A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Fifteen

Thursday, 6:45 n.M, Ogden, Utah

Spring and summer in Ogden, Utah, are hotter than hell, but few of those living there would ever deign to use such a vulgar metaphor when describing what they knew to be the Promised Land. Ogden was a burgeoning Mormon enclave of pristinely maintained homes set behind sidewalks that had never seen a chalk mark since the day Mexican workers poured them. Lawns were green and weed-free. Sprinklers on timers sprayed their staccato blast of water only at night. Everything was perfectly ordered and ordered perfectly.

But something was awry on Foster Avenue. Newspapers had piled up on the steps that set the stage for an imposing double front door. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. The Salt Lake City Tribune was literally loitering on the ideal tableau of a good Mormon home.

The paperboy-a girl named Tracy Ross-told her mother that she was worried about the Chapmans at 4242 Foster Ave., an especially nice street of upscale homes with swim ming pools and built-in barbecue pits. The girl, fourteen, had an excellent relationship with everyone on her route.

"They usually tell me when they go out of town," she said over a family dinner of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

"Maybe it slipped Mrs. Chapman's mind." Tracy's mom, Annette, offered.

"That's right," Rod Ross said. "This is a busy time of year." He smiled broadly at his brood of six children, Tracy being the oldest of four girls and two boys. Dinner conversation was always pleasant. They didn't allow TV in the house. "Think about it. Think about how busy we are. Try not to worry, Sweet Pea. All's well in Ogden."

"All right, Father," Tracy said. She finished her meal, still worried about the Chapmans. There were only three of them. Mr. and Mrs. and their daughter, nineteen, a bookworm named Misty. How busy could they be?