It was twelve-thirty-five. Ali would figure no one would call between noon and one-thirty. And she probably needed something from the supermarket. Or she might have decided to take the children over to the Club for hamburgers. Or she couldn’t refuse Nancy Loomis and had taken Janet over for lunch. Or she had gone to the library—Ali was an inveterate poolside reader during the summer.
Tanner tried to picture Ali doing all these things. That she was doing one, or some, or all, had to be the case.
He dialed again, and again there was no answer. He called the Club.
«I’m sorry, Mr. Tanner. We’ve paged outside. Mrs. Tanner isn’t here.»
The Loomises. Of course, she went to the Loomises.
«Golly, John, Alice said Janet had a bad tummy. Maybe she took her to the doctor.»
By eight minutes after one, John Tanner had dialed his home twice more. The last time he had let the phone ring for nearly five minutes. Picturing Ali coming through the door breathlessly, always allowing that one last ring, expecting her to answer.
But it did not happen.
He told himself over and over again that he was acting foolishly. He himself had seen the patrol car following them when Ali drove him to the station. Fassett had convinced him yesterday that his watchdogs were thorough.
Fassett.
He picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number Fassett had given him. It was a Manhattan exchange.
«Grover …»
Who? thought Tanner.
«Hello? Hello?… George Grover speaking.»
«My name is John Tanner. I’m trying to find Laurence Fassett.»
«Oh, hello, Mr. Tanner. Is something the matter? Fassett’s out. Can I help you?»
«Are you an associate of Fassett’s?»
«I am, sir.»
«I can’t reach my wife. I’ve tried calling a number of times. She doesn’t answer.»
«She may have stepped out. I wouldn’t worry. She’s under surveillance.»
«Are you positive?»
«Of course.»
«I asked her to stay by the phone. She thought I was expecting an important call…»
«I’ll contact our men and call you right back. It’ll set your mind at ease.»
Tanner hung up feeling slightly embarrassed. Yet five minutes went by and the expected ring did not come. He dialed Fassett’s number but it was busy. He quickly replaced the phone wondering if his impetuous dialing caused Grover to find his line busy. Was Grover trying to reach him? He had to be. He’d try again right away.
Yet the phone did not ring.
Tanner picked it up and slowly, carefully dialed, making sure every digit was correct.
«Grover.»
«This is Tanner. I thought you were going to call right back!»
«I’m sorry, Mr. Tanner. We’ve been having a little difficulty. Nothing to be concerned about.»
«What do you mean, difficulty?»
«Making contact with our men in the field. It’s not unusual. We can’t expect them to be next to a radio-phone every second. We’ll reach them shortly and call you back.»
«That’s not good enough!» John Tanner slammed the telephone down and got out of his chair. Yesterday afternoon Fassett had detailed every move made by all of them—even to the precise actions at the moment of his phone call. And now this Grover couldn’t reach any of the men supposedly watching his family. What had Fassett said?
«We have thirteen agents in Saddle Valley…»
And Grover couldn’t reach any of them.
Thirteen men and none could be contacted!
He crossed to the office door. «Something’s come up, Norma. Listen for my phone, please. If it’s a man named Grover, tell him I’ve left for home.»
SADDLE VALLEY
VILLAGE INCORPORATED 1862
Welcome
«Where to now, Mister?»
«Go straight. I’ll show you.»
The cab reached Orchard Drive, two blocks from his home; Tanner’s pulse was hammering. He kept picturing the station wagon in the driveway. As soon as they made one more turn he’d be able to see it—if it was there. And if it was, everything would be all right. Oh, Christ! Let everything be all right!
The station wagon was not in the driveway.
Tanner looked at his watch.
Two-forty-five. A quarter to three! And Ali wasn’t there!
«On the left. The wood-shingled house.»
«Nice place, mister. A real nice place.»
«Hurry!»
The cab pulled up to the flagstone path. Tanner paid and pulled open the door. He didn’t wait for the driver’s thanks.
«Ali! Ali!» Tanner raced through the laundry room to check the garage.
Nothing. The small Triumph stood there.
Quiet.
Yet there was something. An odor. A faint sickening odor that Tanner couldn’t place.
«Ali! Ali!» He ran back to the kitchen and saw his pool through the window. Oh, God! He stared at the surface of the water and hurried to the patio door. The lock was stuck and so he slammed against it, breaking the latch, and ran out.
Thank God! There was nothing in the water!
His small Welsh terrier dog stirred from its sleep. The animal was attached to a wire run and immediately started barking in its sharp, hysterical yap.
He sped back into the house, to the cellar door.
«Ray! Janet! Ali!»
Quiet. Except for the incessant barking of the dog outside.
He left the cellar door open and ran to the staircase.
Upstairs!
He leapt up the stairs; the doors to the children’s rooms and the guest room were open. The door to his and Ali’s room was shut.
And then he heard it. The soft playing of a radio. Ali’s clock radio with the automatic timer which shut the radio off at any given time up to an hour. He and Ali always used that timer when they played the radio. Never the ON button. It was a habit. And Ali had been gone over two and a half hours. Someone else had turned on the radio.
He opened the door.
No one.
He was about to turn and search the rest of the house when he saw it. A note written in red pencil next to the clock radio.
He crossed to the bedside table.
«Your wife and children went for an unexpected drive. You’ll find them by an old railroad depot on Lassiter Road.»
In his panic, Tanner remembered the abandoned depot. It sat deep in the woods on a rarely used back road.
What had he done? What in Christ’s name had he done? He’d killed them! If that was so, he’d kill Fassett! Kill Grover! Kill all those who should have been watching!
He raced out of the bedroom, down the staircase, into the garage. The door was open and he jumped into the seat of the Triumph and started the engine.
Tanner swung the small sports car to the right out of the driveway and sped around the long Orchard Drive curve, trying to remember the quickest way to Lassiter Road. He reached a pond he recognized as Lassiter Lake, used by the Saddle Valley residents for ice skating in winter. Lassiter Road was on the other side and seemed to disappear into a stretch of undisciplined woods.
He kept the accelerator flat against the Triumph’s floor. He started talking to himself, then screaming at himself.
Ali! Ali! Janet! Ray!
The road was winding. Blind spots, curves, sun rays coming through the crowded trees. There were no other automobiles, no other signs of life.
The old abandoned depot suddenly appeared. And there was his station wagon—half off the overgrown parking area, into the tall grass. Tanner slammed on his brakes beside the wagon. There was no one in sight.
He jumped out of the Triumph and raced to the car.
In an instant his mind went out of control. The horror was real. The unbelievable had happened.