Ride the Nightmare

by Richard Matheson

  Chris stared at her. “Yes,” he said. The line moved forward as the man left the counter. Chris stepped off compulsively. Mrs. Anthony, smile faltering, moved with him.

  “What the committee was wondering,” she said, “is if it might not be feasible to combine the concert with our Spring Fund Drive.”

  Chris nodded jerkily. “Uh-huh.” He felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Please get out of here, begged his mind.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Anthony briskly, “we discussed the possibilities at some length at our meeting last Friday afternoon and, after weighing the pros and cons, we reached the decision that it could be effected quite readily.”

  Chris ran a hand across his upper lip and drew it away dripping sweat. “I see,” he muttered. He rubbed the hand on his coat distractedly.

  “If, before the concert,” Mrs. Anthony continued, “we could have, say, five to ten minutes for a short announcement about the opening of the Drive, we could easily…”

  Her voice seemed to drift off into an unintelligible murmur as Chris watched her. The nightmare was back again, endless and insane as nightmares were. To stand here listening to Mrs. Anthony talk about the start of a Spring Fund Drive for The Ladies’ Horticultural Society while, somewhere, Connie was—

  “Does that aspect of it seem reasonable?” she asked.

  Chris swallowed.

  “I—I—what was that?” He smiled mechanically. “I’m afraid I—”

  “I said,” said Mrs. Anthony, “does the setting up of a cake booth in back of the auditorium seem to you—”

  The line moved and Chris, stepped closer to the window. He felt the urge to shove away the two people in front of him, to push Mrs. Anthony away violently, to grab the money from the cashier’s drawer and run to his car, drive to Latigo Canyon at a hundred miles an hour.

  “Yes,” he said, “Yes. I—I think that would be fine.”

  “Are you feeling well, Mr. Martin?”

  “Hmmm?” Chris’s smile was more of a grimace.

  “You’re perspiring quite heavily.”

  “Oh. No, I—it’s rather…” he sucked in breath, “—hot in here.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Anthony cleared her throat. “Well, then, I can tell the committee that you approve?”

  “Yes, yes, certainly,” Chris blurted, “I—think it’s a fine idea.”

  Mrs. Anthony nodded once, looking at him curiously. “Well, then,” she said.

  Chris looked over at Helen as Mrs. Anthony walked away. She was watching him fixedly. Chris turned back quickly. There was just the woman in front of him now although the cashier was gone. He glanced aside and saw Mrs. Anthony wave to Helen. God, don’t talk to her! he begged silently. He blew out ragged breath as Mrs. Anthony left the bank.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, impulsively.

  The woman in front of him turned.

  “I wonder if I could trouble you to—to let me ahead of—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been waiting here for a long time and I’m in just as much of a hurry as you are.”

  Are you? Chris thought.

  She turned away. “I never,” she was muttering. Chris closed his eyes a moment. Please, please, please, he thought.

  A minute later he was sliding the pass book across the counter. The teller picked it up and opened it, looked at the withdrawal slip.

  “I’d like to have it in tens and twenties,” Chris said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the teller. He turned away and walked over to the row of file cabinets behind him. Chris watched him, his hands resting limply on the edge of the counter. He saw the teller pull out a drawer and start thumbing through the files.

  “I’m in a hurry,” Chris said. The man didn’t hear him.

  In a moment, the man pulled out a file and looked at it. Chris waited impatiently.

  The man walked past the window toward the front of the bank.

  “What are you—?” Chris started.

  “Just a moment, sir,” said the teller, politely.

  Dazedly, Chris watched him walk away. What in God’s name was happening? For a second, he almost believed that he was dreaming, that this was a nightmare. It was too incredible to be real.

  He saw the teller speak to Mr. Finder in front. Mr. Finder looked over at Chris and, smiling, gestured for him to come down to his desk. Chris couldn’t repress the groan. Clenching his teeth, he strode quickly along the counter and pushed at the gate with shaking fingers. It didn’t open.

  “It’s locked,” he said, startled at the loudness of his voice.

  The girl at a nearby desk looked up, startled; and gaped at him.

  “Miss Grey,” called Mr. Finder. She glanced back and Mr. Finder nodded at her. She pushed a button and Chris went through. We’ll never see her again. Helen’s words echoed terribly in his mind.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “This withdrawal, Mr. Martin,” said Finder, “It will leave your account with less than a hundred dollars.”

  “I know that.” Was the man insane?

  “Well—” Mr. Finder coughed embarrassedly. “You see, this note—”

  “Note?”

  “It states that a three thousand dollar loan extended to you last October would be made on the condition that the amount in your savings account serve as collateral.”

  Chris looked at him dumbly. He’d forgotten.

  “You see,” said Mr. Finder. “You signed it.”

  Chris held the paper and stared down at it without being able to read it.

  “Naturally, if you withdraw three thousand dollars at this time,” said Mr. Finder, “the conditions of the loan are no longer met.”

  Chris had difficulty keeping his voice steady.

  “Mr. Finder, I’ve been doing business with this bank for the past seven years. My credit rating is beyond reproach. I need this money now. My mother is in financial trouble and needs it immediately. It will be replaced as soon as possible.”

  “Mr. Martin, please understand. It’s not as if—”

  “Mr. Finder, I have a good business,” Chris said, agitatedly. “I pay my debts. I’m a member of the Chamber of Commerce. For God’s sake, let’s not haggle! I need the money. I’ve met every obligation to this bank in the past. Now, for pity’s sake!” If I had a gun, he thought suddenly, I’d take the money.

  Mr. Finder pursed his lips and looked at Chris dispassionately.

  “Well?”

  Mr. Finder sighed. “Very well, Mr. Martin,” he said, “I really see no reason why we can’t. It’s somewhat irregular but—”

  Less than a minute later, the doors of the Ford slammed behind them and Chris twisted the ignition key. He backed out of place and drove out of the parking lot so fast he almost hit another car. He headed down Wilshire as fast as he could and turned right onto Ocean Avenue. A few minutes later the Ford was speeding along the coast highway toward Malibu.

  “Chris,” she said as they went past an orange caution light at Channel Road.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really believe what you said before?” Her voice was spent of anger now, almost lifeless.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m convinced they plan to use me as long as they can.”

  “Oh…”

  Chris looked into the rear view mirror, then pressed down on the accelerator. They should make Latigo Canyon in fifteen minutes, he calculated. Surely, Adam and Steve would wait. He cleared his throat. They’d wait. He was right, he had to be. They were planning to use him. Hurting Connie would end that and they knew it. At least Adam must know it.

  “Before you came to the store,” he said, “I phoned your mother.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her looking at him. “I was going to tell you that I’d decided to call the police.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I know it seems pointless now,” he said, “but I was going to.” His hands clenched on the rim of the wheel. “And, after we get Connie,” he said, “I’ll call them.”


  Still she said nothing. Chris felt himself tightening, wanting her to speak. Then he realized that she could think only of Connie. After Connie was safe, she’d respond. Chris pressed his lips together. After Connie was safe. He fixed that in his mind.

  Eighteen and a half minutes later, he was turning the car into the entrance of Latigo Canyon.

  Automatically, he reached up and pressed a hand over his inside coat pocket He could feel the rubber-banded clump of bills. Three thousand dollars. The result of almost four years’ saving. Chris clenched his teeth. If only he’d phoned the police the night before, not only would Connie be safe, but Helen would have this money while he was gone. He felt a sudden stab of contempt for himself. It was true, what she’d said. For his own protection, he’d allowed this situation to occur.

  There were no sounds of traffic now, only those of the Ford as he guided it up the tortuously curving road: the laboring mutter of its engine, the squeak of its constantly twisted tires. Behind them, the highway sank into the low-hanging fog. Ahead, the mountains loomed grey and green.

  Somewhere among them was Connie.

  “He didn’t say any more about where he’d meet us?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “He just said bring the money.”

  Chris pressed down on the accelerator as they reached a length of straight road. His gaze jumped ahead, looking for a sign of the black sedan. What if they missed each other? He fought off the terror of the thought. Adam wouldn’t miss them. He needed the money too much.

  The ocean had disappeared from view now. The car was surrounded by the silent mountains. Los Angeles was a strange city, Chris thought distractedly. Fifteen minutes from the most populated places were spots of absolute wilderness. Spots where a person could disappear within minutes of his home and never be found again.

  “Chris.”

  He started from his thoughts and glanced at her.

  “There’s a car following us,” she said.

  His gaze jerked up to the rear view mirror.

  “Is it them?”

  Chris swallowed. “Yes,” he said.

  The sedan was about fifty yards behind them, following unhurriedly. Bracing himself, Chris guided the Ford to the side of the road and braked it. Suddenly, he wished he’d brought Cliff’s gun; and, suddenly, remembered the clipping that had fallen out of Cliff’s pocket. Adam and Steve had already killed during their escape. They had nothing to lose by killing again. The avoidance of capture was all that mattered now. He shuddered. Had he made another blind mistake? Was he endangering Helen’s life now?

  The sedan moved past them.

  “What!” Chris stared at it incredulously. Adam was driving.

  “What’s he doing?” Helen asked, her voice shrill.

  “I don’t—” Chris broke off and shot his hand out for the ignition key. Twisting it, he started the motor, then, releasing the hand brake, put the transmission into drive and gunned off the shoulder so quickly that the wheels spun once before catching. Gravel rasped beneath the car, spattering off the underframe. Then the car was jolting forward onto the road, starting after the sedan which was just disappearing around a curve.

  The Ford wheeled creakingly around the curve, then leveled off. Ahead, the sedan moved on leisurely. Chris blew out breath through gritting teeth. Was Adam playing with them? He shuddered with rage. So help me God, he thought, if you’ve done anything to Connie…

  Three minutes later, Adam turned into a side road and stopped. Chris pulled up behind him and braked hard. Switching off the engine, he jerked on the hand brake.

  “Stay here,” he said. He got out of the car and started toward the sedan. Adam made no motion to get out. He sat with his back turned to Chris. Chris looked into the car anxiously. As he’d expected, Steve and Connie weren’t in it. He stopped by the front window and looked in at Adam. The revolver was on Adam’s lap, close to his right hand.

  “I didn’t think it was a very good idea to stop on the main road,” Adam said, smiling.

  “Where is she?”

  Adam extended his left hand, palm up.

  “Where is she, Adam?”

  “The money.”

  Reaching into his pocket shakily, Chris jerked out the clump of bills and tossed it on Adam’s lap.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Adam removed the rubber band from the bills and started counting the money.

  “Adam, for God’s sake!”

  “She’s well, she’s well,” said Adam, casually, his eyes on the money. “Steve’s taking care of her.”

  “Where?”

  Adam wet his finger and continued counting. Chris stood watching him, his heart thudding slowly and heavily.

  “It’s all there,” he said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Adam—”

  “Shh-shh-shh.” Adam gestured impatiently.

  It took another minute for him to finish. Then he nodded. “Very good,” he said. He looked at Chris in amusement. “Contract fulfilled,” he said, sliding the bills into his pocket.

  “Now where is she?”

  Adam reached out and pushed the starter button. The sedan’s engine ground over twice, then caught. Chris looked at Adam, startled. “What are you—?”

  Adam reached for the gear shift.

  “What are you doing?”

  Adam smiled at him. “We’ll be seeing you,” he said. The car started moving.

  “No!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chris acted without thinking. As the sedan rolled forward, he jerked open the front door and reached in.

  Adam grunted in surprise, snatching downward at his gun. Before he could reach it though, Chris had grabbed his coat and started dragging him off the seat. Adam swung out wildly with his left hand and missed. Abruptly, moving with the car, Chris stumbled on a rock. As he fell, his fingers clamped on Adam’s coat and, in an instant, the two men were sprawled on the road, the pistol landing near them.

  The sedan kept rolling.

  Chris got an instant’s view of Helen pushing out of the Ford as he straightened up. Then Adam’s fist was clubbing at the side of his head, Adam was pushing to his knees, a dirty scrape across his left cheek. He was looking for the pistol, seeing it, lunging for it.

  Before he could reach it, Chris was on him. The two men rolled and tumbled in the dirt, dust scaling up around them. Chris’s foot kicked out at the pistol and sent it bouncing away. Adam reached for it but Chris pulled him around and slammed a fist into his jaw. Adam, half standing, reeled backward, stumbled and fell down heavily on his side.

  He was starting up when they heard the grating sound. Instinctively, both men looked down the road in time to see the sedan going over the edge of the canyon rim, its back end flipping up, hanging suspended for a moment, then disappearing.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Chris went flailing back as Adam dove at him. They went crashing into the road again, Chris gasping as he landed on a small rock. He flung up his arms as Adam began hitting his face. He tried to roll the heavier man off but couldn’t. He grabbed at Adam’s right hand but the left struck on his upper cheek, driving jagged streaks of pain into his eye. Hissing, he lurched his body upward, shifting Adam to one side. He pushed at Adam violently, Adam lost his balance and had to reach to the side for support. As he did, Chris jerked in his left leg, got the foot against Adam’s side and shoved as hard as he could. Adam thrashed over onto the road.

  He was barely on his feet when Chris hit him. His face went blank for a second, then he was swinging back, his blow glancing off Chris’s temple. Chris swung again, his left fist driving into Adam’s stomach. Adam sucked in gagging breath, his swing missed Chris entirely.

  Chris grabbed the pistol from the ground.

  “Now,” he gasped.

  Adam shrank back, wincing, as he saw the pistol pointed at him.

  “Chris!”

  Chris’s finger loosened on the trigger and he drew in a long, body-shaking breath. Helen
ran over to him.

  “Chris, don’t—” she said.

  “Where is she?” he asked Adam.

  Adam looked at him, one hand pressed across his stomach, the other leaning on the ground.

  “Well?”

  Adam spit into the dirt.

  “I’ll kill you, Adam.”

  “No, you won’t.” Adam stood up slowly, an expression of baleful contempt on his face. “You haven’t got it, Chris.”

  Chris stepped forward and slammed the pistol barrel across Adam’s forehead. With a surprised grunt, Adam stumbled back and fell.

  “Where is she, I said!”

  The contempt was gone from Adam’s features now. Only hatred remained.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” he said.

  Before he’d finished the sentence, Chris had stepped forward and driven the barrel across his head again. Adam went crashing onto his back and pushed up, gasping, feeling at the welted scrape on his forehead.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Chris spoke in a low, trembling voice. “Well, you’d better, Adam. You’d better. What freedom means to you, my kid means to me. You’d kill for freedom, I’d kill for her.”

  “Go to hell, you son of a—”

  Chris hit him again, then fell on one knee beside the dazed man. Hauling him up by his jacket, he shoved the pistol underneath his jaw, the barrel end pressing at his throat.

  “You tell me now,” he said, “You tell me where she is or get your filthy head blown off.”

  Adam’s face went pale. “No, don’t,” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  “In the canyon. A shack.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the road. Not far. There’s a dirt lane.”

  “You’ll take us there.”

  Adam swallowed with effort and pushed the pistol away from his throat. “All right,” he muttered.

  Chris shoved him back and stood. “Get up,” he said.

  Adam got up slowly.

  “I guess I underestimated you,” he said. There was no admiration in his voice, only self-criticism.

  “Yes, I guess you did,” said Chris. He gestured toward the Ford. “Go on,” he said.

  Adam turned and started walking unsteadily, brushing at his clothes.