Vic whistled for the dog and then plugged in the coffee percolator. He put the bowl containing Bruno’s breakfast on the floor by the door, then he crossed the lobby into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, shaved, showered and dressed in a white singlet, blue cotton trousers and white sneakers, he made his way back to the kitchen. He was about to turn off the percolator when he paused and frowned.
Bruno’s breakfast was untouched. There was no sign of the dog.
As he stared at the untouched food in the bowl, Vic again had the prickly feeling of fear crawl up his spine. This was something that hadn’t happened before since the Dermotts had moved into the ranch house. A single sharp whistle had always brought Bruno bounding into the kitchen.
Vic walked quickly across the patio and peered into the kennel. It was empty. He whistled again and stood for some moments waiting and listening, then he went to the gate and looked out into the scrubland and the sand, but there was no sign of the dog.
It was early, he told himself. He usually got up around seven. The dog was probably chasing a marmot, but it was unusual... it was becoming a tiresomely unusual morning.
He returned to the kitchen, poured coffee, added cream and took the cup into his work-room. He sat at his desk and sipped a little of the coffee before lighting a cigarette.
He picked up the nearly completed manuscript and began to read the last few pages. He turned a page, then realized he hadn’t registered what he had just read. Impatiently, he turned back the page and began to read again, but his mind was now fully occupied with Bruno. Where was the dog? He pushed aside the manuscript, finished his coffee and went back to the kitchen.
Bruno’s breakfast remained untouched.
Again Vic crossed the patio to the gate. Again he whistled and looked across the white sand dimes.
He had a sudden feeling of loneliness and he had an urge to talk to Carrie, but after hesitating, he decided not to disturb her. He returned to his work-room and sat down in the lounging chair and tried to relax.
From where he sat, he could see through the big window the sun rising behind the dimes. He watched the red ball appear, its light colouring the vast sweep of the desert to rose pink. Usually this sight fascinated him, but this morning he was only aware of the vastness of the space surrounding the ranch house, and for the first time since he had come to Wastelands, he was uncomfortably aware of their isolation.
The sudden whimpering cry of his son brought him to his feet. He went quickly across the lobby and into the bedroom.
Junior was beginning his morning bawl for his breakfast. Carrie was already sitting up in the bed, stretching. She smiled at him as he paused in the doorway.
“You’re early. What’s the time?” she asked and yawned.
“Half past six,” Vic said and went over to the cot. He lifted Junior who immediately stopped crying at the familiar firm touch of his father and he gave Vic a toothless grin.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” Carrie asked as she slid out of bed.
“I was restless.”
Vic sat on the end of the bed and held Junior. He watched his wife walk across the bedroom and into the bathroom. He felt a little surge of pleasure at the sight of her in her transparent nightdress that revealed her exciting young body and her long, lovely legs.
Fifteen minutes later, Carrie was feeding Junior while Vic lolled on the bed and watched. This was a moment that always gave him considerable pleasure.
Carrie said abruptly, “Did you hear that motor-cycle last night?”
Watching this ritual of feeding, Vic had forgotten his fears, but these words from Carrie brought him abruptly alert.
“Motor-cycle? I heard nothing last night.”
“Someone came out here on a motor-cycle,” Carrie said. She put Junior back in his cot. “It was around two o’clock. I didn’t hear the cycle go away.”
Vic ran his fingers through his hair.
“What does that mean, honey?”
Carrie came away from the cot and sat on the bed.
“I didn’t hear the motor-cycle drive away,” she repeated. “I heard it arrive. The engine stopped... then nothing.”
“It was probably the Highway Patrol,” Vic said and reached in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “He comes out here from time to time... remember?”
“But he didn’t go away,” Carrie said.
“Of course he went away. What happened was you went off to sleep. You didn’t hear him go. If he hadn’t gone away, he’d be here now, wouldn’t he? He isn’t.”
Carrie stared at him.
“But how do you know he isn’t still here?”
Vic moved impatiently.
“Look, darling... why should he be? Anyway, Bruno would have started barking...” Vic paused and frowned.
“Come to think of it... Bruno hasn’t shown up this morning. I whistled, but he didn’t come. It’s damned odd.” He got to his feet and went quickly into the kitchen. The bowl of food remained untouched. He went to the door and whistled again.
Joining him, Carrie said, “Where can he be?”
“Chasing something, I guess. I’ll go and look for him.”
Junior, feeling neglected, began to bawl and Carrie hurried back to the bedroom. Vic hesitated, then he set off on the long walk down to the entrance gate. He passed the shut-up staff cabin. The time now was seven o’clock. Di-Long still had half an hour before he showed himself. As Vic walked down the long drive, he paused from time to time to give his long, piercing whistle.
He finally reached the five-barred gate and he looked up and down the narrow dirt road beyond without seeing a movement of anything alive.
Then he looked down at the sandy road. Between the tyre tracks of his car, he saw the unmistakable imprint of two single tyre tracks... the tracks of a motor-cycle. These tracks led from afar, direct to his gate and they stopped there. He looked to his left, but the tracks were no longer visible. It seemed, on the face of it, that someone had driven from Pitt City highway, up the dirt road to his gate. The driver and his machine had then vanished into space. There was no sign that the motor-cycle had come up the drive nor had gone on to Boston Creek. The machine had stopped at the gate and then had apparently dissolved into nothingness.
For several minutes, Vic stared at the motor-cycle tracks and up and down the dirt road, then turning, he stared up the drive. The strange, uneasy feeling of loneliness closed over him again and he started back towards the ranch house at a pace that set him sweating in the growing heat of the early sun.
As he passed the staff cabin, he came into sight of the ranch house. Carrie was standing in the open doorway and she was waving to him. Her movements were quick and urgent. As he approached her, he called, “What is it?”
“Vic! The guns have gone.”
He now reached her. He could see she was frightened. Her blue eyes were round and alarmed.
“Guns? Gone?”
“I went into your room... the guns aren’t in the rack!”
He went quickly into the gun-room. The gun rack was out of sight of his desk, around the L-shaped room. He paused and stared at the empty rack. There had been four shotguns: a .45 and two .22 rifles in the rack. The rack now stood empty.
Vic stared at the empty rack, feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck bristle. He turned to find Carrie watching him.
“They were here last night,” she said in a small, frightened voice.
“That’s right.” Vic walked over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. In this drawer he kept a .38 Police Special automatic presented to him by the Los Angeles Chief of Police.
It came as a sickening shock when he looked into the empty drawer with its slight smear of oil where the gun had been.