by Lois Duncan
“The tenants activate the garage door with remote control boxes,” he explained to Tracy. “Once the door rises, they’re usually too set on getting their cars inside to notice much else. That’s especially true during rush hour, right after people get off from work. It’s a madhouse then.”
Now, standing with him across the street from the apartment house, Tracy had to agree that his observation had been correct. It was 5:45 in the evening, when the surge of homecoming traffic was at its peak, and the garage door was lifting and falling like a battery-powered guillotine. Even so, she regarded the situation with measured doubt.
“I can’t make myself invisible. Even with all the chaos, somebody’s bound to see me.”
“The driver of the car behind you will, but he won’t be able to do anything about it,” said Brad. “He won’t have a chance to react before the door cuts him off.” He paused and then asked, “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”
Tracy shook her head. “I don’t want to make any mistakes, that’s all.”
“You won’t. After all, you’re the daughter of professional actors. You can pull it off. All you have to do is find out if this Brummer is Gavin.” He put his hand on her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’d go into the building with you, but I’m afraid to risk it. If Gavin ever once caught sight of me, the game would be over. He’d take off with Mindy, and all we’d see would be dust. I promise you, though, getting in there is going to be easy.”
This did, indeed, prove to be the case. When the door reached the peak of its next ascent, Tracy was able to step quickly into the garage on the tail of a cream-colored Subaru and slip unchallenged into a shadowy passageway between two rows of parked vehicles. By the time the door had fallen and risen again, she was well on her way to the elevator at the corner of the basement.
She rode up to ground level in the company of two men in business suits and a woman in a nurse’s uniform. Then, stepping out into the spaciousness of the recreational area, she found herself greeted by pink-tinged twilight, the astringent odor of chlorine, and planters filled with an array of flowers and shrubbery.
It was immediately apparent that the area around the pool was a regular gathering place for the more social-minded residents of the Continental Arms. Despite the fact that it was still early, the after-work crowd had begun to congregate, and the patio had already developed a partylike atmosphere. Several people were splashing in the pool, and at least a dozen others were either sitting on the edge or relaxing in deck chairs with glasses and beer cans in hand. There was a lot of talk and laughter, and a portable tape player was spewing forth rock music as background for conversation.
Tracy stood for a moment, absorbing the scene before her. Was it possible that one of these men was Brad’s former stepfather? If so, she thought, he must be much younger than Brad’s mother. This attractive group of people appeared to be in their twenties and early thirties, and men and women alike were as uniformly healthy and trim as though their bodies had been cloned at a Nautilus fitness center.
Shifting her attention to the apartments themselves, Tracy noted that the units at ground level were identified by three digit numbers starting with the numeral one. Stairways at either end of the recreation area led to the second level of the building, where the higher-numbered apartments faced out upon a walkway overlooking the pool.
The nearest set of stairs was situated next to the elevator she had ridden up on. Leaving the pool party churning behind her, Tracy mounted the steps and walked slowly along the balcony, counting off the numbers of the apartments until she stood in front of 204. A card inserted in a slot next to the buzzer read BRUMMER-TYLER.
I don’t have to do this, she reminded herself. I don’t owe a thing to Brad Johnson. I can still change my mind and turn around and walk out of here.
She pressed the buzzer.
She could hear the sound of it, faint and far, at the back of the apartment. For several moments there was no additional sound from within. Then, just as she was preparing to accept the fact that no one was going to answer, the door was yanked open to reveal a shirtless young man with a towel thrown across his shoulders. He was barefoot, and his matted hair was glistening with droplets of water. With the hand with which he was not grasping the doorknob, he was cinching the belt of a pair of Levi’s 501s.
He did not seem disconcerted to find his caller a stranger.
“Hello, there,” he said in cordial greeting. “Sorry for the delay, but you caught me in the shower. If I’d had any idea somebody this gorgeous was standing at the door, I’d have come racing out in a bath towel.”
“If you’d like me to wait until you’ve finished—” Tracy began haltingly, thrown off balance by such an enthusiastic welcome.
“Not at all. I’m decent now, and if it will make you feel more comfortable, I’ll even put on a shirt and shoes in your honor. Why don’t you start by telling me who you are? After that, you can come in and give me the story of your life.”
“My name’s Tracy Lloyd,” said Tracy. “I’m a new neighbor of yours. I just wanted to ask if it would be possible for me to use your phone.”
“No problem about that. Beautiful ladies are always welcome here. I’m Jim Tyler.” The man thrust out a damp, freckled hand for Tracy to shake. “I was certain I hadn’t seen you around here before. Did you just move in?”
“This morning,” Tracy told him. “My cell’s broken, and I need to call and get my TV and Internet service turned on.”
“Be my guest.” Jim Tyler stepped back from the doorway and motioned her in.
She stepped past him into the living room and glanced about her, half expecting to find a blond child curled up on the sofa. Instead, she saw a pile of newspapers and a copy of TV Guide. The room was furnished in an impersonal manner that revealed almost nothing about the apartment’s occupants. The abstract prints on the walls matched the shades of rust in the two-tone carpet, and the couch, chairs, and coffee table might have been purchased as a set during a sale at Sears.
To Tracy, the apartment appeared on first glance to be less a real home than a short-term stopover area in which swinging bachelors could change their clothes between social engagements. She could see nothing anywhere to indicate the presence of a child.
“This is nice,” she commented politely. “I have a single myself. I’d been wondering what the double apartments were like.”
“The only real difference is that the living room’s bigger,” said Jim. “Then, of course, there’s an extra bedroom and bath.” He gestured toward the door to the kitchen. “The phone’s on the wall to the left of the sink, and unless my roommate’s dragged it off somewhere, the directory ought to be on the counter.”
“Thanks,” Tracy said. “I shouldn’t be more than a minute.”
When she entered the kitchen, she found that it, too, had the look of a room that received sporadic use only. The remnants of breakfast—a cup half filled with cold coffee, an apple core, two cereal bowls with milk scum dried on their interiors—still sat out on the table. An orange juice carton stood on the counter, and the sink was speckled with charred fragments of blackened toast. The dishwasher gaped open, the bottom section empty and the top shelf stacked with cups and glasses. A trash container standing next to the refrigerator was filled with cartons from frozen dinners topped off by a heavy sprinkling of empty beer cans.
Despite the extent of its clutter, there was nothing about the room to proclaim the fact that one of that morning’s breakfasters had been a child. No high chair stood in the corner adjacent to the table; no food-spattered bib hung draped across the towel rack. There were no parental reminders attached with magnets to the refrigerator—Pick up Mindy’s sitter at five. Take Mindy for allergy shot. Parent Open House at Mindy’s nursery on Friday.
Jim Tyler had not accompanied her into the kitchen, but, conscious of the open doorway, Tracy picked up the telephone directory and riffled through its pages as though busily engaged in looking up a num
ber. Then she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear.
“Hello,” she said against the buzz of the dial tone. “I’d like to get TV and Internet service in my new apartment. My name’s Tracy Lloyd, and I’m at the Continental Arms.” She paused, as if listening to someone on the other end of the line. “That’s right,” she continued, “it’s Lloyd, spelled with two Ls.” Another pause to listen to the nonexistent second party. “Alright. I’ll call back in the morning. Good-bye.”
As she was replacing the receiver, Jim appeared in the doorway. His hair, though still damp, was no longer dripping, and he was wearing a T-shirt and sandals.
“So, what’s the good word?” he asked. “When can they install it?”
“I’m on their to-do list,” said Tracy. “But the miracle worker is conveniently out of the office. They want me to call back later.”
“Hassles!” Jim said lightly. “The whole world’s filled with hassles!” He opened the door of the refrigerator. “What can I offer you in the way of refreshments? Beer? Pop? How about a rum and Coke? A bunch of us took a run down to Mexico last weekend and brought back some duty-free Ronrico.”
“A Coke would be great. Nothing in it, please,” said Tracy. She moved to stand beside him so she, too, could peer into the refrigerator. She was not sure what it was she hoped to find there—bowls of Jell-O, perhaps, or a container of Kool-Aid. Maybe even a Donald Duck glass filled with chocolate milk. All she saw were beverage cans, some apples, and a wedge of cheese.
Jim extracted a Coke and a beer, handed the former to Tracy, and shut the refrigerator door. Then he led the way out of the kitchen. Shoving aside the newspapers that littered the sofa, he sat down, motioning Tracy to take a seat beside him.
“Well, tell me about yourself,” he said. “You can’t be from around here; you don’t have the mandatory drawl. I’d guess you’re from somewhere in the East. Am I right?”
“I’m from New York,” Tracy told him. Then, anticipating the next question, she continued, “I moved here to be near my family—my aunt and uncle. They’re sort of elderly and not too well.”
For some reason she found that statement difficult to utter. She was surprised by that fact, for the overall deception did not bother her. As Brad had noted, she was the product of a theater background, and playing a role came naturally and easily to her. Still, the lie about the Stevensons made her oddly uncomfortable. She wished she could have thought fast enough to have come up with some other reason for having made the move from New York to Texas.
“Have you been able to find a job yet?” asked Jim.
This was another question for which she had not prepared herself. Where would it be logical for her to say she worked? Although she might appear mature enough to be out of high school, she knew she did not look old enough to be a college graduate. What sort of job could she reasonably be expected to hold that would permit her to afford an apartment at the Continental Arms?
She was taking too long to answer.
Jim regarded her strangely.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess. I think you’re a spy.”
“A—spy?” Tracy echoed.
Then she saw the twinkle in his eyes and realized he was teasing her.
“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve been hired by some huge oil company to check out the fields in this area and report on which gullible landowners they can take advantage of.”
“How did you guess?” Tracy asked with a nervous laugh.
“I was trained by the CIA,” Jim said, laughing with her. “All joking aside, though, what is it that you really do for a—”
The question was cut off by the jangle of the telephone.
“Oh, no!” Jim exclaimed in mock exasperation. “Please, excuse me while I answer that. It’s probably the White House calling again. The President just won’t take no for an answer, and I do find his parties so boring.”
He got up from the sofa and went out to the kitchen. The phone broke off in mid shriek, and Tracy heard Jim saying, “Hello? Oh, hi, Debbie, how are you doing, pretty lady?” There was a pause. “You got tickets for that? I thought they were all sold out! Hey, I’d love to go, but I’m going to be out of town this weekend. I’ve got a couple of days of vacation coming, and I’m taking off in the morning for Padre Island. You might give my roommate a try though. He’s really bummed out. That’s one guy who could use a little R and R.”
Grateful for the timely interruption, Tracy seized the opportunity to turn her attention to the hall leading back to the bedrooms. Although there had been no sign of a child’s presence in either the living room or kitchen, if Mindy did indeed reside in this apartment, there was bound to be some evidence in the room she slept in.
Moving quietly, Tracy got to her feet and hurriedly crossed the living room to the hall. Of the three doors that opened onto the hallway, two stood ajar. The first of these led into a bathroom still misted with steam from Jim’s shower. Nothing there indicated a child’s recent presence; no potty-chair sat next to the toilet, no toy boats or rubber ducks lined the edge of the tub.
Jim’s voice drifted out from the kitchen.
“He’s having dinner at his sister’s tonight, so you can probably catch him there. Hey, wait a minute, I just remembered something. It’s possible he may not be available either. He was telling me this morning that Friday is Doug and Sally’s anniversary. I know they’ve been having a hard time finding sitters. If they’re planning a big night out, he might be stuck with the kid.”
The second open door led into a bedroom. This, too, appeared to be the sole province of an adult. The bedside table was piled with copies of Playboy, and a huge black and white poster of a well-endowed young woman in an infinitesimal bikini hung on the wall above the headboard. The bed was unmade, and a shirt with a tie still wound around the collar lay tossed across it. A pair of water skis was propped in a corner of the room, and the handle of a tennis racket protruded from beneath the bed.
Tracy stepped back from the entrance to the bedroom and turned to face the closed door directly opposite. Did she dare take a chance and open that? From what she could overhear of his conversation, it did not seem probable that Jim would remain on the phone much longer. “He usually turns off his cell when he’s visiting people,” he was saying, “so you may need to call their landline. I don’t know that number, but the family’s listed. The last name’s Carver. If you call tonight, maybe there’ll still be enough time for them to dig up a sitter.”
I’ve come this far, thought Tracy. I can’t stop now.
She gave the knob a twist and shoved the door open. Disappointment surged through her as she saw that, although it was neater, this second bedroom bore no more resemblance to a nursery than the first room had. There was no sign of a youth bed or crib, nor were there toys. No dolls or crayons or picture books lay scattered about.
Entering quickly, Tracy crossed to the closet and pulled open the sliding door. She was confronted with an array of men’s clothing. There were no tiny blouses and overalls, no little dresses. She glanced down at the floor. The shoes that were lined up there were obviously those of an adult—one black pair, one brown pair, some well-worn Nikes, and a pair of thongs.
Brad had to be wrong, she thought. Wrong, or maybe even crazy. Was the story he had told her true, or had he invented it? Did he really have a sister who had been kidnapped? Was there truly a wicked stepfather named Gavin Brummer? If so, then perhaps it was nothing more than coincidence that Jim Tyler’s roommate had the same last name and first initial. The one thing of which she had now become absolutely certain was that no child lived in the Brummer-Tyler apartment.
Sliding the closet door closed again, she turned and started back across the room to the hall.
She had taken only three steps when suddenly she saw it.
In a silver frame on the table next to the bed, there stood a photograph of a blond baby in a yellow sundress.
Chapter 7
THE DOUGLAS CARVER RESID
ENCE was listed in the phone directory as being on Sweetwater Drive, a street in a middle-class housing development on the eastern outskirts of Winfield. It was an odd, winding street that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of avoiding contact with any main artery of traffic, and by the time Brad had finally managed to locate it and follow its snakelike route to the twenty-seven hundred block, night had fully descended and turned the houses on either side of the street into faceless black rectangles.
“That’s twenty-seven forty-seven,” said Tracy, straining to make out the house numbers by the glow of Brad’s headlights. “We’re looking for twenty-seven fifty-three, which ought to be about—”
“It’s there,” Brad interrupted. “It’s that house in the middle of the block. That Jaguar parked in front of it is Gavin’s car.”
“How can you tell?” Tracy asked doubtfully. “The house number is all faded out, and it’s too dark to be able to see what color the car is.”
“That’s Gavin’s car,” Brad repeated firmly. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”
He could remember the very first time he had seen that car. He had come home from school to find it parked in the driveway, its metallic paint glinting silver in the afternoon sunlight. Gavin had bought it as a “birthday surprise for Laura,” but Brad’s mother had been too upset by the cost of the vehicle to be willing to even think about trying to drive it. Brad had been quickly proclaimed too young and inexperienced a driver to be allowed behind the wheel, so by default the car had become Gavin’s own special baby.
Now Brad brought the Impala to a stop on the side of the street opposite the hated symbol of his stepfather’s self-indulgence and switched off the engine and the headlights. Like the other houses in the subdivision, the one numbered 2753 was small and boxy and set close to the street. There were lights on inside, but the drapes that were drawn across the front window obscured any view of the interior.
“Tell me again what happened over there,” Brad said.
“You’ve already had me go over it twice,” said Tracy.
