Page 48 of Inside Silence
This is on me.
I should’ve handled this as soon as I found out Sanchuk had been responsible for chasing Nathan out of town. Worse, he used the threat of falsifying evidence to implicate an innocent man in something he didn’t do.
It’s just been so crazy. Even with the CID now in charge of the Franklin Wyatt case and our department only responsible for Ben Rogers’s murder investigation, this has been such a busy week. It doesn’t help the town’s Harvest Fest is only a little over a week away and I’m getting pulled into the planning at this point. With all that going on, tracking down Jeff Sanchuk has slid way down my list of priorities.
That was a mistake.
My mistake.
The moment I leave the hospital, finding Sanchuk becomes priority one on my list. I head straight for his address. For a moment I think about calling in backup, but first I want to make sure he’s home.
The bungalow is as dark as it was when I came looking for him last time and his vehicle is still parked in the driveway. I also notice some flyers and a couple of papers on his doormat that weren’t there last time, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s been here at all since then.
A small niggle of doubt worms its way in, as I consider the possibility he took off after leaving the department. Maybe he took a vacation somewhere. Of course, if that’s the case, he couldn’t have been the one to attack Nate.
I’m startled by a knock on my window and I find Mrs. Dixon on the sidewalk, holding on to her walker with one hand while trying to peer into my cruiser.
“Mrs. Dixon,” I start as I get out from behind the wheel. “What are you doing here?”
Never mind that she lives right down the street, she shouldn’t be wandering around the neighborhood when it’s already almost dark out. The sidewalks are uneven and the streetlights are sparse. She could easily fall.
“Stretching my legs. It’s a nice night, not too cold, and I’m trying to get my steps in.”
“Your steps?”
She pulls back the sleeve on her right arm, revealing a Fitbit on her wrist.
“I’m short about eight hundred on my daily quota,” she explains. “That’s about as much as a round trip to the community mailbox at the end of the street.”
“Quota?”
I’m only five four, but with her shoulders and back so stooped, the woman has to turn her head sideways to be able to look up at me.
“Yes, I’m going for five thousand steps a day. Gertrude Vanderzand told me she does seven thousand and she’s seen a huge improvement in her health. She’s even lost some weight. She came to visit me after I fell and showed me a website where I could join this virtual walking group. It came with this handy watch that keeps track of everything for me, so I signed up.”
Oh dear.
Gertrude Vanderzand is late fifties, maybe sixties, but definitely far from her eighties, and in good physical shape. The last I heard she was making money doing chair yoga videos for her YouTube channel. Before that, it had been selling nutritional supplements, and I believe she even tried her hand at teaching Zumba classes in the church basement at some point.
She’s one of Silence’s more colorful individuals and always seems to find ways to capitalize on the latest fitness craze.
“I guess there’s nothing wrong with a little extra exercise,” I start cautiously. “But maybe five thousand steps is a little excessive to start with? Have you talked to Doc Wilson about this?”
She shrugs her hunched shoulders. “No need, they have medical professionals virtually monitoring. Isn’t technology amazing? Besides, since Doc Wilson took his partial retirement it’s almost impossible to get in for an appointment.”
Unfortunately, that’s true. I know my friend Dana, the clinic’s nurse practitioner, is constantly swamped. We have a dire shortage of primary care physicians here. That’s why Doc’s retirement is only partial until we can find someone to take his place, but it hasn’t been easy to draw fresh blood to Silence.
“Anyway, enough about me,” she declares. “How come you’re sitting here at the curb?”
“I’m actually looking for Jeff Sanchuk,” I explain casually. “But I guess he’s not home.”
“Coho are spawning. He’s got a fishing shack up river. I’m guessing that’s where he went.”
I should’ve thought of that, I knew he was an avid fisherman.
“Any idea where up river?”
Up river is north of town, generally speaking, but that in itself is an obscure description, since there are about seventy miles of mostly unpopulated wilderness between us and the Canadian border. He could be anywhere.
