Free The Man in the Net by Patrick Quentin Page B

rushing upstairs, packing the suitcase, starting off on foot—going where? Nowhere—thumbing a ride from any car that passed. The panic image of her, mad and wandering around the countryside, brought him a synthetic vitality. He must call the police.
    But the “police” in Stoneville was Steve Ritter. There was Linda again, distorting everything, making it impossible. If he called Steve Ritter, if he had to admit to Steve, and through Steve to the whole village, that Linda had slashed his paintings, and run off, insane! Suddenly he thought: What’s the matter with me? Of course she hadn’t gone off like that. She’d gone to one of her “dear, dear friends”, the Carey set. That would be it, of course.
    He could see her dramatic arrival at the old Careys’ or the Morelands’.
    “Darlings, I’ve done the most terrible thing. How can I begin to explain? I’ve left him. I couldn’t bear it any more. If only you knew … Oh, Mr. Carey … or Oh Roz …”
    Yes, that was it. She could even have walked over to the young Careys’ while Vickie was on her way to the station.
    He was so certain of it that everything seemed bearable again.
    He hurried downstairs and rang the Careys. Vickie answered the phone.
    “Hi, John. We’re waiting for you. Come over, both of you.”
    “Then Linda isn’t with you?” John was surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.
    “With us? Why, no. I haven’t seen her since the other night. As a matter of fact, I was planning to call, but I didn’t get around to it. There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
    John thought of the party line. “I’ll come over if I may.”
    “Of course, but …”
    “I’ll explain when I see you. Vickie, I wonder if you or Brad would call the Morelands and your parents and ask if she’s with them. I’d rather not do it myself after the other night. …”
    “I’ll do it right now.”
    “Thanks, Vickie. I’ll see you.”
    He put down the receiver. If she wasn’t at the Morelands’ or the Careys’, he’d have to tell Vickie and Brad the truth, of course. Although for years now it had become almost second nature to him to cover up for Linda, he knew things had gone far beyond that point. And Vickie and Brad would be all right. At least they wouldn’t treat his confidence as salacious gossip to be spread around as quickly as possible. He was sure of that. Maybe they might help; between them, the three of them might even find Linda before any scandal broke. If she wasn’t at the old Careys’ or the Morelands’ …
    But she must be, he thought as he hurried through the kitchen out to the car, because, if she wasn’t at the Morelands’ or pouring out her tale of woe over the Careys’ dining-table, then … Once again the horror image came —the blank, dead eyes in the mad face, the dazed figure wandering at random, clutching a suitcase. He suppressed it and, as he swung the car down the drive, he thought of Steve Ritter. Could what she’d claimed about Steve actually have been true, after all? Could she conceivably have run away with him? It’s like a disease. No, she’d even admitted that had been one of her perverse alcoholic’s lies. But, even if it hadn’t been true, Steve Ritter was a staunch admirer, as, for that matter, were most of the people in the village. Perhaps the hostility to which he’d been submitted at the post office had something to do with this. Linda might have been just scared enough that the Carey set would be too sophisticated to swallow whatever story it was she now wanted to be swallowed. Instead she might have “taken refuge” with one of the people in the village and was using them for her audience. It didn’t seem probable—not with Linda’s snobbishness and her desire to be adored but respected by those she considered “beneath” her. But she’d done something. It might just have been that.
    Instead of taking the short route to the Careys’ past the