“If I had my way—” Steve snapped. As Chris stared at his beard-blackened face, he felt a violent blow to his stomach that jackknifed him over, cutting off breath.
“Bastard!” he heard Steve’s savage oath. Another clublike blow struck him on the side of the head and he went flailing forward onto the paving. As he fell, he heard Adam’s voice through the blackening cloud around him.
“Be there.”
Then he was on one knee, gagging, hands pressed against his stomach, hearing the car door slam and the roar of the engine as Steve and Adam left.
He struggled to his feet. Dazedly, he stumbled over to a palm tree and leaned against it, tears trickling down his cheeks. Breath did not seem to come. He kept gasping for it.
Across the street, an old man opened the front door of his house and looked at him curiously. Gritting his teeth, Chris pushed away from the tree and started walking. He couldn’t take a chance on the man talking to him.
Abruptly, a sob broke in his throat. Dear God, was he still thinking in terms of escape? He walked more quickly, bent over to ease the pain. What kept him going? Obviously, there was to be no end to it.
He braced himself. No, it was only temporary. He’d give them the money, they’d go to Mexico—and mail a letter from there demanding more money?
Chris stopped walking and stood staring at the sidewalk. One more complication. One more turn in the maze leading to a blank wall.
At the corner, he entered a drugstore and walked to the rear. Sliding into a phone booth, he sank down on the seat and pulled the door shut, grimacing at the pain in his stomach muscles. The sound of his breathing was harsh and labored as he pushed a dime into the slot and began to dial.
“Operator,” said the voice.
“Give me the police, please,” he said.
“One moment.”
There was a sound of dialing, a single buzz before Chris hung up.
He leaned forward, suddenly breathless, pressing his forehead against the cold metal of the telephone. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. No matter what risks it entailed, he had to take them. To lose everything at his age; family, work, hopes; it wasn’t worth it.
Quickly, blanking his mind, he re-inserted the coin and dialed.
“Hello?” she said.
“Honey—”
She couldn’t disguise her exhalation of relief. “What?” she asked.
“I have to stay at the store a while. You’d better take the car.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll phone you there later,” he said, “and we’ll—discuss it.”
She didn’t answer. Chris winced as the pain in his stomach flared again.
“All right?” he asked. If only he could tell her to leave immediately without making her suspicious.
Another moment she was silent.
Then, softly, she said, “Good-bye, Chris,” and hung up.
“Helen—!” He’d realized, too late, what was wrong. She thought he was avoiding her.
He put the receiver back onto its hook and sat there heavily. It’s just for now, he told himself. She’ll understand later. I’ll make it up to her and everything will be all right.
***
Chris stood motionless in front of the store window looking in. It was a good display: neat, well-balanced, imaginative. He and Jimmy had worked it out between them two weeks before—Jimmy with his brief training in visual arts, Chris with his instinct for effective order.
He remembered how proud he’d felt of the display when it was completed. How he’d stood in front of the window for a long time looking at it. His store and its operation was an endless source of pleasure to him. At least it had been.
Chris looked at the wall clock inside the store. It was twenty-five minutes to ten. His eyes focused on the lettering—DENIS SCHOOL OF MUSIC—across its face. He remembered the day the head of the school had come into his store and offered the clock. Chris had taken it gladly. He’d just borrowed enough money to buy the store from Mrs. Saxton and he was in no position to turn down a free clock, advertising or no advertising.
A melancholy smile raised Chris’s lips as he recalled those first days of ownership.
Mrs. Saxton was old and tired, anxious to retire. That was why she sold out so cheaply; that plus the fact that she liked and trusted Chris. He’d been with her for almost five years and, during that time, the store had expanded markedly. When he’d started, it had been a run-down place with a few racks of sheet music, outmoded record albums, a modicum of instruments for rent or sale. Nothing like what it became after Chris began working there.
After the purchase, he expanded it further. He took out a lease on the adjoining store which had been vacant for almost two years and had the wall removed. He had racks built for a complete line of records, three listening booths installed as well as a counter with stools where all kinds of music were sold, from orchestral scores to children’s piano primers and including all the current sheet music. He had a new tile floor put in with a motif of bass and treble clefs and notes in the design. He enlarged his line of instruments and made an exchange agreement with the Denis School and others.
All this put him considerably into debt. He was unable, in the beginning, to afford help. He and Helen ran the store until Connie’s growth made working too difficult for Helen. Then Chris managed on his own. It was exhausting but joyous work. The weariness he felt at night was a wholesome one.
Little by little, his venture paid off. People from the area began patronizing his store to the exclusion of others. It was a pleasant place and Chris was a pleasant host. His reputation as a man who understood children no less than music broadened. He was asked, by the Chamber of Commerce, to take over the operation of the Junior Orchestra; invited to join the Chamber.
As business increased, so did the scope of his work. He began to arrange neighborhood square dances, organizing the local mothers into an entertainment committee. Gradually, he helped convert the Junior Orchestra into a polished group which gave well-received concerts all over the Los Angeles area. He sponsored and coached the Santa Monica Wildcats who played baseball in spring and summer, football in fall and winter. Life became more and more rewarding. The store did more business and he did more for the community. His idea for the creative workshop had come only a few weeks before and it was, already, halfway to fruition. All this, ended by a phone call in the night.
Jimmy looked up from behind the counter as Chris entered. “Hi Mr. Martin,” he said.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Chris smiled at him. “How’s it going?”
“Up to the B’s,” said Jimmy, grinning. “I just put Brahms in his place.” Then he added, concerned, “Gee, Mr. Martin, you okay?”
“Sure.” Chris stopped by the counter and hesitated a moment before speaking. “Oh, uh, my wife has the car this morning, Jimmy. Going to her mother’s.”
Jimmy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ll be needing a car for a while though,” Chris said.
“And you wanna borrow mine?” said Jimmy. “Sure thing, Mr. Martin. Any time.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Chris.
“Any time at all,” said Jimmy. “Well, I’ll get back to Britten and Bruckner now.”
Chris managed another smile. “Has Mrs. Anthony called?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I gave her the message.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Chris shut the door of his office and drew off his top coat. As he dropped it on a chair, he noticed the smudges on it. He must have gotten them when Steve knocked him down. He checked his trousers and found dirt streaks on the knees, a small rip. If he’d gone home, Helen would have seen them. He’d have had to tell her what happened.
He wondered what she’d say when she found out about the money. They’d been saving for a bigger house; this would reduce their account to almost nothing. Well, there was no help for it. It had to be done. After all these years, three thousand was a cheap enough price for continued freedom.
&n
bsp; Suddenly, it occurred to Chris that after bringing the money he would no longer be of any value to Adam and Steve. He heard repeated in his mind what Adam had said: You’re lucky we don’t leave you in a ditch somewhere.
Chris sank down heavily before his desk. Dear God, what was he to do? If he gave Adam and Steve the money, he’d always be subject to their blackmail. If he went to the police, he’d be put in prison—and he had no romantic illusions about “getting a fresh start” after that. If he were twenty, perhaps. Not now.
It was in that moment that the idea came with a flash of hideous logic. An idea that had to do with Cliff’s loaded gun and Chris’s two enemies waiting in Latigo Canyon, with the hills around and the unlikelihood of anyone hearing a shot.
His fingers jerked suddenly into blood-drained fists. No! He was not that kind of man and never would be!
Abruptly, the false defenses seemed to fall away like scales. He’d been wrong. It might entail a kind of courage to go on in the face of pressure but to face the obligation of honesty was the only true courage.
Chris sighed. Strange that, after all his indecision, the solution should prove so simple. He could feel the simple rightness of it in his very flesh.
He pulled the telephone across his desk and, lifting the receiver, dialed quickly.
Helen’s mother answered.
“This is Chris, Mom,” he said.
“Yes, Chris.”
“Could I speak to Helen for a moment?”
“Helen? Is she supposed to be here?”
“Yes.” Chris felt a sinking of disappointment. “I guess she hasn’t had time to get there yet.”
“I didn’t know she was coming.”
“Yes. She planned to pay you a visit, with Connie.”
“Well, how lovely,” said Mrs. Shaw, “I’ll be looking for them.”
“Would you ask her to phone me when she gets there?” he asked.
“All right. At the store?”
“Yes. Please.”
“I will, Chris.”
“Thanks, Mom. See you soon then.”
After he’d hung up, Chris sat restively, tapping on his desk. He was anxious to talk with Helen, to let her know what he was planning to do. He wanted to hear her shocked yet—he felt sure—proud reaction. He needed it before he could call the police.
For a moment, he wondered if what he really wanted was for her to talk him out of it. He thought about that, trying to decide what he’d do if she tried to dissuade him. Somehow, it seemed no problem. He couldn’t believe that he’d change his mind now.
Sighing, he rotated his swivel chair and looked through the glass partition at the store. Jimmy was still hard at work relocating the LP albums. He was a good kid, Chris thought. With Helen’s assistance, Jimmy could manage the store very well while he was gone.
Gone.
Chris shuddered. The store had never looked more wonderful to him; his life with Helen and Connie had never seemed more perfect. Yet he’d be throwing it all away by calling the police.
Involuntarily, he glanced at the wall clock. It was almost ten. There was still time. He could go to the bank, withdraw the money, drive to—
No. He closed his eyes, furious at the temptation. The choice was made. He wouldn’t weaken now.
When he opened his eyes, Helen was just entering the store.
Chris stood without knowing it. He stared at her expressionless face as she came walking down the length of the store with slow, unbalanced strides. Faintly, he heard Jimmy say good morning to her. She didn’t turn or answer. She kept walking toward the office, eyes fixed straight ahead, features tensely set. Chris stepped to the door on suddenly trembling legs and pulled it open.
“Honey, what is it?” he heard himself mutter.
Her voice was hoarse, shaking.
“She’s gone,” she said.
“What?”
“They took her!” she gasped, “They took my baby!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Behind the counter, Jimmy glanced away embarrassedly. Chris looked back at Helen’s stricken face. He could feel his hands twitch, feel a thickened pulsing at his temples. Still, there was no horror. Numbly, he reached for her arm.
“Come in the office,” he said.
She jerked back. “Get away!” she whispered vehemently.
“Helen.” He sucked in breath. “Helen, please come in the office,” he begged, “Jimmy can hear us.”
“Oh, that matters,” she said, brokenly. “That really matters.”
She stumbled past him and he followed dizzily, shutting the door behind himself.
“What happened?” he asked.
She whirled on him. “I told you!” she cried. “Are you deaf? They took Connie!” A sob tore at her throat. “They took my baby!”
Again, instinctively, he reached for her. Again, she shrank away.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
“Helen, do you think I—?”
“Yes, I think it’s your fault! You were so careful to protect yourself! So careful.”
“Helen, what happened?”
She caught herself, forcing down the rage and anguish. Chris stared at her, waiting. His heartbeat was a slow, painful jolting.
“They came to the house,” she said, quietly, measuredly. “You knew they were coming, didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you leave when I phoned?”
“You knew they were coming.”
“Helen, for God’s sake!” It was there now, the shock, the horror, all of it.
“They took her away, Chris. Just took her away. They said they’d—” her teeth clenched. “—they’d kill her if you didn’t bring the money.”
She stared at him balefully. “Now tell me you didn’t know,” she said.
“Helen, I swear—”
“Yes, swear, swear! I’m sure it’ll bring her back!”
Chris glanced out at the store in time to see Jimmy look away again. He raised his eyes to the clock. It was after ten.
“I’ll get the money,” he said, “I’ll bring her back.”
“You’ll bring her back.” Abruptly, Helen began to cry, both hands pressed shakingly across her face. “You’ll bring her back.”
“Helen, you didn’t call the police?”
She turned again, jerking down her hands, a near deranged look on her face. “The police!” she said. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
He grabbed her shoulders. “Now, listen to me,” he started.
“Is that all you’re—?”
“Listen to me!” Her head snapped as he jerked her shoulders violently.
“Go on,” she said, “Tell me your troubles.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No! Are you happy now? Are you relieved?”
His voice shook as he answered her.
“Helen, if the police come into this, Connie hasn’t got a chance and you know it.”
“Oh God,” she whimpered. She almost fell as a spasm of grief wrenched her. “I want my baby.”
“Helen, I’ll get her.”
She pulled away from him and, stumbling to the wall, leaned against it, crying helplessly.
“My baby,” she said, “I want her now. I want her.”
“I’ll get the money,” he said.
“Yes, get the money, get the money,” she echoed hollowly, “Save yourself.”
He started to say something, then checked himself. There was no sense in trying to reason with her now.
“We’ll never see her again,” said Helen.
“Yes, we will, Helen. I’ll get her back.”
“No, no, no.” She almost crooned the word, shaking her head.
“We will.”
She turned abruptly, pale with fury.
“How many kidnapped children ever live!” she cried, “Tell me!”
He caught her hands and held them so tightly that she winced.
“She’ll be all right,” he said, “They won’t hurt her because
they’re planning to ask me for money again. Can’t you see that? They figure I’ll go on paying to protect myself and they’re not going to—”
“And you will,” she said.
He looked at her for a few moments before dropping her hands.
“No,” he said, “I won’t.”
He picked up his topcoat and put it on.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the bank.”
“I’m going with you.”
He started to speak, then changed his mind. There was no time.
“Come on then,” he said.
***
He could remember joking about it to Bill Albert.
“You know which line in the bank moves the slowest?” he’d said. “The one I’m in.”
Chris’s gaze moved for the seventh time to the clock over the vault entrance. Ten twenty-one. He watched the long second-hand turning. Swallowing dryly, he turned back to the line. The man at the counter was pushing rolls of change into his cloth sack. Chris glanced at the other lines. One of them was shorter but he didn’t dare take a chance on changing. He’d done it once already and lost time.
He drew in a quick breath. Come on! his mind cried. He thought of Connie being held by Adam and Steve, he thought about Adam’s gun. He twitched as a drop of sweat trickled down his side. Hurry, he thought. Please hurry.
He looked around and saw Helen still sitting on the bench by the wall. She looked as if she were hypnotized the way she stared ahead with dull, blank eyes. He knew what she was feeling and it was a hideous sensation—one of incredulous terror. It was impossible to believe that they might never see Connie again, yet impossible to disbelieve it.
God, let it be true! Chris thought in sudden anguish, recalling what he’d said to Helen. Let them be planning to bleed him dry. Right now, he’d sign away everything he owned or ever would own just to hold Connie in his arms again.
“Good morning, Mr. Martin.”
Chris started at the voice, jerking his head around so fast it hurt his neck.
“Did I startle you?” she asked.
“Oh Mrs. Anthony. I’m—I’m sorry. I—”
“Didn’t see me coming. I apologize.” Mrs. Anthony smiled. “I wanted to talk to you about the concert Sunday.”
Ride the Nightmare Page 6
