Ride the Nightmare

by Richard Matheson

  Abruptly, he realized that Helen wasn’t in bed with him.

  He pushed up on one elbow and looked around the room. Hastily, he threw the blankets back and dropped his legs across the edge of the mattress.

  The floorboards were chilly beneath his feet. He shivered as he hurried across the room and opened the door. Stepping out into the hall, he looked into Connie’s room. The tension faded instantly.

  She was still asleep, lying on her back, her lips parted, a curl of hair twisted across her forehead. On any other day she’d be up by now, out with the neighborhood children.

  Chris turned and walked across the living room. In the kitchen, he could hear the dishwasher operating. It clicked once and there was a sibilant rush of water from its nozzle.

  He found Helen in the alley, scrubbing blood spots from the sidewalk. She didn’t see him at first. He stood on the porch and watched her, twitching at the sound the wire brush made on the concrete. He remembered dragging Cliff’s lifeless body down the alley. Apparently, it had bled all the way.

  He remembered, too, the druglike horror of the burial, the long drive home, the painfully silent preparation for bed. The sleepless lying in darkness, wanting to move close to Helen, to put his arms around her, to feel her body pressing close. Lying there in wordless agony, filled with thoughts about the years passed by. Fearing that she lay beside him wondering how many lies there’d been in the seven years of their relationship; knowing that there had only been the one. Listening to hear if she were still awake. Lying tortured by indecision until the only sleep that could come came at last—the hollow, uncleansing sleep of exhaustion.

  Helen turned her head and saw him. Chris stepped down off the porch, feeling the chill of the morning air through his pajamas.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “I’m almost done.”

  Helen looked back at her work and he saw how her fingers tensed on the wooden handle of the brush.

  “I should have done it last night,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

  He stood awkwardly, watching her scrub. Then he glanced around. There was a lot of dampness in the air. A whitish mist hovered above the rooftops of the houses.

  She had finished now. Chris extended his hand to help her up but she acted as if she didn’t see it. Pushing to her feet, she dropped the brush into the pail of red-tinged water. Chris picked up the pail.

  “I’ll empty it,” he said.

  Helen nodded once and went into the house. Chris watched her until she’d closed the door behind herself.

  As he started for the garage, he glanced at Grace and Jack’s house. What if they had come home, he thought. He swallowed nervously as he opened and shut the side garage door and edged past the bumper of the Ford, heading for the laundry tub. He hadn’t felt this for years: this guilty apprehension of the criminal.

  The thought sent such a wave of sickened revelation through him that he almost cried aloud. It had taken him so long to overcome his attitude of constant wariness. Now, in one night, it had returned.

  “No!”

  Chris spoke the word angrily as he emptied the pail and ran cold water into it. He wouldn’t let it degrade him to the pettish animal he’d been in those early years. He wouldn’t.

  Chris put down the pail and opened the car door. Picking up the flashlight from the seat he searched the back floor. There were several dark stains where the blood had soaked through the blanket. He’d clean them today. Otherwise someone might see them sometime. No point in taking the risk.

  Getting out of the car, Chris began checking the floor of the garage. There were blood spots all around. He gritted his teeth seeing them. There was evidence everywhere.

  That was the most nightmarish aspect of killing. Even after the shock of taking life had passed and the offensive dead had been put away, there were so many details to be taken care of: spots to remove, objects to dispose of, hours to account for, movements to be explained. Lies and lies mounting like girders for some hideous skyscraper which you built in detail, then hoped no one would ever see.

  He began cleaning up the blood.

  ***

  Helen was in the kitchen booth staring at her hands clasped on the table.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly. Chris stood looking down at her, wishing he could thrust their lives six months forward. When this worst part would be over and the strengths of their relationship would be returning.

  Helen glanced up at him, then down at her hands again. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about those men.”

  “What about them?”

  “What if they come here?” she asked.

  “They won’t.”

  “What if they do?”

  “They’re wanted by the law, Helen,” he told her.

  “So was—he.”

  “He was out of his mind.”

  “Maybe they are too.”

  Chris tried to smile. “What do you want me to say, honey?” he asked.

  “It’s not a question of wanting you to say anything,” she said. “It’s a question of safety. We have Connie to think of.”

  “All right.” He nodded. “I’m willing to do anything you say.”

  “I think we should go to my mother’s for a while,” she said.

  “All right,” he said. “When do you want to go?”

  For a moment, he felt that she was planning to leave him and he fought the idea. This was only temporary; he’d make certain of that.

  “Well,” she said, “if they’re going to come, it might be at any time.”

  “You want to go now,” he said quietly.

  She closed her eyes. “Chris, please,” she begged.

  “Have I said anything?”

  “Honey, I’m doing it for Connie’s sake,” she said. “I’m not trying to run out on you.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I need a little time, Chris,” she said. “I’m trying to be loyal but—please don’t expect too much at first.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder and she pressed it once.

  “I’ll drive you there,” he said.

  She nodded. Then, pushing to her feet, she walked over to the dishwasher which had stopped. She turned off the hot water and unclipped the faucet attachment, sliding the double hose into place. Unplugging the wire, she rolled the dishwasher against the wall. Chris watched her for a moment, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  In the hall, he began dialing the store before he realized it wasn’t open yet. He dumped the receiver onto its cradle and walked into the bedroom. It would be all right, he told himself. It was just a matter of time.

  When he’d finished dressing, he went into the bathroom to shave.

  “Daddy, can I get up?” Connie asked.

  “Of course,” he answered.

  He heard her scramble out of bed. In a moment, she came padding into the bathroom in her striped pajamas, blond hair hanging tousled across her cheeks.

  “I slept good, Daddy,” she told him.

  “Good.” He leaned over to kiss her.

  “Did you sleep good?”

  “Yes, little troll. Very good.”

  Connie smiled at the name he gave her. “I slept good and you slept good,” she said.

  She watched intently as he finished shaving. “Will I shave some day?” she asked.

  “I hope not,” he asked.

  “When I’m six and a half?” she asked.

  “Girls don’t shave their faces. You’d better get dressed now.”

  “I have to eat my breakfast first,” she said.

  “Oh. All right, Mommy will give it to you.”

  “Is she in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you then,” said Connie, leaving.

  “All right.”

  As he combed his hair, he heard Helen telling Connie that they were going to Grandma’s house for a while.

  “How long while
?” Connie asked.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Helen told her. Chris felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Just a little while, he thought.

  “You and me and Daddy?”

  “Daddy has to stay and watch the store,” said Helen.

  “Oh, foo,” said Connie.

  “One or two eggs?” Helen asked him as he sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Just coffee, please.”

  “You’ll get—” she began, then broke off.

  He glanced at her as she turned back to the stove. You’ll get sick. That was what she’d almost said. She always said it when he wouldn’t eat breakfast. Except for today. Chris reached out and picked up his glass of orange juice.

  “We’re going to Grandma’s house,” said Connie.

  “I know, baby,” he answered.

  “Will you visit us when we’re at Grandma’s house?”

  He hid the convulsive movement of his throat by drinking. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “Eat your cereal,” Helen told her. “I told you Daddy has to watch the store.”

  “Can’t Jimmy?”

  Chris got up, mumbling his excuse. As he walked across the living room he heard Connie persisting. “Can’t somebody else, Mommy?”

  “Connie, please eat your cereal.”

  In the hall, he dialed with quick, jerking movements.

  “Martin Music,” he heard Jimmy’s amiable voice through the earpiece.

  “Chris Martin, Jimmy. I won’t be in till later today.”

  “Oh. Okay, Mr. Martin.”

  “Leave that case from Schirmer unpacked till tomorrow,” Chris told him. “You can go on re-sorting the LP albums today.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  “And if Mrs. Anthony calls about Sunday’s concert, tell her I’ll phone her first thing this afternoon, will you?”

  “I will, Mr. Martin.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you later then.”

  “Okay. Oh, say—”

  Chris had hung up before Jimmy could finish. Well, it didn’t matter. If it was anything important, Jimmy could phone back. Chris stood beside the telephone table looking into the living room. He saw the pad and pencil lying on the sofa where he’d left it the night before, thinking that after he’d helped Helen load the dishwasher, he’d return to his planning for a children’s creative workshop.

  Creative workshop. He closed his eyes. It seemed a million years ago.

  He started as the telephone rang. Picking it up, he murmured, “Yes?” thinking it was Jimmy.

  “Hello, Chris.”

  His fingers clamped on the receiver.

  “How are you, boy?” said the voice. “This is Adam.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chris glanced across his shoulder and saw Helen in the kitchen doorway looking at him. He covered the mouthpiece.

  “It’s Jimmy,” he said, appalled at how easily the lie was spoken.

  “Oh.” Helen went back into the kitchen. Quickly, Chris stepped off from the doorway and pressed against the wall.

  “What do you want?” he whispered.

  “To see you,” said Adam.

  “Why?”

  “You want to meet us or shall we drop by?” asked Adam.

  “Stay away from here!”

  “Then meet us at Broadway and Twelfth in fifteen minutes.”

  “Listen—!”

  “Fifteen minutes, Chris.”

  “How do you know I won’t bring the police?” Chris asked.

  Adam only snickered and then the receiver was buzzing in Chris’s ear. Slowly, he put it down on its cradle.

  Abruptly, he picked it up again and dialed once.

  “Operator,” said the voice.

  Give me the police, he thought. He stared at the mouthpiece, feeling his heart beat thicken. He was this close now.

  “Operator,” said the voice.

  Chris put down the receiver and stood there trembling. What was the point in going on, with Steve and Adam to contend with now? What good was such a loaded freedom?

  Still, as if helpless before some hideous command, he walked across the living room and into the kitchen.

  “I have to go over to the store for a few minutes,” he said.

  Helen looked up from her coffee.

  “I’ll be back before you’re ready,” he said.

  “We’ll be ready in less than a half hour.”

  “All right, I’ll be back,” he said.

  He turned and left the kitchen. All right, he told himself, all right. It’s impossibly complicated now but it will clear up in time.

  “G’bye, Daddy,” Connie called after him.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He pulled his topcoat from the front closet and left the house. The street was quiet and chilly. He’d left the Ford outside all night and it was coated with dew.

  Chris walked in choppy strides toward Broadway, his heels clicking on the sidewalk. What was it they wanted? he wondered.

  His stride suddenly faltered. Was it possible they, too, were after revenge? He almost stopped walking, his movement becoming slow and aimless. Maybe he should have taken the gun with him. It seemed an absurdly melodramatic idea and yet—

  Or shall we drop by the house? Chris started walking again. Whatever happened they had to be kept from the house. Helen had been through enough. Besides, if revenge was what they had in mind, why would they warn him ahead of time by phoning?

  He didn’t notice the grime-streaked sedan moving up behind him. The first thing he was aware of was the sudden roar of its engine, the rush of its dark bulk to the curb beside him, the squeal of badly lined brakes, the shoved-out back door.

  Chris stood there gaping into the car at the revolver Adam Burrik was pointing at him.

  “Get in,” said Adam.

  Chris felt his legs shaking. He glanced over at the front seat and saw the hard, dispassionate face of Steve Coulter.

  “He said get in,” Steve ordered.

  Chris stumbled across the parkway grass and onto the street. Numbly, he bent over and stepped into the back of the car. He sat down gingerly, looking over at Adam who was smiling at him without humor.

  “You can close the door now,” Adam said.

  Chris extended a trembling hand and pulled the door shut. The old, unoiled lock didn’t catch the first time and he had to do it again. As he did, Steve threw the car into first and gunned away from the curb. Chris fell back against the seat.

  “Well, here we are,” said Adam; a fleshier more coarse-looking Adam.

  Chris tried to think of something to say but his brain felt clogged.

  “It’s been a long time,” Adam said as the car was cornered onto Broadway and headed toward the ocean.

  Chris stared at him, his heart beating slowly and heavily against the wall of his chest.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Adam smiled contemptuously. “A little charity,” he said.

  “We ought t’kill ’im,” Steve broke in.

  Chris glanced forward instinctively and saw Steve’s dark eyes watching him in the mirror.

  “Relax,” said Adam.

  He still sounded the same, Chris noticed—aloof and calculating. Years and prison had not changed that. It was the deep lining around his eyes and mouth that was different; a strained look of humor retained at the cost of nerves.

  “We want money, Chris,” said Adam.

  “You—”

  “No arguments,” Adam interrupted. His only betrayal of tension was the tightening of his grip on the revolver. “You’ll get us the money. Period.”

  Chris pressed his lips together to keep them from shaking.

  “I need hardly remind you,” said Adam, “if we’re caught, you’ll be dragged down with us. And now that you’ve killed Cliff—”

  It came too unexpectedly. Chris couldn’t stop the twitching of his legs. A smile loosened Adam’s thick lips.
<
br />   “I wasn’t sure you had, till now,” he said. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Cliff always was a bungler. Too emotional.”

  Adam grunted amusedly. “Steve is like that too. If I wasn’t here you’d have a bullet in your brain by now.”

  Chris labored for breath.

  “How much do you want?” he asked.

  “How much have you got?”

  “I can—”

  “Never mind answering. It’ll be a lie. We want two thousand in small bills.”

  “Two thousand—”

  “You’re getting off cheap,” said Adam, the amusement stripped from his voice. “You’re lucky we don’t leave you in a ditch somewhere.”

  Adam blew out breath.

  “Banks open at ten,” he said. “You’ll get the money and bring it to us by eleven. You know where Latigo Canyon is?”

  Chris shuddered, recalling his idea to bury Cliff in Latigo Canyon.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Bring it there.”

  “Where in Latigo Canyon?”

  “You’ll find us,” Adam said. He looked at Chris appraisingly.

  “You can send the police there of course,” he said, “but I don’t think you will. You have too much to lose.”

  Chris didn’t reply.

  “Let’s make that three thousand,” said Adam.

  “Three—!”

  “Shut up.”

  Chris’s throat felt as if it were lined with dust. He coughed to ease the sensation.

  “Well?” asked Adam.

  “All right.” Chris’s voice was almost a whisper. “All right, damn you.”

  “Splendid,” said Adam lightly. “If you fail you’ll receive a visit either from the police or from us. Neither of which will be very pleasant.”

  “I said all right,” said Chris.

  Adam looked at him another moment. Then he said, “Pull over.”

  Steve drew the dark sedan to the curb.

  “Remove him,” said Adam.

  Chris stiffened as Steve jumped from the car and ran around the front of it. He pressed back tensely as Steve jerked open the back door and reached in for him.

  “I can—” he started, breaking off as Steve’s fingers clamped over his wrist. He tried to pull free but was powerless against the stronger man’s grip. His cheek grazed the door jamb as Steve dragged him out.