“I recognize that tune you’re playing. It’s on a folk-song album my parents have.”
Henry entertained Larry with an instrumental medley of popular folk songs as the boys slowly cruised through Gridley. Impressed by the tree-lined streets of Victorian houses, Craftsman bungalows, and historic brick buildings, Henry said, “It’s hard to imagine anything like that happening in a wonderful little town like this.”
“Anything like what?” said Larry.
“That game warden disappearing. Everyone seems to think he was murdered. It’s been ten or eleven years now. You’d think someone would at least find his car.”
TWELVE
Henry Glance would later describe the last twenty-six miles between Gridley and Chico as a feast for his twenty-year-old eyes, unrivaled by any scenic path he’d ever taken before. Just north of Gridley, on Highway 99, he and Larry passed mile after mile of flooded rice fields occupied by flocks of ducks, geese, and magnificent snow-white swans.
“What are those big white birds?” said Larry.
“Those are whistling swans.”
“No kidding? They make the geese look small.”
“Pull over right here. I want to look at something,” said Henry. Reaching behind his seat, Henry pulled out a pair of binoculars. “You aren’t gonna believe this, but there’s a mature bald eagle perched on top of that old cottonwood snag. Here, take a look.”
“Wow! A real, live bald eagle. I can see its white head.”
“It’s probably a big female. The females are larger than the males.”
“I didn’t know that, Hank. This is already turning into quite an adventure.”
Just south of Chico, Henry and Larry crossed over Butte Creek and remarked how extraordinary it was to have a healthy trout stream flowing on the outskirts of town. Many of Southern California’s rivers and streams had been reduced to polluted puddles or cement-lined ditches where people discarded their bottles, cans, old tires, and stolen shopping carts.
“That’s Butte Creek,” said Henry. “Salmon and steelhead run up that stream during the spawning season. There’s another stream called Chico Creek that runs right through the Chico State campus.”
“How do you know so much about this place?”
“I’ve been doing research. I also sent away for a map of Chico. Highway 32 is coming up. Turn west on Highway 32, which will eventually become 8th Street. When we get to Chestnut Street, turn right, and we’re there.”
“It’s a good thing. I feel like a sardine jammed into this tin can for the last twelve hours. I see Chico has no shortage of trees.”
“That’s what Chico is famous for: tree-lined streets, Chico State College, and Bidwell Park. I read that the original Robin Hood was filmed in Bidwell Park.”
“Hank, you’re a wealth of information.”
“I’m curious about life, Larry. We don’t have much time on this planet, and I want to learn everything I can while I’m here.”
“We’ll have time for that philosophical crap when classes begin in January,” said Larry, straining his eyes to read street signs in the dark. “Right now, I’m more worried about missing Chestnut Street.”
It was 5:15 when Henry knocked on Mrs. Iverson’s door. She was eating dinner with her sister at the time, so she handed Henry a key. “Just take the narrow walkway on the south side of the house. When you get to the end, turn left and you’ll see a door that leads into the basement. Gary lives in the room at the top of the stairs, next to the bathroom. At the bottom of the stairs, you’ll find a hallway with three rooms: two on the right and one on the left. You boys will be at the end, on the left. Make yourselves comfortable. Oh, there’s a pay phone in the hallway that you’re welcome to use. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Henry led Larry around the south corner of the house and down the walkway. Larry pointed out a small, half-open window mounted at ground level. “This must be ours,” he said. “If anyone comes to visit, we’ll see their legs coming down the pathway before they reach the door.”
Opening the door into the basement, Henry and Larry were immediately greeted by a husky, twenty-two-year-old man with reddish-blond hair, a bushy mustache, and freckles. Wearing Bermuda shorts and a yellow Hawaiian shirt, he smiled broadly and extended his right hand. “Hi, I’m Gary Lytle. You must be our new neighbors. Welcome to Mrs. Iverson’s pit.”
“Is that what you call it?” said Henry, chuckling. “I’m Hank Glance, and this is Larry Jansen. Have you lived here long, Gary?”
“Three semesters now. I transferred from Yuba College a year and a half ago. As you can see, this is the luxury suite.” Gary stepped back from his doorway and offered Henry and Larry a view of his eight-by-twelve-foot room, furnished with a twin bed, a four-cubic-foot refrigerator, a one-burner gas range, a cupboard, and a table that also served as a desk.
“Do you cook for yourself or eat at the dining hall?” said Larry, curious about Lytle’s extremely limited living space.
“I cook for myself,” said Lytle. “After spending the last five summers cooking for hungry trout fishermen in the wilds of Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana, I’ve learned to make do with the essentials.”
“That’s interesting,” said Henry. “I’d like to hear more about that when we get a chance.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Gary. “As you can see, my door is always open. By the way, Brad and Dennis, the two guys living in the rooms down the hall, do eat at the campus dining hall.”
“Thanks, Gary,” said Henry. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Flipping on the light, Henry and Larry climbed down the stairs, walked to the end of the hallway, and unlocked the door on the left.
“This is actually a pretty nice setup,” said Henry. “It’s clean, and don’t forget, we have our own window.” The room contained two twin beds, two dressers, two small desks, and a closet. A ledge ran the length of the south wall, and a small, propped-open window adorned the upper right corner.
Henry and Larry spent the next half hour unloading the car and carrying their belongings to the room. As Larry hung clothes in the closet and Henry put sheets on his bed, Larry said, “Hey, Hank, I hear someone walking past our window.”
The basement door opened. “Whaddaya know, it’s the village idiot,” said Gary. “Where you been all day?”
Brad Foster hurried past Lytle’s room and continued down the stairs. “I’ve been at the library,” he shouted back. Unlocking the door to his room, Foster flipped on the light and tossed a stack of books on the bed.
“What were you doing in the library—trying to impress one of your girlfriends?” said Lytle.
The basement door opened for a second time, revealing a thin, dark-haired man wearing black, horn-rimmed glasses. “Hi, Gary. How are you this evening?”
“I couldn’t be better. How’s my buddy Dennis? You must have left before daylight this morning; I didn’t even hear you go out.”
“It was pitch dark when I left for my 7:30 tax class. My day continued to get better after that. I had cost accounting at 11:00 and auditing at 4:00. Between classes, I was in the library studying for finals.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment, my friend.”
“You got that right. Sometimes I think I should have stayed a French major.”
Dennis walked down the hallway and unlocked the door to his room. Turning on the light, he neatly stacked a loose-leaf notebook and three textbooks on the desk. Bleary-eyed and in need of sleep, he managed a convincing smile and stepped across the hallway to meet his new neighbors. “Hello, I’m your next-door neighbor, Dennis D’Agostino.”
“Hi, Dennis. Good to meet you. I’m Hank Glance.”
While shaking Henry’s hand, Dennis saw Larry emerge from the closet. “Wow! You’re a big sonofabitch. Do you play football?”
Before Larry could respond, Brad stepped into the h
allway and shouted, “Lytle, what would you know about studying?”
“Sometimes it’s like a three-ring circus around here,” said Dennis. “Those two never stop bantering with each other, but it’s all in fun. They’re both nice guys.”
“No problem,” said Larry, smiling and extending his hand. “To answer your question, I haven’t played football since high school. I do play baseball, though.”
“What about you, Hank? Do you play baseball?”
Henry shook his head and went back to making his bed.
“That’s kind of a sore subject,” said Larry. “We’ll explain later. Right now, I need to finish hanging these clothes.”
“Brad and I were gonna walk up to Denny’s on 6th and Main. You guys are welcome to join us,” said Dennis.
“We both ate a hamburger a couple hours ago,” said Larry, “but I could choke down somethin’ else before bedtime. How ’bout you, Hank?”
“Yeah, I’ll tag along.”
Just then, Brad popped his head in the doorway. “I see our new neighbors have arrived. I’m Brad. How are ya?” Muscularly built, Brad stood about Henry’s height and had medium-length, sandy-brown hair, brushed straight back. “Have you guys eaten?”
“I just asked them to walk up to Denny’s with us,” said Dennis.
“Good. We’ll ask Lytle if he wants to go, on our way out.”
While polishing off a patty melt, twenty-three-year-old Brad Foster regaled the rest of the group with highlights from his childhood in nearby Orland and the two years he’d spent in the army. “I grew up hunting, fishing, and playing football,” said Brad. “We had one of the best small-school football teams in the country. After graduation in 1962, I spent a couple years in the army before taking advantage of the GI Bill and going back to school.”
“Were you in Vietnam?” said Larry.
“No, I spent most of my military time as an MP in Germany.”
“What do you plan to do when you graduate?” said Henry.
“Probably be a cop. I’m leaning toward law enforcement.”
“This guy’s a walking girl magnet,” said Gary. “He changes girlfriends like the rest of us change our socks.”
“You’re exaggerating, Lytle. By the way, thanks for ruining my date the other night.”
“I think I did you a favor, Brad. Susan didn’t have a sense of humor and obviously wasn’t your type.”
“What about you, Dennis?” said Henry. “What’s your story?”
“After three semesters as a French major, I took out a school loan for several thousand dollars and traveled around Europe for a year. As my nest egg dwindled, I gravitated to a small beach town in Spain, where I played ping pong all day and survived on a daily diet of paella.”
“You’ve heard of pool sharks?” said Brad. “This guy’s a world-class ping-pong player.”
“I was able to make a living at it for over six months,” said Dennis. “Returning to Chico State, I figured I’d have a better chance of earning a decent living and paying back my school loan if I changed my major to accounting.”
“Now it’s your turn, Gary,” said Brad. “If you’re not gonna eat those fries . . .”
“I was an only child,” said Lytle.
“That figures,” commented Brad. “I bet you were spoiled rotten.”
“Not exactly. My parents split up when I was twelve. I ended up living here in California with my mother while my father moved to Colorado to take over his father’s outfitting business.”
“What’s an outfitting business?” said Larry.
“This one’s called Lytle’s Big Sky Outfitters and Guide Service. It’s one of the biggest and oldest outfitters in the Western United States.”
“You still haven’t told me what it is.”
“They either own or lease ranches in Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana. For a hefty price, they provide hunting and fishing opportunities to people who wouldn’t otherwise have access to thousands of acres of unspoiled country inhabited by elk, trophy mule deer, antelope, Rocky Mountain bighorns—you name it. During the summer months, they provide access to some of the finest trout-fishing rivers and streams in the country. Every summer, for the last five years, I’ve worked for my father as a guide and cook for groups of wealthy fishermen.”
“What a great summer job,” said Henry. “Do you get to ride horses?”
“Sure do. I’ve still got the saddle sores to prove it. Sometimes our pack trains go fifteen or twenty miles back into pristine wilderness that would make your eyes pop out.”
“What are your clients like?” said Larry. “I bet you’ve run into some interesting people.”
“They all have one thing in common.”
“Lots of money?” said Henry.
“That’s right. I’ve led pack trips for movie stars, governors, senators, and all kinds of corporate big shots. Most of ’em have been well behaved, but we’ve guided our share of drunks and arrogant assholes.”
“So, are you going to move back there permanently when you finish school?” said Henry.
“That’s the plan. My father wants me to take over the reins from him, like he did for his father. I’ve been learning the business as I go.”
“You two new guys haven’t said much,” said Dennis.
“We’ve been friends since the second grade,” said Larry. “I’ll tell you a little story about something that happened to us about eight years ago. Hank and I had planned to go fishing down in Temecula, where we were living at the time, but our adventure turned out to be much more than we bargained for.”
“Now you have us hooked,” said Gary.
“You tell ’em the rest, Hank.”
“No, you started it, Larry. You finish it.”
“Anyway,” said Larry, “Hank and I saw these two poachers shoot a goose out of season. Hank didn’t want ’em to get away, so he took their keys and threw ’em in the weeds. To make a long story short, the game warden came and busted these guys. Afterwards, he told us about this game warden in Gridley who disappeared, along with his patrol car.”
“I remember when that happened,” said Brad. “It was on TV and in all the local newspapers. I don’t think they ever found the game warden or his car.”
THIRTEEN
Shrouded in bone-chilling fog for weeks on end, Chico in December was a new experience for the boys from Temecula. More than once, they questioned their decision to leave Riverside County, where December temperatures averaged in the mid- to upper sixties.
As junior transfers, Henry and Larry were permitted to register for classes ahead of underclassmen. This didn’t free them from the pandemonium and confusion of obtaining class cards in a gym filled with hundreds of clamoring students. It did, however, improve their odds of securing the classes they needed.
Henry’s rigorous class schedule of lectures, labs, and field trips would be a challenge, and with little financial help from home, a part-time job was essential. By asking around, he learned that a thirty-five-year-old gentleman named Vijay was responsible for hiring student dishwashers for the campus dining halls.
“I will add your name to the waiting list,” said Vijay, “but as you can see, over fifty students are ahead of you.”
That night, Henry dialed his parents’ number from the pay phone in the hallway outside his room. After letting it ring once, he hung up. A few seconds later, the phone rang, and Henry answered. During the conversation with his father, Henry mentioned that he had put his name on a lengthy waiting list for a part-time dishwashing job in the dining halls.
“What are your chances of being hired?” said Will.
“Not good. There’s about fifty students ahead of me.”
“Here’s what you do. At least once a week, go in and ask this B.J. if any job openings have come up. It wouldn’t hurt to even contact him twice a week.”
“It’s Vijay, Dad.”
“What?”
“His name’s Vijay, not B.J.”
“What difference does it make? The point is, a squeaky wheel gets greased. Pretty soon he’ll get to know you, and you’ll be surprised how well that works.”
Henry knocked on Vijay’s office door every Monday morning for the next four weeks. Each time, Vijay would tell him there were no job openings. One Thursday morning during the last week of February, Henry was walking through the campus dining hall when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Mr. Glance,” Vijay said, “one of our noontime dishwashers at Craig Hall has quit. You may have the job if you’ll promise to stop bothering me.”
“Thank you!” said Henry. “What are the hours?”
“Eleven to one, Monday through Friday.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll have just enough time to get there after my 9:30 ornithology class. When do I start?”
“You may start today, after you fill out and sign a few papers.”
Henry repeatedly thanked Vijay for the job offer and couldn’t wait to call and tell his father. A few minutes after signing the papers, he was passing through the campus dining hall breakfast line when an attractive young lady with a gorgeous smile said, “Good morning, Henry. Did I see you talking to Vijay a few minutes ago?”
“Yes, you did,” said Henry, a puzzled look on his face. Who is this vision of loveliness, and how does she know my name? Racking his brain for an answer, Henry remembered having talked to her briefly while on a field trip to Bidwell Park the previous week. He’d been intrigued by her uncanny ability to identify nuthatches, wrens, and warblers simply by listening to their calls. “Oh, you’re Anne, from my ornithology class. I didn’t recognize you with the apron and that net covering your hair.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” said Henry, smiling nervously.
“Did he offer you a job?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. How did—”
Before Henry could finish, the line had moved on and Anne was serving another hungry student. As Henry walked to a table, tray in hand, he glanced back in the direction of the food line and caught Anne watching him. Seeing his glance, she averted her gaze.
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 9