it Fed Ex.”
“You’re dreaming,” Christine says.
The sweep hand on her watch has ticked off twenty seconds.
“I’ll call you at three,” she says.
“Are my children all right? Let me speak to Ashley, ple—”
Christine hangs up.
“Twenty-five seconds this time,” Marcia says.
Sloate is already on the new phone link to the Public Safety Building downtown. Alice listens as he tells his commanding officer that they’ve had no luck with a trace. He tells him the woman is demanding the money by three this afternoon. The big grandfather clock in the hallway now reads twenty minutes to one.
“So what do we do?” he asks. “We’ve got till three o’clock.”
“Let me think on it,” Steele says, and hangs up.
Alice is pacing the room. She whirls on Marcia, where she is sitting behind her equipment. “Why haven’t you been able to trace the calls yet?” she asks.
“She’s never on the line long enough,” Marcia says.
“We can put men on the moon, but you can’t trace a damn call coming from around the corner!”
“I wish it was just around the corner. But we don’t know where she’s—”
“I don’t want you here!” Alice shouts. “I want you all out of here! I’ll handle this alone from now on. Just get out! None of you knows what the hell you’re doing, you’re going to get my children killed!”
“Mrs. Glendenning…”
“No! Just get out of here. Take all your stuff and leave. Now! Please. Get out. Please. I’m sorry. Get out.”
“We’re staying,” Sloate says.
She is ready to punch him.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Glendenning,” he says, “but we’re staying.”
And then, infuriating her because it reminds her again of her father when he used to take a razor strop to her behind, “It’s for your own good.”
4
When Rafe arrives at a quarter past one that afternoon, Alice has no choice but to tell him what’s going on. He looks as if he doesn’t believe her. Doesn’t believe these are detectives here. Doesn’t believe her kids are missing, either. Thinks this is all some kind of afternoon pantomime staged for his benefit. Stands there like a big man who needs a shave and a drink both, which he tells Alice he really does need if all she’s telling him is true. She pours him some twelve-year-old scotch from a bottle Lane Realty gave her at Christmastime. The other brokers all got bonuses, but she hadn’t sold a house yet. Still hasn’t, for that matter.
“What happened to your foot?” Rafe asks, noticing at last.
“I got hit by a car.”
“Did you report it?” he says.
“Not yet,” she says.
My kids have been kidnapped, she thinks, and everybody wants to know if I reported a goddamn traffic accident.
She takes him into the kitchen, and searches in the fridge for something she can give him to eat.
“You tell Carol about this?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My kids are in danger.”
“She’s your sister.”
“This okay?” she asks, and offers him a loaf of sliced rye, a wedge of cheese, and a large hunk of Genoa salami.
“You got mustard?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“You should call her,” he says.
“Let’s see what happens here, okay?”
“She’s your sister,” he says again.
“When it’s over,” she says.
“You got any wine?”
She takes an opened bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, hands him a glass. In the living room, Sloate is on the phone again with his captain. She wanders out there to see if she can learn anything, but there is nothing new. Three o’clock seems so very far away. When she comes back into the kitchen, Rafe is just finishing his sandwich.
“You’re out of wine,” he tells her, and shakes the empty bottle in his fist. “Have you got a spare bedroom? I’ve been driving all night.”
She shows Rafe the children’s empty bedroom. Twin beds in it, one on either side of the room. Rafe looks insulted by the size of the beds, big man like him. But he finally climbs into one of them,
“You’re dreaming,” Christine says.
The sweep hand on her watch has ticked off twenty seconds.
“I’ll call you at three,” she says.
“Are my children all right? Let me speak to Ashley, ple—”
Christine hangs up.
“Twenty-five seconds this time,” Marcia says.
Sloate is already on the new phone link to the Public Safety Building downtown. Alice listens as he tells his commanding officer that they’ve had no luck with a trace. He tells him the woman is demanding the money by three this afternoon. The big grandfather clock in the hallway now reads twenty minutes to one.
“So what do we do?” he asks. “We’ve got till three o’clock.”
“Let me think on it,” Steele says, and hangs up.
Alice is pacing the room. She whirls on Marcia, where she is sitting behind her equipment. “Why haven’t you been able to trace the calls yet?” she asks.
“She’s never on the line long enough,” Marcia says.
“We can put men on the moon, but you can’t trace a damn call coming from around the corner!”
“I wish it was just around the corner. But we don’t know where she’s—”
“I don’t want you here!” Alice shouts. “I want you all out of here! I’ll handle this alone from now on. Just get out! None of you knows what the hell you’re doing, you’re going to get my children killed!”
“Mrs. Glendenning…”
“No! Just get out of here. Take all your stuff and leave. Now! Please. Get out. Please. I’m sorry. Get out.”
“We’re staying,” Sloate says.
She is ready to punch him.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Glendenning,” he says, “but we’re staying.”
And then, infuriating her because it reminds her again of her father when he used to take a razor strop to her behind, “It’s for your own good.”
4
When Rafe arrives at a quarter past one that afternoon, Alice has no choice but to tell him what’s going on. He looks as if he doesn’t believe her. Doesn’t believe these are detectives here. Doesn’t believe her kids are missing, either. Thinks this is all some kind of afternoon pantomime staged for his benefit. Stands there like a big man who needs a shave and a drink both, which he tells Alice he really does need if all she’s telling him is true. She pours him some twelve-year-old scotch from a bottle Lane Realty gave her at Christmastime. The other brokers all got bonuses, but she hadn’t sold a house yet. Still hasn’t, for that matter.
“What happened to your foot?” Rafe asks, noticing at last.
“I got hit by a car.”
“Did you report it?” he says.
“Not yet,” she says.
My kids have been kidnapped, she thinks, and everybody wants to know if I reported a goddamn traffic accident.
She takes him into the kitchen, and searches in the fridge for something she can give him to eat.
“You tell Carol about this?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My kids are in danger.”
“She’s your sister.”
“This okay?” she asks, and offers him a loaf of sliced rye, a wedge of cheese, and a large hunk of Genoa salami.
“You got mustard?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“You should call her,” he says.
“Let’s see what happens here, okay?”
“She’s your sister,” he says again.
“When it’s over,” she says.
“You got any wine?”
She takes an opened bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, hands him a glass. In the living room, Sloate is on the phone again with his captain. She wanders out there to see if she can learn anything, but there is nothing new. Three o’clock seems so very far away. When she comes back into the kitchen, Rafe is just finishing his sandwich.
“You’re out of wine,” he tells her, and shakes the empty bottle in his fist. “Have you got a spare bedroom? I’ve been driving all night.”
She shows Rafe the children’s empty bedroom. Twin beds in it, one on either side of the room. Rafe looks insulted by the size of the beds, big man like him. But he finally climbs into one of them,
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