“Did you hear what I said?!” the man cried.
“Wait a second,” Chris murmured. There had to be an explanation…
“I have a gun in my bedside-table drawer,” the man said, threatening. “Either you get in your car and drive away and never show your face to us again or, so help me God, I’ll blow your head off!”
“You know this man?” the woman asked, appalled.
“Yes, I know him,” the man told her. “I never told you because I never thought he’d have the gall to actually show up at our house.”
“Listen—” Chris began.
“I don’t want to listen!” the man interrupted. “I’ve listened to you long enough! I’m sick to death of you!”
“I don’t even know you!” Chris’s voice broke uncontrollably.
“All right,” the man said, nodding once. “That’s it.” He turned away.
“Chris, what are you doing?” the woman asked.
Chris felt the porch beginning to tilt. “Chris?” he murmured.
“Just stay there,” the man said across his shoulder. “You have had it.” He disappeared into the back hall.
“What’s your name?” Chris asked the woman weakly. She only stared at him, clutching the edge of her robe shut with both hands.
“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.
“Chris Barton,” she replied.
He had to shake his head; a cloud of darkness flooded upward from the porch at him. He blinked his eyes dazedly. “Now wait—” he said.
He braced himself. This is insane! his mind cried out. He fumbled in his back pocket, almost dropping the wallet as he took it out. He opened it and pointed at his driver’s license. “Look,” he said.
The man came back, a pistol in his right hand. “All right,” he said, “you—”
“Damn it, look at my driver’s license!” Chris cut him off, enraged and frightened at the same time.
“You think a phony driver’s license is going to—”
Chris cut him off again. “Phony?! This is real! I’m Chris Barton! Who the hell are you?!”
The man extended his arm, pointing the pistol at Chris.
“Chris, don’t,” the woman said.
“Get in here,” said the man. Chris stared at him numbly. “I said get in here!” the man raged.
Chris stumbled in. This is a nightmare, isn’t it? he thought; I’m still asleep at the plant. He saw the man gesture curtly toward a chair and, almost gratefully, he sank down on it. The chair he’d sat in hundreds of times, reading, watching television.
“Call Wilson,” the man said.
Chris’s body spasmed on the chair. Call Wilson? There was a pounding in his ears before he heard the rest of what the man was saying “…send a security man.”
The woman left the room and went into the kitchen, turning on the light. Chris heard her tapping the buttons on a phone and felt dizzy again.
He didn’t have a phone in the kitchen.
I’m in an alternate universe, he thought. I did something wrong. My work. Veering. The wager. He fought if off. Impossible. This world was real. And there was some explanation for what was happening here. There had to be.
He looked at the man, who was watching him intently. His pajamas. His slippers too, he saw now. A man claiming to be Chris Barton. Why? A plot of some kind?
The notion crumbled instantly. The man was sure enough of himself to have his wife (Was she his wife?) call Wilson, ask for a security man.
Oh, no, he thought then. She’s not calling Wilson. That’s only a ploy to throw me off some more.
“What is this?” he asked.
“You tell me, you son of a bitch.” The man’s expression was venomous.
“Listen, no matter what you say,” Chris told him, “I’ve never seen you before in my life and this is my house.”
“Jesus Christ, you never let up, do you?” the man said with a humorless smile. “You fucking never give up.”
“Damn it—!”
“You’re going to jail for a long, long time!” The man refused to let him speak. “No more badgering, no more intimidation. No more terrorizing.”
“Terrorizing?” Chris stared at him incredulously. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out,” the man said. He glanced aside as the woman came in. “You reached him?” he asked.
She nodded nervously.
“All right.” The man nodded in satisfaction, then smiled at Chris again, a cold, malignant smile. “Just sit there; wait,” he said. “Better still, make a run for the door so I can shoot you dead.”
Chris stared at him. So I can shoot you dead? he thought. Jesus God Almighty, this was worse than any novel he’d ever read.
This was happening.
***
When the car pulled up outside, Chris felt—despite the insanity of the situation—that something would be settled. For one thing, anyone who looked at it would know his driver’s license was authentic. Then again…
“Don’t move,” the impostor instructed him, walking to the front door and pulling it open.
The man who came in made Chris tighten up involuntarily. There was something about him—his thin, pale features, his black suit and hat. Chris watched as he took a billfold from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open to reveal a badge and identification card. The other man nodded. That you accept, Chris reacted angrily. Not mine though.
He tensed again as the man in the black suit and hat gestured toward the street. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Not so fast,” Chris said.
The man looked at him intently, skin gone taut across his cheekbones. “I can be rough if I have to,” he said.
“I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on here.” Chris wished his voice were stronger.
The impostor made a snickering sound. “He never gives up,” he said.
“Listen—” Chris started.
“No, you listen,” said the man in the black suit and hat. “You’re leaving. Now.”
“Goddamn it, this is my house!” Chris shouted. “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.
“Goddamn 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 the accelerator 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 surge of fury. If he saw the bastard again, he’d run him down.
He shook his head spasmodically. No, he mustn’t think like that. Reality was not that easily manipulated and something very real was happening; he needed time to find its meaning.
He glanced up at the rearview mirror. No sign of another car yet. They’d be coming soon though. He pressed down on the gas pedal, the speedometer needle jumping up to ninety, ninety-two; the Pontiac shot along the highway. Chris shivered uncontrollably. He’d never driven so fast in his life; what if he lost control?
No help for it. He wouldn’t let that man catch up to him. His back and arm still ached. You son of a bitch, he thought.
He never passed Veering. Had someone else picked him up? It seemed likely. Who the hell was Veering anyway? Did he have anything at all to do with what he’d just gone through? It was demented to believe that. Still, it had all begun to happen minutes after he’d made that stupid wager. Chris drew in a trembling breath.
Had he already lost the wager?
5
He had to stop and get some rest; he was too exhausted to drive to Tucson. It was better he got off the highway anyway. By now, they’d have phoned ahead. There could be a roadblock waiting. He wondered if he should dump the car and try to get to Tucson some other way. How? Hitchhike? Sure, he thought. Veering and I can ride together in someone else’s car. Veering could present him as an example of the inadvisability of accepting wagers on reality.
His head jerked up, eyes flaring open. Jesus Christ, he’d almost gone to sleep. Now. He had to stop now.
Up ahead, he saw a side road and, slowing down, made a left turn onto it. He drove along it very slowly, partly because of the ruts, mostly to avoid raising a telltale cloud of dust. He was heading northward now. To his right, the glow of sunrise was increasing.
Approximately twenty minutes later, he saw a grove of trees and turned into them, hoping it would keep the car out of sight. He braked beside one of them and turned off the engine, pushed in the headlight knob.
Immediately, he slumped back with a groan. Dear God, he was sleepy.
He was amazed that he didn’t fall unconscious right away. His brain would not give up its hold though. It turned over slowly in his head, revolving in sluggish circles.
Trying to understand.
Was there a moment when things had begun to go wrong? A single instant he could recapture?
The moment he had picked up Veering seemed to be the one. Still, there had been one before that.
The moment he’d discovered that his car was gone.
Clearly, the man in his house had taken it. But why? And how in God’s name had he gotten into the fenced lot and driven it past the guard? Had he used the rear gate? If so, where had he gotten a key for its lock? Or who had let him in, then out?
He looked down at his identity badge and groaned. For Christ’s sake, why hadn’t he pointed it out to the man and woman in the house, the man in the black suit? But they must have seen it. Probably regarded it as no more authentic than his driver’s license.
He made a sound of pained amusement as he visualized Scotty Tensdale waiting for his car to be returned. It was damned unlikely now.
His mind went back to the old man in the baseball cap. He tried to re-create their conversation in his mind. Had it really been as meaningless and stupid as he’d thought? Or was it actually the cause of—
“Come on,” he muttered irritably. Shifting across the seat, he lay on his right side, raising his legs and bending them onto the seat. Sleep, he thought. For Christ’s sake, sleep.
His brain kept turning like a machine in slow motion.
Could it be because of his work? Had he stumbled onto something? “There are some things man was not meant to tamper with,” intoned a Van Dyke-bearded scientist in a sci-fi movie. Oh, come on. He twisted irritably on the seat. Life wasn’t some damn sci-fi movie. There were spies, yes, 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: ALBERT VEERI
NG. 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. Why did the idea unnerve him then? Had be really read too many thrillers, seen too many movies? The hero surrenders himself, seeking help, and the authorities he surrenders to promptly turn him over to the bad guys.