Free Fall

Thirty-Four

North Dakota

Robert Cole pounded on the door of the double-wide trailer that served as the office for Riverwind Self-Storage before reading the hours-of-operation sign in the window.

The office was closed.

He cursed then saw the number to call in case of emergency, took out his phone and called it. He got a voice mail, left a message, then called the Clear River police.

“I want to report a robbery. A break-in and theft of property.” Cole gave the police operator details. Then he sat down and waited on the wooden steps in front of the office and battled the panic surging through him.

He struggled to fathom why his belongings had been taken, while contending with the chilling fact that it was now hopeless for him to even attempt a solution to prevent another airline tragedy.

Some fifteen minutes later, a Clear River police car, along with a pickup truck, rolled up to the gate. Officer Ken Bropton and Chester Yakawich, the owner of Riverwind, had arrived. Yakawich, who had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth, retrieved a clipboard and keys from the office. The three men walked quickly to unit 108, Yakawich’s keys jingling as Cole recounted his shock and anger. Bropton immediately inspected the door.

“Doesn’t look like forced entry,” he said.

“That’s because it wasn’t.” Yakawich pulled out his cigar and snapped through pages of his clipboard. “Nothing was stolen. All the contents were auctioned on the weekend.”

“Auctioned?” Cole repeated. “Who gave you permission to auction my property?”

“You did, sir.”

Cole shook his head.

“I certainly did not.”

Bropton shot a glance to Yakawich, who suggested they go to the office. Once they were in the trailer, Yakawich went to the steel cabinets against one paneled wall. He sifted through files, removed one and consulted it.

“Yeah,” Yakawich said, “it’s what I thought. You called us on the twenty-sixth of last month, Mr. Cole, and told us to auction the contents of your unit. I sent Becky to your place. You signed the paperwork and gave us your spare key.” Yakawich handed a contract to Bropton, who gave it a quick read and passed it to Cole. “She said you weren’t feeling so good that day.” Yakawich gave Bropton a subtle look. “And, I’m sorry, but we found a lot of empty liquor bottles in your unit.”

“I don’t think this is a police matter,” Bropton said.

Cole stared disbelievingly at his signature and traveled across a wasteland of fog-shrouded memories.

It was true. In a fit of booze-drenched emotional pain he’d decided to jettison all his belongings, but he’d been too drunk to remember.

“In any event-” Yakawich went to his desk and passed an envelope to Cole “-we’ve just processed your check. Here it is, four-hundred and fifty, after our fees. The invoice and list of items are in there.”

“Who bought my property? There’s something of value I need to retrieve. Where is it?”

“It’s on your invoice, but I can tell you that it went to Kord Pitman. He’s a second-hand dealer in Bismarck.”

“Would he still have it? It was only last weekend.”

“I’ll give him a call for you right now if you like, sir.”

“Please, it’s urgent.”

The distance to Bismarck from Clear River was over three hundred miles and was usually a four-hour drive. Cole made it in a little over three and a half, heading directly to the High Plains Vintage Emporium.

The business was in the northeast fringe of Bismarck, on a stretch of flatland with an aging farmhouse and an enormous metal Quonset hut. Behind it, there was an array of used cars, trucks, farm vehicles and heavy equipment. Three large German shepherds roamed the grounds freely.

“Well, like I said on the phone, Mr. Cole-” Liz Pitman led him into the massive Quonset hut “-you’re more than welcome to take a look. See if you can find what you want. Then we can talk.”

The hut was crammed with rows of huge storage shelves groaning under the weight of beds, tables, dressers, stoves, fridges, sofas, TVs, desks, paintings, driers, washers, clothing, books, toasters, blenders, it went on and on. Dust mites danced in the columns of sunlight leaking through the tiny rooftop windows. The place had an air of discarded dreams.

“The load from Clear River was recent and hasn’t been processed.”

“Processed?”

“As you can see, we distribute items to the proper area,” Liz said. “Kord’s in Idaho, so Jess and Dwight were working on it this morning. All the new items are near the back. So what was it you were most concerned about?”

“The contents of two metal file cabinets.”

“There you go and there they are.” Liz pointed.

Cole’s cabinets stood alone in an area near all the other material from his storage unit.

“Now we’ll be happy to sell it back to you.”

Cole opened the first cabinet. It was empty. So was the second.

“These were filled with files and material. Where is it?”

“Hold on.” Liz reached for her phone.

She made a call, then turned away from Cole to talk privately, which he took as a bad sign, as he searched among the other items. He touched things that had belonged to his wife and to his daughter. In this place, it made him realize how short and fragile life was.

“Sir?”

Cole turned to her. His heart skipped.

“We usually recycle all paper material, and that’s where my sons are now, at the recycling plant. They had a large load and added your material to it.”

“So it’s gone?”

“No. I stopped them, but if they bring the load back, that’ll be an additional cost.”

“I’ll pay it! Get them back here as soon as possible, please!”

For thirty-five tense minutes Cole waited with Liz, until the dogs barked and a five-ton truck grinded up to the hut’s back door. As country music leaked from the truck-Johnny Cash-Liz and her sons helped Cole locate his property. After he’d agreed to a payment of four hundred dollars, they’d helped him load his pickup truck.

During the long, lonely drive back to Clear River, Cole considered all of his items bundled in the bed of his truck.

I don’t know if I still have the skill to develop an answer to the system’s weakness. His hands tightened on the wheel. And do I have the time before the next tragedy?