He awoke the next morning anxious to get going. Dressed in a short-sleeved, blue sport shirt and pair of jeans, he covered block after block. The only time he paused was to mark down the names of the streets he passed in a notepad he’d brought along for this purpose. He had learned his lesson yesterday, when on at least two occasions he had visited the same street twice.
Even if he found the house, even if Sandra was being held there, he realized that getting her out safely would take an awful lot of luck. Acting impulsively, without a plan, was foolhardy at best.
But was there a choice?
He covered a number of residential areas. They were quiet for the most part, until just before noon, when a preponderance of fast-food delivery vehicles made their appearance.
His mind repeated the digits of the partial address like a mantra: 7-5-6, 7-5-6, as if he could will the house to come forward by divine intervention.
He skipped dinner, and once again found it difficult to fall asleep. When he got out of bed in the morning, he was famished. Or so he believed at first. Halfway through his breakfast of bacon and eggs, he began to feel stuffed. He pushed the plate aside.
On the road once more, doubt slid into his subconscious. So many factors were stacked against him, not the least of which was the size of Manhattan’s downtown core. But he recalled being driven from the house where he was being held to an area close to the East River. He remembered the name of the street where he had been dropped off and the one crossing it, and that the drive had taken approximately five minutes. Last evening he had consulted a map and soon concluded that his search should not be this daunting.
Now Blair decided to use another tack. Instead of parking, he drove the area where he felt the address was most likely to be. All the while he timed himself, stretching it to ten minutes in each direction.
Nighttime approached and he was no further ahead.
On day three his luck changed. He couldn’t say exactly why he took the route he did. But he turned a corner and there it was. The street caught his eye immediately. It was one of the few in Lower Manhattan with a handful of refitted brownstones. They had been combined into townhomes of formidable size. Each had a one-car garage, a true luxury.
Blair counted down to 1756.
He recognized it at once. Brown-bricked, with black-framed windows and shutters. The house seemed empty. There were no lights on and none of the shades were drawn.
He slowly drove down the street. He made a U-turn, crossed to the other side, and parked. Now he had an unimpeded view.
When he noticed the garage door going up a few hours later, he wasn’t so much taken aback as relieved. A Lincoln MKZ pulled out of the driveway. It was being driven by a man of about thirty years of age. He activated a remote switch. The door started to go down and he drove away.
Blair waited.
In less than a half-hour the man returned.
Blair counted the time it took for the garage door to go up. Fifteen seconds. Then he timed it on the way down. Just over ten seconds. Not very good. But the next time it was activated, he would take a chance by throwing himself beneath the door before it started its descent.
He remained in place, his mind willing someone else to come out and run an errand.
Night fell, but it was not to be.