7 Steps to Midnight Read online

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered. Still, he couldn’t make himself accept the notion of giving himself up to the police. He hadn’t the remotest idea what was going on but he sensed that it was dangerous, that he had to be careful.

  ***

  There were no cars parked in front of his mother’s house. Meaninglessly, his brain reversed itself. They wouldn’t show themselves out in the open. They could be blocks down, telescopes directed at his mother’s house. He suddenly felt stupid for driving directly toward her house in a car that by now had to be totally identifiable.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  He repressed the urge to press down hard on the accelerator and speed past his mother’s house; that would only call attention to him. For a moment, he thought how stupidly he was behaving if there really wasn’t anyone around.

  Still, he couldn’t take a chance. Driving to the corner, he made a slow right turn, eyes searching for any sign of suspicious vehicles or men. Women, too, his brain reminded him. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  Except for a small boy on his tricycle, the street ahead looked empty. It’s him, his mind annoyed him. He’s the smallest agent in the world, crack shot, beyond suspicion. “Oh, shut up,” he told his mind. Pulling over to the curb, he braked and turned off the engine. He had to assume there was no one dangerous around.

  Getting out, he locked the doors and started for the alley next to one of the houses. Behind him, he could hear the small boy making motor noises as he rode his tricycle. Now he’s taking out his telescopic sight and snapping it onto his long-range pistol. Now—

  “Oh, stop,” he said, starting down the alley. If they’d been waiting for him, he’d already be in custody.

  He climbed over a low picket fence and started across somebody’s backyard. Glancing to his right, he saw an old lady looking out through a back window at him, her expression one of offended surprise. Sorry, Grandma, he thought. He hoped to God she didn’t get it in her mind to telephone the police. He turned to her and waved, smiling, then pointed toward his mother’s house, lips framing the words, I’m going that way. Not that Grandma would get a word of it. Still, maybe his benign expression and wave would reassure her.

  She only stared at him, expressionless. She thinks I’m nuts, he thought, a lunatic escaped from some local asylum. Don’t call the cops, Granny, he thought. I’m just a harmless mathematician.

  Reaching the side of the yard, he climbed another picket fence and crossed another yard. No one in that house was visible. He crossed the yard quickly, climbed another fence and moved across another backyard. He could see the back of his mother’s house now. Almost there, he thought. Please let me make it.

  He looked in through the back window of her garage, groaning softly to see it empty. She must be teaching; it was a weekday after all. “Damn,” he said. How long could he safely wait for her before somebody showed up, checking up on the possibility that he was there? Maybe the old lady was a secret agent too, was already phoning the CIA. Maybe everybody in the world was a secret agent.

  What am I going to do? he thought as he turned for the back of her house. He couldn’t phone her at the college. They might be watching her; they’d follow her home. He groaned again. He felt so helpless. How could he get out of this predicament?

  Whatever it might be.

  The key to the kitchen door was under the mat as always. He had to smile. Mom used to keep it there when he was just a boy—and it was still there. Invitation to a burglar, Uncle Harry used to call it. “Oh, come on now, Harry,” he recalled his mother’s chiding voice as she responded. “You’re being paranoiac.”

  He unlocked the kitchen door, put the key back under its mat and slipped inside the house. Pushing the door shut, he looked at the kitchen and had to smile. Neat as always. Mom was utterly predictable.

  He grunted, seeing the coffee pot on the stove. God, let there be a cup left in there, half a cup at least. He moved there, lifting up the pot. There was at least a cup. He turned on the gas beneath the pot and stared at it, smiling again. Somewhere, in a closet or a cabinet, was the automatic coffeemaker he’d given her some Christmases ago. She’d expressed her gratitude for it, then, when he’d left, put it away, preferring this ancient, faithful pot.

  In a minute, he got a cup from the cupboard and poured it full of steaming coffee. He drank it slowly, savoring the heavy aromatic flavor. Mom was right. This was the best way to make coffee.

  He toasted himself a slice of wheat bread, buttering it and spreading on some strawberry jam. Crunching hungrily on it and sipping the coffee, he walked into the dining room and looked at the photographs on the wall. Pop, Mom, Louise and him. All the dogs they’d had: Kate, Ginger, Bart, Ranger. Photographs of the camping trips, of the university. Of teachers at some of Mom and Pop’s weekly get-togethers at the house, him and Louise sitting among them like miniature adults, always welcome. Of Uncle Harry with his perennial bow tie and quizzical smile. Of Louise and him at the university special school.

  Good days, he thought. Mom and Pop always concerned for their growth, intellectual and otherwise. Opening their minds to “possibilities.” Exposing them to science, to culture, to philosophy, to nature. He sighed, wishing that his father hadn’t died in the air crash. How much nicer it would be for Mom if she wasn’t alone now, if she had his company and could still have fun with him as she did in the old days when they were all together—Pop, Mom, Louise…

  Louise.

  His head jerked around and he looked at the telephone. It would be reassuring to hear a word or two of sanity in the midst of all this. He and Louise had always gotten along well, no rivalry of any kind. Maybe that was because she was five years older than him. Not that he thought they’d have been competitors in any case.

  He moved to the phone and picked up his mother’s tooled leather address book, opening it to Louise Jasper. He glanced at his wristwatch. It would be about 1:30 P.M. in New Hampshire. He hoped she was there as he picked up the handset and tapped in her number. Be home, he thought. I need a kind word, Louise.

  The handset on the other end was lifted on the third ring and he heard her voice: “Hello?”

  “Thank God,” he said.

  “Chris?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He smiled with relief, licking the last of the strawberry jam from his fingers. “How ya doin’, sis?”

  “Fine,” she said. “How are you?”

  “A little rattled.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, “is he back again?”

  He was confused. “Is who back again?”

  “That man,” she said.

  “What man?” He felt his stomach muscles pulling in.

  “Chris, come on,” she said. “Did that man show up at your house again?”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Chris, are you all right?” she asked.

  He swallowed, tasting the coffee in his throat. “What are you talking about?” he asked uneasily.

  She groaned. “Sweetheart,” she said. “Did you or did you not call me last night?”

  He felt his mouth slipping open.

  “Did you or did you not tell me that the man who’s been trying to intimidate you and Maureen came to your house last night?”

  Chris shuddered and heard the old man’s voice repeating in his mind, “Do you so wager?”

  6

  He tightened. No. He wasn’t going to buy this.

  “Chris—?” she started.

  “You’re telling me you got a call last night and—”

  “Chris, what is going on?” Louise demanded.

  “What time was this?” he asked.

  “Uh… about ten-thirty, our time.”

  The coldness gathering inside him got a little worse. At eight-thirty his time last night, he had been hard at work on the project. Did that mean the man and woman had already been in his house? Speaking to Louise and telling her—?

  “Chris, for God’s sake,” she said.

  “Listen to me,”
he told her. “I don’t know who called you last night but it wasn’t me.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t you?” Louise said, exasperated now. “Don’t you think I know the sound of your voice?”

  “It wasn’t me, Louise,” he said. “Something very strange is going on. When I got home last night—”

  “Are you at home now?” she interrupted.

  “No,” he said. “That man is, and—” He broke off as what she was saying hit him. “Maureen?” he asked. You said me and Maureen?”

  “I think I better talk to her,” Louise replied. “Maybe she can make more sense—”

  “There’s no Maureen in my life!” he cut her off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  There was a heavy silence on the line. Then Louise said quietly, “Who is this?”

  The vise was closing on his skull again.

  “Oh, my God, you’re the man who’s terrorizing them,” she said.

  “Louise, for God’s sake—!”

  “You listen to me, mister, and you listen good!” she cried. “Get away from them and stay away! There are laws in this country!”

  “Louise, for God’s sake,” he repeated, pleading now. It felt as though the floor was moving under him. “I don’t know what’s going on but please—”

  “I’m calling the police now,” she said.

  He stood there with the handset to his ear, listening to the dial tone. Reality, he thought. His shiver was convulsive.

  “What the hell is going on?!” he cried.

  You’ve been working too hard, you need a rest; another cliché movie line was spoken in his mind. He grimaced in fury. Yes, I have been working too hard, he answered the voice. But I’m not out of my mind.

  Something was being done to him.

  He nodded jerkily. His work. Someone out to penetrate the project. Simple and direct: a plot. He tried to hold on to that even though he knew it made no sense whatsoever. If anyone wanted to know what he knew, they only had to pick him up, inject him, hypnotize him, whatever. This insanely intricate cabal was totally unnecessary. Which left him with—

  He snapped his head around, seeing a movement from the corner of his eye. A dark blue car had just pulled up in front of the house. He picked up the coffee cup and backed into the kitchen, stepping behind the wall and peering out, his heartbeat quickening.

  A man in a gray tweed suit was getting out of the car; he had red hair and a dark red mustache. As the man circled the car and started toward the house, Chris pulled back sharply. Jesus God, what now? he thought.

  He started as the doorbell rang, drew in a shaking breath. Thank God he’d parked his car around the corner. He leaned against the wall, feeling the thump of his heartbeat, twitched as the doorbell rang again.

  He waited in silence, listening for the sound of the man’s car starting up again. It didn’t come. What was the man doing? Was he—?

  Chris caught his breath, looking aside to see the man moving past the kitchen window. Despite the curtains, if the man turned his head, he’d spot Chris. For several moments, Chris stood, frozen, not knowing what to do. Then abruptly, he stepped back into the dining room, turned right, and moving to the corner, sat on the floor and slumped down so his head was below the level of the window sills.

  He swallowed, saw the coffee cup still in his hand and set it down. He looked at his right hand, wincing. Have to get those splinters out, he thought. Yeah, that’s important right now, his mind snapped back.

  He stiffened as he heard the man trying the knob of the kitchen door. What if the man had a ring of keys? What if he could open the door, come in and find him slumping here? Did he have a gun?

  Chris pressed his lips together. Steady, he told himself. It occurred to him that maybe the man had nothing whatever to do with what was going on. Maybe, for God’s sake, after all these years of Uncle Harry’s dire predictions, Mom was about to be burglarized.

  He shook his head. He didn’t believe that. This had something to do with what was going on.

  Silence now. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. What would he do if the man was able to get in somehow? Fight him, try to overcome him? Or just give up? Okay, that’s it, let’s find out what the hell is going on.

  He tensed, eyes opening, as the man walked past the windows he was cowering beneath. He looked toward the front of the house and, through the curtained windows, saw the man moving down the walkway. He heard the car door closing, the sound of the motor switching on. The car drove away.

  Chris closed his eyes again. God, I’m tired, he thought. He hadn’t really slept that much. And considering what he’d been through…

  ***

  “Chris!”

  He jolted awake, an expression of alarm on his face, then, seeing his mother looking at him, he uttered an involuntary groan of relief and reached for her; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.

  They embraced and kissed. “What are you doing sleeping on the floor like this?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

  He tried to sound amused but failed. “To say the least,” he answered.

  They stood and embraced again. Home, he thought. His mother. He sighed; it felt good.

  She brushed back his hair with a gentle touch. “You look terrible,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  He started to answer, then hissed in pain. He’d slept in such an awkward position, his neck was stiff. He rotated it, grimacing. “God,” he muttered.

  Then he smiled and held her again. It felt so good to be home. He had a fleeting image of himself, a boy, crying hard because he’d skinned his knees falling off a skateboard. She was always there to comfort him.

  “Chris, what’s happened?” she asked, worried.

  He looked at her. In her middle sixties, she was still a lovely woman, almost as tall as he without heels; her gray-tinged hair still mostly brunette, her features firmly cut, her brown eyes deeply intelligent as she gazed at him. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  “You sound as though you already know something,” he told her.

  She walked him to the living-room sofa and drew him down. “Tell me,” she said.

  He pulled in a long breath and told her everything from the time he’d woken up in the plant to the man he’d hidden from before. He didn’t mention Veering. He wasn’t going to allow himself to believe that the old man had anything to do with what was happening.

  “What did the man you hid from look like?” she asked when he was through.

  Chris described him. “No,” she said. “That wasn’t him.”

  Chris tightened. “Has someone spoken to you?”

  “A man came to the university and spoke to me between classes,” she said.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Lean,” she answered. “Pale. Wearing a black suit and hat.”

  He shuddered. “He’s the one who came to my house last night.”

  “Oh, no.” His mother gazed at him in concern.

  “What’s his name?” Chris asked.

  His mother got up and walked into the dining room; her purse was lying on the table. Opening it, she took out her wallet and, reaching into it, removed a business card. She brought it into the living room and handed it to Chris.

  The man’s name was Martin Meehan. There was no indication as to whom he worked for; the only thing on the card other than his name was an Arizona telephone number.

  “Did he show you a badge?” he asked.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “What did he say?”

  “That you were in trouble and I should make sure to call him if you tried to get in touch with me.”

  Chris swallowed dryly. The dogs are closing in, he thought. “That’s all he said?”

  She nodded. “I tried to find out what was going on but he said he couldn’t tell me, it was secret.”

  “Sure.” He slipped the card into his shirt pocket, then kneaded at his neck, grimacing. “I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep
in that position.”

  “Turn to the right,” she told him.

  He did and felt her strong fingers begin to massage gently at the back of his neck. At first, the pressure made him hiss with pain but, little by little, it began to fade.

  “The thing I don’t understand at all,” she said, “is Louise’s reaction to your phone call. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know.”

  “She actually said you and Maureen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to have to talk with her.”

  His eyes were closed now, his neck feeling better. “What should I do, Mom?” he asked her.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “I mean, should I give myself up? Let the police figure it out?”

  “Well…” She sounded uncertain. “The man said that, above all, you shouldn’t contact any authorities. He said it was the worst thing you could do.”

  “Considering what he did to me, that makes giving myself up to the authorities look pretty good.”

  She kept working on his neck. “What happened to your hand?” she asked.

  “My porch siding is redwood,” he told her. “I leaned against it.”

  “We’ll get them out before you go,” she said.

  He swallowed. “Go where, Mom?”

  She didn’t reply for several moments. Then she said, “I wouldn’t go to the authorities.”

  He turned in surprise to look at her. “You wouldn’t?”

  She gazed at him inquiringly. “You think it has something to do with your work?” she asked.

  “There’s no other answer I can come up with,” he answered. “That makes any sense, I mean.”

  She got up and went to get her sewing box and a bottle of Bactine. Returning with them, she started removing the redwood splinters from his palm and fingers. Chris gritted his teeth as she did.

  “Is what you do so crucial that…?” She didn’t finish.

  “That people would like to know about it? Yes,” he answered. He hissed with pain. Then he made an amused sound. “Except if they knew how far I was from an answer, they’d be sorry they started all this.”