7 Steps to Midnight Page 2

  He repressed the irritation. Hell, the old guy had been stuck out here for hours. He just wanted a little company, that was all.

  “Just bad luck,” he said.

  “Statistics,” Veering said. “A lot of details.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You a cost analyst?” the old man asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Defense program?”

  Chris had had enough. “Where you off to?” He changed the subject.

  “Off to nowhere,” Veering said. “Just wandering.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You wandering too?” the old man asked.

  Chris glanced at him. What the hell did that mean? Maybe the old man was a little off.

  “Modern man,” Veering said.

  Oh, Christ, Chris thought. A baseball-capped philosopher. This has really been my night.

  “Have any personal life?” the old man asked.

  Chris felt like saying What the hell is that to you, you old fart? But he didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. He was just being garrulous, that’s all. “I work a lot,” he said.

  “Well, there’s the shame.” The old man nodded. “There’s the pity.”

  “Hmm,” Chris said. I sound like F. Crain now. The thought amused him.

  “Modern man, so totally absorbed by the mass of details in his existence that he has no time for a personal life.”

  Jesus Christ, I picked up PBS Al, Chris thought. He didn’t have Muscatel in his bag, he had The Story of Philosophy by Will Durant. He’d almost prefer a hatchet. Maybe if he didn’t respond, the old man would let it go.

  The old man didn’t.

  “Is your life meaningful?” he asked. “Do you have time for anything of consequence?”

  Jesus, I am tired, Chris thought. Why the hell did I pick him up?

  “That’s the problem, you see,” Veering said. “How to differentiate.”

  What the fuck is he talking about now? Chris wondered.

  “Reality,” the old man said. “How do you differentiate reality?”

  From what? Chris thought. He sighed, politely quiet. Oh, well, he’d be at the Village soon. Then he could dump Baruch Spinoza and go to bed.

  “Is your life real or unreal?” the old man continued.

  Chris didn’t try to hide his sigh this time. “Real, I assume.”

  “You assume,” the old man responded quickly.

  Jesus God, he’s going to start a seminar, Chris thought. Give me a break.

  “You assume your life is real but how do you know it is?”

  Oh, God, a shower, a read and a sleep, Chris thought. Maybe he should dump the old guy now, tell him he had to take a left turn into the desert. “I don’t know,” he muttered, unable to disguise the edge of irritation he felt.

  “There’s a crying shame,” the old man said.

  Give me a break! howled Chris’s mind.

  “An intelligent young man like you not knowing what’s real and what isn’t?” Veering pressed.

  “I s’pose,” Chris said. How far to the Village? Couldn’t be more than nine, ten miles.

  “Do you believe your life is organized?” the old man asked.

  “Organized?” Chris glanced at him impatiently.

  “Everything in place. All the details settled. No surprises.”

  Relax, Chris told himself. Let him blather. “Well, sure, I know what to expect each day,” he said. A little sleep, a lot of work and no solution to the project, his mind completed.

  Veering wouldn’t give it up. “But do you know what is and what isn’t in your life?” he asked.

  You’re getting on my nerves, you old bastard, Chris thought. I pick you up out of the goodness of my heart because you look decrepit and alone in the darkness on a desert highway. And what do you do? Attack me with your Mickey Mouse philosophy.

  “Well?” demanded Veering.

  Be patient, Chris ordered himself. He’s old. Let him think he’s talking sense. “Well,” he said, “to the extent that anyone knows what is or isn’t real in their lives—”

  “Ah!” the old man interrupted.

  Chris waited. Nothing happened. That’s it? he thought. Just ah? Not the greatest windup of a philosophical debate he’d ever run across. But what the hell.

  “Tell you what,” said Veering.

  Chris barely managed to control a groan.

  “I wager you,” the old man said.

  Chris looked at him, then back at the highway. “You do,” he said.

  “I do,” said Veering. “I present you with a wager.”

  To wit? Chris’s mind inquired. He felt a gush of pleasure as he saw the distant lights of Oasis Village.

  “I wager the security of your existence against your assumption that you know what’s real and what’s unreal in your life.”

  Come again? Chris thought. You what?

  “Are you game?” asked Veering. “Do you accept the wager?”

  Chris almost asked, What wager? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fool, then decided to let it go. He’d be home in fifteen minutes. “Sure,” he said.

  “Don’t say it casually,” the old man cautioned. “Think about it.”

  Oh, God, why did I pick him up? Chris thought. “Okay,” he said. Never pick up hitchhikers; he formed a permanent rule for himself.

  “You believe, then, that you know what’s real in your life and what’s unreal. Correct?”

  Chris yawned. “Yeah, right.”

  “And I maintain that you do not,” said Veering. He’s beginning to sound like a mid-Victorian attorney, Chris thought. “And I repeat—are you willing to gamble the security of your existence on this wager?”

  “Sure,” Chris muttered. Up ahead, he saw the gateway to Oasis Village. Thank the good Lord, he thought.

  “You’re positive,” the old man said. “You’re not—”

  “I’m going to have to let you off here,” Chris broke in. “I live here.”

  “Do you so wager?” Veering insisted.

  “Okay. Okay.” Chris started steering toward the shoulder.

  “Done and done,” the old man said. “You can let me off right here.”

  Bet your ass I will, Chris thought. He steered onto the highway shoulder, braking.

  “Thank you for the ride and interesting discussion,” Veering said, picking up his canvas bag.

  “You’re welcome,” Chris replied offhandedly. Go, he thought.

  Veering opened the door, stepped out onto the shoulder, then leaned back in. In the dimness of the overhead light, Chris saw him smiling.

  “À bientôt,” the old man said.

  He closed the door and started walking, the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. Chris pulled back onto the highway and drove past him. À bientôt? he thought. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He’d never see the old coot again.

  As he was driving through the gateway to Oasis Village, it came to him—the definition of veering.

  To change direction.

  He would remember that more than once in the days to come.

  3

  When he turned the corner onto Oasis Drive East, he saw his blue Mustang.

  It was parked in front of his garage. Exactly as he always parked it when he was home.

  His mind jumped automatically toward explanation. He’d been so distracted by his work, he’d left it at home. The illogic of that was immediately apparent. How had he gotten to work then? No one else had picked him up. There was no shuttle service between Oasis Village and Palladian.

  Which left what? The practical joke again. And who at the plant knew him well enough to perpetrate a joke on him? In a word, nobody.

  He pulled the Pontiac into the driveway, parking it beside his car. Was it his car? His mind still sought an answer. These houses were similar in appearance. He must have driven onto the wrong street and approached a house that looked like his but wasn’t. With a car parked in front of it th
at looked like his but wasn’t. Farfetched but possible.

  The notion was short-lived. Lasting long enough for him to leave the Pontiac, walk around it and look at the Mustang. He always left it unlocked at night. Neighbors told him he shouldn’t, there were occasional car thefts in the area. He never paid attention.

  Opening the door on the driver’s side of the Mustang, he looked inside. The cassette and change box was there across the drive-shaft hump. His cassettes: Mahler, Vaughan Williams, Copland, the Smithsonian History of Jazz in three cassettes. Any concept of coincidence was gone. It was his Mustang. And it had been stolen. Taken from the plant and parked in front of his house.

  Which made approximately no sense at all.

  Still, to be certain—proof and double proof, the only way, he heard Uncle Harry say—he opened the glove compartment and pulled out the papers inside. A repair bill from Desert Ford, his name printed on it. The registration slip, his name on it. “Well, goddamn,” he muttered.

  What the hell was going on?

  Backing out of the Mustang, he straightened up and closed the door. Quietly. Immediately it struck him; why had he done that? What caution had impelled him? He grimaced with a sound of self-reproach. There has to be a simple explanation for this, he thought.

  He visualized himself a scientist from a fifties science-fiction film uttering those words. He always scoffed when he heard them. Still, there did have to be a simple explanation for this. He was in no condition to confront a major enigma at this time of the morning.

  He looked toward the house. It was dark and quiet. Was the car thief lurking in there, peering out between the shutter slats, a carving knife clutched in his…

  “Oh, shit, come on,” he berated himself. First, he had imagined Veering with a carving knife, now, some skulker in his house. You’re not paranoid, are you? he thought.

  He walked to the bedroom window and tried to look inside. The drapes were shut. He tried to remember whether he’d left them closed before leaving for work yesterday afternoon. He didn’t, usually. But, of course, he must have.

  He listened at the window. There was no sound. Why should there be? his mind challenged. “No reason,” he muttered a reply.

  He was on the front porch when he realized he didn’t have the key; it was on his car ring and—

  Chris felt a shiver course his back. Where was the car ring, then? If it was in the house, somebody had to have brought it in.

  Reason fought uneasiness. All right, someone took his car and put it in the driveway of his house and put the keys inside and then was driven off by some confederate.

  Who? his mind demanded.

  The front door was locked. No surprise there; he always locked it when he went to work. Still, how was he to get inside now? He frowned at himself for never having thought of it while getting Tensdale’s car and driving here.

  He walked across the lawn and opened the alley gate, moving along the sidewalk. The house was totally dark. No surprise there either. It was always dark when he returned from work.

  He stepped onto the small cement porch by the kitchen door and tried the knob. Locked. Always was; again, no surprise. He stepped off the porch and walked around to the back of the house, to the sliding glass door of the patio. Locked.

  He peered into the darkness of the family room, the kitchen beyond. Now what? He shook the sliding door to see if he could loosen the latch.

  A minute later, he was standing on the front lawn again, staring at his dark, locked house. And now? he thought. Sleep in the Mustang? The Pontiac?

  “Screw that,” he said. He looked around for a rock to break a window. But there were only redwood chips skirting the lawn. Groaning, he walked over to the Mustang and opened the door. Pushing the driver’s seat forward, he leaned into the back and felt behind the seat until his fingers closed on the putter in his golf bag. How long had it been since he’d played golf? The question drifted across his mind. Another lifetime, was the answer. Why the hell had he bought them in the first place? Wilson, he remembered. Wilson had told him it would relax his mind. Sure. And Wilson was probably the guy whose family owned the golf-ball business.

  He walked back to the bedroom window. If he smashed it in, would the neighbors call the police? Anyway, he shouldn’t break a front window. Better the small one in the kitchen door. He turned away, then twisted back. The crank window was slightly open. If he could get through the screen, he might be able to uncrank the window all the way and crawl inside. Better than breaking glass.

  He was trying to squeeze his hand through the opening when a light went on in the bedroom.

  He twitched and made a startled noise, jerking back his hand. He stepped back, staring at the drapes, felt his heartbeat thudding. Wait a second, wait a second, he thought. Had he gone to the wrong street, the wrong house? It was possible…

  He shuddered, remembering his registration slip inside the Mustang, his cassettes. This was his house.

  But who was in it?

  He felt his muscles tense. Well, he was going to find out, damn it. Striding to the front porch, he pushed the doorbell, hearing the chimes inside playing “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.” For a moment, his fingers tightened on the putter handle. What if whoever was inside had no desire to see him?

  “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. He stood impatiently waiting for whoever it was to open the door. This had to be a prank of some sort. A lousy one, but a prank. “Come on,” he said.

  He heard the sound of a woman’s voice on the other side of the door. He couldn’t make out what she said. “What?” he asked.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  He bared his teeth in angry reaction. “Will you open the door, please,” he said.

  “Why?” the woman asked. She sounded frightened. Frightened?

  “Because I want to talk with you,” he said. “Because you’re in my house.”

  Silence after that. What was the woman doing? He shivered. Did she have a gun by any chance? She’d sounded genuinely upset.

  “Are you still there?” he asked.

  “You’re mistaken,” he heard her say.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “This is my house. That’s my car in front of the garage with my registration slip inside it. Don’t tell me I’m mistaken.”

  Silence again. Now what was she doing?

  “Look, are you—?” he began.

  “You’d better get out of here or I’m going to call the police,” the woman interrupted.

  “Good,” he said. “I wish you would.”

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was actually trembling. If he really was making a mistake, he must sound like a maniac to her.

  No, goddamn it! There was no mistake! “My name is Chris Barton and I’ve lived in this house for twenty-seven months and thirteen days!”

  Once more, silence. This was maddening. Chris felt like pounding the golf club against the door and ordering her to let him in.

  He tensed abruptly as the door was unlocked and opened enough for her to peer out at him. Chris felt his stomach muscles jerking in. There was a chain on the door.

  He didn’t have a chain on the door.

  God, oh, God, he thought. Was he making a mistake?

  The woman was in her early thirties, dark-haired, quite attractive. She was looking at him with uneasy disbelief. “You’re who?” she asked.

  He felt like whipping out his wallet, waving it in her face. But there was no chain on his front door and the woman looked genuinely disturbed. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on here but— This is Oasis Drive East, isn’t it?” he added suddenly.

  She nodded slightly.

  “24967?”

  He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “Yes,” she said.

  Chris felt as though his head had just been covered by a vise that was beginning to compress his skull. “This is my house then,” he said, alarmed to hear that he sounded pleading.

  “No,” the
woman said.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?!” His voice was shaking. “You—!”

  “My husband and I have lived here for more than eight years,” she said.

  He had read about people’s jaws dropping, they were so startled by something they had seen or heard. Now he actually felt his jaw drop, as he stood there gaping at the woman. Is this what it’s like to go insane? The question whispered in his mind.

  His swallow was so dry, he heard a crackling in his throat. “Could I… see the living room?” he asked.

  She looked at him suspiciously.

  “I’m not going to do anything bad,” he told her, appalled by the tremor in his voice. “I just—”

  He broke off as he saw her gaze drop to the putter in his hand. “Oh,” he said. He leaned the club against the porch wall. “Just… step back and let me look inside. You don’t even have to open the chain.”

  She gazed at him for several moments more, then stepped aside and disappeared. He pressed his face against the opening and looked inside.

  Oh, God, he thought. He stared at what he could see of the living room. The sofa, the chair, the bookcase, the TV, the coffee table, the carpeting.

  All his.

  “Well?” he heard her ask.

  He didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry, lady, that’s my furniture? What the hell are you trying to pull off here, lady? Lady, please telephone for an ambulance because my brain has just dissolved?

  The woman began to close the door.

  “Wait!” he demanded. But she closed it all the way and locked it. “No!” he cried. He pounded on the wood with the side of a fist. “Open the door!”

  “I’m going to call the police!” she threatened.

  “Do it then!” he said. He needed outside help, badly.

  He heard fast-moving footsteps in the house. “No, don’t,” the woman said.

  Chris drew back quickly as the door was yanked open and a man stood glaring at him. A man about his age, his height, his weight.

  Wearing his pajamas.

  “Either you get out of here and stay away from us,” the man shouted at him, “or you are going to spend the rest of your goddamn life in jail! You understand?!”

  4

  There was suddenly no gristle in his legs; they felt like rubber. He reached out, clutching, and braced himself against the porch wall. It was redwood and he felt small splinters driving into his fingers and palms. He winced in silence, staring at the man.