7 Steps to Midnight (3 page)

Which made approximately no sense at all.

Still, to be certain—
proof and double proof, the only way
, he heard Uncle Harry say—he opened the glove compartment and pulled out the papers inside. A repair bill from Desert Ford, his name printed on it. The registration slip, his name on it. “Well, goddamn,” he muttered.

What the hell was going on?

Backing out of the Mustang, he straightened up and closed the door. Quietly. Immediately it struck him; why had he done that? What caution had impelled him? He grimaced with a sound of self-reproach. There has to be a simple explanation for this, he thought.

He visualized himself a scientist from a fifties science-fiction film uttering those words. He always scoffed when he heard them. Still, there
did
have to be a simple explanation for this. He was in no condition to confront a major enigma at this time of the morning.

He looked toward the house. It was dark and quiet. Was the car thief lurking in there, peering out between the shutter slats, a carving knife clutched in his…

“Oh, shit, come on,” he berated himself. First, he had imagined Veering with a carving knife, now, some skulker in his house.
You’re not paranoid, are you?
he thought.

He walked to the bedroom window and tried to look inside. The drapes were shut. He tried to remember whether he’d left them closed before leaving for work yesterday afternoon. He didn’t, usually. But, of course, he must have.

He listened at the window. There was no sound. Why should there be? his mind challenged. “No reason,” he muttered a reply.

He was on the front porch when he realized he didn’t have the key; it was on his car ring and—

Chris felt a shiver course his back. Where was the car ring, then? If it was in the house, somebody had to have brought it in.

Reason fought uneasiness. All right, someone took his car and
put it in the driveway of his house and put the keys inside and then was driven off by some confederate.

Who? his mind demanded.

The front door was locked. No surprise there; he always locked it when he went to work. Still, how was he to get inside now? He frowned at himself for never having thought of it while getting Tensdale’s car and driving here.

He walked across the lawn and opened the alley gate, moving along the sidewalk. The house was totally dark. No surprise there either. It was always dark when he returned from work.

He stepped onto the small cement porch by the kitchen door and tried the knob. Locked. Always was; again, no surprise. He stepped off the porch and walked around to the back of the house, to the sliding glass door of the patio. Locked.

He peered into the darkness of the family room, the kitchen beyond. Now what? He shook the sliding door to see if he could loosen the latch.

A minute later, he was standing on the front lawn again, staring at his dark, locked house. And now? he thought. Sleep in the Mustang? The Pontiac?

“Screw that,” he said. He looked around for a rock to break a window. But there were only redwood chips skirting the lawn. Groaning, he walked over to the Mustang and opened the door. Pushing the driver’s seat forward, he leaned into the back and felt behind the seat until his fingers closed on the putter in his golf bag. How long had it been since he’d played golf? The question drifted across his mind. Another lifetime, was the answer. Why the hell had he bought them in the first place? Wilson, he remembered. Wilson had told him it would relax his mind. Sure. And Wilson was probably the guy whose family owned the golf-ball business.

He walked back to the bedroom window. If he smashed it in, would the neighbors call the police? Anyway, he shouldn’t break a front window. Better the small one in the kitchen door. He turned away, then twisted back. The crank window was slightly open. If he could get through the screen, he might be able to
uncrank the window all the way and crawl inside. Better than breaking glass.

He was trying to squeeze his hand through the opening when a light went on in the bedroom.

He twitched and made a startled noise, jerking back his hand. He stepped back, staring at the drapes, felt his heartbeat thudding. Wait a second, wait a second, he thought.
Had
he gone to the wrong street, the wrong house? It was possible…

He shuddered, remembering his registration slip inside the Mustang, his cassettes. This was his house.

But who was in it?

He felt his muscles tense. Well, he was going to find out, damn it. Striding to the front porch, he pushed the doorbell, hearing the chimes inside playing “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.” For a moment, his fingers tightened on the putter handle. What if whoever was inside had no desire to see him?

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. He stood impatiently waiting for whoever it was to open the door. This had to be a prank of some sort. A lousy one, but a prank. “Come on,” he said.

He heard the sound of a woman’s voice on the other side of the door. He couldn’t make out what she said. “What?” he asked.

“Who is it?” the woman asked.

He bared his teeth in angry reaction. “Will you open the door, please,” he said.

“Why?” the woman asked. She sounded frightened.
Frightened?

“Because I want to talk with you,” he said. “Because you’re in my house.”

Silence after that. What was the woman doing? He shivered. Did she have a gun by any chance? She’d sounded genuinely upset.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

“You’re mistaken,” he heard her say.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “This is
my house
. That’s
my
car in front of the garage with
my
registration slip inside it. Don’t tell me I’m mistaken.”

Silence again. Now what was she doing?

“Look, are you—?” he began.

“You’d better get out of here or I’m going to call the police,” the woman interrupted.

“Good,” he said. “I wish you would.”

“Who
are
you?” she asked. Her voice was actually trembling. If he really
was
making a mistake, he must sound like a maniac to her.

No, goddamn it! There was no mistake! “My name is Chris Barton and I’ve lived in this house for twenty-seven months and thirteen days!”

Once more, silence. This was maddening. Chris felt like pounding the golf club against the door and ordering her to let him in.

He tensed abruptly as the door was unlocked and opened enough for her to peer out at him. Chris felt his stomach muscles jerking in. There was a chain on the door.

He didn’t have a chain on the door.

God, oh, God, he thought.
Was
he making a mistake?

The woman was in her early thirties, dark-haired, quite attractive. She was looking at him with uneasy disbelief. “You’re
who
?” she asked.

He felt like whipping out his wallet, waving it in her face. But there was no chain on his front door and the woman looked genuinely disturbed. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on here but— This
is
Oasis Drive East, isn’t it?” he added suddenly.

She nodded slightly.

“24967?”

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “Yes,” she said.

Chris felt as though his head had just been covered by a vise that was beginning to compress his skull. “This is my house then,” he said, alarmed to hear that he sounded pleading.

“No,” the woman said.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?!” His voice was shaking. “You—!”

“My husband and I have lived here for more than eight years,” she said.

He had read about people’s jaws dropping, they were so startled by something they had seen or heard. Now he actually
felt his jaw drop, as he stood there gaping at the woman.
Is this what it’s like to go insane?
The question whispered in his mind.

His swallow was so dry, he heard a crackling in his throat. “Could I… see the living room?” he asked.

She looked at him suspiciously.

“I’m not going to do anything bad,” he told her, appalled by the tremor in his voice. “I just—”

He broke off as he saw her gaze drop to the putter in his hand. “Oh,” he said. He leaned the club against the porch wall. “Just… step back and let me look inside. You don’t even have to open the chain.”

She gazed at him for several moments more, then stepped aside and disappeared. He pressed his face against the opening and looked inside.

Oh, God
, he thought. He stared at what he could see of the living room. The sofa, the chair, the bookcase, the TV, the coffee table, the carpeting.

All his.

“Well?” he heard her ask.

He didn’t know what to say.
I’m sorry, lady, that’s my furniture? What the hell are you trying to pull off here, lady? Lady, please telephone for an ambulance because my brain has just dissolved?

The woman began to close the door.

“Wait!” he demanded. But she closed it all the way and locked it. “No!” he cried. He pounded on the wood with the side of a fist. “Open the door!”

“I’m going to call the police!” she threatened.

“Do it then!” he said. He needed outside help, badly.

He heard fast-moving footsteps in the house. “No, don’t,” the woman said.

Chris drew back quickly as the door was yanked open and a man stood glaring at him. A man about his age, his height, his weight.

Wearing his pajamas.

“Either you get out of here and stay away from us,” the man shouted at him, “or you are going to spend the rest of your goddamn life in jail! You understand?!”

There was suddenly no gristle in his legs; they felt like rubber. He reached out, clutching, and braced himself against the porch wall. It was redwood and he felt small splinters driving into his fingers and palms. He winced in silence, staring at the man.

“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?”