7 Steps to Midnight

  It couldn’t be. Someone would show up. A little man in a bowler hat carrying a black umbrella. Slipping him a sealed envelope. Plans for the new laser cannon, guv’.

  He frowned. Come on, he thought. He wondered then if he’d made a mistake coming up here. Maybe his contact was searching for him downstairs. Maybe he should go back down.

  He tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. Except for the faint sounds of trade going on in the pub below, he might have been sitting in the room of some run-down manor house. Any moment now, a secret panel in the wall would open and a thin, mustachioed man with a stiletto—

  He snickered. Stupid, he thought. It was vaguely enjoyable though, like something from a mystery-suspense novel. Would his contact be a woman? A slinky Hitchcock blonde? A sloe-eyed redhead? A dark-haired, witchlike—

  He tightened as he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  A man came into the room. Chris started. The man was little and was carrying an umbrella, even though he didn’t have a hat on. He was also carrying a mug of ale in his right hand.

  Chris wondered what to do. If he signaled to the man and the man turned out to be only a pub customer, he’d feel like an idiot. No need, he told himself. If the man was there to see him, he’d make the overture.

  He felt his heartbeat slowly quickening as the man approached. Here it comes, he thought.

  The man stopped by the booth. “Barton?” he asked.

  Somehow, it seemed an anticlimax. Weren’t secret agents supposed to be cagier, use passwords or something? He swallowed quickly. “Yes,” he said.

  The man sat down across from him and eyed him in silence. His scrutiny made Chris nervous. The man’s face was ferretlike, pocked, discolored. This was a secret agent?

  Suddenly, the man looked toward the stairway and the way he did it made a chill run up Chris’s back. It was the fast glance of a man expecting menace to appear at any moment.

  He looked back at Chris. “You found this place all right,” he said. “Good.”

  Chris had to ask. “What was the point of all that? Why not just a note slipped under my door? Come to The Blue Swan on Meredith Way.”

  “A note anybody could read?” the man responded.

  Chris didn’t understand that but, before he could ask, the small man chuckled nasally; his teeth were bad, too. “Anyway,” he said, “it’s Number One. He relishes these little mysteries to test his people.”

  “I’m not one of his people,” Chris said irritably.

  “You are now,” said the man. Again, he turned his head to look toward the stairs. As he did, the right edge of his jacket shifted and Chris glanced downward, stiffening as he saw the butt of a holstered revolver under the jacket. Jesus, he thought. It definitely wasn’t fun and games he was involved in. The man’s words echoed chillingly in his mind: You are now.

  He noticed how icy-blue the man’s eyes were as he turned back. “I have to go,” the man said. He emptied his mug and set it down.

  “Go?” Chris said. “You just—”

  “Crown above H. Tonight,” the man broke in. Chris watched, astounded, as the man stood up. “Got that?” he asked. “Crown above H. Tonight.”

  “Aw, come on,” Chris pleaded. “I’ve been dragged over rocks for almost three days now. Surely, you can tell me something more.”

  The man’s face was hard as he gazed down at Chris. Then it softened with a smile and he patted Chris on the shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” he said. “It always is at first.”

  “At first?” Chris’s voice was agitated.

  “You’ve got a way to go before it’s home-sweet-home again.”

  He started to turn and Chris reached out impulsively to grab his sleeve, wincing as the man coldly looked back at him.

  “For God’s sake, can’t you tell me something more?” he begged.

  The man’s expression was impassive. “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “I’ve been in this business twenty-seven years and I’ve never heard Number One’s voice shake before.”

  Chris stared at him.

  “He’s an icy gent, I’ll tell you,” said the man. “If his voice shakes, there’s something mighty dangerous afoot.”

  “Do you know Veering?” Chris asked.

  The man looked surprised. At first, Chris thought it meant that the man did know Veering.

  Then he saw that the look of surprise had to do with something else.

  “My God, they didn’t—” started the man.

  Chris jerked, as the man’s legs suddenly collapsed and he fell against the booth table with a gasp of shock, the look of surprise on his face now one of terrified realization. “God,” he said. He couldn’t seem to breathe.

  Chris stared at him, unable to move. The man reached out a shaking hand and tried to reach the empty mug he’d put down. Then his hand twitched and he knocked the mug onto the wooden bench.

  Chris gasped as the man grabbed his jacket; the man’s eyes looked glassy now. “Get out,” he whispered. “Before they come. Get out!”

  Abruptly, his hand went limp and he was sliding downward. Chris heard the man’s head thump once on the floor, then there was only stillness.

  3

  This isn’t real.

  Chris tried hard to believe that but it didn’t work. He felt the hardness of the bench against his back and buttocks. The smell of ale and cooked meat in his nostrils.

  The pressure of the man’s out-flung hand on his foot.

  He jerked back his foot and struggled up from the booth, looking fearfully toward the staircase. He tried to avoid looking down at the man but couldn’t help inclining his head.

  The man’s eyes were open; dead man’s stare again.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Chris muttered. He twisted around and headed for the stairs.

  He had to lurch against the stairway wall for support as his legs threatened to give way. He drew in deep breaths of the pub-smelling air, then continued down. Look calm, he told himself. You’re leaving casually; nothing’s wrong.

  He swallowed dryly as he walked along the counter. Was his dread visible? He hoped not. He bumped against a man who cursed at him. He tried to apologize but no sound came from his mouth. All he could think was that, any second now, someone would go up to the room and see the man’s dead body crumpled there.

  An image flicked across his mind: himself, seven, accidentally locked in a trunk in Uncle Harry’s attic; the claustrophobic panic, the sense of smothering, the screams flooding from his throat.

  Except for the screams, he felt the same way now. There would be no one to release him from the terrifying darkness this time though.

  He was alone.

  He pushed out through the doorway and started along the sidewalk with long, fast strides. He walked blindly, with no sense of direction, anxious to put distance between himself and the pub, the dead man in the upstairs room.

  Is he dead? he thought abruptly. Was it all a trick? He made an angry, scoffing noise. Sure, a trick, he thought. I’ll go back and tickle him until he breaks up, giggling. “Christ,” he muttered.

  He walked around a corner, down a block, around another corner, striding as fast as he could without actually running, the sound of his shoes on the sidewalk a rapid clicking. Why didn’t they give me rubber soles on these shoes? he thought distractedly.

  By the time his panic had begun to ease, he was lost.

  He stood motionless for several minutes, taking in deep breaths of the cold air, trying to regain control of himself.

  There were some young men leaning against the front of a pharmacy at the end of the block. As Chris started walking again, he began to notice them. He didn’t know why the sight disturbed him. Maybe it was because anything unknown was disturbing to him right now.

  In a way, despite the tremor it gave him, he was not surprised when one of them stepped leisurely from their spot against the pharmacy wall and stood in Chris’s path. “Well, what ’ave we ’ere?” the young man said.


  Chris looked blankly at the young man’s white, blemish-ridden face, his dark lank hair, his eyes were so dark they looked almost black.

  “Excuse me,” he said then and tried to walk around the young man. The teenager stuck out his arm to block Chris’s way. “’Ere now, mister,” he said in a voice that reminded Chris of a Cockney character in Oliver, “you in an ’urry t’get somewhere?”

  Chris heard the other three teenagers chortling. “Please,” he said, “I have to—”

  “Please?” the young man interrupted. His feral grin was yellow-toothed. “Please? Oh, ain’t that sad?” He glanced at his friends. “I b’lieve we ’ave a Yank ’ere, boys. A bleedin’ Yank.”

  Chris closed his eyes a moment. Control, he told himself. Then he saw the three other young men moving forward. In a few moments, the four surrounded him. Chris felt his stomach muscles quivering. He couldn’t fight them, that was obvious. He couldn’t run. He tried to remember some moves from a karate manual he’d read, but his mind remained blank.

  “What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He almost added, “Money?” then decided that would be a mistake. His gaze flicked around. Was there no one here to help him? He realized then that he had inadvertently wandered into a rough neighborhood. Idiot, he thought. You should have gotten a cab and gone back to the hotel.

  “What do I want, Yank?” the young man was responding. “More than you ’ave t’give, I ’xpect.”

  Chris couldn’t seem to think. Was this part of the nightmare too? Veering’s threat of reality gone askew? Or was it just an accident because he’d walked into the wrong neighborhood?

  He shuddered, visualizing his body found tomorrow morning in an alley, stabbed and bloodless.

  “All right, if it’s money—” he began.

  “Gentlemen,” a voice said behind him.

  Chris and the four teenagers looked around. A man in a black suit, wearing a turban, was approaching them. He was of moderate height with a dark, pleasant-looking face on which a genial smile was fixed. “I believe this man is looking for me.”

  Chris tightened as the man gripped his arm. “I’m glad I found you,” he said. “Would you excuse us?” he said to the teenagers.

  The young man who had stopped Chris looked incensed. “What in the bloody ’ell d’you—?”

  He broke off with a startled grunt as one of his friends jabbed an elbow into his side. “What are you—?”

  “We was only ’aving a lark, friend,” his friend interrupted, speaking to the Indian man.

  “Ah. A lark,” the man replied. His East Indian accent sounded incongruous here, Chris thought. “A lark is always entertaining,” he went on, “so long as there is nothing else involved.”

  He impelled Chris away from the group. “Come along, my friend,” he said.

  Chris looked at him, perplexed. He began to speak but the Indian murmured. “Say nothing and do not look back.” He smiled inscrutably. “That might arouse them,” he added.

  He steered left at the end of the block. “Best we seek out a well-used thoroughfare,” he said.

  “What—?”

  “—made them let me remove you from their clutch?” The Indian made a faint sound of amusement. “The one who spoke to me, you see—who said that they were only having a lark—is experienced in the ways of the street. He knew that to pursue the matter in a hostile way would prove a detriment to them.”

  Chris looked at the dark-faced man in confusion.

  “I see you do not understand,” the man told him. “There is a language of the streets which is conveyed entirely through the eyes though it involves much more. That young man looked into my eyes and knew that it was not a good time to pursue the matter. That it was more advisable to draw back and allow the two of us to move on. Do you see now?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “That will do for now,” the Indian said. “Oh, I tell you, sir, those four had mischief in their hearts.”

  “And knives in their pockets.”

  The Indian’s laugh was musical. “Doubtless that is true as well,” he said.

  “But I haven’t introduced myself,” he continued, extending his right hand. “Modi is my name.”

  His grip was strong enough to make Chris wince a little. “Mr. Modi,” he responded. “I’m Chris Barton.”

  “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Barton,” Modi said with a smile.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Chris said. “Lord knows what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come along.”

  Modi smiled again. “I am so glad I did,” he said. “What were you doing there, if I may ask? It is not the most desirable of neighborhoods.”

  “I’m lost,” Chris told him.

  “Ah.” Modi nodded. “Perhaps I can restore you to your proper place then.”

  “I’m staying at the Park Court Hotel,” Chris told him.

  “Not too far away,” the Indian said. “Allow me to guide you there.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “My pleasure,” Mr. Modi said.

  They walked in silence for a quarter of a block. Then Chris had to know. “I still don’t really understand,” he said, “why those four guys backed away so quickly.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Modi. “It is, as I have said, a matter of street awareness. I grew up in Bombay under the most harsh of circumstances. I was as they were and perhaps a little worse. There is a brand of what you might describe as telepathic exchange between people of the streets. Mostly in the eyes as I have indicated. The voice as well, however. And also—far more subtly—a matter of the posture, the manner, the assurance. It is difficult to reduce to words but it is quite apparent to those who know it. One knowledgeable street person knows immediately if another is vulnerable to terrorizing. If not, if the other one is clearly not to be trifled with; the retreat is immediate. They know. As that young man knew.”

  Chris still wasn’t sure that he understood. What Modi said seemed almost mystical to him. Which gave him an immediate idea.

  “There are a lot of… mystical things in India, aren’t there?” he said.

  “Many,” the Indian agreed. “Our culture is rich with them. Not that what I have spoken of is mystical in any way.”

  They had reached a main thoroughfare now and Modi gently impelled Chris to the left. “This way,” he murmured.

  Chris nodded. “May I ask you something?”

  “You most certainly may,” said Modi genially.

  Chris drew in a quick breath. “I’m from Arizona.”

  “Arizona, the United States?” The Indian looked surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “That is very far from where we are,” Modi said, impressed.

  “Yes, it is.” Chris’s smile was slightly rueful.

  “May I inquire what brings you here?” the Indian asked. “Business? Pleasure?”

  “More like enigma,” Chris responded.

  “Enigma.” Modi looked surprised again. “How so?”

  Chris hesitated. Could he trust the man? He thrust the thought aside. The man had saved his life. And there was the possibility that he could help further.

  “I work in this plant,” he began. “Government work.”

  “I see.” Modi nodded.

  “The other night—about three days ago—actually it was early morning, after three, I went to the parking lot to drive home and my car was gone.”

  “So far not too enigmatic,” Modi said.

  Chris chuckled. “Not so far. But I had to borrow a car and while I was driving home, I picked up a hitchhiker named Veering and got into this insane conversation with him about reality versus unreality.”

  “Ah-ha.” Modi nodded. “I sense the enigma coming.”

  “He asked if I was willing to wager the security of my existence against the assumption that I knew what was real and what was unreal in my life.”

  “An unusual wager,” Modi said.

  “An unusual result,” Chris replie
d. “Assuming,” he added quickly, “that everything that’s happened to me since I took the wager is connected to it.”

  “What has happened?” Modi asked, sounding intrigued.

  Chris told him everything, eliminating Nelson and the man in the pub; he was unwilling to trust the man that far. It was a strange experience to walk along the London thoroughfare in the now darkness, telling the turbaned East Indian what had occurred to him. The more he spoke, though, the better he felt and he realized that it had all been bottled up inside him.

  “That’s it,” he said when he’d told all he wanted. “Here I am in London in this unholy mess and I have no idea whatever why I am here.”

  “Goodness.” Mr. Modi shook his head. “An enigma indeed. How may I assist you in the understanding of it?”

  “Well.” Chris braced himself. He didn’t want to plunge into this new world too far but he felt it vital that he ask. “Have you ever experienced—or heard of anyone experiencing—such a mystery? In India, I mean.”

  It seemed at first as though Modi wasn’t going to answer; they walked about fifty yards in silence. Chris began to regret telling the Indian anything of what had happened. The man must think him totally demented.

  “May I ask,” Modi finally said, “the nature of your work?”

  Chris hesitated. It was taboo for him to discuss his work. Still… perhaps he could generalize. “I can’t tell you exactly,” he answered, “but as I said, it’s for the government.”

  “I understand,” said Modi, nodding. “What I am getting at, however, is the nature of the work. I have no desire for you to mention details which are necessarily confidential. By the nature of your work, I mean… how shall I put it?” He paused, then said, “Does it deal with aspects of reality perhaps? With areas that go beyond the merely mechanical into zones of, shall we say, more nebulous reality? Where, perhaps, the senses need be transcended?”

  Chris had no answer for that. He thought about it hard. It was true that the areas he’d been dealing with were certainly beyond the senses, nebulous. Still—

  “Well, I am a mathematician,” he said.

  “Ah.” Modi nodded. “And your work, I much suspect, does not involve adding columns of figures.”