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

  He picked up the flannel shirt. It was almost dry. He slipped it on. Then he took up a smoke and lit it. The butt glowed as he puffed on it and smoke curled out with his breath. Relaxing with the comfort of smoke, he permitted himself to consider his situation. Despite his earlier conclusion that he must save himself, he now felt that opinion was rash and not entirely accurate. Though no one was looking for him, Lilly be expecting his call. Surely, when he didn’t get in touch, she would alert the authorities. As for no one knowing where to look, Lilly would naturally assume he had gone to the cabin. In a day, perhaps two, he was sure to see rescue helicopters searching for him. He would have to wait. There weren’t any other options.

  Alan sipped a cup of coffee. It was warmish now, but he luxuriated in the taste. It would be some time before he would know it again. All too soon, the shadows closed in on him. It was cooler and he realized it might be a very long cold night when it came. His perch received four or five hours of direct sun each day, for the remainder it was cooled by the stone, the water, and the breeze that formed as air settled through the gorge. He was hungry, but he told himself to wait. The sparse ration of candy would be more needed and appreciated in the night, which lay ahead. He wanted another cigarette already, but denied himself that too.

  To distract himself he picked up the book, its sodden pages sticking together. It was a copy of “On Death and Dying” by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. Dr. Hench, his therapist, had recommended it to him at their last session. Upon reading the back cover he realized it was familiar, it had been used in the movie All That Jazz, Ben Vereen was a nightclub performer whose comedy routine was based on the book. The film had thrown the viewer into the face of death. Alan had taken all of his friends to see it. He saw it nine times. Everyone hated it! He began to read the book.

  He disliked what he considered were the author’s easy assumptions about death. Kubler-Ross broke the process of death or grief into five phases: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. As he read, his thoughts often drifted off in consideration of some aspect of her arguments. Before he knew it the day was spent and the light failing. A chill wrapped itself around him; he shivered at the thought of the cold hours to come. He slipped on his poly-fill jacket. The book was tucked away in his pack and he broke out half a candy bar for dinner. He nibbled at it, like a mouse with a piece of cheese, making it last as long as possible.

  Night closed in around him. He wished it were cloudy, then the earth’s heat would be held in and reflected back, but it was crystal clear. The night passed slowly as the stars inched across the narrow stretch of sky he could see. They were bright diamonds in the blackness of space that vanished behind the even blacker cliff face. Leo came and went, followed by Bootes, Hercules, and clusters he didn’t recognize. Huddled against the rock he dozed. When he awoke Deneb was bright above him and then it faded as dawn spread its reach across the sky.

  As a matter of habit, and for something to do, he shaved. The water he splashed on his face burned with iciness, he lathered and then using his hand mirror to see, swept his face clean of the stubble. All would be right. Someone would find him, he wouldn’t be found helpless and bedraggled. There was comfort in the mundane act of shaving. He ate the other half of the candy bar, longed for a cup of coffee, and brushed his teeth. The water made his teeth ache. He drank some to assuage his thirst, but it put a chill into him, which left him shivering and longing for the morning sun.

  He paced the rock to loosen up, but then huddled up again to save body heat and calories. His inventory of food was sparse. Despite the fact he was now warmer than during the night before, he had inklings of anxiety. An idea gnawed at his consciousness. He pushed it away for fear of giving it full reign, the niggling idea, “What if no one ever comes?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alan did not call Monday afternoon nor that evening. Lilly tried to sleep but it eluded her as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Finally, she rose Tuesday morning while it was still dark and went for a run, but even that failed to burn off the nervous energy that left her fingers drumming on her office desktop or her foot and knee bouncing as she tried to work.

  It was late morning when Lilly remembered she hadn’t called in sick for Alan at his office the day before. It left her in a panic because two months previous Alan had been forced to take emergency leave from his office after what Lilly referred to as “the incident.” He began having panic attacks. He stopped sleeping, and became frayed around the edges. His attacks had been more frequent. He tried to hide them from his co-workers, but explanations had to be made to his boss. Mr. Voss made all the usual supportive comments, then went on to stress how important it was he had reliable stable employees. Furthermore he trusted this wouldn’t be a recurring problem. Alan returned to work and things seemed okay, though he felt Voss gave him closer scrutiny than before. Soon, he felt like he was a bug under glass.

  Dialing the number for Alan’s office, Lilly kicked herself that she hadn’t called. Alan might not have a job at all now. She was wondering what to say. Shauna the receptionist answered the phone.

  “Voss and associates, may I help you?” she said in a bright singsong voice.

  “Yes, this is Lilly Chandler,” said Lilly.

  Before she was able to continue, Shauna interrupted.

  “Is Mister Chandler still sick? I received the e-mail he sent Sunday night. And when I didn’t hear from him today I put him on the sick list again.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he’s worse!” said Lilly, making up her story as she spoke. He went to the doctor’s office. Doctor Ames wrote him a prescription and ordered him to several days’ bed rest.

  “I hope it isn’t serious,” volunteered Shauna as a phone rang in the background. “I have another call! If that’s all I have to go.” Lilly said good-bye and hung up. If Alan wanted to keep his job he had better turn up pretty soon.

  She tried to work while she impatiently for Alan’s call, but it failed to come. During the afternoon she had found it increasingly difficult to focus on her work. Several times she had dialed his phone only to hear a recording that the number was out of their calling area or not in service. By the time she left her office Tuesday evening she was certain that something was wrong. When she arrived home the house was dark. The red light on her answering machine showed no new messages. She dropped her purse on the counter and opened the phone book in search of Dr. Hench’s phone number. An electronic service answered and a disembodied voice listed the Doctors hours. It gave certain voice mail options, including one for emergencies, and told the listener to leave their message at the tone. Lilly wondered what the effect was on patients with self-esteem issues. Or, how did the suicidal patient feel when he or she called. She paused, wondering why she had thought of suicides. After the tone, she left the message:

  “Doctor Hench, this is Lilly Chandler, the wife of Alan Chandler. He’s disappeared and I’m concerned, could you please contact me?”

  She left her home and cell phone numbers, punched the emergency send option * 611, and hung up to await his call.

  Alan referred to Hench as his neo-Freudian shrink, though he was neither. Peter Hench had a doctorate in psychology and leaned more toward Rodgerian therapy than Freudian analysis. He was more concerned with his clients being functional today, than understanding their past. Certainly, case histories were important, but in his opinion it was possible to wallow in them. He had been seeing Alan for two months. He sensed that Alan was caught in an intellectual game that could be sparred with indefinitely and never resolved. How does the finite answer the infinite? What is beyond the edge of the universe, or the vale of death? If it were possible to phrase the answer in human speech, it would probably still be incomprehensible to man. Doctor Hench focused on the symptoms, which adversely affected Alan’s life. He had done some behavioral modification exercises with Alan who exhibited traces of obsessive-compulsive behavior in his thinking. Excessive hand washing can be bad for the skin; excessive brain wash
ing is bad for the mind. Alan accused him of avoiding the real issue, the problem of existence. The Doctor had countered that Alan used his anxieties to avoid the problems of existing. An insoluble conundrum might still be a straw dog.

  Doctor Hench was in a session when the call came. A red emergency light blinked on his phone. It was ten minutes to the hour, only five minutes until the end of his session. Rather than interrupt a couple that were making some startling headway after several weeks of bitter acrimony he let the call wait. By the time the couple finished and left the office he forgot about the message. He finished his notes from the session, locked the door, and took the elevator down the five floors to the lobby. He was in a hurry to get home because he had a promising date with a nubile thing he had met at his gym. They were to meet for drinks later that evening and then who knows what might happen, he thought. He was on the highway home when he remembered the message. He irritated another driver with his weaving as he dialed his service. When he retrieved the message, he sighed. It was likely another couple with marital discord. “Why was matrimony so hard?” he asked himself. Never having been able to answer this question, he remained single.

  Before he could dial he saw a series of cars crash in what seemed a dance. They came together as though choosing partners. They moved apart, jostling each other on the crowded road, then coming together again and they began to toss and turn each other in a shocking display of abandon. Undercarriages were revealed, flips performed, and spins executed. The highway lit up in a glow of red brake lights. Traffic came to a standstill. By the time he tried his cell phone there was no dial tone, just a disembodied chant, that “at this time all circuits are busy.”

  While he waited, Doctor Hench thought about Lilly. He had found Lilly both attractive and pleasant when they first met. He had felt on a couple of occasions that a joint session together might be helpful. Alan’s anxiety attacks had badly frightened her when they became evident. For years he had hidden them from everyone, including his wife. She expressed difficulty in seeing why Alan couldn’t just let things go. Hench had made some explanations, discussed communication skills, and urged her to be supportive. He had pressed Alan not to be tiresome by dragging his wife into what was a non-discussion for her. But Lilly had become more troubled by his anxiety attacks, than his philosophical questions. She feared his loss of control.

  Lilly pulled a salad pack from the refrigerator. She dumped a mound of lettuce in a bowl, covered it with croutons, and then buried it under an avalanche of blue cheese dressing. Sitting at the kitchen’s white tiled bar top, she stared out her window at the last streaks of sunset. The pinks faded, the blue lost its depth of color. The sky became faded as though suffering from too many washings. She continued to spear leaves of lettuce and absentmindedly munch them. By the time the salad was gone she was staring, yet unseeing, into the black void framed by the window.

  Her reverie was broken by the burbble of the telephone. There had been a time when phones made harsh sounds. They made a noise that set nerves on edge and woke the dead. Now they burbbled. No more cacophony, just chimes, tinkling, hums, and burrbles.

  She bestirred herself and caught the phone before her machine kicked in on the tenth ring. Only the persistent survived to leave a message. Her friends knew this; hucksters and promoters usually gave in and hung up. The urgency she felt had waned while she ate, but now the coals were stirred and the flame reignited.

  “Hello,” a trace of panic found itself in her voice.

  “This is Doctor Hench returning your call. I apologize for the delay but there was a six-car pile up on the highway. Everyone turned on their cell phone at the same time and the circuits became grid locked. What is your emergency?”

  “Have you seen Alan?” she queried.

  “Not since our session last Thursday. Why?”

  “He’s missing. Did he talk about something particular bothering him?”

  “I can’t discuss our sessions, confidentiality excludes even spouses. But what has happened?”

  “Alan’s disappeared. I’m certain something is wrong!”

  Hench heard the anxiety seeping from her voice. He had heard such dire declarations before. As a rule, they proved false, but every rule has its exceptions. His exception was a client who called in a panic about her missing spouse. It was later established she had already murdered her husband when she called him. It was a clever attempt to establish an alibi based on prior concern.

  Lilly was so wound up and Dr. Hench was unable to follow her story. He cut in.

  “Please start at the beginning and tell me what’s happened.”

  Lilly recounted their fight. It seemed absurd in the telling. She wondered if defendants in the docket felt as silly when called to justify their behavior. Then suddenly her anxiety rolled back over her like a wave. “Something must be wrong!” she said after reading Alan’s note aloud and mentioning her anxiety at its ambiguity.

  “I’ve tried his cell phone all day.”

  “He may not want to be reached,” said Hench. “But, to answer your question, I didn’t sense Alan to be at a point of crises when we met.”

  “But he hasn’t called.”

  “Perhaps he’s still angry, I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon. If he should call me I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t worry. He probably just needs some space.”

  She sensed Hench’s eagerness to end the call. The phone connection was cut. Lilly felt foolish after hanging up the phone. Doctor Hench obviously found her worry to be excessive. It was getting late, yet Alan might still call tonight. Or perhaps he was still angry. On the other hand he almost always did what he said he would do. Her mind vacillated back and forth.

  Certainly, Alan had gone to their cabin, she told herself. They didn’t have a phone at the house and the cell reception was weak. It was probable that he was snuggled up in front of a warm fire while she sat here dying of needless worry. She decided to call their agent Herb Lanski at Bay Shore Realty. They had bought the cabin through Bay Shore. However, the cost of keeping a second home proved unexpectedly high. Gradually it had become a financial albatross around their necks. Vainly hoping to defray some of the cost they had listed it, with Herb, as a vacation rental. Aside from occasional rentals in the summer, a time when they were most likely to use it themselves, the rental hadn’t been much help. Six months ago they had put it up for sale. They had listed the cabin for less then they had paid for it yet so far there had been no offers. Herb said that the market was slow and that demand was off for vacation homes until the economy picked up. Lilly dialed the number for Bay Shore but on the fourth ring a machine answered it. Herb always sounded mildly apologetic whenever he spoke, as if his mere existence might be offensive to someone. His slightly nasal twanged voice droned out, “Bay Shore Realty, we’re really sorry we missed you. Please leave a message and we’ll be glad to return your call.”

  “Hi this is Lilly Chandler. I’m trying to reach Alan. He may have stopped up there on his way back from a business trip and I need to reach him. Could you drop by the house and tell him to call if he’s around.”

  Lilly invented the business trip to avoid explaining why she didn’t know where her husband was. How do you say “My husband has left me and I don’t have any idea where he is?” The white lie avoided awkward questions.

  She hung up and checked the number for the Red Lake Market. If Alan was at the cabin, he would go into the market and they would know. The Willits had owned the market for twenty-eight years. They worked long days in the summer and short hours during the quieter days of winter. One or the other was in the store whenever it was open. They helped absentee owners with the little things that arose. In the winter, Earl Willet, supplemented their budget by plowing drives for people who called to say they were coming up. The Williits would also hold packages that otherwise might be returned. They offered grocery delivery service for a small charge. But noticing the time she realized the store would be closed and the call would have to wait until the
morning.

  Lilly spent the remainder of her evening in the study, trying to watch television, but she found she failed to follow even the dullest of plots. Finally, she dozed off on the sofa. She awoke and realized it was past mid-night, the clocks twelve somnolent rings had roused her up. She shut off the television, turned off the lights, gave up on the day and went to bed.

  That night she did not sleep well. She had a sense of foreboding. What unknowingly bothered her was her knowledge of Alan’s character. Even if he was still angry he would have called. She suffered a quiet anxiety as she watched the digital numbers sequence through her clock. The seconds flicked by, minutes passed, and then hours. Suddenly it was dawn. Having at last gained sleep Lilly was tempted to put the pillow over her head and seek it again, but the radio alarm was droning on with the morning news. She sat up and turned up the volume in time to catch the weather forecast, spoken at rapid speed by the disc jockey,

  “Overnight highs were higher than normal. Today will be fair and breezy as the high-pressure ridge gives way to a low. We should have dense cloud cover by late tonight, and moderate to heavy showers. As the front rolls into the mountains, we may see snow at higher elevations, perhaps as low as the four thousand foot mark. So take your umbrellas, cuz’ the sunshine’s not gonna’ last.”

  It depressed Lilly. She hated rain. If it were up to her, the world would be sunny everyday and irrigated by subterranean sprinklers. The gray made the world seem flat and devoid of interest.

  She picked up the phone by the bed and tried Alan’s cell phone but she received only the message, “The number you are calling is currently out of service or out of area. Please try your call again later.” Lilly slipped out of bed, put on her robe and turned off the radio. A half hour passed as she showered, dried her hair, donned her light but effective make-up, and dressed for the day. Her dark green dress helped frame her face and accentuated her figure.