7 Steps to Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

foreign agents. But that was equally hard to accept.
    “All right,” he mumbled. So it was his work. They wanted to find out how far he’d come along on it. Why take his car then? Why all that crap at the house? The couple, the door chain, the kitchen telephone, the man in the black suit? Why not just force his Mustang off the highway, kidnap him and take him somewhere; pump sodium pentothal or something into his veins,
ask
him how the project was proceeding?
    “Like shit,” he heard himself answering.
    At which point his brain went dark.
    ***
    He thought he’d managed to drop off for a few minutes. But when he opened his eyes, it was light.
    He looked at his watch. Just past eight. “Gotta go,” he muttered, sitting up.
God, I’m stiff
, he thought. He rubbed his eyes and looked out at the grove of trees, then shook himself and opened the door.
    It was chilly outside. He stood up clumsily and walked to the tree, urinating on its trunk. He shivered convulsively. Last night, a mathematician in the service of Uncle Sam, he thought. This morning, a homeless fugitive. He tried to find humor in the notion but had difficulty; the best smile he could summon was one of cold irony.
    Zipping shut his pants, he looked around. Was that a puddle of water or a mirage? he thought. He walked in toward it.
    Bending over, he scooped up a palmful of the cold water, and rubbed it on his face, drying his skin with his handkerchief.
    The fingers and palm of his right hand hurt and holding up the hand, he saw that the redwood splinters had infected it. He’d have to find a needle or pin and get them out. Hopefully in Tucson.
    Shivering, he returned to the car and got inside. Now he was hungry. He saw an image of a coffee-shop waitress setting down a platter in front of him—sausage, scrambled eggs and rye toast. And a glass of frothy orange juice, a cup of hot black coffee.
    “Fat chance,” he said. He had to get to Tucson.
    He was about to start the motor when he saw a small card on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Leaning over, he picked it up. A single name was printed on it: A LBERT V EERING . Jesus God; a hitchhiker with a calling card? He turned it over.
    And shuddered. There were three words written on the card with wavering penmanship.
    Are you sure?
    He stared at it for almost a minute before reaction set in.Incensed, he tore the card to shreds, shoved open the door and flung the pieces out; they fluttered whitely to the ground.
    “You son of a bitch!” he said, his face distorted by rage. “
Are you sure?
” He made a hissing sound. The old bastard must have had it ready before he’d even been picked up. How many people had he suckered in with that stupid wager, that stupid card?
    Chris started the engine and backed out of the grove. Scotty Tensdale certainly kept his car running well, it occurred to him.
    He hoped that one day the poor guy would get it back.
    ***
    For the last hour, he had dreaded that when he drove up to his mother’s house, there’d be a line of police cars waiting there. Surely, they’d assume that he might go there; it was one of the most likely possibilities.
How anxious are they to get me?
he wondered.
    Then again, it might not be the police at all. Instead, there might be just a single car—a government vehicle with the man in the black suit and hat inside. Chris swallowed apprehensively at the thought of meeting him again.
I hope he broke his goddamn knee and had to be hospitalized
, he thought.
    Maybe he should have gone to Wilson’s house, it occurred to him. But the man had told his wife to telephone Wilson. Had she really called him or had it been part of the ploy? Jesus God, if
Wilson
was involved in all this…
    “Come
on
,” he snapped at himself. He was already paranoiac. Now he was approaching certifiable.
    He was driving into Tucson when the thought occurred that he might turn himself in to the state police, try to get their assistance. It seemed an obvious thing to do.