Chapter 1

Mona heard the phone ring. “Coming, coming,” she muttered and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

Mrs Dubois? This is Christie. I’m calling because ... well, because ... Alice is missing.

“Missing?”

She didn’t show up for work day before yesterday and no one has seen her.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

I ... I’m sorry, Mrs Dubois but I didn’t want to worry you.

“Has she wandered off before?”

No. Never.

“Well -- she used to. Have you called the authorities?”

Yes. Now that she’s been gone forty-eight hours the police can take a missing persons report.

“Is her truck gone?” Mona asked.

Yes. We have some surveillance video of her getting into the truck on the evening of the tenth. We ... I was hoping, maybe, she’d be headed your way.

“It’s a long drive from Des Moines to Billings,” Mona remarked. “Did she pack a bag?”

Not as far as I can tell. Her room looks just like always...

“No doubt a pigsty,” Mona remarked.

If she started on the tenth ... well, the authorities wanted me to let you know and to ask you to keep an eye out for her.

Mona drew in a deep breath. “We’ve been through this before, Christie. I wish you had called sooner.” She set down the handset.

Her husband Richard stepped into the living room. “Trouble?”

“It’s Alice. She’s missing.”

“I thought she had outgrown that behavior,” Richard replied.

“That was her roommate in Des Moines. Her truck is gone and Christie thought maybe she’s headed this way.”

“It’s a long shot. I’ll call Bill Pfeiffer and tell him to keep an eye out for it. She’s still driving that maroon S-10?”

“As far as I know.”

“The one with the Save the Whales bumper sticker?”

“That’s the one.”

“Never understood how many whales we can save in Montana ... or, Iowa.” Richard picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Sheriff Pfeiffer, please. Tell him it’s Rich...”
Mona sat with a photo album on her lap. On the mantle were photographs of two young people -- a girl with a round face and wavy, light brown hair and a boy with strong features and a crew cut. Richard sat beside her.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said. “I don’t think we’re going to see Alice again.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“She always was difficult -- the worry she gave me in high school.”

“She did seem to settle down in her junior year,” Richard replied. “After all, she did graduate near the top of her class.”

“She had little interest in going to college -- ended up with a two-year degree in social work from the local technical school. Then, off to Des Moines to help runaway girls. For the past six years she’s been practically volunteering her time. What kind of a career is that? She never visits and rarely calls ... Now, this.”

The front door opened and a young man entered. Mona looked up. “Lyman -- thanks for coming.”

“I came as soon as I got your message.” He picked up Alice’s photograph from the mantle. “My sister always was a little touched in the head.”

“That hardly helps, Lyman,” his father chided.

“It’s true.” Lyman sat beside his mother and looked at the photo album.

“He’s right, Richard. Lyman -- I have had my worries over you; but nothing like the worries I’ve had for Alice.”

“There’s at least one thing you didn’t need to worry about,” Lyman remarked.

Mona turned a leaf in the album to a photograph of a slightly overweight teenaged girl in a swimsuit. “What’s that?”

“You never needed to worry about Alice getting knocked up.”

“Lyman -- watch your language,” his father retorted.

“What do you mean?” Mona asked.

“She’s a lesbian.”

“I never got that impression from her. What makes you say that?”

“I thought it was common knowledge ... especially after the Margaret Ackerman business.”

“Let’s not bring up Margaret Ackerman,” Mona replied and looked up at her son. “What do you know about Margaret?”

“Only that Alice had the hots for her in ninth grade. She’d hang around Margaret’s locker ... the poor girl thought she was being stalked. Margaret wanted nothing to do with her. I think it was when Alice wanted to take Margaret’s picture with that Mavica camera she got for Christmas that really creeped her out. Alice wrote some notes that Margaret passed around.”

“You were a freshman at State when Alice was in ninth grade. How did you hear about it?”

“From Donny Marks. I’m real happy I had graduated, otherwise everyone would’ve teased me, too.”

“Poor Alice...”

“Donny said she wasn’t interested in any of the boys at school -- and I assure you, the feeling was mutual. What do you know about this chick she’s living with in Des Moines?”

“They’re roommates,” Richard replied sternly. “Alice and Christie share an apartment.”

“Right. Roommates with benefits. Have you ever met this Christie?”

“No, I can’t say we have.”

“Now she’s run off again,” Lyman remarked.

“She hasn’t done that since ninth grade,” Richard replied.

“Well, she has gone and done it again. What do we do? Sit and wait?”

“Christie thinks she might be headed here,” Mona replied.

“What makes her say that?”

“A hunch I think. If she is, there’s nothing to do until she shows up. If not -- there’s nothing for us to do until we get word from Des Moines.”

“Or, from any point in between.”

The phone rang and Richard answered. “Hello? Oh, hi, Bill...” He listened. “I see. Where?” He listened again. “We’ll meet you there.” He hung up the phone and looked toward Mona. “That was Bill Pfeiffer. They found Alice’s truck.”

Lyman jumped to his feet. “Where?” Mona asked.

“Just off Route Three -- the northeast corner of the ranch.”

“Any sign of her? Of foul play?” Lyman asked.

“It’s really weird. The keys were in the ignition. Her clothes were neatly stacked on the front seat.”

“Her clothes?” Lyman asked.

“Yes, along with her cell phone, bag and wallet. Credit cards, cash -- all there. And, there was a strongbox sitting on the seat.” He picked up his keys. “Bill’s waiting for us.”

Richard hopped into the driver’s seat of his F250 and started the engine. Lyman sat in the back seat and Mona in the front, beside him. He turned onto Route Three and headed North. Ahead he spotted the lights of the sheriff’s squad car.

He turned off the highway and hiked to where the maroon S10 sat parked and approached the sheriff. “Bill -- anything?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. No sign of struggle.”

“Footprints? Can you tell which way she went?”

“This dirt is rock-hard. We just had the K9 unit in here. Gave ‘em a whiff of her clothes. They nosed around in circles for a while. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”

Richard approached Alice’s truck. “May I?”

Bill shrugged. “Go ahead. We’ve got all we can get from it ... which isn’t much.”

Richard opened the door. Lyman looked over his shoulder. “Yep ... clothes, wallet, phone. What’s in the box?”

“Dad,” Lyman said, “that’s the box she used to keep her journal in. I remember trying to break the lock once. She caught me and slapped me silly.”

Richard tested the lock on the box. “It won’t budge.”

Lyman took the keys from the ignition. “Maybe one of these will open it.”

Richard flipped through the keys on the ring and found one that looked like it would fit the lock. He inserted it, turned it and the lock popped open. Lifting the lid on the box he found a spiral-bound notebook with a Post-It sticking out of the middle of the leaves.

He opened the notebook and found a loose leaf of paper. “It’s Alice’s handwriting,” he said, “and with yesterday’s date.” He began reading it aloud.

-- September 18, 2011

Dear Mom and Dad. Please don’t worry for me, for I have gone to a better place, a place where I can find happiness. Don’t ask where this place is for I truly don’t know for sure myself. I am fulfilling a promise I made a decade ago.

Rather than try to explain, I’ve left behind my journal. The whole story is in these pages. Mom, Dad -- I’m sure you’ll find some of these words difficult to read. I wouldn’t want you to read them in my presence. I wouldn’t want you to read them if I thought I’d see you again. I wrote them in detail because I wanted to remember every detail. I wrote them for me and no one else. Now I’m leaving them behind as a way to explain where it is I’ve gone, and why. -- Alice

Richard turned the page and began reading. “It’s dated Friday, fifth of April, 2002 ... nearly ten years ago,” he remarked and continued reading.