With shotgun in hand, Angela went into the family room and took out the phone directory. She looked up the addresses of Devonshire, Forbs, Maurice, Van Slyke, and Ullhof and wrote them down. Carrying both the list and the shotgun, she returned to the car.
“Mom, you’re driving crazy,” Nikki said as Angela left a patch of rubber on the road.
Angela slowed a little. She told Nikki to relax. The problem was, Angela was more anxious than ever and Nikki could sense it.
The first address turned out to be a convenience store. Angela angled in to its parking area and pulled to a stop.
Nikki looked at the store and then back at her mother. “What are we doing here?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Angela said. “Keep an eye out for the Volvo.”
“It’s not here,” Nikki said.
“I realize that, dear.” She put the car in gear and headed for the next address. It was Forbs’ residence. Angela slowed as they came to the house. The lights inside were on, but there was no Volvo.
Disappointed, Angela again gunned the engine and they sped away.
“You’re still driving weird, Mom,” Nikki said.
“I’m sorry,” Angela said. She slowed down. As she did, she realized she was gripping the steering wheel so hard, her fingers had gone numb.
The next house was Maurice’s. Angela slowed but immediately saw that it was closed up tight with no sign of life. Angela sped on.
A few minutes later, when she turned onto Van Slyke’s street, Angela spotted the Volvo instantly. So did Nikki. It was a ray of hope. Angela pulled directly behind the car, turned off the ignition, and jumped out.
As she approached the car she saw Calhoun’s truck in front of it. She looked in both vehicles. In Calhoun’s truck she noticed a moldy cup of coffee. It appeared as if it had been there for several days.
Angela looked across the street at Van Slyke’s house. There were no lights whatsoever, fanning Angela’s growing alarm.
Running back to the car, Angela got the shotgun. Nikki started to get out, but Angela yelled at her to stay where she was. Angela’s tone let Nikki know there was to be no arguing.
Carrying the shotgun, Angela ran across the street. As she climbed the porch steps, she wondered if she should go directly to the police. Something was seriously wrong, there was no doubt about it. But what help could she expect from the police? Besides, she worried that time might be a factor.
She tried ringing the doorbell, but it clearly didn’t work. Failing that, she banged on the door. When there was no response, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open and cautiously stepped inside.
Then, as loudly as she could, she yelled David’s name.
David heard Angela’s yell. He straightened up. He’d been slouched against a bin filled with desiccated apples. The sound had come from such a distance and had been so faint that at first he questioned if it had been real. He thought he might have been hallucinating. But then he heard it again.
This time David knew it was real, and he knew it was Angela. He leaped to his feet in the utter darkness and screamed Angela’s name. But the sound died in the confined, insulated space with its dirt floor. David moved blindly ahead until he hit against the door. Then he tried yelling again, but he could tell it would be in vain unless Angela were in the basement.
Groping along the shelves, David seized a jar of preserves. He carried it over to the door and pounded the wood with it. But the sound was hardly as loud as he’d hoped.
Then David heard what he thought were Angela’s footsteps somewhere above. Changing tactics, he hurled the jar of preserves against the ceiling. He covered his head with his hands and closed his eyes as the glass smashed against the floorboards.
Groping back to the shelving, David tried to climb up on it so he could pound directly on the ceiling with his fists. But he’d only pounded once when the shelf he was standing on gave way. The shelf and all its jars collapsed to the floor, David along with it.