Abruptly, the motorcyclist roared out into the outside lane and put on speed. In another few seconds, he was pulling by the Ford and Chris could see the expression on his face. He was a teen-ager wearing a black jacket and a black, goggled helmet.
With an indrawn hiss, Chris jammed down the pedal and the Ford surged forward again. Lost: one precious minute.
He was just speeding into the Malibu area when he remembered the doctor Helen’s mother went to. They’d taken her to him once when she’d cut herself badly on a piece of glass. The doctor was close by. Chris’s gaze leaped ahead, searching for the turn-off. Just a little way now.
It was almost twenty-five minutes to one as he pulled into the small parking lot beside Dr. Arthur Willoughby’s office. He was out of the car before the fan blades had stopped turning. He raced across the lot, jumped onto the one-step porch and pulled open the door, lunged inside.
The waiting room was at the end of a short hallway. Chris’s footsteps sounded muffled on the carpeting as he half ran along it. Steve had to wait. He had to.
There were four people in the waiting room: an old lady, a workman in overalls, a mother and her small boy. They were sitting around the walls of the small room, the old lady on a couch, looking at a National Geographic Magazine, the workman playing with the cap in his hands, the little boy sitting on the edge of a chair swinging his feet back and forth, kicking the metal legs. When Chris came in, the boy looked up and stared. He watched Chris move across the room toward the partition of opaque glass that opened on the nurse’s anteroom.
“Stop kicking,” said the boy’s mother. She did not look up from her movie magazine.
Chris tapped on the partition with the nail of a forefinger. From the corner of his eye, he saw the old lady glance up at him. He drew in a quick breath and looked intently at the moving patch of shadow behind the glass. Come on, he thought. Come on! He bit his teeth together, reached forward to tap the glass again.
The shadow darkened, the partition was drawn aside.
“Yes?” asked the nurse. She was young, bleached blonde, her face so darkly tanned it made her lipstick color dull.
“Could I see Dr. Willoughby?” Chris asked her.
“About your head?” she asked.
“What?” Chris started. He’d forgotten. “No,” he said, “No.”
“Did you phone for an appointment?” asked the nurse.
“There was no time. I have to see him right away. Please… can I—?”
“I’m afraid there are several people ahead of you,” she told him.
“You don’t understand.” Chris was suddenly conscious of the fact that every patient in the waiting room was looking at him. He leaned in close, not noticing the way the nurse edged back a little.
“This is an emergency,” he said, “I’ve got to see him immediately.”
“I’m afraid I can’t—” the nurse began.
“Now,” he said, his voice flaring strickenly. “Look. Tell him that Mrs. Shaw’s son-in-law wants to see him.”
“Oh. Are you—?”
“Please! There’s no time!”
The nurse looked at him blankly, her lips twitching. Then, with a brief nod, she turned away. Abruptly, she turned back and reached forward to slide shut the partition. Chris stood there watching it move until it had thumped shut. He closed his eyes for a second. Helen. Connie. He thought about them in the shack with Steve. Forty-five minutes. He looked around the room with panicked eyes but there was no clock on the wall.
“What time is it?” he blurted to the man in overalls.
“What?” The man started, blinked up at Chris. “I—I don’t have a watch,” he said.
The old lady put down the National Geographic Magazine and, slowly, drew out the extending chain of her lapel watch. She picked at the face until she had opened the tiny round door on it. She squinted down. “It is just past twenty minutes until two o’clock,” she told him.
Chris felt a sudden traction in his stomach muscles: He made a faint, dazed sound.
“I beg your pardon,” said the old lady, “It is just past twenty minutes until one o’clock.”
“Thank you,” muttered Chris. He glanced at the little boy who was staring at him with a vacant expression, his shoes still thumping on the legs of the chair.
“Stop kicking,” said his mother, reading. There was no inflection in her voice.
Chris turned back and stared at the glass partition again. Inside, he heard a faint murmuring of voices. He recognized Dr. Willoughby’s voice. Oh, God, hurry up! he thought. He looked over at the door, his hand twitching empathically with his need to grab the knob, turn it, push inside. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, hissing a little as he touched the bruise. What was he going to tell the doctor, how could he get him away from the office? It was true, there was no answer. Everything was insanely impossible. And yet he had to make it possible—and in twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes!
He couldn’t help the indrawn sob in his breath. He stiffened reactively, then, on an impulse, grabbed the knob of the door and turned it.
Dr. Willoughby was just coming down the hall when Chris entered. He jerked up his head abruptly, an expression of stern surprise on his face.
“What is it Mr.—?”
“Martin. I’m—I’m Mrs. Shaw’s son-in-law if you—”
“Yes. Yes. I recall,” said Willoughby, “What’s the trouble. Your head?”
Chris swallowed quickly and glanced across Willoughby’s shoulder at the nurse. She was staring at him.
“No,” he said, “It’s my wife.”
“Helen?”
“Yes.” For a second, Chris was startled that Willoughby knew her name. Then, he realized, Willoughby had been Helen’s doctor too before they were married.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked the doctor.
“She—fell,” said Chris, “We were out hiking in Latigo Canyon. And she fell.”
“Where is she?” asked Willoughby, quickly.
Chris cleared his throat. “She’s still out there,” he said.
“What?”
Chris felt the waves of dizziness coming over him again, the sense of nightmarish unreality. How could he possibly be standing here lying to this man, attempting to lure him to his possible death? Was he insane?
“She—I couldn’t move her,” Chris heard himself going on despite the horror he felt, “I was afraid to. She had a bad fall.”
Willoughby turned abruptly to the nurse’s desk and grabbed the telephone. He picked up the receiver and started to dial.
“Who are you calling?” asked Chris, unaware of the frightened thinness of his voice.
“Hospital,” said Willoughby. “We’ll get an ambulance out there right away.” He finished dialing and listened. “You should have done this,” he said grimly.
“No, you can’t,” Chris said. Everything was going wrong. Every second brought Helen and Connie closer to death.
Willoughby looked at him in surprise.
“You have to come with me,” said Chris.
“My dear man—”
“I said you—” Chris broke off as there was a clicking on the telephone, a faint voice.
“Emergency, please,” said Willoughby.
“No.” Chris hand shot out and depressed the cradle He held it down frozenly as if he were afraid that, if he released it, the connection would be re-established.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Willoughby stared at him incredulously.
“She doesn’t want an ambulance,” said Chris in a trembling voice. “She wants you. You have to come with me.”
Willoughby looked at the welted, blood-caked bruise on Chris’s temple, then met Chris’s gaze again.
“Come in my office, Mr. Martin,” he said.
“It’s not my head!” Chris snapped.
He glanced up at the wall clock and saw that it was almost quarter to one. A sob broke in his chest and, suddenly his right hand was clutching
at the doctor’s wrist.
“You’re coming with me,” he said. He tried to sound authoritative but his voice was too ridden with terror.
Willoughby pulled back. “Let go of me, Mr. Martin,” he said.
The nurse caught at Chris’s arm and held him. “You’d better sit down,” she said, sounding coolly, maddeningly unruffled.
“No!” Chris jerked free of her and grabbed at Willoughby’s white jacket. “You’ve got to come with me!” he said.
“Mr. Martin!”
With a violent effort, Chris forced himself quiet. He clenched his teeth and let go of Willoughby’s jacket.
“Please,” he said, “Will you come with me? It’s a matter of life and death.”
Willoughby took his arm with a strength surprising for his age and build.
“Now, sit down,” he said, firmly, “We’ll take care of this. But there’s no time to—”
“Are you coming with me?”
“Your wife will be taken care of,” said Willoughby, “Just sit down and—”
“You’ve got to come with me now!” All the terror billowed up in Chris as he visualized Steve pointing the revolver at Helen, pulling the trigger, pointing it at Connie—
“Give me your gun,” he demanded, “Quickly.”
Willoughby and the nurse gaped at him.
“Oh, God!” With a sobbing cry, Chris whirled and jerked open the door. He lunged across the waiting room without seeing any of the patients. Behind him, Willoughby shouted, “Mr. Martin!” Then Chris was skidding to a halt at the end of the hall, pulling the door open, racing out into the parking lot.
Willoughby came running out and raised his arm.
“Mr. Martin!” he shouted, “Wait!”
Chris gunned the Ford across the parking lot and roared onto the street, only one thought left in his fear-crazed mind.
The gun at home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Steve’s sounds of pain came regularly now. Every few seconds, he would make a throaty noise which was partially a grunt, more an involuntary whine. He slumped tensely in the chair, shoulders forward, eyes staring, apparently sightlessly, across the dim room of the shack. Whenever Adam made any kind of movement, however, the eyes shifted instantly, Steve’s fingers flexed on the revolver stock. Adam leaned against the opposite wall, watching him—waiting.
Helen and Connie were against another wall, sitting on the floor. Connie, her head in Helen’s lap, had fallen into a heavy, emotion-spent sleep. Helen kept stroking gently at her hair, her eyes fixed on Steve. If he lost consciousness, Adam would grab his gun, kill them and leave—probably steal a car or stop one on the road, kill the motorist, then head for Mexico.
She kept telling herself that she should be on her feet, ready to rush for Steve’s revolver in the event he fainted. She felt so tired though, so strengthless. If only she could rest; it seemed as if days had passed without rest. Her eyelids felt weighted.
Worse, it was impossible to retain specific dread any longer. It was so quiet in the shack except for the faint sounds Steve was making, the occasional squeak of the chair. Her mind could not hold on to tension, could not keep her muscles prepared to act in defense of her life and Connie’s. She was exhausted by fear, depleted by the savage pattern of shocks she’d been exposed to since the telephone first rang not even sixteen hours before. The realization of how little time had passed was startling.
Where was Chris now? she wondered almost with a sensation of not caring. Had he reached a doctor yet? Which doctor would he go to? Somehow, she could not believe that what he did was important any more. No matter what it was she felt that nothing could be changed. Finally, it appeared, she had accepted the nightmare. She had given up resisting it.
Then, suddenly, she looked up, her heartbeat jolting, as Steve’s body twitched, his shoes thumping on the floor. She felt her body go taut, readying itself to jump up. She stared at him intently. He was looking around the room in the manner of a man who has just started from unwanted sleep. The revolver was raised from his lap, the barrel of it wavering uncertainly in his grip.
“You’re going to die if you stay here,” Adam told him. After the long period of silence, his voice sounded unnaturally loud.
“Shut up.” Steve spoke without emphasis, slurring the words together. He swallowed and grimaced, licked his lips. Breath faltered in him. “Damn…” he muttered.
Abruptly, he made a half-angered, half-agonized sound. Helen couldn’t take her eyes off him. She sat woodenly, her gaze unmoving on his pain-twisted features. He looked over at her and her eyes fell, closed momentarily. God, please help us, she thought, the words flaring in her mind without volition.
She knew then that she hadn’t given up, that she couldn’t give up as long as Connie was alive. There had to be a way out. It was too impossibly monstrous that Connie should die in this horrible place, in this horrible way. There were sudden words in Helen’s mind again—terrible, heart-chilling words.
The sins of the fathers, they began.
No! Helen sat rigidly, her lips trembling in the midst of fear, a great outraged fury. Connie would not die. She would not!
She glanced up and saw Steve trying to look at the watch on his wrist. He couldn’t seem to focus his eyes properly. He kept blinking them, his teeth clenched. He was close to the edge now, she realized.
“Do you want me to read it for you?” she asked, almost awed by the brittle presence of her voice.
Steve looked up at her. From the corner of her eye, Helen noticed Adam watching her.
“Do you want me to tell you what time it is?” she asked. This time there was a little bass tremble to her voice. She spoke more consciously now, more aware of what instinct had driven her to speak.
“Do you?” she asked.
“It’s ten minutes to one,” said Adam.
Helen felt a sudden coiling in her stomach, part of it hatred. Adam knew what she’d had in mind—to get beside Steve, try to wrest the revolver from him.
“If we don’t leave now,” Adam said, coldly, “You’re going to die.”
“I said—”
“All right, die!” Adam interrupted, “What the hell do I care?”
“That’s right, you don’t care,” mumbled Steve, “Nobody cares.”
Helen realized, then, that, within the sight of death, what small sensitivity remained in Steve was piercing his shell of brutality. He was frightened, terrified and he had so long repressed these feelings that he was incapable of responding to them, of even recognizing them.
“He’s got ten minutes,” said Adam, scornfully, “Think he’ll make it?”
There was a dry clicking sound in Steve’s throat. “He’ll be back,” he said; but there was more desperate hope in his voice than assurance.
“Wrong,” said Adam, “He won’t. He’s probably out of the county by now.”
Helen started and looked over at Adam’s malign face. It isn’t true, she thought.
“He won’t be back,” said Adam, “Why should he? For them?” he asked, gesturing toward Helen with his head. “Don’t be a fool. He never told her what he’d done. Even after he murdered Cliff, he talked her into not telling the cops. Was he worrying about them then?” Adam snickered contemptuously. “The hell he was,” he said.
“Shut up,” said Steve; but it was closer to a request than a demand.
Helen felt a cold tremor pass through her body. No, she thought but there was no conviction in her. She didn’t know whether Adam was right or not. She really wasn’t sure—and, in a way, it was a more terrible feeling than the fear of death.
“And you gave him the car,” said Adam, “You let him go.” He shook his head slowly. “I always knew I should have left you and Cliff. Well I’ll be rid of you soon.”
“Will ya?” Steve shoved his arm out and pointed the revolver at him.
“Go on!” snapped Adam, “Shoot me! Then you’re all alone. Then you really haven’t got a prayer, you ignorant bastard.”
Steve drew in a harsh, shaking breath. “He’s coming back,” he said.
“Sure, sure, he’s coming back,” said Adam, “He’s bringing Florence Nightingale and your sainted mother and the first girl you ever kissed and a box of candy with a ribbon on it. You—moron. I should—”
He broke off suddenly as Steve pressed back against the chair, his mouth yawning in a sucking gasp of pain, “Oh, God,” he whimpered, “Don’t, don’t…”
In an instant, Adam was alert, his body straightened from the wall, his legs slightly bent as if he were getting ready to rush across the room at Steve who was twisting his head from side to side, tiny noises of fear and agony and disbelief hovering in his throat. Helen’s fingers tensed on Connie, she began to shift her to the side so she could put her on the floor and stand—get ready to rush for the gun.
“Get over here,” said Steve, hoarsely. He looked at Helen with glazed, watering eyes. He said something else but it was too garbled for her to understand. Hastily, she lowered Connie’s head to the floor and stood up.
“You let her over there, she’ll grab your gun!” Adam warned.
“And you won’t?” muttered Steve. There was a glitter in his eyes now. He spoke through teeth continually on edge. Helen moved toward him very slowly.
“Come on!” he snapped.
Bracing herself, she walked over to where he sat. He looked up at her groggily.
“You wanna die?” he asked.
Helen bit her lower lip and shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Then keep me awake.”
Up close, she could see the waxy pallor of his skin, hear the laboring of his breath. The bandage on his shoulder was dripping with blood.
“How?” she murmured.
“I don’t—” He broke off suddenly and pressed his teeth together so hard that she could hear them grinding. The whine in his throat was like the high note of a song. It would have sounded funny under other circumstances.
“Just keep me awake!” he told her, “Your kid’ll be the first one to get it if I feel myself—”
He gritted his teeth and stared at Adam with baleful eyes.
“And if I don’t kill her,” he said, “He will. So you better keep me—”