Rusty Sanders finally made it to the Tunnel an hour after he started. But the deputy didn’t take the T-Bird’s presence as seriously as had Stiles; it was just one more abandoned car to him, and he’d checked out too many there in the past. He wrote down the license number and the name from the registration, and then he left.

Back at the office, Dutch pushed him to check further, and he finally phoned Lawrence Whitten in Seymour. But the man didn’t seem particularly concerned; in fact, he sounded rather disinterested. His son was driving the car, and Tommy was a rambunctious youth. It wasn’t unusual for him to be gone for days at a time, especially on the weekends. The boy would turn up soon, his father predicted, and the deputy tended to agree. The “investigation” was over before it began.

Late in the afternoon, Marshal Larson came out of his office and noticed that the handyman was still nowhere to be seen. He asked Sanders about it, but the deputy just shrugged. He didn’t even look up from his magazine.

Billie hung up the phone slowly, giving away its message. Bart looked up from The Brady Brunch with concern. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Chris won’t be able to make it tonight after all. He said he has something else to do.” She brushed self-consciously at the new slacks and her favorite print blouse she wore, and touched the hair she’d spent most of the day setting so it would look just right. “I guess I’d better change my clothes. Wouldn’t want to get this stuff dirty.” She went toward her bedroom.

“I told you,” Bart grumbled, throwing the TV Guide across the room. “I knew him and her wouldn’t work, I knew it! I hope you’re satisfied, Cap.” He looked around. “I said I hope you’re satisfied, Delbert.”

But Del wasn’t listening to him. He didn’t hear Mike and Carol and the kids either, though he was staring straight at the TV show. His face had gone chalk white. “Don’t you get it?” he whispered.

Chris Stiles wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. And Del could guess why.

8

Chapter Eight

It was getting late. The movie’s last showing would be letting out just about now. The doors would open and the crowds would filter from the theater to find shops closed for the night and the square virtually empty save for the occasional carload of teen­agers roaming the night like the Flying Dutchman for something to do. The crowds, still laughing or grumbling depending on how the movie was, would dissipate as they reached the string of cars parked along the street.