7 Steps to Midnight (10 page)

Chris turned off the interior light and slipped the ticket, bill and note back into the envelope. He placed the envelope on the passenger seat, then pulled down the transmission bar and slowly eased back onto the highway, accelerating to fifty-five miles an hour before he set the cruise control.

Here I am
, he thought as the car rolled across the now-dark desert.
Driving sensibly. A law-abiding citizen. Most commendable.

For a man being swallowed alive by a nightmare.

“
Jesus Christ!
” he yelled. He yelled it three times, each louder than the one before. What in the bloody, goddamn hell was going on?!

He exhaled hard. The situation was becoming more insane all the time. It had started with a missing car. Now—less than twenty-four hours later—he was being told to get out of the country. He didn’t know Gene
that
well. Why would Gene pop for a first-class ticket to London?

Was there really any meaning to all of this or was it hideously simple, a lost wager with Veering? Was his reality changing? No matter how he tried to avoid the idea, his mind insisted on returning to the old man in the baseball cap. He heard the tone in Veering’s voice as he said, “
I wager the security of your existence against your assumption that you know what’s real and what’s unreal in your life.
”

He began to shiver convulsively and couldn’t seem to stop.

***

It was when he had driven past a coffee shop and saw a highway patrol car parked in front of it that he knew exactly what he had to do with part of the hundred dollar bill.

He was now sitting in the last row of the Trailways bus, eyes closed. Scotty Tensdale’s car was parked by the terminal in Yuma. Hopefully, Scotty would get it back in a few days; by the time Chris was in London.

London, he thought. For God’s sake,
London
. He’d thought of flying there a hundred times but never under these circumstances.

He’d tried to settle down his brain and take a nap. It didn’t work. The sleep ritual at home was too entrenched in his system—a long, hot shower, a good, brain-relaxing read and, presently, unconsciousness for several hours.

The back seat of a bus just didn’t make it.

He opened his eyes and looked out at the passing desert.
Déjà vu
, he thought. It was the same view he’d seen from Scotty Tensdale’s car early this morning—the silver-cast sand, the dark forms of cactus and desert trees.

Was he really going to get on that plane and fly to London?

He couldn’t make up his mind just yet. He was en route to Los Angeles. That was enough for now. Maybe by the time he arrived in Inglewood, he’d have made his decision.

Not that he had a hell of a lot of options. Hand himself in?—that seemed a really bad idea now. Go into hiding—how long would that last if the CIA was onto him?

It had to be the project, he realized.

He found himself nodding. Had to be. It was the only thing that made him special enough to warrant all this attention.

The project was important, there was no doubt of that. To the Pentagon. To national security. If he could solve the problem, God only knows what international ramifications would take place. He’d never really thought about the significance of what he did at Palladian. It had been just a tedious job.

But it was obviously a lot more than that and he was thinking about it now.

Small wonder he’d dreamed about directing numbers in a play. A play whose set had a clock on the wall. Time was running out, Wilson had been clear enough on that.
Chris, we need that answer.
He sighed and closed his eyes again.
Well, you weren’t getting that answer from my flagging brain
, he thought.
And God knows you’re not going to get it now.

He opened his eyes as the bus began to slow down.

For a few moments, he stared blankly at the flashing red light ahead.

Then a hand, invisible and cold, slid in between his ribs and got a good hold on his heart. He felt it starting to squeeze, felt his heart straining to beat against the pressure. Dear God, he thought. All his thoughts and plans were pointless now.

He couldn’t seem to fill his lungs with air as the bus drew closer to the highway patrol car blocking the lane.
They’ve got me
, he thought.
It’s done.

He looked around in sudden desperation. No way out. He felt sick with fear. Where would they take him? To highway patrol headquarters? CIA headquarters?

Or were they working in league with Meehan? Would they simply drive him into the desert and put a bullet in his brain?

He flinched and stiffened as the bus braked and the front door opened with a hydraulic hiss.

A pair of highway patrolmen came on board and spoke softly to the driver. Chris saw the driver start to look back into the bus. One of the patrolmen said something quickly to him and he turned to the front again.

Chris felt himself pressing back against the seat. There was a throbbing sensation in his right temple that felt like the ticking of a clock. Is all of this really happening? he thought. It seemed unreal and dreamlike.

The two patrolmen started moving up the aisle, checking the seats on either side. There were seventeen passengers; Chris’s eyes counted them in a glance. How long would it take them to reach him? What would they say?
You’re under arrest?
Would they draw their pistols? He stiffened.

Would they shoot him?

A shiver made his shoulders jerk. They could if they chose to, if they had orders to do it.
He killed a government agent in Tucson this morning
, he heard one of them report.
We had no choice.

He closed his eyes and waited. He was trapped.

A sudden noise up front made his eyes jump open again.

One of the patrolmen was wrestling with a male passenger—a bulky man in a black jacket sitting on the right side of the bus. The other patrolman came to assist him and they yanked the heavyset man into the aisle. None of them spoke, but only hissed and grunted from the effort of their struggle.

Chris saw the flash of handcuffs and heard them clicking shut on the man’s wrists. He was surprised at how soundlessly the other passengers were taking all this. Not one of them did anything but
watch in silence as the two patrolmen dragged the man down the aisle, his shoes squeaking on the rubberized floor.

The man was pulled out through the door and Chris saw, through the windshield, the two patrolmen forcing him to their car and bending him inside. A few seconds later, the patrol car drove away, starting back for Yuma.

“Well, folks,” the driver said loudly—his voice made Chris twitch, “you just saw the capture of a bank robber.”

Chris slumped back, eyes falling shut. Jesus God, he thought. His breath shook badly.

Only after the bus had driven on for several miles did he realize that what had happened had made up his mind for him. He couldn’t face that kind of pain again, that kind of terror.

He was going to London.

***

The bus arrived in Inglewood at seven in the morning; he had two and a half hours before the flight.

Rising on rubbery legs, Chris walked along the aisle and stepped down to the sidewalk, shivering. It was a cold, foggy morning. He looked up at the dark gray sky, trying not to visualize the airliner taking off into it.

Crossing the floor of the nearly empty terminal, he went into the men’s room and relieved himself, then washed his hands and face. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave; he looked too much like a wanted man.

He went outside and bought some shaving cream and disposable blades at the counter. Carrying them back inside the men’s room, he shaved as quickly as he could, considering that he hadn’t used a blade for more than ten years. Inevitably, he cut himself a few times, forced to press tiny pieces of toilet tissue on the nicks.

Even so, it was an improvement. Not bad-looking for a mathematician on the run, he thought. His clothes didn’t look too good but they’d pass. He checked his watch. He may as well get over to the airport before trying to have breakfast.

He tossed the blades and shaving cream into a waste can, then
telephoned for a cab.
I suppose I should have kept them
, he thought as he walked back across the terminal. He couldn’t plan that far ahead, though. His brain was stuck in the present.

The cab showed up in fifteen minutes and he got inside, telling the driver that he was flying to London on United and would he take him to the proper terminal. The driver, puffing on a cigar, nodded without a word. A blessing, Chris decided. He was in no condition for a chatty driver.

The ride to the airport took twenty minutes. Chris paid and tipped the driver and walked into the United terminal. Impressive-looking, he thought.

He went directly to the first-class line and placed his ticket on the counter in front of the young woman on duty there. She smiled and said, “Good morning,” checked the ticket and asked him if he preferred Smoking or Non-smoking. In first class, what difference does it make? he thought, but told her Non-smoking anyway. She made out a boarding pass and pushed it into the envelope slit.

He was turning away when she said, “Mr. Barton?”

He didn’t turn back at first. Was this it? he wondered. Were they going to arrest him now?

Sighing, he turned. “Yes?”

“I have something here for you.”

“You do,” he murmured.

He watched as she reached beneath the counter and, after a few moments, came up with an envelope. It looked like the one he’d found in the car.

“This was left for you,” she said.

“By whom?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t on duty when it was left.”

“I see.” He stared at the envelope. What now? he thought.
Ignore previous ticket. You sail to Hong Kong on the morning tide.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled and took the envelope from the young woman. “Thank you,” he said.

He walked toward one of the chairs. Another jigsaw piece that wouldn’t fit? he wondered. Reaching the chair, he sank down on it wearily and tore open the envelope.

There was a piece of cardboard inside, a locker key Scotch-taped to it.

Chris held it in his right hand, staring at it. A locker. Did it have a bomb inside? Turn the key and
ka-blooey
? The end of C. Barton, Fugitive Mathematician?

He blew out a heavy breath. It was another jigsaw piece. Would the overall picture ever be formed? Right now, he doubted it. He simply couldn’t keep up with all the new pieces.

He looked at his watch. Nearing eight. What should he do? Forget the key? Drop it into a waste can, wait to board?

Ten minutes later, he decided. He may as well play this through, use the hand he was being dealt. Standing, he started for the boarding gate. It seemed as though everyone he passed knew who he was and, at any moment, was going to shout, “Hey, stop!” “It’s him!” “It’s Barton!” “He’s the Arizona Agent-Killer!” “Grab him for the CIA!”

The detector buzzed as he went through. He felt himself tighten guiltily, then realized it was the key and dropped it on the plastic tray. This time, he got through without a sound and the man monitoring the machine handed the key back to him.

He rode the escalator to the second floor and walked to the boarding area, then moved around the edge of it until he found the locker.
Locker
, he thought,
a spot you put something in and lock ’er up.
Word derivations were a bane to him.

He stood in front of the locker for ten minutes, wondering whether to open it, his brain a swirl of conflicting theories. All right, they wanted him dead. But why a locker bomb? Their last opportunity before he left the country? Didn’t it make more sense that Gene would be behind this? In that case, why not mention it in his note? Had he thought of it after the ticket and note had been delivered?

Finally, to stop the swirling contradictions in his mind, Chris slipped the key into the locker slot and turned it, hunching his shoulders and half-closing his eyes at the last instant in case there was an explosion. Much good it would do if there
was
, he thought.

He released a held-in breath and opened the door. There was an overnight bag inside. He pulled it out and closed the door.
Was there a bomb inside the bag? he wondered suddenly.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re bomb-happy!
he assailed himself.

He went to the men’s room and locked himself inside a booth. Lowering the lid of the toilet he sat down and put the overnight bag on his lap. It was expensive-looking. Nothing but the best for Fugitive Chris, he thought.

He braced himself and pulled open the zipper on top of the bag, thinking,
God, I’ll really feel dumb if it explodes
now.

He looked inside the bag. A change of clothes. A sweater, slacks, shirt, underwear, socks, shoes, a warmer jacket than the one he was wearing. Expensive clothes, too. Whoever his guardian angel was—Gene?—he (or she?) was certainly generous.

He felt down through the neatly folded clothes to see what else there was. Toilet articles. He unzipped the case and looked inside. Everything he needed. He blinked in amazement. Two vials as well, prescription: Calan and Vasotec. Whoever was watching over him knew about his hypertension. Mystery on mystery, he thought.

For several moments, sitting there, he felt almost a glow of pleasure. The clothes, the first-class flight to London. This sure was one hell of a lot more intriguing than his life had been for the past five years. He was almost looking forward to this. All he needed now was a svelte Hitchcockian blonde sitting next to him on the plane.

There was more in the bag; a small package that he opened to find himself looking at a bottle of hair dye and a mustache, a tube of spirit gum. “Aw, now, wait a minute,” he said, scowling. Play-acting now? A disguise? Jesus God, that was absurd. Still, why was it in there if Gene (he had to be behind this) didn’t think it was important?