Reardon rolled over, annoyed at the racket, coming from his dream slowly and with effort. The ringing would not go away, and he tried to sit up, hampered a bit in his efforts by Jan’s arm across his chest. He lifted it tenderly and placed it to one side, groping in the dark for the telephone. He raised the receiver, still trying to bring himself back from the compelling grip of the dream, from the unknown but frightful dread he had felt on the liner’s deserted deck to the warm security of the darkened bedroom.
“Hello? Yes?”
“Lieutenant Reardon?”
Sleep tried to escape but was checked by the remnants of the dream. Reardon squeezed his eyes tightly shut and then opened them wide, fighting the anesthesia of his almost coma-like sleep. The voice sounded faintly familiar. Probably one of the new men in Communications, Reardon thought sleepily, and yawned deeply, hoping the call was nothing that might drag him from his warm bed, although his subconscious was happy it had brought him from that ghastly liner and that invisible shoreline. Somehow he felt he had been saved from a terrible experience by being wakened. The voice in his ear repeated itself, a bit sharper in tone.
“Lieutenant Reardon!”
“Yeah, this is Reardon...”
“Good. Did I wake you?”
Sleep fled and this time kept its distance. It was a voice Reardon had sworn he would never forget for the rest of his life, and he kicked himself for not having recognized it immediately. He reached up and flicked on the lamp over the bed, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, automatically registering the hour in his mind.
“What do you want?”
There was a dry, humorless chuckle.
“So you’re finally awake and know who you’re speaking to. Good!”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? That’s rather a stupid statement, you know? I told you before what I want. I want Guillermo Lazaretti! I thought I had made that abundantly clear in my tape, but apparently you people thought I was not serious. Well, believe me, I was! If you—”
“How’s Mike Holland?”
The voice continued as if there had been no interruption. It almost sounded like a tape, with the lack of personal inflection. Reardon strained to hear, but the mechanical bumping sound that had been present in the tape was now lacking.
“—search the small ledge under the bridge that crosses the Islais Creek Channel, along the south side of the channel, I think you’ll discover something that may convince you I’m really quite serious. Now, listen to me and listen carefully! I expect you people to stop your foolishness and drop Guillermo Lazaretti off at the bridge at two tomorrow morning. My patience, my friend, is not unlimited. If you search the ledge beneath the bridge you’ll know I mean what I say. The instructions for delivering Lazaretti remain the same. Follow them!”
The telephone was hung up abruptly. Reardon instantly clicked the button until he got a dial tone and then quickly dialed. The telephone at the other end rang once and was answered.
“Police Department. Sergeant Silvestre.”
Reardon was pleased that Silvestre was on duty; at least he knew his orders would be carried out quickly and efficiently. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, leaning over the receiver, blanking his mind to what might be found under the bridge.
“Sergeant — this is Lieutenant Reardon. First, I want to put a tracer on a call that was made to my home number just a minute ago. The call came in at 3:04 exactly. Once you’ve put the tracer in motion, call me back.”
“Right,” Silvestre said, and hung up.
Reardon hung up and slid from bed, padding quietly to the chair in one corner, where his clothes were draped. He dragged on his trousers, pulled his turtleneck over his head, and sat down to put on his shoes and socks. He came to his feet, trying to scrape his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers. Jan was watching him quietly from the bed. “Emergency,” he said, and tried to make the word sound innocuous.
Jan glanced at the clock and then looked at him. “You haven’t had much sleep.”
He smiled. “It’s getting to be the story of my life. A policeman’s lot...” He felt it was better for him to say it, than for her; although since Jan had come back there had been surprisingly little talk about the problems of his job. “I’ll try to catch a nap this afternoon.”
Jan sat up. “Time for coffee?”
“I’ll get some down at the Hall. You go back to sleep.” The phone rang and he walked back to the bed to pick it up. “Yes?”
“Sergeant Silvestre, sir. We’ve put the tracer in motion.”
“Good. Sergeant, which patrol car is nearest Third and Army?”
“Just a second, sir.” Reardon waited, picturing Silvestre and the large electronics locations map on the Communications Center wall. “Potrero Five, sir. It’s at General Hospital.”
“In service or out?”
“Just came back in. They delivered a stab victim to emergency; no ambulance available.”
“All right,” Reardon said. “Tell them to get over to Third Street. There’s a small bridge that crosses Islais Creek Channel just a couple of blocks south of Army. Tell them to get under the bridge, on the south side. There’s a ledge there, and there’s supposed to be a package on the ledge. I want it.”
Silvestre, at his end, frowned.
“Do you have any idea what’s in the package, sir? I mean, is it a job for the bomb squad, maybe?”
“No, it isn’t a bomb—”
Reardon paused, frowning. Could it be a bomb? Was that what the unknown man meant to use to convince the police he was serious? It was highly doubtful, but why take a chance? Also, what the hell! Let the Bomb Squad be dragged out of bed like everybody else.
“You may be right,” he said. “Send Potrero Five plus the squad. Whatever they find, assuming it isn’t a bomb, have them bring to the Hall. I’ll be there when they get there.” In one way, he thought, it would be far better if it were a bomb, rather than what I’m afraid it might be.
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
Reardon thought a moment. The kidnapper had definitely sounded sincere, as if he meant business. And, if he had to be wakened, as well as the members of the Bomb Squad, why not make it a full house?
“Sergeant, can you arrange to tie me into a conference call? To both Chief Boynton and Captain Tower?”
“At this hour? You mean, wake them, sir?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Oh, sure I can do it, sir. Just hang on.”
Reardon waited, wondering if the small bridge bore any resemblance to the bridge he had pictured in his dream, and then put the thought away as voices began to mix on the line.
Sunday — 4:15 A.M.
Four men sat around Chief Boynton’s office on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice: Chief Boynton, Captain Tower, Lieutenant Reardon, and Roy Gentry, head of Laboratory Services. Of the four only the chief appeared to be rested, as if he had had a full night’s sleep, which he obviously had not. The window had been opened to allow some of the cigarette and pipe smoke to escape, and also to avoid the imagined odor that might have emanated from the covered laboratory dish that lay in the middle of the table. Fortunately, the laboratory dish that Gentry had selected was made of frosted Pyrex, so the contents were a mere shadow against the milky walls, but every man in the room could visualize with repugnance the contents of the dish.