7 Steps to Midnight (7 page)

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.

“That I can’t tell you,” Nelson said. “Except to say… enough to create an ominous pattern.”

“But surely…”

“What?”

“I mean… it’s all so
obvious
. If it’s being done and you know it’s a plot of some kind—”

“That we
don’t
know,” Nelson responded. He gazed at Chris intently, making him nervous. “You haven’t told me everything, have you?” he said.

Chris didn’t know what to say. He
had
told Nelson everything.

“You didn’t mention Veering,” Nelson said. The kindness was
gone from his voice now; his tone was coldly hostile. “You didn’t mention the wager.”

Chris stared at him dumbly, aware of his heartbeat thudding laboredly. His brain felt muddled. How could Veering be a part of all this? He remembered suddenly that his mother had suggested the same thing. He’d decided against it though. Now—

He started, gasping, as Nelson clamped the fingers of his left hand on Chris’s jacket and yanked him close. “
Did
you?” he shouted.

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s right, you didn’t think!” Nelson snarled at him.

Chris saw him reaching underneath his coat with his right hand and a jolt of horror stiffened him. “My God,” he gasped.

“You have to die, of course. You understand that,” Nelson said.

In some demented way, Chris
did
understand. In a moment of total clarity, he knew it was the only thing that made it all comprehensible—that he was valuable to the project and someone wanted the project to fail.

Self-preservation made him grab at Nelson’s wrist, pinning it beneath his coat. “Let go,” Nelson ordered. “You have to die.”

They rocked slowly on the seat, muscles straining. Chris saw Nelson’s face getting red as they struggled. He knew that the agent was stronger; soon enough, he’d pull free, snatch out his gun and fire.

“No,” Chris muttered, fighting for his life. They wrestled on the seat in a quiet frenzy, almost motionless except for their heaving chests.

The sound of the shot was so loud it made Chris jump back, gasping, releasing his grip on Nelson’s wrist.

Nelson was staring at him, looking dazed. Then, very slowly, he looked down at his chest, making a faint sound of disbelief. After a while, his eyes moved up at Chris again. “You… bastard,” he said in a feeble voice.

Chris flinched as Nelson twisted to the right and pushed open the door. Groaning, the agent tried to stand but collapsed instead. Chris stared at him in mute shock as the agent struggled to his feet and began to weave around, left palm pressed against his side, right hand reaching out as though to signal someone.

Chris couldn’t move. He kept staring at the blood on Nelson’s coat and shirt, oozing from between the fingers of the agent’s left hand as he stumbled around outside, his eyes like those of a blind
man. Chris heard the agent’s shoes scuffling over the gritty sand. Then, suddenly, the man cried out, pitching forward.

And disappeared into the ground.

***

The vise was on his skull again, his heart pounding so violently it felt as though it would beat its way out of his chest. Chris was sure he was about to pass out. Dark waves pulsed across him. He gulped at the warm air, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

He didn’t know how long it had been, but eventually he realized that he wasn’t going to lose consciousness. He shook his head and got out of the car, knowing that if it was really true—if Nelson had literally been swallowed by the earth—then Veering would have won the wager and reality, for Chris, would be undone.

Moving on rubbery legs, he circled the car and walked across the sand to where Nelson had disappeared.

He stared down into a shallow arroyo, looking at Nelson’s back, praying that there’d be a sign of movement. There wasn’t any movement though and, underneath the agent’s body, Chris saw blood soaking into more and more dry sand.

“Jesus,” he murmured. A killing now. A
killing
.

He jerked up his head and looked around, expecting to see someone rushing at him to arrest him for the murder of the agent.
I didn’t murder him
, his mind pleaded with the unseen man.
He was trying to kill
me
; it was an accident.

Chris covered his eyes with his left palm. Deeper and deeper, he thought. Dear God. Every minute that passed was driving him deeper into this inexplicable nightmare.

After a while, he drew down his hand and looked at Nelson’s body again. What was he going to do now? Drive away, try to escape? Take Nelson’s body back to Tucson, give himself up to the police?

“
No
,” he muttered. The man had tried to kill him, which meant that the CIA wanted him dead. The thought was chilling. How could he escape the CIA? No matter where he went, they’d
find him. He shuddered, terrified.
Goddamn it, what have I done to deserve this?!

He had to know more.

Bracing himself, he slid down the wall of the shallow arroyo and stopped beside Nelson’s motionless body.

He hesitated; then, pulling in a deep, tremulous breath, squatted down. Placing his hand on the agent’s body, he tried to turn it over. He could scarcely budge it.
Dead weight.
Grimacing, he bent over and reached under Nelson’s body, trying to slide his hand under Nelson’s coat to reach his billfold.

He couldn’t do it; the man’s weight made it impossible. With a faint groan, he straightened up, hissing, teeth bared, as he saw blood on his fingers. “
God
,” he muttered, shuddering.

Just get out of here, he thought. He shook his head. If he did that, he’d be as much in the dark as ever. He simply had to get some answers. Drawing in a quiet breath, he put both hands on the agent’s right shoulder and used all his strength to turn over the inert body.

He jerked back with a wince of sickened dread as he saw that Nelson’s eyes were open, staring. He couldn’t take his gaze off the agent’s eyes. They seemed to be made of glass. The stare of a dead man, he thought, lowering his gaze with a convulsive shiver. Reaching down without looking, he felt under the tweed jacket until his fingers touched the top edge of Nelson’s billfold.

A hollow cry of shock wrenched back his lips as Nelson’s fingers clamped onto his wrist.