantly the rock would slowly heat up from the fire. After nightfall the rock would radiate warmth for hours.

  He leaned against the rock and closed his eyes to rest while he waited for the blaze to become a bed of coals. What seemed but a moment later, Alan shook his head and realized he had drifted off to sleep. The flames were dying down. He picked the snake up with one hand and eyed its brown speckled body with continued disgust. He never hunted, nor had he ever gutted an animal. “What I need is a knife,” he thought. Unfortunately he hadn’t kept a pocketknife since he was a young boy.

  He opened his shave kit and removed the blue plastic razor. He smacked the razor with a rock and the plastic head shattered. Two small razor blades lay on the rock. He mounted the blade on the end of the handle with a strip from a band-aid, creating a small surgical knife. However, when he tried to slice the snake open he found the blade wiggled too readily. This problem he overcame by using the long seed stem from a piece of grass to lash the blade on more tightly. As Alan sliced the snake open and the entrails spilled out and soon the snake was gutted. The small knife worked well and soon he had a stack of snake kabobs. He roasted the pieces over the fire on a long stick. Soon they were steaming morsels. Alan took a small tentative bite, “not bad he thought.” The taste of warm edible food swept over him and he hungrily chewed several more hunks of snake. The flesh was white, slightly chewy and indeed did taste remotely like chicken. He found he preferred the moderately charred pieces of meat. He forced himself to slow down and let his stomach get used to the food. A sense of wellbeing filled him in direct proportion to his stomach being sated and he knew that all would work out well for him.

  Mentally he congratulated himself on how well he had adapted to living in the woods. Tomorrow, he thought, “I’ll find where I hit the river.” He considered trying to cross the river sooner but was afraid he might miss the jeep. The car would be easier to spot from this side. He might also be able to see the road cut up the hillside. However, knowing the road did not parallel the river for long he wasn’t sure how noticeable it would be.

  Before it became dark, he once again collected fresh pine branches to make a bed and blanket. And again he scraped out a small trench between the rock face and his fire. Then, as before, he collected several large flat stones, which he balanced, on edge near the fire. His body was weary from the day’s hike and one meal did not restore lost strength. Soon he felt sleepiness overtaking him. So, he pushed the rocks into the trench with a stout stick. Then he buried them with dirt. On top of this he laid down with the pine branches for a cover. Thus wit
h warmth and a full stomach Alan drifted off to a deep and comfortable sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pioneer Bank was located downtown just three blocks from the Beaumont Police Station. The bank prided itself on being old. The fact it barely survived the Great Depression was rarely mentioned. It was located in a turn of the century brick building, which bespoke respectability. The entry had large wrought iron doors, backed by plate glass.

  Ray Maddox pushed the door open. It was his experience that bankers found policemen asking questions as nerve wracking as robbers wielding guns. He assumed it had to do with not making the customers “nervous.” As a consequence he was out of uniform. It was easier to ask questions without attracting attention. He had walked over from the department to work off the donuts he had eaten for breakfast. The bank metaphorically smelled of old money. Literally, there was a faint musty smell of long years, hard use, and old timbers. Wooden teller cages of the past still lined one wall but they were now ornamental. Maddox’s looked around. At his bank you stood in line and waited for a turn at the counter; here they offered sofas, wing backed chairs and coffee while you waited. Business was transacted at desks, the tellers promoted to “customer attaches”. The carpet was rich and muted any noise. The message was clearly “your money will rest comfortably secure with us.”

  Sergeant Maddox ambled over to the information desk.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Howard.”

  “I’ll check and see if he’s busy.” The girl’s smile was polite but implied that Mr. Howard was sure to be busy. Maddox opened his wallet and flashed his badge.

  “My name’s Maddox, tell him its business.”

  The girls eyes lost a little of their smugness. It was replaced by curiosity, mixed with worry.”

  “I hope nothing is wrong?” she asked

  But Maddox ignored the question and let her dial. She had a hushed conversation on the phone. Afterwards she was far more solicitous. She rose, gestured with her hand and asked, “If you would follow me, please sir?” Maddox could tell she didn’t like cops. She probably didn’t like anyone in authority. They stopped outside a wood paneled door with neat gold lettering. She gestured toward the open door and hurried away from possible trouble.