7 Steps to Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page A

“That’s
my
Mustang out there! I work at Palladian and just came home to get some sleep! Now, damn it, I want some answers!”
    The two men and the woman looked at him in silence. The man in Chris’s pajamas looked confused. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he said. Chris felt a burst of irrational hope at his words. “Maybe he wasn’t trying to terrorize my wife and me. Maybe he’s just insane.”
    “I’m not insane!” Chris pushed to his feet, enraged. “Goddamn it—!”
    “Stop shouting!” yelled the man in the black suit and hat.
    Chris pressed his lips together, shuddering as the man turned to the couple. “You may be right, Mr. Barton,” he said.
    “He’s not Chris Barton!
I
am!” Chris couldn’t seem to stop his voice from shaking now.
    He drew back as the man in the black suit moved for him.
    “I want to talk to Wilson,” Chris told him.
    He didn’t know what the man did, it happened so fast. Suddenly, his arm was twisted up behind his back, a bolt of pain shooting through his back and shoulder. “Out,” the man said through bared teeth.
    “Take it easy on him,” said the other man. “Maybe he
is
out of his mind.”
    “Yes,” the woman added sympathetically.
    “God
damn
it,” Chris said, almost sobbing. “This is—”
    He broke off with a hollow cry as the man in the black suit yanked up his arm and shoved him toward the door. “You’re hurting me!” he gasped.
    “I’ll hurt you worse if you don’t shut up,” said the man.
    “Take it
easy
,” the impostor said. He actually sounded sorry now.
    The man in the black suit pulled open the front door and pushed Chris out onto the porch.
    Somehow, the putter had slipped and fallen and, as Chris stepped on its handle, it rolled under his shoe and made him lose balance. Abruptly, he was pitching forward, pulling the man with him. The grip on his arm was released as they fell, the man crying out in pain as his knee struck the concrete porch. Chris’s head snapped up; he twisted around to see the man clutching at his knee, his face a mask of agony. The man inside the house was looking at him blankly. The pistol wasn’t in his hand.
    Chris lunged to his feet and leaped onto the lawn, running for the Pontiac. “Stop!” yelled the man in the house. Would he grab his gun and take a shot at him? Suddenly, Chris didn’t care. No matter what the risk, he had to get away from there.
    Jerking open the door of the Pontiac, he slid onto the driver’s seat, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the keys. He pulled them out and, fingers shaking, tried to push in the ignition key. He glanced up, seeing the man come out of the house, the pistol in his hand again. The man in the black suit was struggling to his feet, his face still contorted by pain.
    The ignition key slipped in and Chris turned it quickly. The motor coughed on and Chris threw the transmission into reverse. Just as the man reached the car, pistol extended, Chris floored theaccelerator and the Pontiac shot backwards on the driveway, bumping hard as it hit the street. He spun the steering wheel so fast, he lost control of the car and it skidded in a three-quarter circle, tires shrieking before he could brake. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man running after him.
    He gasped as the pistol was fired and the back window exploded inward. “God,” he said. He jammed the gas pedal to the floor and the car leaped forward, bouncing across the curb on the opposite side of the street. Grimacing, he spun the steering wheel and turned back toward the street, grunting as the wheels jarred down across the curb again. He heard another shot behind him but this one missed as the car picked up speed, roaring down Oasis Drive East.
    Seconds later, he was turning east onto the highway, accelerating to eighty-five miles an hour. In the distance, he could see a faint glow on the mountain rims. Dawn, for Christ’s sake, he thought. He had a sudden image—Veering on the shoulder, thumb raised. He felt a