Even so, the cartons seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Some that were labeled DEATH MASKS filled a whole section of shelves; others were marked MOURNING RAIMENT, HOUSEHOLD LIVERY, TORCHÈRE REPLICAS, DRUMS, BRASS CYMBALS, RITUAL PAINTS, and so forth-but no bells.

It’s hopeless, Maggie thought. I’ll never find them. She had only moved the ladder twice, and her watch told her that already she had been there more than half an hour.

She moved the ladder again, hating the rasping screech it made on the floor. Once again she started to climb up it, but as she put her foot on the third rung, her glance fell on a deep cardboard box wedged between two others, almost hidden behind them.

It was labeled BELLS/BURIED ALIVE!

She grasped the box and tugged, finally wrestling it loose. Almost losing her balance when it came free, she got down from the ladder and placed the carton on the floor. With frantic haste, she squatted beside it and yanked off the lid.

Brushing aside the loose popcorn packing, she uncovered the first of the metal bells, wrapped and sealed in plastic, a covering that gave it a deceptively shiny appearance. Eagerly, her fingers fished through the popcorn, until she was sure that she had found everything in the box.

Everything was six bells, identical to the others she had found.

The packing slip was still inside the box: “12 Victorian bells, cast to the order of Mr. Earl Bateman,” it read.

Twelve-and now only six.

I’ll take shots of them and the packing slip, and then I can get out of here, Maggie thought. Suddenly she was almost desperate to be safely away from this place, outside with her proof that Earl Bateman was certainly a liar, possibly even a murderer.

She wasn’t sure what first made her realize that she was no longer alone.

Had she actually heard the faint sound of the door opening, or was it the narrow beam of light from another flashlight that had alerted her?

She spun around as he raised the flashlight, heard him speaking as it crashed down on her head.

And then there was nothing but impressions of voices and movement, and finally dreamless oblivion, until she awoke to the terrible silent darkness of the grave.

72

Neil arrived at Maggie’s house well after nine o’clock, much later than he had wished. Intensely disappointed to see that her station wagon wasn’t in the driveway, he had a moment of hope when he noticed that one of the bright studio lights was on.

Maybe her car was being serviced, he told himself. But when there was no answer to his insistent ringing of the doorbell, he went back to his car to wait. At midnight he finally gave up and drove to his parents house in Portsmouth.

Neil found his mother in the kitchen, making hot cocoa. “For some reason I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

Neil knew that she had expected him to arrive hours earlier, and he felt guilty for worrying her. “I should have called,” he said. “But then why didn’t you try me on the car phone?”

Dolores Stephens smiled. “Because no thirty-seven-year-old man wants his mother checking up on him just because he’s late. It occurred to me that you probably had stopped at Maggie’s, so I really wasn’t that worried.”

Neil shook his head glumly. “I did stop at Maggie’s. She wasn’t home. I waited around till now.”

Dolores Stephens studied her son. “Did you eat any dinner?” she asked gently.

“No, but don’t bother.”

Ignoring him, she got up and opened the refrigerator. “She may have had a date,” she said, her tone thoughtful.

“She was in her own car. It’s Monday night,” Neil said, then paused. “Mom, I’m worried about her. I’m going to phone every half hour until I know she’s home.”

Despite protesting that he really wasn’t hungry, he ate the thick club sandwich his mother made for him. At one o’clock, he tried Maggie’s number.

His mother sat with him as he tried again at one-thirty, then at two, at two-thirty, and again at three.

At three-thirty his father joined them. “What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes heavy with sleep. When he was told, he snapped, “For goodness sake, call the police and ask if any accidents have been reported.”

The officer who answered assured Neil that it had been a quiet night. “No accidents, sir.”

“Give him Maggie’s description. Tell him what kind of car she drives. Leave your name and this phone number,” Robert Stephens said. “Dolores, you’ve been up all this time. You get some sleep. I’ll stay with Neil.”

“Well-” she began.

“There may be a perfectly simple explanation,” her husband said gently. When his wife was out of earshot, he said, “Your mother is very fond of Maggie.” He looked at his son. “I know that you haven’t been seeing Maggie for all that long a time, but why does she seem indifferent to you, sometimes even downright chilly? Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Neil confessed. “She’s always held back, and I guess I have too, but I’m positive there’s something special going on between us.” He shook his head. “I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. It certainly isn’t just that I didn’t call her in time to get her number before she came up here. Maggie isn’t that trivial. But I thought about it a lot driving up, and I’ve come up with one thing that I can maybe pin it on.”

He told his father about the time he saw Maggie weeping in the theater during a film. “I didn’t think I should intrude,” he said. “At the time I thought I should just give her space. But now I wonder if maybe she knew I was there and perhaps resented the fact I didn’t at least say something. What would you have done?”

“I’ll tell you what I’d have done,” his father said immediately. “If I’d seen your mother in that situation, I’d have been right beside her, and I’d have put my arm around her. Maybe I wouldn’t have said anything, but I’d have let her know I was there.”

He looked at Neil severely. “I’d have done that whether or not I was in love with her. On the other hand, if I was trying to deny to myself that I loved her, or if I was afraid of getting involved, then maybe I’d have run away. There’s a famous biblical incident about washing the hands.”

“Come on, Dad,” Neil muttered.

“And if I were Maggie, and I had sensed you were there, and maybe had even wanted to be able to turn to you, I’d have written you off if you walked out on me,” Robert Stephens concluded.

The telephone rang. Neil beat his father to grabbing the receiver.

It was a police officer. “Sir, we found the vehicle you described parked on Marley Road. It’s an isolated area, and there are no houses nearby, so we don’t have any witnesses as to when it was left there, or by whom, whether it was Ms. Holloway or another person.”

Tuesday, October 8th