Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

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.”

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 to kill him,” 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.

“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.”