7 Steps to Midnight Page 5

  He watched his mother’s face. He knew that expression. She was analyzing.

  “There’s no other factor in this?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. He hesitated. “Unless…”

  “What?” she asked.

  Chris sighed. He was sorry he’d brought it up. What if Mom put too much credence in it?

  “What, Chris?” she persisted.

  “Well…”

  He told her about Veering and their conversation. When he was finished, his mother grunted softly. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said.

  “You don’t really believe—”

  “I believe he could be part of this,” she said.

  Chris looked startled. He’d never thought of that. He’d vacillated back and forth between two possibilities—a plot against him versus Veering’s wager. How very shrewd of his mother to join them together.

  “But how?” he asked. “I mean, how would the two fit together?”

  “Both of them have made you doubt your sanity,” she answered.

  “Of course,” he said. It was so obvious. He repressed his overriding feeling that none of it actually made sense. On a lower scale of logic, however, it did make sense that all of it was part of one conspiracy—whatever that conspiracy might be and however senseless it seemed at the moment.

  “Who would want to do all this?” he asked. “And why make it all—”

  “Chris.” She clutched at his wrist.

  Twisting around, he saw that the car had returned.

  For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. His mother decided for him, pulling him to his feet and walking him rapidly to the kitchen. “Go out the back way,” she said. “I’ll talk to them and give you time. Where are you parked?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Good.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Go right away,” she said.

  “You don’t think—?”

  “After the way he treated you?” she cut him off. “All right, give yourself up to the authorities. But not them. Maybe out of Arizona.”

  He felt hapless and inept as he stared at her. Then she smiled and stroked his cheek. “You’re up to anything,” she added. “You know that.”

  He embraced her.

  “Be careful now,” she said. “Use every skill.”

  He nodded. “Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too. Now hurry.”

  Their embrace tightened as the front doorbell rang. Chris kissed her on the cheek, crossed to the back door and opened it, glancing back at her. “You’ll be all right,” she said.

  He nodded and went outside, closing the door. He jumped off the porch and ran across the yard, scaled the fence and ran across the next yard. Man in flight, he thought. Was that the title of some book he’d read? He scowled.

  This wasn’t any book.

  He crossed another fence and kept on running. Was Mom talking to them now? Was she up to pretending? Or would they sense that she was nervous? Would the antennae of their trade immediately pick up that she was lying?

  The old woman looked at him incredulously from her back window. Yeah, I’m back, he thought, mashing down your back lawn; sorry. He would have been amused by the look on her face if things weren’t so grim. This was probably the most thrilling thing to happen to her in a month of Sundays.

  He ran around the corner of the old woman’s house and started down the alley. Were the men alone or were there teams out searching for him? He kept running, angled across the old woman’s front lawn and dashed for the Pontiac. How was Scotty Tensdale going to get home? he wondered. Yeah, like that’s important now, he countered irritably.

  He unlocked the car as quickly as he could and slid inside. His hands were shaking so badly, he had to use both of them to get the ignition key in its slot. Twisting it, he heard the motor cough to life; thank you, Scotty. He tapped the transmission into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  Not too noisy, not too fast, he told himself. He drew in trembling breath and pressed down slowly on the gas pedal. The small boy was still on his tricycle. Now he’d pull a walkie-talkie from his overalls and call for backup. “Thuspect fleeing in maroon Pontiac,” he’d lisp. “Agent thixty-thix. Over and out.”

  “Oh, shut up,” he told his brain.

  At the corner, he turned left and headed downtown. Now what? he thought. Where was he supposed to go? He’d really considered turning himself in until Mom had told him not to. That frightened him as much as anything that had happened. What made her think he shouldn’t, in Arizona anyway? What difference did it make where he did it? This had to be a federal thing; his work was for the government.

  And why did Mom suggest that Veering was part of the conspiracy?

  He felt a sense of vague amorphous dread building inside him, his mind jumping back again to the start: his missing car, his talk with Veering, the couple in his house, Meehan manhandling him, the call to Louise, Meehan showing up again with the other man. Did it all fit together? And was it all connected to the project? Were they all trying to make him doubt his sanity to prevent him from working on it? If they only knew, he thought.

  His brain was already out of sync.

  Anyway, he reversed himself once more, why such a complicated plot? Why not just run him off the road and shoot him if they wanted to delay the project?

  Is that what they still planned to do?

  “God,” he muttered. He was really frightened now.

  What in the name of God was he going to do?

  7

  First of all, he needed gas. He’d managed to reach Tucson on the one tankful that Scotty Tensdale had thoughtfully, and unintentionally, provided for him. But now the gauge needle was almost down to zero. There was a Texaco station three blocks ahead; he’d stop there. Should he use his credit card? he wondered. Would it be a clue they could follow?

  Hell, they had the only clue they needed, he thought as he turned into the station, a maroon Pontiac with a registered license plate. If he was really going to go on—where, he had no idea—he’d have to dump the car and travel some other way.

  He braked by the front pump on the full-service island and got out. Not waiting for the attendant, he unhooked the nozzle on the unleaded pump and pushed down the handle. As the pump started humming, he carried the nozzle to the back of the car.

  There he stopped dead, staring blankly at the place where he’d expected to see the gas-tank cover. Then he grunted in disgust at himself. This isn’t the Mustang, idiot. Sighing, he returned to the pump and rehung the nozzle as the heavyset attendant came trudging up. “Yessir,” he said.

  “I thought I had my other car,” Chris said. “I’ll have to move.”

  “Yessir,” said the attendant.

  Chris got back into the car and turned on the motor. Use your skills, he remembered his mother’s words. Yes, Mater, right away, he answered silently, smiling without humor.

  He moved the car to the other side of the service island and turned the motor off again. “Is your bathroom unlocked?” he asked as the attendant approached, carrying the nozzle.

  “Sure is,” the attendant said. “Check under your hood?”

  “Under Scotty’s hood,” he mumbled to himself. “No, that’s all right,” he told the attendant.

  He was halfway to the bathroom when it occurred to him that maybe Scotty Tensdale wasn’t all that attentive to his Pontiac; it might need oil, transmission fluid, battery water, who knew what else. “Yeah, would you check everything under the hood?” he called back. “And check the tires?”

  “Yessir,” the attendant said. You and F. Crain should get together for one bang-up conversation, Chris thought as he turned back toward the bathroom.

  He went inside the bathroom and locked the door, flicking the light switch. The room remained shadowy, its only illumination coming from the window over the door. Swell, Chris thought. He moved to the urinal and relieved himself, then washed his hands at the sink, wincing slightly at the tenderness in his right palm
and fingers. Had his mother gotten all the splinters out? He hoped so, washing off his face. The cold water felt good on his skin.

  He dried his face and hands with two paper towels. His cheeks were getting bristly. Going to look like a proper fugitive soon, he thought. This did not amuse him.

  “All right, what now?” he asked the man regarding him from the mirror. “Quo fucking vadis?”

  “Where can you afford to vadis?” the man responded.

  Chris took out his wallet and checked. Two twenties, a ten, a five, his MasterCard and American Express charge cards. He made a pained face. And the Texaco card sitting in the glove compartment of his Mustang.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He’d have to use cash for the gas and there was little enough of it.

  He stood gazing at his reflection. It had occurred to him that he could drive back to his house. If the presence of the man and woman had been necessary only to throw him off in the beginning, they might be gone now, the door chain and the kitchen telephone with them. Was it worth a try to find out? It had a definite appeal because it wasn’t simply flight, it was a move toward finding out what was happening. And it might be the one place they wouldn’t think he’d go.

  “Yes, good,” he said. That’s what he’d do.

  ***

  When he unlocked the door and pulled it open, the two men were standing outside, waiting for him.

  As insane as the idea was, Chris had an urge to hurl himself at them and break free.

  But they frightened him the way they stood, faces impassive, looking at him. For all he knew, they were prepared to draw out guns and open fire on him at any instant.

  He swallowed dryly, stepping out into the sunlight. Suddenly, he felt very tired, very drained. “All right,” he said. In a way, he was relieved. Whatever happened, he’d find out what was going on.

  His sense of relief evaporated as Meehan started for him, limping. His knee, Chris thought, alarmed. Impulsively, he drew back and bumped against the door. “Leave me alone,” he said, remembering the agonizing pain he’d felt when Meehan had twisted his arm behind his back.

  Meehan didn’t reply but kept moving toward him. Knowing what the agent meant to do, Chris ducked away from him so that Meehan’s lunge for his arm missed.

  The agent made a snarling noise and shouldered him hard, knocking him back against the door, which flew open. Chris fell back into the shadowy bathroom, catching a glimpse of the man in the gray tweed suit who started forward, saying Meehan’s name with an urgent tone.

  Meehan didn’t stop, but bent over Chris and clutched at his jacket. Chris tried to pull away from him, accidentally bumping his right knee against the agent’s injured one. Meehan hissed in pain and jerked back. Chris tried to push himself up and the man in the tweed suit grabbed his left arm, pulling him to his feet. “Take it easy now,” he said.

  A tone of kindness in the man’s voice made Chris relax for an instant. Then, seeing Meehan lunge at him, he tensed again. “Wait a second,” he snapped, trying to turn from Meehan, pulling the other man around with him.

  “Hold it,” the other man said.

  Then Meehan had his right arm and was starting to pull it up behind him. A bolt of fury struck Chris and he rammed his knee deliberately against Meehan’s injured one. With a hoarse cry, Meehan jerked back; Chris turned to the other man. “I’ll go with you,” he said breathlessly, “but I don’t want my arm twisted—”

  His voice froze in shock as he saw Meehan reaching under his suit coat. “No,” he murmured, shrinking back as Meehan snatched a revolver from a holster underneath his arm.

  “Meehan, Jesus!” the other man said. Letting go of Chris, he stepped in front of him. Meehan tried to shove him aside, but the man grabbed Meehan and wouldn’t let go. Chris had an impulse to turn and run for his car while the two were struggling but he decided against it. Meehan might shoot him before he reached the car.

  He stood, shaken, in front of the bathroom door, watching the two men grapple. “Damn it, Meehan!” the man in the tweed suit said. He glanced across his shoulder at Chris. “Get in your car and wait,” he ordered.

  Chris needed no further encouragement. Hastily, he walked across the station. “You can’t do that,” he heard the man say to Meehan, and Meehan’s tight, infuriated response: “I want him, Nels.”

  Chris got into the Pontiac and closed the door, shaking. The attendant came over, looking disturbed. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Shall I call the police?”

  “They are the police,” Chris said. He knew it wasn’t true but it was close enough to satisfy the attendant. He swallowed, adding inanely, “What do I owe you?”

  “Twenty-seven thirty,” the attendant said. “You needed a quart of oil, too.”

  Chris started to make a groaning sound, then realized it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going any further anyway. Taking out his wallet, he took out a twenty and the ten and handed them to the attendant. Turning around, he looked toward the rest room. The two men were talking now. Meehan still looked angry but his revolver was put away now. Chris frowned. Wasn’t it odd that they were just ignoring him? What was to prevent him from—?

  The thought evaporated as he looked at the ignition slot. Of course, what else?

  The key was gone.

  “Here you go,” the attendant said, giving Chris his change.

  Chris took it, then turned around again to look at the two men. What were they talking about? And who were they working for? Obviously, they were American. The CIA? Why him? The project was important, yes, but he’d done nothing suspect. Anyway, what was happening was far more complicated than just a security investigation.

  He stiffened as he saw the two men start for the car, Meehan’s expression menacing. What if he simply took out his revolver again and shot him at point-blank range? Chris shuddered. There was nothing he could do about it.

  He felt a chill as Meehan walked over to the side of the car he was sitting in and leaned over. Chris saw how white his face was, how dark and lank his hair, how cold his blue eyes.

  “I’ll catch up to you,” Meehan said.

  Then he straightened up and turned away. Chris twitched as he heard the door pulled open on the passenger side of the Pontiac. Turning, he saw the man in the tweed suit getting in. “Let’s go,” the man said, handing Chris the keys.

  “Where?” Chris asked.

  “Back to your plant,” the man told him.

  Chris felt confused. Weren’t they going to take him to their headquarters? Why the plant? “I don’t—” he started.

  “Go. Let’s go,” the man said. He didn’t sound as kind now.

  Chris started the engine and pulled out of the station into the street.

  “You came pretty close to taking a slug there,” the man told him.

  Chris swallowed; his throat felt dry. “Do you have some kind of identification?” he asked.

  The man removed a billfold from the right inside pocket of his suit coat and flipped it open in front of Chris. Chris looked at the badge, then the identification card. The man’s name was Gerald Nelson. He felt a shiver convulse his back.

  It was the CIA.

  “Turn left at the corner and keep going north,” the man told him.

  Chris saw him glance across his shoulder and looked up at the rearview mirror. Meehan was following in the dark blue car. “Is he going with us?” he asked.

  “Just drive,” the man told him.

  Chris said no more. They rode in silence until the car was out of Tucson, moving back into the desert. Then, after Chris looked into the rearview mirror again and saw that Meehan was no longer following, the man named Nelson said, “All right.”

  Chris glanced at him.

  “What’s going on?” Nelson asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “Don’t get smart,” Nelson said. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “Why?” Chris asked. “What in God’s name have I done?”

  “Listen, Barton—” Nelson
began.

  “Barton?” Chris asked. “You know I’m Barton?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There was a man in my house last night claiming that he was Chris Barton but your partner picked up me.”

  “He’s not my partner, Chris,” the man said.

  Chris felt as though his head were swimming.

  “Turn in on that road,” Nelson told him. “I want to talk this over with you.”

  Again, Chris felt a surge of relief at the man’s tone; he sounded genuinely concerned. “All right,” he said. Slowing down, he turned right into the dirt road and started into the desert. It reminded him of what he’d done early this morning. Would there be another grove of trees? What difference does it make? he thought in aggravation. He was going to find out what everything meant. That was all that mattered.

  As he drove, he glanced at Nelson. The man was staring straight ahead, his expression grave.

  “This is far enough,” Nelson told him when they’d driven a little more than a mile.

  Chris braked and, at Nelson’s order, turned off the motor.

  “All right,” Nelson said. “Let’s hear it; all of it.” He cut off Chris by adding, “I only know what Meehan told me.”

  Chris told him everything he could remember, every detail of his experience since finding his Mustang missing… how long ago was it? He looked at the dashboard clock. Jesus, not even ten hours ago?

  When he was finished, Nelson looked at him in silence, then grunted. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Not to me,” Chris said.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Nelson told him. “This is not—” He hesitated, looking at Chris guardedly. Then he said, “Well, I can tell you this much. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

  Chris started.

  “I’ve heard this story before.”

  “You mean—?” Chris stared at Nelson in bewilderment. “Men having their cars stolen and finding them at home, with another man in their house who claims to be—”

  “Not just men,” Nelson interrupted. “Men like you. Advanced scientists, mathematicians.”

  “How many?” Chris asked.