7 Steps to Midnight

by Richard Matheson

  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.

  11

  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?

  Chris sighed and shook his head. Then he saw another package on the bottom of the bag and lifted it out, a plastic envelope. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. Snatching at it clumsily before it could fall, he put the overnight bag on the floor and put the plastic envelope on his lap to unzip it.

  He stared blankly at what was in the envelope.

  Now the picture seemed complete. His life a maddening enigma. Men chasing him. Mysterious events. A flight to London. A change of clothes. A disguise kit.

  A pistol.

  He stared at it, an expression of distaste on his face. A clip of bullets was wrapped beside it. He had no idea what caliber it was except that it was smaller than a .45. Probably smaller than a .38 as well.

  For what? he thought, unable to repress a shudder. What in God’s name was he up against? Did Gene actually think he might have to shoot someone?

  He gasped and almost dropped the pistol as someone pounded on the door.

  “Come on, there’s people waiting!” said an angry man.

  Chris swallowed hard. Sweet Jesus, he thought. It’s heart-attack time.

  Hastily, he put the pistol back into the plastic envelope, zipped it up and pushed it under the clothes inside the overnight bag. He’d dump the damn thing as soon as he could.

  He wondered, for a few moments, how the bag had been brought up to the boarding area. How could it have passed the metal-detector? Another mystery. His brain was swollen with puzzles. He could sit in this booth for a year just analyzing all the questions raised since early this morning.

  Forget it, he thought. Just… damn, forget it. He unlocked the door and left the booth; there were a lot of men waiting. A fat man wearing a red sport coat pushed by him and entered the booth, slamming the door. Sorry, pal, Chris thought. Have a primo b.m.

  He made his way to the exit and left the men’s room. As he walked into the boarding area, he wondered if he should have stayed in the booth long enough to put on the mustache.

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” he muttered. Forget about breakfast. He was going to down a couple of drinks so fast, they’d vaporize in his throat.

  By the time he reached the bar, he’d changed his mind. His stomach was too empty. Except for a small bag of Fritos in Yuma, he’d had nothing since his mother’s house. Two drinks might make him reel. He ordered an Irish coffee and sat at the counter; there were no tables open.

  A mustache, he thought, making a scoffing noise. He’d look like a Spanish pimp. No, if they were going to pick him up, let it be as himself, and not some character from a spy movie.

  Fifteen minutes later, he paid for the Irish coffee and left the bar. He walked over to the gift shop and bought a copy of the Los Angeles Times to read on the plane. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to read about Nelson or not—or about himself for that matter, if there was anything about his situation. But he had to know.

  Is this what it feels like to be a fugitive from justice? he thought as he crossed the boarding area to his boarding gate. Fugitive from the law, you mean, he told himself. Justice had no part in this game. Thank God for Gene, he thought. He didn’t know why Gene was being so helpful but bless him for it.

  He sat in a corner, waiting quietly until they announced the boarding for his flight, first-class passengers first. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood and moved toward the doorway.

  As he drew nearer to it, his heartbeat quickened more and more until he could actually hear it thumping in his ears. Was he going to make it? Was someone on the lookout for him? Did he look completely guilty? It was like a bad dream in which no matter where one hid, one was found.

  The woman at the doorway checked his boarding pass, tore the stub off his ticket, smiled and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Barton.” God, don’t say my name! he thought in panic.

  Anticlimax, he thought next as he walked along the slanting tunnel toward the plane. Entering it, he showed the boarding pass to the stewardess waiting there and she gestured toward the first-class section. “Would you like me to store your bag?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, I’ll put it under my seat,” he told her.

  The stewardess in the first-class section showed him to his seat. It was by a window. He slumped down, feeling suddenly exhausted.

  “Would you like some champagne?” the stewardess asked.

  “Could I have a screwdriver?” he said.

  “Of course.” She smiled and turned away.

  He slid the bag under the seat in front of him, put the folded copy of the Times beside him on the seat, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Was it really over? he thought.

  Over? his mind retorted. It’s barely begun, you idiot. You’re on your way to London. Didn’t you notice that the ticket was only one way?

  He blew out a long, slow stream of breath. Would he make it to London? Or would the plane explode halfway across the Atlantic? Was that the kind of
film this was? Maybe he wasn’t the hero at all but some subsidiary character, the poor sap who got it in the first reel.

  “Here you are, Mr. Barton,” the stewardess said.

  Oh, Christ, am I going to be called by my name all the way to England? he thought, opening his eyes. He forced a smile and a “Thank you” as he took the drink.

  He took a deep swallow of the screwdriver. He could afford to get a little alcohol inside himself now. He felt at his neck. As usual, stiff as ye boarde, he thought.

  Groaning softly, he put down the drink and picked up the newspaper.

  Nothing different, conflicts and corruptions as always. Disinterested, Chris ran his gaze across the stories.

  Until page five. Then, suddenly, he was having trouble with his breath again, the corners of his eyes were tearing. Oh, my God, my good God, he thought.

  REPORTER SHOT

  Gene Wyskart, a reporter

  on the Tucson Herald, was

  killed last night by an

  unidentified gunman.

  12

  Chris put aside the paper and closed his eyes. I can’t go on with this, he thought. It’s too damn much. It had been bad enough with Nelson and he hadn’t even known the man. Gene had been a friend.

  “God,” he whispered. “Jesus. God.”

  “May I move this?” said a man’s voice.

  Chris opened his eyes and looked to his right. The man in the aisle was smiling cordially. Chris didn’t understand what he’d meant, then, abruptly, he saw the newspaper lying on the seat beside his and picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No problem,” the man replied. He sat down and extended his hand. “Jim Basy.”

  Chris almost knocked over his drink, then raised his hand above it. Basy smiled and shook it briefly. Chris wondered if the man was wondering why he hadn’t given his name in return.

  Jim Basy was in his forties, wearing gray trousers and gray tweed jacket, a white shirt with a black knit tie. He looked like a successful executive, dark hair neatly trimmed, face cleanly shaven, black shoes polished to a gloss.