Button Button: Uncanny Stories Read online

  "How far? I said."

  Carrie clutched her hands together. "Greg, please-" she started. Tears were squeezing out beneath her lids.

  "Damn it!"

  Carrie whimpered and said something. "What?" he snapped. She drew in a wavering breath. "The middle of the next block," she said.

  "Which side?"

  "The right."

  Greg smiled. He leaned back against the seat and relaxed. That was more like it. Dumb bitch tried the same old "I-forget" routine every time. When would she learn that he had her down cold? He almost chuckled. She never would, he thought; because, after this one, he'd be gone and she could dream for nothing.

  "Tell me when we reach it," he said.

  "Yes," she answered. She had turned her face to the window and was leaning her forehead against the cold glass. Don't cool it too much, he thought, amused; keep it hot for Daddy. He pressed away the rising smile as she turned to look at him. Was she picking up on him? Or was it just the usual? It was always the same. Just before they reached wherever they were going, she'd look at him intently as if to convince herself that it was worth the pain. He felt like laughing in her face. Obviously, it was worth it.

  How else could a beast like her land someone with his class? Except for him, her bed would be the emptiest, her nights the longest.

  "Almost there?" he asked.

  Carrie looked to the front again. "The white one," she said.

  "With the half-circle drive?"

  She nodded tightly. "Yes."

  Greg clenched his teeth, a spasm of avidity sweeping through him. Fifty thousand if it was worth a nickel, he thought. Oh, you bitch, you crazy bitch, you really nailed it for me this time! He turned the wheel and pulled in at the curb. Cutting the engine, he glanced across the street. The convertible would come from that direction, he thought. He wondered who'd be driving it. Not that it mattered.

  "Greg?"

  He turned and eyed her coldly. "What?"

  She bit her lip, then started to speak.

  "No," he said, cutting her off. He pulled out the ignition key and shoved open the door. "Let's go," he said. He slid out, shut the door and walked around the car. Carrie was still inside. "Let's go, baby," he said, the hint of venom in his voice.

  "Greg, please-"

  He shuddered at the cost of repressing an intense desire to scream curses at her, jerk open the door and drag her out by her hair. His rigid fingers clamped on the handle and he opened the door, waited. Christ, but she was ugly-the features, the skin, the body. She'd never looked so repugnant to him. "I said let's go," he told her. He couldn't disguise the tremble of fury in his voice.

  Carrie got out and he shut the door. It was getting colder. Greg drew up the collar of his topcoat, shivering as they started up the drive toward the front door of the house. He could use a heavier coat, he thought; with a nice, thick lining. A real sharp one, maybe black. He'd get one one of these days-and maybe real soon, too. He glanced at Carrie, wondering if she had any notion of his plans. He doubted it even though she looked more worried than ever. What the hell was with her? She'd never been this bad before. Was it because it was a kid? He shrugged. What difference did it make? She'd perform.

  "Cheer up," he said. "It's a school day. You won't have to see him." She didn't answer.

  They went up two steps onto the brick porch and stopped before the door. Greg pushed the button and, deep inside the house, melodic chimes sounded. While they waited, he reached inside his topcoat pocket and touched the small leather notebook. Funny how he always felt like some kind of weird salesman when they were operating. A salesman with a damned closed market, he thought, amused. No one else could offer what he had to sell, that was for sure.

  He glanced at Carrie. "Cheer up," he told her. "We're helping them, aren't we?"

  Carrie shivered. "It won't be too much, will it, Greg?"

  "I'll decide on-"

  He broke off as the door was opened. For a moment, he felt angry disappointment that the bell had not been answered by a maid. Then he thought: Oh, what the hell, the money's still here-and he smiled at the woman who stood before them. "Good afternoon," he said.

  The woman looked at him with that half polite, half suspicious smile most women gave him at first. "Yes?" she asked.

  "It's about Paul," he said.

  The smile disappeared, the woman's face grew blank. "What?" she asked.

  "That's your son's name, isn't it?"

  The woman glanced at Carrie. Already, she was disconcerted, Greg could see.

  "He's in danger of his life," he told her. "Are you interested in hearing more about it?" "What's happened to him?"

  Greg smiled affably. "Nothing yet," he answered. The woman caught her breath as if, abruptly, she were being strangled.

  "You've taken him," she murmured.

  Greg's smile broadened. "Nothing like that," he said.

  "Where is he then?" the woman asked.

  Greg looked at his wristwatch, feigning surprise. "Isn't he at school?" he asked.

  Uneasily confused, the woman stared at him for several moments before she twisted away, pushing at the door. Greg caught hold of it before it shut. "Inside," he ordered.

  "Can't we wait out-?"

  Carrie broke off with a gasp as he clamped his fingers on her arm and pulled her into the hall. While he shut the door, Greg listened to the rapid whir and click of a telephone being dialed in the kitchen. He smiled and took hold of Carrie's arm again, guiding her into the living room. "Sit," he told her.

  Carrie settled gingerly on the edge of a chair while he appraised the room. Money was in evidence wherever he looked, in the carpeting and drapes, the period furniture, the accessories. Greg pulled in a tight, exultant breath and tried to keep from grinning like an eager kid; this was It all right. Dropping onto the sofa, he stretched luxuriously, leaned back and crossed his legs, glancing at the name on a magazine lying on the end table beside him. In the kitchen, he could hear the woman saying, "He's in Room Fourteen; Mrs. Jennings' class."

  A sudden clicking sound made Carrie gasp. Greg turned his head and saw, through the back drapes, a collie scratching at the sliding-glass door; beyond, he noted, with renewed pleasure, the glint of swimming pool water. Greg watched the dog. It must be the one that would-

  "Thank you," said the woman gratefully. Greg turned back and looked in that direction. The woman hung up the telephone receiver and her footsteps tapped across the kitchen floor, becoming soundless as she stepped onto the hallway carpeting. She started cautiously toward the front door.

  "We're in here, Mrs. Wheeler," said Greg.

  The woman caught her breath and whirled in shock. "What is this?" she demanded.

  "Is he all right?" Greg asked.

  "What do you want?"

  Greg drew the notebook from his pocket and held it out. "Would you like to look at this?" he asked.

  The woman didn't answer but peered at Greg through narrowing eyes. "That's right," he said. "We're selling something."

  The woman's face grew hard.

  "Your son's life," Greg completed.

  The woman gaped at him, momentary resentment invaded by fear again. Jesus, you look stupid, Greg felt like telling her. He forced a smile. "Are you interested?" he asked.

  "Get out of here before I call the police." The woman's voice was husky, tremulous.

  "You're not interested in your son's life then?"

  The woman shivered with fear-ridden anger. "Did you hear me?" she said.

  Greg exhaled through clenching teeth.

  "Mrs. Wheeler," he said, "unless you listen to us-carefully-your son will soon be dead." From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Carrie wincing and felt like smashing in her face. That's right, he thought with savage fury. Show her how scared you are, you stupid bitch!

  Mrs. Wheeler's lips stirred falteringly as she stared at Greg. "What are you talking about?" she finally asked.

  "Your son's life, Mrs. Wheeler."

  "Why should you wan
t to hurt my boy?" the woman asked, a sudden quaver in her voice. Greg felt himself relax. She was almost in the bag.

  "Did I say that we were going to hurt him?" he asked, smiling at her quizzically. "I don't remember saying that, Mrs. Wheeler."

  "Then-?"

  "Sometime before the middle of the month," Greg interrupted, "Paul will be run over by a car and killed."

  "What?"

  Greg did not repeat.

  "What car?" asked the woman. She looked at Greg in panic. "What car?" she demanded. "We don't know exactly."

  "Where?" the woman asked. "When?"

  "That information," Greg replied, "is what we're selling."

  The woman turned to Carrie, looking at her fright-enedly. Carrie lowered her gaze, teeth digging at her lower lip. The woman looked back at Greg as he continued.

  "Let me explain," he said. "My wife is what's known as a 'sensitive.' You may not be familiar with the term. It means she has visions and dreams. Very often, they have to do with real people. Like the dream she had last night-about your son."

  The woman shrank from his words and, as Greg expected, an element of shrewdness modified her expression; there was now, in addition to fear, suspicion.

  "I know what you're thinking," he informed her. "Don't waste your time. Look at this notebook and you'll see-"

  "Get out of here," the woman said.

  Greg's smile grew strained. "That again?" he asked. "You mean you really don't care about your son's life?"

  The woman managed a smile of contempt. "Shall I call the police now?" she asked. "The bunco squad?"

  "If you really want to," answered Greg, "but I suggest you listen to me first." He opened the notebook and began to read. "January twenty-second: Man named Jim to fall from roof while adjusting television aerial. Ramsay Street. Two-story house, green with white trim. Here's the news item."

  Greg glanced at Carrie and nodded once, ignoring her pleading look as he stood and walked across the room. The woman cringed back apprehensively but didn't move. Greg held up the notebook page. "As you can see," he said, "the man didn't believe what we told him and did fall off his roof on January twenty-second; it's harder to convince them when you can't give any details so as not to give it all away." He clucked as if disturbed. "He should have paid us, though," he said. "It would have been a lot less expensive than a broken back."

  "Who do you think you're-?"

  "Here's another," Greg said, turning a page. "This should interest you. February twelfth, afternoon: Boy, 13, name unknown, to fall into abandoned well shaft, fracture pelvis. Lives on Darien Circle, et cetera, et cetera, you can see the details here," he finished, pointing at the page. "Here's the newspaper clipping. As you can see, his parents were just in time. They'd refused to pay at first, threatened to call the police like you did." He smiled at the woman. "Threw us out of the house as a matter of fact," he said. "On the afternoon of the twelfth, though, when I made a last-minute phone check, they were out of their minds with worry. Their son had disappeared and they had no idea where he was-I hadn't mentioned the well shaft, of course."

  He paused for a moment of dramatic emphasis, enjoying the moment fully. "I went over to their house," he said. "They made their payment and I told them where their son was." He pointed at the clipping. "He was found, as you see-down in an abandoned well shaft. With a broken pelvis."

  "Do you really-?"

  "-expect you to believe all this?" Greg completed her thought. "Not completely; no one ever does at first. Let me tell you what you're thinking right now. You're thinking that we cut out these newspaper items and made up this story to fit them. You're entitled to believe that if you want to-" his face hardened "-but, if you do, you'll have a dead son by the middle of the month, you can count on that."

  He smiled cheerfully. "I don't believe you'd enjoy hearing how it's going to happen," he said.

  The smile began to fade. "And it is going to happen, Mrs. Wheeler, whether you believe it or not."

  The woman, still too dazed by fright to be completely sure of her suspicion, watched Greg as he turned to Carrie. "Well?" he said.

  "I don't-"

  "Let's have it," he demanded.

  Carrie bit her lower lip and tried to restrain the sob.

  "What are you going to do?" the woman asked.

  Greg turned to her with a smile. "Make our point," he said. He looked at Carrie again. "Well?"

  She answered, eyes closed, voice pained and feeble. "There's a throw rug by the nursery door," she said. "You'll slip on it while you're carrying the baby."

  Greg glanced at her in pleased surprise; he hadn't known there was a baby. Quickly, he looked at the woman as Carrie continued in a troubled voice, "There's a black widow spider underneath the playpen on the patio, it will bite the baby, there's a-"

  "Care to check these items, Mrs. Wheeler?" Greg broke in. Suddenly, he hated her for her slowness, for her failure to accept. "Or shall we just walk out of here," he said, sharply, "and let that blue convertible drag Paul's head along the street until his brains spill out?"

  The woman looked at him in horror. Greg felt a momentary dread that he had told her too much, then relaxed as he realized that he hadn't. "I suggest you check," he told her, pleasantly. The woman backed away from him a little bit, then turned and hurried toward the patio door. "Oh, incidentally," Greg said, remembering. She turned. "That dog out there will try to save your son but it won't succeed; the car will kill it, too."

  The woman stared at him, as if uncomprehending, then turned away and, sliding open the patio door, went outside. Greg saw the collie frisking around her as she moved across the patio. Leisurely, he returned to the sofa and sat down.

  "Greg-?"

  He frowned grimacingly, jerking up his hand to silence her. Out on the patio, there was a scraping noise as the woman overturned the playpen. He listened intently. There was a sudden gasp, then the stamping of the woman's shoe on concrete, an excited barking by the dog. Greg smiled and leaned back with a sigh. Bingo.

  When the woman came back in, he smiled at her, noticing how heavily she breathed. "That could happen any place," she said, defensively.

  "Could it?" Greg's smile remained intact. "And the throw rug?"

  "Maybe you looked around while I was in the kitchen."

  "We didn't."

  "Maybe you guessed."

  "And maybe we didn't," he told her, chilling his smile. "Maybe everything we've said is true. You want to gamble on it?"

  The woman had no reply. Greg looked at Carrie. "Anything else?" he asked. Carrie shivered fitfully. "An electric outlet by the baby's crib," she said. "She has a bobby pin beside her, she's been trying to put it in the plug and-"

  "Mrs. Wheeler?" Greg looked inquisitively at the woman. He snickered as she turned and hurried from the room. When she was gone, he smiled and winked at Carrie. "You're really on today, baby," he said. She returned his look with glistening eyes. "Greg, please don't make it too much," she murmured.

  Greg turned away from her, the smile withdrawn. Relax, he told himself; relax. After today, you'll be free of her. Casually, he slipped the notebook back into his topcoat pocket.

  The woman returned in several minutes, her expression now devoid of anything but dread. Between two fingers of her right hand she was carrying a bobby pin. "How did you know?" she asked. Her voice was hollow with dismay.

  "I believe I explained that, Mrs. Wheeler," Greg replied. "My wife has a gift. She knows exactly where and when the accident will occur. Do you care to buy that information?"

  The woman's hands twitched at her sides. "What do you want?" she asked.

  "Ten thousand dollars in cash," Greg answered. His fingers flexed reactively as Carrie gasped but he didn't look at her. He fixed his gaze on the woman's stricken face. "Ten thousand . . ." she repeated dumbly.

  "That's correct. Is it a deal?"

  "But we don't-"

  "Take it or leave it, Mrs. Wheeler. You're not in a bargaining position. Don't think for a
second that there's anything you can do to prevent the accident. Unless you know the exact time and place, it's going to happen." He stood abruptly, causing her to start. "Well?" he snapped, "what's it going to be? Ten thousand dollars or your son's life?"

  The woman couldn't answer. Greg's eyes flicked to where Carrie sat in mute despair. "Let's go," he said. He started for the hall.

  "Wait."

  Greg turned and looked at the woman. "Yes?"

  "How-do I know-?" she faltered.

  "You don't," he broke in; "you don't know a thing. We do."

  He waited another few moments for her decision, then walked into the kitchen and, removing his memo pad from an inside pocket, slipped the pencil free and jotted down the telephone number. He heard the woman murmuring pleadingly to Carrie and, shoving the pad and pencil into his topcoat pocket, left the kitchen. "Let's go," he said to Carrie who was standing now. He glanced disinterestedly at the woman. "I'll phone this afternoon," he said. "You can tell me then what you and your husband have decided to do." His mouth went hard. "It'll be the only call you'll get," he said.

  He turned and walked to the front door, opened it. "Come on, come on," he ordered irritably. Carrie slipped by him, brushing at the tears on her cheeks. Greg followed and began to close the door, then stopped as if remembering something.

  "Incidentally," he said. He smiled at the woman. "I wouldn't call the police if I were you. There's nothing they could charge us with even if they found us. And, of course, we couldn't tell you then-and your son would have to die." He closed the door and started for the car, a picture of the woman printed in his mind: standing, dazed and trembling, in her living room, looking at him with haunted eyes. Greg grunted in amusement.

  She was hooked.

  Greg drained his glass and fell back heavily on the sofa arm, making a face. It was the last cheap whiskey he'd ever drink; from now on, it was exclusively the best. He turned his head to look at Carrie. She was standing by the window of their hotel living room, staring at the city. What the hell was she brooding about now? Likely, she was wondering where that blue convertible was. Momentarily, Greg wondered himself. Was it parked?-moving? He grinned drunkenly. It gave him a feeling of power to know something about that car that even its owner didn't know: namely, that, in eight days, at two-sixteen on a Thursday afternoon, it would run down a little boy and kill him.