Manx Murders by William L. DeAndrea

Author:William L. DeAndrea [DeAndrea, William L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9037-8
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-10-30T23:32:00+00:00

Fifteen

LIGHTS FLASHED; TAPE HISSED quietly through the recorder attached to the phone at Omega House.

Everyone in the house had been gathered into the parlor—with only three cops and Ron to help him, Chief Viretsky decided it would be easier to keep an eye on everyone if they stayed in one place.

They sat in silence, leaning in toward the speakers like a Depression-era family listening to FDR on the Stromberg-Carlson. The chief sat with his eyes closed, trying to visualize what was going on. Benedetti had his head tilted to one side, like a man at a concert trying to ascertain if one of the flutes is a little off. Flo Ackerman gnawed her lower lip. Sandy Jovanka, Chip’s receptionist, had a puzzled look on her face like a kid who hadn’t expected a math test.

Henry Pembroke and Jackson, the housekeeper, sat together on a love seat. It was hard to tell who looked more nervous and miserable, or who was closer to tears.

Ron and Janet knelt by the big kidney-shaped coffee table, tracing Chip’s reported route over the (to them) unfamiliar territory on a large-scale map of Harville provided by the chief.

Not that there was much to listen to, just the low hum of the motor, and the occasional terse report by Chip that he’d gone another ten miles on the road the kidnappers had chosen.

He’d just made the second such report when the chief sighed. “They’re not going to contact him.”

“But they left the instructions,” Flo protested.

“Dry run,” Viretsky said, shaking his head. “They just want to make sure we’re willing to dance to their tune.”

“It also,” Janet said, “increases the uncertainty of the family, and their desire to get it over with.”

Henry Pembroke’s voice was hoarse. “I can’t take much more of this. I ... I’m not a well man.”

“You must be strong,” Benedetti told him. “Whatever happens.”

“How?” Pembroke demanded. “My twin brother and my son are in God knows what kind of danger, and ... and the chief says the kidnappers are probably just toying with me, and you tell me to be strong. How am I supposed to do it? Where is this strength supposed to come from?”

“Mr. Pembroke,” Benedetti said, “if there were a formula for that, a technique for finding strength in oneself, what a better world this would be, eh?” He showed a little smile. “In your case, I can only offer suggestions. Would you care to hear them?”

Pembroke said, “Anything.” Ron noticed that Jackson nodded, too.

“Very well,” the Professor said. “I suggest you use your anger.”

“My anger?”

“Of course. Your brother, and through him, you, have been the victims of a cowardly and sadistic act. Now your son is in peril—I would call it moderate danger, but even that is too much—because of his desire to help. Surely, your fury must equal your fear. Hold on to it. Cherish it. Promise to devote your life and fortune to tracking down whoever did this, however it turns out. Look forward to the day when you will be calling the shots, and the kidnappers will live in fear of you.

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