by Lois Duncan
“He’ll know the car is missing,” said Bruce.
“I’ll tell him I’m getting a new paint job. He won’t question that.” He paused. “Say, Brucie?” He flicked off the flashlight.
“Yes?” Bruce strained to see his face in the sudden darkness.
Glenn’s voice was strange, as though it belonged to somebody else. “You won’t say anything, will you? I mean, about tonight, about the accident. If they ask you where the car is, you’ll say it’s being painted?”
“There’s no reason they should ask me,” Bruce said slowly.
“They probably won’t. But there’s always the chance. I mean, you will keep your mouth closed about this, won’t you? If Dad found out about the lapsed policy, he’d have fits. He’d put me on probation for months. He might even take the car away!”
“I don’t want to lie,” Bruce told him. “I—I don’t like having you lie either.”
“Bruce, who in the world is it going to hurt? I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never let the insurance go again, you can be sure of that. What’s going to be accomplished by Dad’s knowing, except a lot of unpleasantness?” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Isn’t that what brothers are for? To help each other? I’d back you up if it were the other way around.”
“Well …”
It was so unlike Glenn’s usual way of speaking, Glenn, who was always so self-sufficient.
“Come on, kid. Be a sport?”
The night was cold, and Bruce was not wearing a jacket. He shivered and hugged himself in the darkness. “Well, okay.”
“Thanks. You’re a good guy.” Glenn put his hand on his shoulder. It felt good there, friendly and comradely. The warmth of it went through the thin material of his shirt and filled Bruce with a sudden feeling of happiness, the same kind of closeness he had felt as a child, breathing with Glenn in the night.
“That’s all right,” he said.
“You’re a good guy,” Glenn said again, and kept his hand on his shoulder, walking beside him as they went into the house.
Now, in the cold of the cabin, Bruce wished he could bring that feeling back again. Glenn was here; they were in this thing together. The knowledge was a comfort, yet it would have been better, so much better, if Glenn had come over and stood beside him.
The cans Rita had opened contained stew, and when it was hot, she served it on paper plates at the long table. She and Buck took their own plates to the kitchen, where they could be seen through the open door, eating and talking together in low voices.
“I wonder,” Marianne said softly, “what they are saying.”
“They’re probably discussing the ransom,” Glenn hazarded. “How much money do you suppose they will ask for us?”
“As much as the traffic will bear,” said Dexter. “They’ll ask one amount, and then, if it looks as though that will be paid without argument, they’ll up it. If I know my uncle, he’ll tell them to go to hell. I bet he doesn’t come through with one penny.”
“My mother won’t know what to do.” Jesse had not touched her food. She sat staring at the plate in front of her, as though unaware of its existence. “We don’t have that kind of money. We’re a service family. We don’t belong in a place like Valley Gardens.”
“People can get money if they have to,” Marianne said comfortingly. “My parents don’t live together, but I’m sure Mother will call Daddy, and he will come through somehow, even if he has to borrow. After all, we’re their children.”
“But Mother won’t be able to get hold of my father,” Jesse said. “He’s off somewhere on temporary duty. We don’t even know when he’ll be back.”
“Our parents will pay.” Bruce uttered the words in a kind of desperation. “They can sell stocks and things. They will, won’t they, Glenn?”
“Of course,” Glenn said. For the first time he seemed to focus his full attention upon his brother and see the need for reassurance. “Don’t get all shook up, Brucie. We’ll get out of here.”
“But when?” Bruce asked shakily. “How long will they keep us?”
Dexter was the one who answered. “As short a time as possible. Keeping us is a risk. They’ll want to get rid of us as soon as they can and pocket the money and take off.” He turned to Jesse, who was seated beside him, and his voice grew gentler. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’d better eat anyway. You need something in you.”
“I can’t,” Jesse said weakly. She reached out and shoved the plate away and covered her face with her hands.
Bruce thought, She is going to cry again. He had watched her crying in the car on the way up the mountain, and he did not think he could bear to watch it now.
“Don’t,” he said. “Please.”
His own control was balanced on a fine edge. He picked up his fork, concentrating on keeping it steady. He thought, I will not make Glenn ashamed of me.
Buck, who had been watching them through the kitchen door, got up and came into the living room. He stood for a moment, looking down at the group at the table, and then asked, “How is everybody doing?” His voice was pleasant, even friendly, as though he were the host at a party.
When no one answered, he said, “We’re not running a restaurant here, you know. Our supplies are limited. If I were you, I’d go ahead and eat.”
Marianne raised her head and met his eyes defiantly. “What are you going to do with us?” she asked. “How long do you think you can keep us here? Our families must have all the police in New Mexico out looking for us by this time!”
“I doubt that. I think your parents have more sense than to disobey instructions.” Buck’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You’re a spunky little gal, aren’t you? How come you’re not crying like your friend here?” He gestured toward Jesse, whose shoulders were heaving with silent sobs.
Marianne ignored the question. “I want to know what you are planning to do with us.”
“Well, seeing as how you’ve asked me so nicely …” Buck paused for effect, as though considering the possibilities. “I could tie you up and pile you in the corner. That would save me from having to watch you all night. Or I could lock you in the storeroom off the kitchen. It would be pretty cold out there, away from the fire and all.” He waited a moment for her reaction.
Marianne regarded him coldly. Her face did not change expression.
“Or,” Buck continued slowly, “I might decide that you are smart enough to know that your best bet is to cooperate. I have a gun and the keys to the van. If I let you all walk out of here right now, there wouldn’t be anyplace for you to go. The closest town is a good twenty miles from here. You’d freeze to death before you made it on foot with no more clothes than you have. We’re up about eleven thousand feet, you know.”
“If we do cooperate,” Glenn said, “if we agree not to make trouble, will we be allowed to sleep in the bunk rooms with the doors open for heat?”
“I might consider it.” Buck was enjoying himself.
Jesse lowered her hands from her face. “You are going to let us go, aren’t you? I mean, later.”
Bruce gave up trying to eat. With an effort he swallowed the food that was in his mouth and laid the fork on his plate. He felt his hands clenching into fists as he awaited the answer.
“Of course, you’ll go home. What do you think we want to do, adopt you? A great family we’d make, Rita and me, and our five lovely kids, and dear Uncle Juan dropping in to visit every now and then.” He grinned at her.
Rita, coming in to stand beside him, was not smiling. “Stop joking around with them, Buck. There’s no reason to.”
“We might as well enjoy our little visitors.” He turned his grin upon her. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? You getting jealous?”
“Jealous!” Rita stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Of this little blond spitfire here? She is pretty cute. I like to see a girl with spirit.”
<
br /> “Now wait a minute.” Dexter stiffened in his seat.
But Glenn was already on his feet. “You watch the way you talk about these girls! You don’t have any right—”
“You forget, buddy boy, I have a pistol. It gives me a right to do anything I want to do.” The amusement was gone from Buck’s voice. “Sit down.”
Glenn did not move. Standing there in the firelight, his shoulders a broad silhouette against the glow, his strong young body straight with defiance, he seemed to Bruce to be a kind of god, a symbol of courage and strength, one step above mortal men.
“Pistol or no pistol, you leave the girls alone!”
“Glenn.” Marianne’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t do anything.” She clutched at his arm. “Please!”
“He’s not going to mess with you girls! There aren’t going to be any compromises in that direction. That has to be understood.” Reluctantly he allowed himself to be drawn down into his seat.
“He’s right, Buck.” There was a flatness to Rita’s voice. “You leave those girls alone. That’s not part of this.”
“I am the one who makes the rules around here,” Buck said coldly. His eyes were on Glenn. “You’re going to make trouble once too often, son. As it is, you’ve talked yourself and your buddies into a night in the storeroom. Get back there now. If you’re lucky, you may find a couple of blankets back there.”
Dexter threw a quick glance at Jesse. “Can’t the girls sleep in the bunk room? You know they won’t make trouble.”
Marianne’s chin was set. “I don’t want to sleep here. I’d rather freeze with the rest of you.”
“You’ll do what you’re told.” Buck’s decision was made. “You three boys, get into the storeroom. Girls, you help Rita clear the table.”
Bruce got up obediently. His original terror had turned to numbness.
Jesse reached over and touched his hand. “We’ll see you in the morning, Brucie.”
It was a silly thing to say, but the touch was comforting, and the fact that it was Jesse, pale-faced and trembling herself, who had thought to say it.
Glenn was looking at Marianne. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yes.”
“Get a move on,” Buck said, and Bruce hesitated, waiting for some sign from his brother.
Instead, it was Dexter who, with a gesture foreign to him, put an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders and said, “Come on, kid, it can’t be as bad in there as they make it out to be,” and walked with him, through the warmth of the kitchen, into the little room filled with darkness and cold.
Chapter Four
THE CALLS BEGAN AT six o’clock.
For Mrs. French, the telephone was ringing when she opened the front door. Pausing in the hallway to remove her coat and gloves, she called, “Jesse, will you get that, dear?”
There was no answer, and the phone continued ringing.
“Jesse!” Mrs. French called again, and then, with a shrug of loving impatience, muttering, “That girl—probably in her room reading or so deep in her daydreams she doesn’t even hear it,” she hurried into the living room.
The telephone was on a table in the corner, and she plucked the receiver from the hook with one hand while removing her hat with the other.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, and then a voice asked, “Mrs. French? I’m calling about your daughter.”
“About Jesse?” The statement caught her by surprise. “What about her? Who is this anyway?”
“Just a friend,” the voice said. “Someone who wants to be sure your daughter comes back to you safely. By this time you must know that she is gone.”
“Gone? Jesse?” Automatically Mrs. French’s eyes flew to the curving stairway that led to the second floor. “I don’t know what you mean. Gone where?”
“A long way from here,” said the voice. “To a place where she will not be found. I am the one who can bring her back to you safely.”
Mrs. French shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know who you are, but you must be crazy. Jesse hasn’t gone anywhere. She is upstairs in her room.”
“Are you sure,” asked the voice. “Have you looked? Have you seen her since school let out this afternoon?”
“No, but I just got home myself. I was at a committee meeting of the Officers’ Wives Club. I’m sure …” Abruptly Mrs. French dropped the receiver onto the table. “Jesse!” she called. “Jesse, come down here!”
Without pausing for an answer, she crossed the living room to the stairs and started up them.
“Jesse!”
Several moments went by before she returned to the telephone. Her hand was trembling as she picked up the receiver. When she spoke, her voice was very low. “Where is Jesse? What have you done with my daughter?”
“Fifty thousand dollars!” Rod Donavan exclaimed incredulously. “Why, that’s impossible! I don’t have that kind of money!”
“You can get it,” the voice said. “That is, if seeing the girl again is important to you.”
“If it’s important!” Mr. Donavan forced his voice into control. “Look here, now, how do I know that Marianne is with you? I want you to let her speak to me.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? If you have hurt her …”
“She isn’t hurt, Mr. Donavan. Not yet anyway. She is not here to speak to you. She is being held in another place. The thing for you to do is to get the money.”
Mr. Donavan drew a long breath.
“If—if I can manage to get together that much money somehow, where do you want me to take it? How do I get it to you?”
“Don’t worry about that,” the voice told him. “You just get the money, and I’ll let you know what to do with it. Oh, and another thing, it would be a mistake for you to call the police. A very bad mistake.”
“Well, let me tell you something, whoever you are,” Rod Donavan said tightly. “When you call again to tell me where to bring the money, you have Marianne there at the telephone. I want to hear her voice, and I want to hear her tell me that she is unharmed. If Marianne doesn’t speak to me, I will know that this is a trick, that you don’t have her at all. In that case you will not get a single penny.”
There was a pause, and then the voice said, “It is not you who are making the rules, Mr. Donavan. You will do what I tell you if you want to see the girl again. What I tell you now is to get the money and stay at home and wait until I call you.”
There was a click, and the wire went blank.
Rod Donavan stood holding the receiver, listening to the sudden silence on the other end of the wire. Then he lowered it slowly and replaced it on the hook.
From the kitchen his wife called, “Rod, was that Marianne? Is she at somebody’s house? I can’t imagine what is making her so late.”
“No, it wasn’t Marianne. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” Rod stood unmoving, staring at the telephone. Then, on impulse, he lifted the hook and dialed a number.
“Hello, Steve? This is Rod Donavan. I wonder, can your boy Glenn come to the phone?”
“Why, no, Rod,” Mr. Kirtland said, surprised. “Glenn hasn’t come home yet. Was there something you needed to talk to him about?”
“No, not really. I just wondered if he’d got home all right. It’s several hours since school let out. You’re … well, you’re not worried about him, are you?”
“Worried? Of course not.” Mr. Kirtland was amused at the question. “Glenn has so many activities he seldom gets home much before dinnertime. Today I think he went over to the garage to pick up his car. He’s been having it painted. Say, Rod”—he was frankly curious—“what is all this about anyway? Is something the matter?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to check on something. You haven’t received any phone calls from him or about him?”
“Not unless he called his mother before I got home. Come to think of it, Bruce isn’t home yet either. Now, that is kind of funny. Bruce always takes the scho
ol bus.”
“Glenn took the bus today, too,” Rod Donavan said quietly. “I stopped by the school this afternoon and saw him through the bus window. He was sitting with Marianne.”
“Funny. I guess he got off at some other stop. Maybe he went home with a friend or something. Anyway he’ll be coming in soon. That’s one thing you can count on with our boys.” Mr. Kirtland laughed good-naturedly. “Neither one of them would miss dinner.”
“Well, look,” Mr. Donavan said slowly, “I want you to do something for me. If you should receive a phone call from Glenn, or about him, or Bruce …”
“What are you being so mysterious about?” Mr. Kirtland was beginning to be impatient. “I don’t understand what it is you want to know. Hasn’t Marianne come home yet, is that it? You think she’s gone someplace with Glenn?”
“Just phone me,” Rod Donavan said, “if Glenn comes home or if you have any communication about him. Please.”
“All right. Sure, if you want me to.” Mr. Kirtland hung up in bewilderment.
His wife, who had been reading the paper, glanced up with interest. “What on earth was that all about?”
Mr. Kirtland shook his head. “Darned if I know. It was Rod Donavan, Marian’s new husband. I wonder if he has a screw loose or something.”
“Heavens, why?” Mrs. Kirtland laid down the paper. “He may not be a dynamo like Jack Paget, but he seems normal enough. What was that about Marianne’s being with Glenn? It wouldn’t be surprising. All the girls follow Glenn around as though he were the Pied Piper.”
“He said to phone him if we hear from Glenn. Or if we get another kind of phone call. I couldn’t make out what he meant.”
“I can’t imagine …” Mrs. Kirtland began.
It was then that the telephone rang.
Mark Crete was not at home when the phone rang in his bedroom. Mr. Crete was a forty-year-old bachelor with a time-consuming social life which he had not tried to alter in any major way when his nephew came to live with him.