Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 3, February 1961

The Dark Road Home by Paul Daniels

In a child’s eyes memory can become a shining light and an adult world of dark crime and violence take on a double pattern.

The woman was in a terrible rage. The little girl, highly sensitive to human reactions — to fear and tension and anger — could feel the vibrations coming through the wall from the room beyond; coming into the place where she sat very still and waited.

The woman kept repeating a single word: “Stupid — stupid — stupid—” and the man who was with her there in the other room growled his defense: “It wasn’t my fault. How could I know? I just did like we planned. It wasn’t my fault.”

The little girl was not frightened in the accepted sense. She had known of too much oppression and injustice to panic even in a situation such as this.

“The important thing now, Helen,” the man whined, “is what are we going to do?”

“What can we do? We’ve got to get rid of her. She’s worthless. It’s all danger now and no profit. We’ve got to get rid of her and give ourselves an even break.”

“You mean—?”

“What else could I mean?”

The little girl didn’t understand one word in ten but the woman’s tone, the aura of poised violence, the fear in the man’s last question, gave her the meaning. And she knew the Terror had returned; was here again; had to be reckoned with.

There had been a long, pleasant time beyond reach of the Terror; when they’d told her it would never come again. But she’d known that it would; that it was only waiting out there somewhere to sweep in and take her as it had taken her mother and her father and so many of the people she had known.

And what did you do when the Terror came? You did as you were told. You obeyed orders without question, knowing those who gave the orders loved you and wanted the best for you.

But it was different now. They were all gone. All except Uncle Hugo and maybe he was gone too. So it followed that you did the best you could; gave your own orders to yourself and then followed them.

And the order that came from deep in the little girl’s highly sensitized mind was — leave — get away from this place — make an effort to survive.

Trust no one in this big black world and never, never, never give up.

This last was the most important lesson she’d learned in the whole eleven years of her life. The will to survive. This was a part of her as she got up from the chair they’d put her in and moved along the wall toward the window. She knew that haste was imperative but also that too much haste could be fatal, so she examined the window very carefully.

It was broken. Three jagged shards angled toward a smashed center and the little girl tested them carefully and found they were loose. Working carefully, she removed them one by one and then lifted herself even more carefully over the sill.

If she had an urge to leap out to freedom — to scream for help — to cry or act in any manner like a child — she stifled the demand because she had learned long ago to do none of these things. Trained for six of her eleven years in the wisdom of alert, deliberate movement, restraint had become a part of her nature even in the face of great peril.

So her seeming casualness, now, was logical as she stood outside in a soft, abandoned flower bed and marshaled all her knowledge of this particular situation.

She’d been brought in through the front door of this secluded house. It was set in a clearing, in a completely deserted section of a forest. There were trees on all sides but the safest direction to move was straight back because then the house itself might keep the man and the woman inside from seeing her.

There were other things she knew also; that the man had brought her some fifty kilometers north of where she had been; that the automobile in which they’d ridden had been an old one; that they had gone most of the distance on winding country roads with trees close in on both sides.

These things she’d learned even while bound and covered on the floor in the back of the car; learned and remembered.

It was some comfort too, to know that the direction in which she now moved — toward the forest behind the house — was bringing her closer to Uncle Hugo — if Uncle Hugo still lived. Not much closer, but south, in the right direction; only a few feet subtracted from fifty kilometers but even this was comfort for a child who had learned to live — as her parents had lived — from moment to moment. Because only hope supports such living; you learn to rely heavily on hope; so even knowledge of a right direction was a great comfort.

The little girl reached the trees safely; touched a young birch as though it were a loving friend; held its trunk in her arms while she allowed herself the luxury of a quick little-girl sob.

But only one and that but for a short moment because the Terror thrived on those who took time to feel sorry for themselves. It made short work of weak victims. That was why her mother and her father and the people she’d known had lasted so long in the face of the Terror; because they were filled with courage; because they stayed and lived on hope and didn’t cry.

And so, after the stolen luxury of one small sob, the little girl circled the birch sapling and moved like a slim blonde shadow into the forest...

The Doberman, a sleek, graceful unit of highly trained ferocity, whined to himself as he paced the eight-foot length of his kennel. He had been a witness and the incident at the child’s playhouse in a secluded corner of the estate near his kennel had driven him momentarily mad; a weird silent madness during which he threw himself at the wire walls and the solid roof and had put bruises on his sleek hide.

The action had been over quickly but its image was sharp in the dog’s memory; the tall, thin man; the blanket with its musty odor; the battered car the man had driven away.

The action finished, but now another man, a friend, was approaching the kennel and the Doberman paced restlessly, waiting to be let out so he could follow the car and set things right.

The friend was big, grizzled, slow of movement. He wore the clothing of a gardener, a caretaker, and his eyes were kindly. Exactly the opposite of the Doberman’s because the dog had been meticulously trained to kill and death always lurked back behind his eyes; back in his memory.

The dog did not bark at Hugo Kroener because that had been a part of his training also. Never any noise; run silent; run deadly; come out of nowhere to kill.

Kroener said, “Poor, Prince.” He smiled and put his hand on the wire as close to the dog’s nose as possible. “You’d like to be out running like a dog should, wouldn’t you? Out in the forest chasing rabbits.”

The dog sat motionless now, waiting to be released. But Hugo Kroener had not seen the action at the playhouse. He took a piece of dog candy from his pocket and tossed it through the wire. The responsive move of the Doberman’s head was automatic — the dog appearing to accept the favor as some sort of stupid but necessary preliminary to the important business at hand.

But Hugo Kroener was a great disappointment to the dog. He turned away and started back toward his work at the other side of the estate. After a few steps, he stopped and turned and again smiled. “You miss her, do you not, old fellow? You like to have her in your sight all the time. But that cannot be. She is probably in the great house playing with the other little girl.”

The dog knew that the other little girl was afraid of him. He’d learned this while watching the two of them at play; while he’d watched with yearning from his heavy wire kennel. Now he watched Hugo Kroener; motionless; a statue; a rigid machine of man-made death. Tolerated because a little girl loved him.

Kroener moved out of sight and the dog began sniffing the ground along the fence that trapped him...

The little girl had been moving slowly and deliberately through the forest but now she was tired and felt herself entitled to a rest. Not a long one; just a few moments to ease the tension of eternal concentration.

She found a small pocket in the trunk of a big rotted-out tree and vanished from sight so completely that only a highly trained person could have located her.

Momentarily safe, she allowed her mind to slip its grasp on current reality; allowed it to rest and, automatically, memory took over. This was not a good thing, even while resting. In such circumstances as this she knew she should stay passively alert even while regaining her strength. But her longing was great and her thoughts went back...

...To the awful day when the Terror struck so savagely in Budapest. There had been a very important meeting that morning in the cellar of the house where the little girl lived with her mother and father. Several men came quietly to talk over some important matters with her father.

Her father was a leader and the little girl had been very proud of him; proud of the respect and deference in the voices of the men who came. She had been proud of her mother also. Her mother never said a great deal but at times her opinion was asked on some matter of importance and she always had something very quiet and sensible to say and the men listened.

The little girl’s mother and father talked together also, usually with the little girl in her mother’s lap, feeling the gentle touch of her mother’s hand and the warmth and comfort of her presence.

But on the awful day of the Terror, the little girl could tell by the tight feeling in the air, by the nervousness of her mother’s hands, that things were very wrong.

Then had come the sounds of gunfire in the streets not far away and her father and the other men went there to see if they could help.

After a while the phone rang and the little girl sat very close to her mother while she answered and even though she didn’t hear what was said over the phone there was her mother’s choked sob and the little girl knew her father was dead.

But her mother did not cry, so the little girl did not cry. They sat alone in the quiet house for a long time, the mother holding the little girl close in her arms. There alone in the quiet house, waiting, while the Terror lashed back and forth in the streets around them.

Then the telephone rang again, a nerve-ripping jangle in the darkness, breaking in frighteningly upon the stillness.

More news came over the phone and the little girl knew it was bad because her mother’s fingers closed over her arm, hurting her, but the little girl made no outcry because she knew her mother was not aware of the hurt.

Now her mother began using the telephone, desperately and after a while the little girl knew her mother was talking to Uncle Hugo.

Uncle Hugo tried to get the little girl’s mother to run; to try to escape past the Terror through the streets but she refused. She said it was too dangerous — the two of them — out there in the bullet-riddled night. Besides, there was no time.

So she told Uncle Hugo what he was to do and then hung up the telephone and held the little girl tight in her arms for a little while. But even then she was not crying.

When there was no time left even for love, the little girl’s mother said, “Now I want you to go to your hiding place under the porch. No matter what happens, you must not make a sound. Do you understand that, my darling? Not one single little sound. You must promise.”

“I promise,” the little girl said.

After her mother held her for a few scant seconds longer and gave her kisses she would always remember and she went as she had been ordered, to the snug little place under the front porch where — if you stayed quiet as a mouse — no one would ever know.

She’d hardly gotten there when heavy footsteps thumped across the porch over her head; the footsteps of the Terror shaking dust down into her hair.

The men went on into the house, smashing in the door with the butts of their rifles. Then there were deep gutteral sounds. There was the brutal laughter of men who took the Terror with them wherever they went.

They stayed in the house quite a while and the little girl’s mother screamed twice before she was finally quiet.

But the little girl obeyed the orders of the one who loved her most and she was as quiet as the stones around her.

She did not cry out even when the men crossed the porch again, on their way out; even when she knew the body they dragged after them was the body of her mother.

Then it was very quiet in the house and on the streets around the house, with the gunfire dying down as though the Terror had spent itself and had to rest and gain new strength.

Still the little girl sat.

Then there was a soft sound close by. The little girl reached out and touched a cold, wet muzzle.

The dog had come...

But now, hiding again in the rotted tree, half a world away from Budapest and that awful night, the little girl felt a touch of alarm at allowing her mind to wander so far from this new time and this new place. A dangerous thing to do; dangerous because the Terror never rested. It was always alert; always ready to pounce down on the dreamer, the rememberer, the one who allowed mind and its senses to relax.

Besides, Uncle Hugo was fifty kilometers away and the little girl had to get back to him as soon as possible. Uncle Hugo couldn’t possibly come for her this time because the little girl’s mother hadn’t been there to call him on the telephone and tell him where the little girl would be hiding. Therefore she would have to find Uncle Hugo all by herself. There was no one else to help her.

She pushed carefully out of her hiding place, scarcely stirring a leaf or a blade of grass as she tested for danger. There did not appear to be any at the moment so she came into view and continued on toward the south. Moving slowly and carefully through the forest because haste itself could be the greatest danger of all...

The man and the woman in the secluded house argued, berated, and cursed each other for half an hour before it was finally settled; before they agreed upon what needed to be done. Their mistake had to be obliterated; all evidence of it completely destroyed. And even though it would be a grim chore, it would not be difficult. After all — a child of eleven or twelve.

And there were any number of places to hide the body; places in the comparatively wild country where it might never be found; and would certainly remain hidden until time had worked in favor of the man and the woman.

“When?” the man asked sullenly.

“What’s wrong with now?”

“I suppose so. How?”

“Do you know how to blow your nose?” Helen Mayhew asked contemptuously.

“Okay, okay.”

The man prowled the room. He weighed the lethal comparatives of a milk bottle and a scarred rolling pin and selected the latter. He went to the door leading into the rear room and paused. “Maybe we ought to wait ’til dark.”

“And lose the time? Who’s around, you lamebrain? Have we got an audience or something?”

“Maybe we ought to take her where we’re going to leave her first. Find the place.”

“Get it over with, Mack — or haven’t you got the guts? Do you want me to do it?”

“Quit riding me!”

Frank Macklin opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking into the back room, then lumbered forward. He found the closet empty, inspected the paneless window, and came back to Helen with a blindfold he’d just picked up from the floor.

“She’s gone,” he said.

Helen had been putting on lipstick with the aid of a piece of broken mirror on the table. She straightened with a look of fright. “What do you mean — gone?”

“What I said. She took this off and blew.”

Helen’s rage flared again. She beat back her fear and made room for rage and if she’d had a weapon at that moment she would have killed Macklin. She glared at him and went back to the old word: “Stupid — stupid — stupid. I lay things out. I plan—”

Macklin took a menacing step forward. “But you didn’t do none of the work. The dangerous stuff—”

“You fool — she saw me — not you. When I took the blindfold off and found you’d blundered.”

“That’s right,” Macklin said virtuously. “She saw you — not me. I seized her from behind.”

“I made the plans — you made the mistakes. Now you get out and find that kid because I swear if I’m dead you’re dead too.”

Macklin — for all his stupidity — was still blessed with a certain logic. He nodded stolidly. “Uh-huh. We’re both in it. But there’s no cause to worry. She couldn’t go far in this kind of country.”

“Then don’t stand there! Move! Do something!”

Helen’s rage was melting. The fear was seeping back. The man patted her arm clumsily. “Don’t worry. I’ll find her. Everything’s going to be all right.”

And obviously there was some sort of a distorted love between the two of them because Helen’s face softened. “Be careful,” she said.

Macklin laughed boisterously. “I got danger with a twelve-year-old kid?”

“Move, you fool! Find her.”

“Sure, sure.”

As he left the house to start searching Helen Mayhew’s fear returned. She was crying when he closed the door.

Outside, Macklin went around to the paneless window and found the small shoe prints in the abandoned flowerbed. He scowled. Up to this time he had been very gentle with the little girl — careful, as with a thing of value. But now she was a potential danger and he hated her; hated her as a peril and also for having become valueless.

He followed the tracks over the soft earth to the wall of trees behind the house, muttering as he walked:

“I’ll find her and kill her. She won’t get us into no trouble. I’ll find her. I’ll kill her — real good...”

In the wooded, hilly country there were many summer homes owned by people who came north for the good months; many who felt a country summer to be incomplete without a pet to share it with — usually a dog because a dog will romp with its benefactors and show appreciation in many ways.

But later, many of these dogs become problems. What to do with them when summer is over? They would be annoyances in city apartments, needing attention and care. Everyone knows a dog is not happy in close quarters. They belong in the open where they can run and play.

So in many cases the problem is solved by driving away from it; by leaving these summer friends in the country where they gather in packs for mutual protection and are soon no longer pets.

Where they revert to the law of the wild and kill to live. They kill woodchucks and rabbits and pull down deer. Packs with a particularly savage leader will slaughter domestic animals for food. And some of these packs, reverting completely before they are hunted down, have been known to maim children.

Such a dog pack roamed the country through which the little girl moved. The leader, a big German Shepherd gone shaggy and vicious, caught her intriguing scent on the late autumn breeze and sat down on his haunches to consider the matter while his four followers awaited his decision.

The pack as yet had not gone totally vicious what with food still available and the weather still good. But they were farther along than they should have been because they’d been roughly handled. Chased off one farm with clubs, they’d approached the second with far too much trust and had been met by a load of buckshot.

The small Collie swung a loose foreleg as a result and the German Shepherd was in a sullen mood from a wounded jowl that hurt him whenever he opened his mouth to breathe which was most of the time.

The female Beagle, sensing his pain had tried to lick his wound and he’d slashed her shoulder by way of gratitude.

Still, the German Shepherd was not quite ready to take human life — to pass that point of no return in dogdom — but the scent made him quiver deep inside because while human it was not adult and a dog pack is attracted to helplessness.

The German Shepherd came off its haunches and circled restlessly, growled in its throat, and started off through the woods.

Moving with more decision as the scent grew stronger...

Neal Garrett looked up from the book he’d been reading and saw his caretaker approaching the patio across a hundred yards of lawn. There would have been time to read another page but Garrett put the book down because he enjoyed watching Kroener. Sight of the big European gave him a sense of satisfaction, Kroener being a reflection of Garrett’s own generosity.

And Garrett had a right to this satisfaction. Wasn’t he one of the comparative few who’d been thoughtful enough to extend a helping hand to those poor devils? Sharing good fortune with the unfortunate? God, what those damned Russians had put them through over in Hungary! Enough to make a man’s blood boil. Of course, Kroener didn’t talk much but it had come to Garrett from other sources. Facing death for the little girl. Getting across the border with Red bullets clipping at his heels. Who wouldn’t want to help a guy like that?

Besides, there were rewards for Garrett’s kind of virtue. Not that they’d been the first consideration of course. But good luck keeps an eye on generous men because Garrett had had to wait only three weeks after he’d first gotten the idea until they told him they had a crackerjack gardener for him.

And this specification hadn’t been so unreasonable on his part. After all, didn’t a top-notch grass and flower man rate a break as much as some slob who figured America owed the world a living and would just stand around and collect it? Hell yes!

Of course there weren’t too many of that kind. European workmen hadn’t been ruined by unions and prosperity and most of them appreciated a break. This Kroener for instance. He kept the whole damn ten acres looking like an exhibit and hadn’t asked for a lick of help. One man doing the work of two and maybe even three.

Garrett was glad, now, that he’d gambled on the child. He’d almost turned them down on Kroener when they told him the little girl had to come too — figured maybe the guy would have her in tow all the time and let the place go to pot.

But it hadn’t worked out that way at all. Just about the opposite in fact. The little girl had even been good for Cindy. Same age, same build. And two little blonde heads around the place were kind of cute.

So it had worked out fine. With both Kroener and the kid knowing their place and Kroener never letting her come into the house unless Grace invited her.

Garrett wondered. Maybe Grave had her up from the cottage a little too much. Not that he was a snob, mind you. Just for the kid’s own good. Might be rough on her with so much here she couldn’t have. In her condition it might be easy for a kid to turn morbid and get to be a problem.

But that was a minor point. Garrett forgot about it and wondered if he should ask Kroener to have a drink. Not that he wouldn’t have done it automatically, but what the hell — how did they do it in Europe? That was how Americans got a bad name around the world; being too damn generous. Treating people as equals — peasants who weren’t used to it and figured you for a peasant yourself just for fraternizing with them. They were queer ducks all right, some of them.

Hugo Kroener had arrived now. He took off his hat and spoke in careful, laborous English. “Mr. Garrett, sir. I have come to inquire of you if my little Tina is here. With your Cindy?”

Garrett got up and went out onto the lawn still carrying his scotch and soda. “Tina? Haven’t seen her. I thought she was with Cindy — over in Cindy’s playhouse.”

“They were there. Now the playhouse is empty. There is no one there.”

“Then they may be in the house. Upstairs in Cindy’s room, maybe. Wait a minute.”

Garrett went back into the screened patio and called, “Grace! Hey, Grace — is Tina in there anywhere?”

His voice was loud enough to reach all of the seventeen rooms and soon a tall, graceful woman appeared. She smiled and said, “Don’t stand out there in the sun, Mr. Kroener. Come in where it’s cool.”

Hugo Kroener gravely obeyed and Neal Garrett said, “He’s come for his little girl. I told you that. You could have brought her down and saved a trip.”

Grace Garrett was surprised. “Why, I thought Tina was with you, Mr. Kroener. Cindy came back from the playhouse quite a while ago. She’s upstairs in the bathtub.”

Hugo Kroener was troubled. “Usually I watch them — to see that Tina is not left alone too long. But I got busy with the back shrubs.”

“It was thoughtless of Cindy. Leaving her that way. I’ll speak to her about it.”

Garrett said, “She’s probably roaming the grounds somewhere. Hope she’s careful about not stepping on flowers and things.”

“Tina is very careful,” Hugo Kroener said.

Grace Garrett frowned slightly as she glanced at her husband. “I’m sure she couldn’t have gone far.”

Garrett sloshed his ice cubes around and said, “Sure. Let’s face it — how far could a blind kid go?”

Grace Garrett was embarrassed — something in her husband’s tone and manner. A crudeness. She said, “We’ll help you look around, Mr. Kroener.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garrett, but I will find her. As Mr. Garrett said, she could not go very far.”

A bell toned melodiously somewhere inside the house. “The front door,” Neal Garrett said. “I’ll get it, hon. Make yourself a drink and relax a while.”

After her husband left, Grace Garrett asked, “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Kroener?”

“No thank you. I must go and look for Tina. I am sorry I have troubled you.”

“It was no trouble. And Tina isn’t, either. I think it’s wonderful, she and Cindy having one another to play with.”

“It is very good for Tina,” Hugo Kroener said gravely. “She needs friends.”

Hugo Kroener returned as he’d come, toward the wooded and shrubbed areas beyond the lawn. Tina had several hiding places around the estate and once in a while, when he was ahead in his work, she would select one and then Kroener would make an elaborate, noisy business out of finding her; calling her name in mock anger; bringing giggles from lips that seldom smiled.

But there was no time for a game now; a quicker way of finding her. The dog. He never made a game of it. He always went straight to where she was and licked her face in glee. The dog and the child loved each other and they belonged together but that was impossible. They could be together only when he was there to watch.

The Garretts were afraid of having the dog loose. And perhaps they were right although Hugo Kroener knew in his heart that Prince would die under torture before he would hurt a child. But there were other people around and you could never tell about a dog with his kind of background.

Hugo Kroener stopped and looked toward the kennel. Then he hurried forward. A hole had been dug underneath the wire.

The Doberman was gone...

The terror, Tina had learned, was not a single, clearly defined thing. It was a dark mixture of many evils. Basically, it was the nonlove, the hostility, of persons unknown, and this she had come to take for granted as a part of life, just as her mother had trained her to make the will to survive a part of her life.

You didn’t waste mental energy wondering why the unknown persons wanted to destroy you. Instead, you used that energy to always fight back with whatever weapons were available, and Tina’s weapons were incredibly keen ears, her every sense honed and sharpened to the uttermost in compensation for her blindness.

So her ability to walk a straight south line through a strange forest was not incredible; no more so than knowledge of the distance she had been driven, or her ability to read black intent from the tone of strange words and feel danger in the subtle vibrations around her.

A mixture of many evils, the Terror, with fatigue, hunger, and cold numbered among them because these weapons of the Terror were calculated to dull your senses, cripple your reactions, make you an easy target for the final attack.

Thus rest was not a luxury; it was a necessity, so in the sharpening chill of late autumn afternoon, Tina began looking for another sanctuary and found a snug hole under a cluster of boulders, probably the deserted nest of a fox or a woodchuck because it was heavy with old animal odors.

There she rested and as her mind again let go, it seemed she was back in the other cave under the porch in Budapest; just as she had been when Prince first came; his cold wet nose; his soft tongue...

In a sense, the Doberman too had been a victim of the Terror — trained to become a savage part of it — put to work in places where high walls and barb wire had sometimes failed. He had been skillfully brain-washed and taught to do his work well, his gentler instinct scientifically stifled.

Stifled but not quite destroyed as was proven that terrible night in Budapest when a cog in the machine of the Terror slipped and he was left to himself; no leash; no commands to sit, to stand, to heel — to kill.

A lean black shadow moving through the tense city; trying possibly, to escape the gunfire smells he had always hated; or perhaps keyed to destroy on his own whim if the need came.

He stopped in the vicinity of a darkened house — one that looked empty and deserted — giving it his attention because he knew this was not the case. Life still existed there and he crossed the street and found it in a small nestlike place under the front porch.

But he did not attack. There was something unusual about this helpless wisp of form and movement; something in the uncertainty of the hand that touched him. A confusing thing but oddly pleasant. He licked the small hand and allowed it to pat his nose.

The Doberman licked the little girl’s face and she almost laughed as she heard his tail thump but she caught herself in time and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, doggie. I’ll take care of you until Uncle Hugo comes.”

The dog put his head into her lap and quivered as the little girl stroked him and they waited together.

Perhaps the strangest aspect of the phenomenon was the dog’s complete trust in the little girl as was proven when Hugo Kroener crawled under the porch and knelt for a few tight seconds within inches of sudden death. But a whispered word from the little girl told the dog this was a friend and the dog understood.

But Hugo Kroener didn’t. He tried to send the Doberman on its way but the dog stood firm, stubbornly demanding acceptance, until Kroener realized that henceforth the little girl’s way was the dog’s way also, and they moved in stealth through the strife-torn city — the man, the child, and the lean black shadow — avoiding destruction — escaping into Austria...

But now the Terror had come again and Tina was alone with only her hope and her instinct for survival. Reaching out from the near-edge of sleep, she whispered, “Prince... Prince — come and find me.”

But this, she knew, was wishful thinking. Prince would not come. He was trapped in a kennel with wire over the top. No one would come, so she must rest and banish the weariness and then move on again...

Hugo Kroener returned to the big house at dusk. Neal and Grace Garrett were having coffee behind the screens of the patio. Kroener gripped his hat in his huge hands and said, “I have not found her. She is not anywhere on the grounds.”

While Neal Garrett frowned out across the lawn, his wife said, “Then we must call the police. She has wandered off and must have gotten confused.”

Neal Garrett did not appear to be convinced. “Are you sure you looked every place? This is a pretty good-sized layout. Maybe she got tired and dropped off to sleep under some bush.”

“I looked everywhere,” Kroener said. “I think the police should be called. It could be very dangerous.”

“Dangerous? You’ve got your locations mixed. This isn’t the African jungle. It’s urban United States — seventy miles north of New York City.”

“But the dog is with her. It might be dangerous for anyone who approached her to ask a question.”

“You mean she took that killer—?”

“No. He dug out under the wire of his kennel.”

“Then how do you know he’s with her? He might have just taken off into the hills.”

“Wherever she went,” Kroener said, “he is with her.”

“Okay — I guess we better call the State Troopers — have them check the neighborhood.” There was an odd reluctance in his voice and Grace Garrett looked up quickly, wondering about it, feeling vaguely troubled...

They called the closest State Police barracks and were told that all cars in the area would be alerted. A search would be made. The Trooper on the phone said not to worry. They would find the child.

Hugo Kroener went back to his searching. After he left, the Garretts were silent for a time, with Grace Garrett watching her husband as he paced the floor.

Neal Garrett said, “I hope that beast doesn’t take an arm off somebody. We’d be liable. I shouldn’t have allowed them to bring the monster with them.”

“Neal—”

He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Yes—?”

“Has it occurred to you that Tina might have been kidnapped?”

He stared incredulously. “Kidnapped! Are you out of your mind? A nobody’s kid. What would be the point?”

“Our Cindy isn’t a nobody’s child. You happen to be worth a great deal of money.”

“Nobody figures me in that class,” he snapped.

“Someone might suspect.”

“Anyhow, you aren’t making sense. We weren’t talking about Cindy. She’s safe upstairs in bed.”

“That’s true, but she and Tina look very much alike.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You’re being purposely dense. A mistake could have been made.”

“Why hell’s bells! They’re as different as night and day. The Hungarian kid is blind. Anyone could tell—”

“Of course, but very few people realize it at first glance. She lost her sight from scarlet fever when she was five years old but her eyes weren’t damaged. And with the training she got from her mother — to hold her head up so proudly — she appears to be quite normal most of the time.”

“You’re crazy. Kidnappers are smart. They wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

“I don’t agree. I think the fact that they’re kidnappers makes them stupid. And I think a situation might arise where a mistake like that could easily occur.”

“I say you’re off your rocker. Nobody could be sure I’d be able to pay. They wouldn’t make the gamble. So that leaves some enemy or other and nobody’s out to get even with me for anything. Not people like that, anyhow.”

“Of course I’m sure. What are you driving at?”

“Somehow I keep thinking of that Mayhew woman.”

“Who’s she?”

“The maid who worked for us a month or so last spring. She dropped a trayful of glasses, remember?”

“Oh — that one.”

“You lost your temper and cursed her.”

“She had it coming.”

“Nobody deserves to be cursed for an accident. She cursed you back, you’ll recall — said she’d get even with you.”

“Hell — she probably forgot all about it the next day.”

“Still, you’ve got to admit she became an enemy.”

“You’re way out in left field. Kidnappers don’t keep you in the dark. They leave a note or send one. They want money.”

Grace Garrett studied her husband thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right.” There was something distant and uncertain in her voice. She arose from her chair suddenly. “I’m going up to look in on Cindy,” she said, and left the room.

Alone, Neal Garrett mixed himself a drink. He gulped it down. At intervals, he swore softly...

It had taken the Doberman less than five minutes to tunnel under the wire wall of his kennel — a felony he committed only after discovering that Kroener was not going to release him. He went straight to the spot where the hedge had been broken by the tall man’s passage in and out; through which he’d carried the little girl wrapped tight in the blanket.

Just beyond the hedge was a point where a narrow country road wound in close to that corner of the grounds before it snaked off into the northern hills. That was where the car had stood; where the man had bound and blindfolded the little girl before finally covering her with the blanket on the floor in the back seat.

And the Doberman found something else; a heavy blood spoor. This came from the dead body of a robin that had been killed by hitting an overhead telephone wire in flight, the body later flattened by the rear wheel of the fast-traveling car.

So, as the dog loped north in pursuit, the blood spoor remained strong. The road also was a fortunate one for his purpose. In earlier years it had been a main thoroughfare but a six-lane parkway had been built a mile to the east and now the old road was used by the comparatively few people whose country homes bordered it.

Thus there was no heavy traffic to confuse the Doberman, a breed not noted for superior tracking abilities. In fact, if the kidnap car had turned off into any of the estate entrances, the dog would probably have been thrown into a fruitless circle.

But it stayed on the rutty blacktop mile after mile; until the country became more hilly and deserted and it finally dwindled into a dirt road, rough and tortuous; heavy with dust that held the blood spoor even better than the paved surface.

So the dog found no great problem until he came, after three hours of steady, mile-eating lope, into an area where the dirt road dwindled off and vanished into overgrown trails and footpaths. There, the scent wore out and the dog began circling; flushing out small game and ignoring it as he followed one false lead after another.

But he did not give up. That also was a characteristic of the breed and a marked trait of this particular dog. He would circle and follow, return and go forward, until he dropped in his tracks...

The frightened woman, left alone in the isolated house, made dozens of trips into the yard as the afternoon waned into evening. She kept watching the south forest line for a sign of the man’s return and now her nerves were about as raw as she could stand. The surrounding woods with its whispering, menacing trees had begun to move in on her; to seem more and more like a big black trap.

She had admitted no guilt in front of the man but alone she conceded that she’d blundered also. That was what came from trying a thing you’d had no experience with. That way, you found out your mistakes after you made them.

First, she should not have moved in anger — she shouldn’t have let that slob Garrett bug her so much. Of course, if he hadn’t treated her like so much dirt, she wouldn’t have gotten the idea in the first place. It had been strictly from revenge in the beginning, with Garrett’s contempt and his curses and foul names eating at her until she decided to make him pay.

And it had looked so easy. Helen Mayhew had been sure Garrett would pay; that his wife wouldn’t let him go to the cops. And afterwards, how could she and Mack be traced? Who could suspect? Neither of them had a record. When you hunted for a kidnapper, you went through the police files and looked for somebody with a criminal background. You didn’t track down ordinary citizens who’d always minded their own business.

And with the kid back, the whole thing would have died down after a while. She and Mack would just have had to be careful with the money — not flash it around.

But she should have checked one last time. It had been several months. She’d taken the chance from fear of being seen in the neighborhood; had gambled that things would be the same. But she’d told Mack that if things didn’t look just right to just drive on by and come back.

So it wasn’t her fault. She’d told him that and things hadn’t been right. But he hadn’t driven on by. He’d snatched the wrong kid. How could she have known he’d have a choice? Two kids. Both of them blonde and around eleven years old. Good God!

Thus the failure roiled around in Helen Mayhew’s mind; accusation and alibi until the forest shrieked in her ears and she could stand it no longer.

Until she grabbed her purse and started the car and headed out. Out to anywhere. She didn’t care. She only knew that she had to get away from this place and keep going. Keep going ’til she hit an ocean somewhere.

And then keep going some more...

The wounded German Shepherd, viciousness flowing into it with its heightening hunger, circled the cluster of boulders under which the little girl waited. The dog could have gone on in and dragged her out but a thin edge of caution held him back; a caution requiring him to snarl and froth in his rising madness a while longer, working himself to a higher pitch of noncaution.

This caution was based on an instinctive fear of traps, the cave under the boulders having that aspect. The wild hunter, the pack leader to which the abused animal had reverted, prefers to work in the open; to circle and bring its quarry down with quick lunges at exposed flanks.

But with the agony of a torn jaw nourishing the dog’s madness, the barrier of caution was fast vanishing. Soon he would be ready. He had already pushed to within inches of the crouching child, had ravened in her face and then pulled back at the last moment.

The pack milled restlessly, waiting for the leader to make his move; expecting him to make it, with the leader aware of this demand for leadership. He had to produce food and comfort or he would lose the pack.

The crippled Collie pressed a little too close and the German Shepherd whirled and ripped at the injured paw. The Collie shrieked in pain and limped away. The German Shepherd slavered a warning and moved back to the cave opening.

He was ready now. This time he would finish the chore. But at just that moment a furious black shadow came out of nowhere to bar the way, smashed against the German Shepherd and knocked him sprawling.

It was a pitifully unequal battle, the German Shepherd supported only by madness and instinct while the Doberman, silent as a well-oiled piston destroyed his enemy with a detached savagry born of cold, scientific training.

There was no time even for the pack to close in on its fallen leader and help with the kill; time only for surprise before the Doberman turned from the death he had dealt out and streaked for the Collie.

And thus the pack was informed of a difference here. This was not a new leader destroying the old one and taking over the pack. Here, the pack itself was in danger of annihilation and the dogs fled in all directions to look back in bewilderment from beyond the perimeter of danger and then go their separate ways.

The Doberman stood watch for a while, grinning at them as they left, and then entered the cave; wriggling along on his belly with strangely immature puppy whines of contentment.

The little girl’s hand touched his bloody muzzle and did not draw back. She held the dog close and the dog quivered as from weakness when she whispered, “Prince... Prince. You did come and find me.” Not in those words; in the soft, gutteral Hungarian the dog understood.

He put his head in her lap and banged his tail against the ground and after a while Tina — her courage and fortitude shredded by weariness — dropped off to sleep.

But the dog did not sleep. He lay unmoving with his head in the little girl’s lap, a blood-spattered threat of sudden death to anyone who came too close...

The tall man had hunted through the forest all that day but had not found the little girl. After the tracks vanished into an unbroken carpet of dried leaves, he began moving in aimless circles, feeling that one direction was as good as another.

At one point he came upon the tracks again, or thought he did, but they proved to be a part of many others, converging upon a place where many children had come for a picnic — probably in early summer from the deserted look.

He went on with his wandering, hoping each moment to catch sight of a yellow cotton dress so he could finish the job he’d come to do.

But the little girl seemed to have been swallowed up and the man began cursing his evil luck.

How was it that not a damn thing ever worked out? How come even a sure thing went wrong? Garrett would have paid. And he’d have kept his mouth shut, too. He was that kind of a guy. Inside the law, but not wanting any cops snooping in his business.

That was how Helen Mayhew had it figured and she’d been around him long enough to know. Helen was smart. She knew what she was doing and just how things should have worked out.

Only one thing — they should have checked first and found out about the second kid. Or would it have made any difference? Maybe not.

His weariness growing, Macklin turned back toward the deserted house. Deep in self-pity, he decided it wouldn’t have made any difference. If it hadn’t been two kids to trip him up there would have been something else. He’d never been able to ring up a score. Just a hard-luck guy from the beginning and he’d probably end that way.

He broke into the clearing and saw the house; no light; no sign of life. But Helen was probably playing it smart. Some local yokel might spot a light and start nosing around and more trouble would come down on them.

But no car either. What the hell had she done with the car? He called her name. There was no answer. Damn it all, she didn’t have to play it that smart.

“Helen! Where the hell are you? It’s Mack. You don’t have to hide. I’m all alone.” No answer. He plodded toward the house.

And even then it took him a good five minutes to realize the truth. She’d run out on him! She’d taken the car and headed out with him pounding the woods like a maniac trying to keep her out of trouble.

The lousey, cheap, conniving bitch! She’d taken off and left him to face the rap! He’d kill her by God! He’d find her and ring her goddam no-good neck!

But now he was hungry and he stopped reviling the woman long enough to wolf down some bread and cold meat she’d left in the house. Damned white of her not leaving him to starve to death.

His hunger dulled, fatigue took over, and an earlier resolution to get the hell out of there came up for reappraisal. Sure, he’d have to get away fast but not in a night so goddam black you could crack your skull on it. This was as safe a place to sleep as any. He’d rest up and hit out before dawn — straight south — through the woods; get down into civilization and keep going clear into the South maybe.

He bedded down in a corner of the room they’d first put the kid in and that made him remember her. Damn stupid little brat. Sneaking out and ruining everything. They weren’t going to hurt her. But that was how things went for him. He was a hard luck guy...

He awoke, refreshed just before dawn as he had intended to, shook off the autumn chill, and ate the rest of the food. Then, as soon as it was light enough to keep from breaking your leg, he started south through the woods. Morning deepened and he moved faster...

Until, around ten o’clock, Macklin got his break. The kid. There she was; walking kind of slow and funny through the woods. Walking like she was afraid of falling over a cliff.

And damn if she didn’t have a dog with her. Where had she picked up the mutt? A black Doberman. There’d been a dog like that back at Garrett’s place; a dog that couldn’t bark. It had gone crazy in its kennel when he took the kid.

This couldn’t be the same one, though. Just a coincidence that they looked the same.

Mack picked up a section of fallen branch, a good strong club. Maybe he’d have to kill the dog first. Or maybe the mutt would run. A belt across the chops and it would get the message, anyhow.

The dog had turned and was eyeing Macklin; motionless and silent with no hint of what went on in its mind. The man and the dog stared at each other for long moments. Then the man raised the club and moved forward.

Macklin said, “One side, you black bastard or I’ll—”

It was the evening of the second day and the State Police together with members of volunteer fire companies in the surrounding area were out beating the hills for some sign of the little blind girl. So far they’d seen nothing.

With lack of evidence to the contrary, it had been assumed that she’d wandered away into the hills and was perhaps hiding, weary and frightened, in some rock-pocket or thick undergrowth.

They had rimmed off the widest circle that a blind child could conceivably cross and were covering every inch of it.

But without result. Still, they kept on as others joined them and their wives leagued together and brought food and drink and began collecting flashlights and batteries in preparation for night search.

Hugo Kroener moved steadily, doggedly, silently over his aportioned segment refusing food or rest; like a man hunting for a time bomb with the minutes ticking away. Perhaps not even minutes now... Perhaps it was already too late.

Neal and Grace Garrett remained home on advice of the State Police; to be available in case the thing “took a new twist” — words with which the State trooper in charge framed his fear of kidnapping.

He was Sergeant Farrier, a pleasant young man with an air of efficiency about him. He made several visits to the Garrett home during the day and then, around six o’clock, he called from the Patrol barracks and talked to Grace Garrett.

“The little girl may have been found,” he said. “We got word from Centerville, a little place about forty-five miles north of here. Something’s been going on up there.”

Grace Garrett’s nerves were a trifle raw. “Just what do you mean by — something’s been going on? Either they found her or they didn’t. Is Tina—?”

Farrier forestalled the word dead. “We don’t know yet. As I said, we got the report but in cases like this it’s best to go up and find out first-hand. I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“Shall I tell—?”

“Don’t tell anyone. Let the hunt go right on until we find out what this is all about.”

“Hurry — please hurry.”

“I will.” Farrier hesitated, then added. “I can tell you this much. The little girl they found is blind.”

“Then it is—”

“It would seem so. But there are other blind children and we want to be sure.”

“Thank you. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Grace Garrett put the phone down and turned to her husband who stood waiting. “They think perhaps they have found Tina.”

“Where for God’s sake?”

“They aren’t sure it’s Tina yet A call came in from a place forty miles north of here.”

“That’s silly. A blind child wandering that far.”

“Sergeant Farrier is driving up to see. Until they know for sure we mustn’t say anything about it.”

“It... it just doesn’t sound reasonable,” Neal Garrett said.

“We can hope.”

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee.”

Grace Garrett followed her husband’s exit with troubled eyes. This affair had driven a wedge between them; mostly her fault, no doubt, because she hadn’t inquired too deeply into the cause of his obvious upset. Concern was natural, of course, but Neal seemed to have a personal secret eating at him.

Perhaps, Grace Garrett thought, she should have kept probing until she’d brought it out. But she had a feeling that she knew what it was and had been hoping he would tell her of his own accord. Had she been right in thinking—? No. Of course not. How could she have gotten such an idea?

Her head ached dully and she took two aspirin before going upstairs to keep Cindy company. She had kept Cindy inside the whole day and it was difficult for the child...

Farrier returned around ten o’clock that night, bringing another Patrolman with him. They were met at the front door by the Garretts and Farrier said, “We had good luck. Things seem to be all right. The little girl is unharmed.”

“Where is she?” Grace Garrett asked.

“There in the back seat. We fed her before we started back. She’s sound asleep now.”

Grace Garrett took a step forward but the second Trooper raised his hand. “She’s perfectly comfortable. It might be better if we let her sleep until her uncle comes. He’ll be better able to handle the dog.”

“This is Trooper Kane,” Farrier said. “He was in charge of things up at Centerville. He rode down with me to kind of wrap it up.”

“The dog, you said?” Neal Garrett asked.

“A black Doberman. He’s tied up but let me tell you — there’s one rough customer.”

“Thank God everything’s all right,” Neal Garrett said fervently. “I’ll go out and find Kroener and tell him.”

“That won’t be necessary. We reported at the local barracks on the way over. The word was sent out to the uncle — and to call off the search. But there are a few things—”

“Come in, please,” Grace Garrett said. “We shouldn’t have kept you standing here.”

“—a few things—” Farrier repeated over a cup of coffee in the study with Grace Garrett sitting on the edge of her chair and Neal Garret with his back to the fireplace, tense and silent.

“Some pretty peculiar points, actually,” Trooper Kane said. He was an older man, stocky, with a bronzed, weatherbeaten face. “A man was killed.”

Garrett winced. “You mean you killed someone rescuing her?”

“No, it wasn’t quite like that.” Trooper Kane frowned at the cup in his thick fingers. “Let’s see if I can put it in some kind of sequence. First, a farmer outside of Centerville heard what sounded like a dog fight off in the woods late last evening.

“He went out this morning and found a dog dead there — a big German Shepherd. It looked as though it had been killed in the fight. That wouldn’t have been too exceptional, though, because we’re bothered up in that section by wild dogs. Summer people leave them when they go back to the city.”

“You said a man was killed.”

“I’m coming to that. A couple of hours later two fellows hunting rabbits came across this man about half a mile south of the dead dog. He was dead too. It was pretty bad. The man had obviously been killed by a savage animal. His throat had been... well anyhow, that was what we had; until we covered the section a little more thoroughly and came on the girl.

“We couldn’t get to her, though, because she had a black Doberman with her — the one we’ve got in the car. He blocked us off from her — wouldn’t let us get even close — so we brought out some nets and trapped him.”

The Trooper shrugged and set his cup on the coffee table. “We didn’t realize the little girl was blind for a few minutes; you’d certainly think she was all right to look at her. Then we found she couldn’t speak much English; kept asking for her Onkel Hugo. There couldn’t have been two like that roaming the woods so we were pretty sure we’d found your stray.”

“But the dead man—” Grace Garrett said.

“We actually can’t say the black dog killed him. It could have been the German Shepherd.”

“Then there isn’t any certain connection between the man and Tina.”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. The man had some papers on him — a social security card. His name was Frank Macklin and we’re checking him out.”

Trooper Kane reached into his pocket and brought out a stamped, addressed envelope. He held it up. “The man was carrying this, too. All stamped and ready to put in a mail box. It’s addressed to you, Mr. Garrett.”

Trooper Kane took out the single folded sheet of paper the envelope contained and flattened it out on the coffee table. “A ransom demand,” he said, forgetting to speak with his usual calmness.

The Garretts moved forward as one and read the scrawled words: Drive north on Old Mill Road. Throw the satchel with the 25 Gs under the old bridge a mile south of King’s Crossing. Then keep right on going. Do like we say and your little girl will be let go. Drop the satchel at 10 o’clock Friday night and keep right on going or it will be too bad.

“Then Tina was kidnapped,” Grace Garrett said.

“It looks that way,” Sergeant Farrier answered.

“We’ll find out exactly what happened—”

Trooper Kane broke off as Hugo Kroener entered from the patio side of the room without ceremony. “I was told that you found Tina.”

Kroener was unshaven and haggard. He looked like a specter out of a bad dream. Grace Garrett went to him and laid a hand on his arm and said, “Yes. She is asleep out in the car. We thought it best to wait for you. The dog is with her.”

He went past them, through the front door and when they reached the car behind him, he asked, “What dog? What child? Is this a joke?”

The State Troopers peered into the car. “They were there — in the back,” Trooper Kane said.

“Then I think I know.”

“The dog was tied. The little girl was asleep.”

“The little girl was not asleep. And knots can be undone.”

He left them and walked off in the darkness, the others following. He crossed the estate to the Doberman’s kennel and went in through the open gate to kneel in front of the dog house.

They were inside, the child and the dog; the dog motionless in the entrance; black head resting on tense paws; eyes as cold as an Arctic winter.

Hugo Kroener called, “Tina,” and the little girl answered. “Uncle Hugo — I am so tired!” she said in her native tongue. He lifted her out carefully. “It is all right, my little one — it is all right now!” And to the Doberman: “Come, old fellow. You may lie at the foot of her bed and watch over her...”

Later that night, after the Troopers had left, Grace Garrett faced her husband and put the question that had to be asked: “Why did you do it, Neal?”

He feigned surprise. “Do what for God’s sake?”

“Cover it up — keep silent. You knew Tina had been kidnapped.”

“I knew what?”

“Oh, don’t pretend,” she said wearily. “It will all come out. They aren’t going to drop it here. They’ll find the Mayhew woman and—”

“But you said I knew. The kidnap note was in Macklin’s pocket — not mine.”

She met his gaze unwaveringly.

“The second one — yes. The one he didn’t mail. But the first one came when you and Hugo Kroener and I were on the patio. You went to the door.”

“How did you know it was a kidnap note?”

“I saw the special delivery mailman driving away. And you didn’t mention what he had brought. I know you so well, Neal. Your business mail never comes here — and you were careful not to mention it to me.”

“All right — quit bugging me. It was a ransom note.”

“But why did you conceal it — that’s what I must know. Why did you keep saying Tina couldn’t have been kidnapped.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars! That’s why! I figured it might work out. And that’s a lot of money to lay out for someone else’s kid.”

“I thought that was probably the reason.”

“Well, why not? It’s your money — and Cindy’s — as well as mine.”

“Tina took Cindy’s place. She could have died for Cindy.”

“All right. But would that have been my fault? Is that any reason for not being practical?”

“I suppose not, from your standards Neal, but there’s one more question I have to ask.”

“Okay — get it over with. I’m tired.”

“If there had been no mistake. If it had been Cindy. Would you have cringed at the thought of paying out.”

“Grace! For God’s sake! How can you ask a question like that? What do you think I am? Inhuman or something?”

“No — no Neal. I’m sorry. I don’t think that at all.”

“Then let’s go to bed. Things worked out all right and that’s the main thing.”

“Yes, that’s the main thing,” Grace Garrett said. And it seemed to her that she had grown suddenly older as she got into bed beside her husband.

The next morning Hugo Kroener carefully explained to his niece that what had happened was a very exceptional thing, not an ordinary occurrence in America at all; that it could not possibly happen ever again and that it had nothing to do with the Terror.

Tina listened dutifully and nodded and agreed with her uncle because she loved him and knew he really thought he was right. But of course he wasn’t. You couldn’t hide from the Terror by simply crossing an ocean. It wasn’t as easy as that. The Terror was many things and it would come back again. It always had.

The thing to do was to stay alert.

Stay alert and never, never give up.