“Someday, your curiosity will be the death of you, Alan.”
How many times had he heard this before? No matter that he did, someone was always trying to rein him in. Well, no more. Alan was going to do it his way.
Growing up, Alan Bryce Woodson never thought his least favorite activity would get him anywhere—certainly not wealthy beyond belief. Sure, one little short story when he was twelve was cute enough, but he had had to do that: it was part of his final grade in English class. Now, twenty-one years and millions of dollars later, Alan was set to finally be out from under it all: the deadlines, the impossible editors, and the ‘book signing smiles’ he wore for so long it made his face hurt. No one could have imagined what he had been planning since his first novel made the New York Times bestseller list. In some ways, they were right about his curiosity: it was going to get him killed but not in some random, luckless fashion. No, Alan was going to take back control of his life the only way he knew how: by ending it.
At just twelve years of age, his first story was published, awarded first prize in every contest imaginable, and the rights sold to a major motion picture studio. From the outside, things seemed perfect. The young man enjoyed the trappings of his early success, but, quickly, things turned sour for him. Adolescent Alan craved privacy, and if there was one thing overnight celebrity did not afford you—it was time alone. His parents, thinking they were providing Alan a “well-rounded life,” began acting as his management team. They sent him to writer’s camps in the summer and, in the fall, a super-exclusive creative arts school for the gifted. He did the best he could to keep up appearances: smile and nod, smile and nod, etc. From these summer camps, Alan gained something that came to play a major role in a most personal story he was secretly crafting: a love of the woods.
His love for everything outdoors was further cultivated by his grandparent’s retirement house. This was neither the nursing nor the assisted living variety of your average old folk’s home. No, the Ray and Pat Connington place was one of a kind. Located in the mountains of Colorado, their log, ranch style retreat was accessible only by one-lane gravel path. Just up the road from an enormous reservoir lake, it was remote but replete with tantalizing opportunities for adventure around every bend. Phantom Creek Ranch, as Ray had named it, held Alan spellbound from the first moment he saw it.
Shortly after his fourteenth birthday, Alan convinced his parents to allow him to fly unaccompanied to spend part of his summers there. Of course, even this many miles away from his Pennsylvania home, the arrangement was not without strings attached. Alan’s mother and father, ever so concerned with his “gift” and development as a writer, made him promise to write at least three short stories by the end of every stay at Phantom Creek. As was his wont, young Alan never missed a deadline. In fact he could have turned them in early—he wrote every single story months before he stepped on the plane. Maybe his resentment towards his parents caused Alan to resort to deception. Whether this was the first time Alan engaged in trickery or not, he could not remember. Regardless, it was certainly not the last time that he responded to imposed obligation with deceit. No, like everything else he felt forced to do, Alan simply mastered it.
Alan would master many things during his summers in the woods. Far removed from the hubbub of city life—fishing, hunting, camping, and rock climbing all became second nature to him. Grandpa Ray taught the inquisitive teen all he knew about surviving in the mountains, and he showed Alan hard-to-reach places located high on the ridges of the surrounding peaks. As the years went by, Alan began to explore this mountainous playground on his own. Asked years later what Alan might have been doing up there by himself for hours on end, both Granddad and Grandma Connington replied, “My! We have no idea! He was such a quiet boy—kind of mysterious really. Alan was always coming up with these outlandish tales he would recite for us at the dinner table. What a tragedy; he’ll be missed dearly.”
“So what exactly are you telling us, De-TECT-ive?” demanded Mr. Woodson.
There they were, the three of them, at the edge of the cliff overlooking the Animas River. Barely visible above two feet of snow on the ground was the top of a climber’s spike. From it dangled the frayed end of a rope.
“I am trying to explain to you folks that all we found back at the campsite was a bedroll, some food, water, and a writer’s journal. That’s it. Now, I am sorry for your loss, but it appears that he is just . . . gone.” Detective First Grade Tom Schneider, Colorado State Police (Missing Persons Unit), was trying his best to present the facts—what little there were. “Look, I am truly sorry for your loss, but we have done all we can here. We just wrapped up the biggest manhunt in this state since D.B. Cooper. We dedicated more men, machines, and money to this thing than ever before. We know your son was famous and . . .”
“Famous has nothing to do with it!” Mr. Woodson spat back. “We need our son, and YOU couldn’t find him! Now what are we supposed to do, Detective?”
“Sir, Ma’am, believe me. If anything turns up, we will re-open this investigation and be all over every clue. But, for now, why don’t you go home? We’ve all been out here—in the mountains—in the bitter cold and snow, for weeks now. He just isn’t here. I am sorry to say, but he is gone. Mr. and Mrs. Woodson, as far as the Colorado State Police is concerned, Alan Bryce Woodson is dead.”
After several months, life went back to normal—as much as it could for the Woodsons and Alan’s grandparents: the Conningtons. Ray and Pat sat on their back patio enjoying another extraordinary afternoon at Phantom Creek. The sun soaking the mountains, the wind dancing through the chimes, hummingbirds dive-bombing the feeders hung lazily from the edge of the roof, and Cody, their barn cat, chasing one of a hundred little chipmunks that often darted through the grass in the eleven acres of land on which the house sat.
“Cody, be careful!” Grandma Connington chided the cat as it nearly fell off the top of the fence from where it was preparing to launch itself. “Sometimes I think that cat has a death-wish the way she’s always looking for trouble,” Grandma said to no one in particular.
“I know what you mean, Pat; reminds me of a young man I once knew: always into some new and dangerous adventure. Like they say, ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’” Granddad added. This last comment silenced both of them.
“Yeah, but, you know what I say, Granddad?” Alan interjected. Of course, no one knew him by that name now. He was Robert Noble: eccentric hunting guide and mountain recluse, an identity he had written into existence, complete with bank accounts (financial records show the deposits made every summer for the past ten years) and multiple forms of identification. “Sometimes curiosity does kill the cat, but that doesn’t mean it has to die.” The three laughed and returned their collective gaze to the splendor of the mountains surrounding them. These mountains not only buried the past but also held the promise of a new beginning. They were all curious what the future would hold.
