Get your feet moving, he thought. Fifteen minutes” lead time-that’s not so much. It’s not a cold trail yet. Not unless Terri Dugan doesn’t know fifteen minutes from half an hour or two hours. Never mind that, anyway. Get going.
He got going. He went back to the station wagon, which was parked half on and half off” the sidewalk.
He opened the driver’s-side door and then spared a glance back at his neat suburban house on which the mortgage was half paid. The bank let you take a “payment vacation” two months a year if you needed it. Andy had never needed it. He looked at the house dozing in the sun, and again his shocked eyes were caught by the red flare of the Woolco circular sticking out of the mailbox, and whap! death hit him again, making his eyes blur and his teeth clamp down.
He got in the car and drove away toward Terri Dugan’s street, not going on any real, logical belief that he could pick up their trail but only on blind hope. He had not seen his house on Conifer Place in Lakeland since then.
His driving was better now. Now that he knew the worst, his driving was a lot better. He turned on the radio and there was Bob Seger singing “Still the Same.”
He drove across Lakeland, moving as fast as he dared. For one terrible moment he came up blank on the name of the street, and then it came to him. The Dugans lived on Blassmore Place. He and Vicky had joked about that: Blassmore Place, with houses designed by Bill Blass. He started to smile a little at the memory, and whap! the fact of her death hit him again, rocking him.
He was there in ten minutes. Blassmore Place was a short dead end. No way out for a gray van at the far end, just a cyclone fence that marked the edge of the John Glenn Junior High School.
Andy parked the wagon at the intersection of Blassmore Place and Ridge Street. There was a green-over-white house on the corner. A lawn sprinkler twirled. Out front were two kids, a girl and a boy of about ten. They were taking turns on a skateboard. The girl was wearing shorts, and she had a good set of scabs on each knee.
He got out of the wagon and walked toward them. They looked him up and down carefully.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for my daughter. She passed by here about half an hour ago in a gray van. She was with… well, some friends of mine. Did you see a gray van go by?”
The boy shrugged vaguely.
The girl said, “You worried about her, mister?”
“You saw the van, didn’t you?” Andy asked pleasantly, and gave her a very slight push. Too much would be counterproductive. She would see the van going in any direction he wanted, including skyward.
“Yeah, I saw a van,” she said. She got on the skateboard and glided toward the hydrant on the corner and then jumped off: “It went right up there.” She pointed farther up Blassmore Place. Two or three intersections up was Carlisle Avenue, one of Harrison’s main thoroughfares. Andy had surmised that would be the way they would go, but it was good to be sure.
“Thanks,” he said, and got back into the wagon.
“You worried about her?” the girl repeated.
“Yes, I am, a little,” Andy said.
He turned the wagon around and drove three blocks up Blassmore Place to the junction with Carlisle Avenue. This was hopeless, utterly hopeless. He felt a touch of panic, just a small hot spot, but it would spread. He made it go away, made himself concentrate on getting as far down their trail as possible. If he had to use the push, he would. He could give a lot of small helping pushes without making himself feel ill. He thanked God that he hadn’t used the talent-or the curse, if you wanted to look at it that way-all summer long. He was up and fully charged, for whatever that was worth.
Carlisle Avenue was four lanes wide and regulated here by a stop-and-go light. There was a car wash on his right and an abandoned diner on his left. Across the street was an Exxon station and Mike’s Camera Store. If they had turned left, they had headed downtown. Right, and they would be headed out toward the airport and Interstate 80.
Andy turned into the car wash. A young guy with an incredible shock of wiry red hair spilling over the collar of his dull green coverall jived over. He was eating a Popsicle. “No can do, man,” he said before Andy could even open his mouth. “The rinse attachment busted about an hour ago. We’re closed.”
“I don’t want a wash,” Andy said. “I’m looking for a gray van that went through the intersection maybe half an hour ago. My daughter was in it, and I’m a little worried about her.”
“You think somebody might have snatched her?” He went right on eating his Popsicle. “No, nothing like that,” Andy said. “Did you see the van?” “Gray van? Hey, goodbuddy, you have any idea how many cars go by here in just one hour? Or half an hour? Busy street, man. Carlisle is a very busy street.” Andy cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “It came from Blassmore Place. That’s not so busy.” He got ready to add a little push, but he didn’t have to. The young guy’s eyes suddenly brightened. He broke his Popsicle in two like a wishbone and sucked all the purple ice off one of the sticks in a single improbable slurp.
“Yeah, okay, right,” he said. “I did see it. I’ll tell you why I noticed. It cut across our tarmac to beat the light. I don’t care myself, but it irritates the shit out of the boss when they do that. Not that it matters today with the rinser on the fritz. He’s got something else to be irritated about.”
“So the van headed toward the airport.”
The guy nodded, flipped one of the Popsicle sticks back over his shoulder, and started on the remaining chunk. “Hope you find your girl, goodbuddy. If you don’t mind a little, like, gray-tuitous advice, you ought to call the cops if you’re really worried.”
“I don’t think that would do much good,” Andy said. “Under the circumstances.”
He got back in the wagon again, crossed the tarmac himself, and turned onto Carlisle Avenue. He was now headed west. The area was cluttered with gas stations, car washes, fast-food franchises, used-car lots. A drive-in advertised a double bill consisting Of THE CORPSE GRINDERS and BLOODY MERCHANTS OF DEATH. He looked at the marquee and heard the ironing board ratcheting out of its closet like a guillotine. His stomach rolled over.
He passed under a sign announcing that you could get on I-80 a mile and a half farther west, if that was your pleasure. Beyond that was a smaller sign with an airplane on it. Okay, he had got this far. Now what?
Suddenly he pulled into the parking lot of a Shakey’s Pizza. It was no good stopping and asking along here. As the car-wash guy had said, Carlisle was a busy street. He could push people until his brains were leaking out his ears and only succeed in confusing himself. It was the turnpike or the airport, anyway. He was sure of it. The lady or the tiger.
He had never in his life tried to make one of the hunches come. He simply took them as gifts when they did come, and usually acted on them. Now he slouched farther down in the driver’s seat of the wagon, touching his temples lightly with the tips of his fingers, and tried to make something come. The motor was idling, the radio was still on. The Rolling Stones. Dance, little sister, dance.
Charlie, he thought. She had gone off to Terri’s with her clothes stuffed in the knapsack she wore just about everywhere. That had probably helped to fool them. The last time he had seen her, she was wearing jeans and a salmon-colored shell top. Her hair was in pigtails, as it almost always was. A nonchalant good-bye, Daddy, and a kiss and holy Jesus, Charlie, where are you now?
Nothing came.
Never mind. Sit a little longer. Listen to the Stones. Shakey’s Pizza. You get your choice, thin crust or crunchy. You pays your money and you takes your choice, as Granther McGee used to say. The Stones exhorting little sister to dance, dance, dance. Quincey saying they’d probably put her in a room so two hundred and twenty million Americans could be safe and free. Vicky. He and Vicky had had a hard time with the sex part of it at first. She had been scared to death. Just call me the Ice Maiden, she had said through her tears after that first miserable botched time. No sex, please we’re British. But somehow the Lot Six experiment had helped with that-the totality they had shared was, in its own way, like mating. Still it had been difficult. A little at a time. Gentleness. Tears. Vicky beginning to respond, then stiffening, crying out Don’t, it’ll hurt, don’t, Andy, stop it! And somehow it was the Lot Six experiment, that common experience, that had enabled him to go on trying, like a safecracker who knows that there is a way, always a way. And there had come a night when they got through it. Later there came a night when it was all right. Then, suddenly, a night when it was glorious. Dance, little sister, dance. He had been with her when Charlie was born. A quick, easy delivery. Quick to fix, easy to please…