7 Steps to Midnight by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online

pressed his lips together.
Steady
, he told himself. It occurred to him that maybe the man had nothing whatever to do with what was going on. Maybe, for God’s sake, after all these years of Uncle Harry’s dire predictions, Mom was about to be burglarized.
    He shook his head. He didn’t believe that. This had something to do with what was going on.
    Silence now. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. What would he do if the man was able to get in somehow? Fight him, try to overcome him? Or just give up?
Okay, that’s it, let’s find out what the hell is going on.
    He tensed, eyes opening, as the man walked past the windows he was cowering beneath. He looked toward the front of the house and, through the curtained windows, saw the man moving down the walkway. He heard the car door closing, the sound of the motor switching on. The car drove away.
    Chris closed his eyes again.
God, I’m tired
, he thought. He hadn’t really slept that much. And considering what he’d been through…
    ***
    “Chris!”
    He jolted awake, an expression of alarm on his face, then, seeing his mother looking at him, he uttered an involuntary groan of relief and reached for her; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.
    They embraced and kissed. “What are you doing sleeping on the floor like this?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
    He tried to sound amused but failed. “To say the least,” he answered.
    They stood and embraced again.
Home
, he thought. His mother. He sighed; it felt good.
    She brushed back his hair with a gentle touch. “You look terrible,” she said. “What’s going on?”
    He started to answer, then hissed in pain. He’d slept in such an awkward position, his neck was stiff. He rotated it, grimacing. “God,” he muttered.
    Then he smiled and held her again. It felt so good to be home. He had a fleeting image of himself, a boy, crying hard because he’d skinned his knees falling off a skateboard. She was always there to comfort him.
    “Chris, what’s happened?” she asked, worried.
    He looked at her. In her middle sixties, she was still a lovely woman, almost as tall as he without heels; her gray-tinged hair still mostly brunette, her features firmly cut, her brown eyes deeply intelligent as she gazed at him. “Tell me what happened,” she said.
    “You sound as though you already know something,” he told her.
    She walked him to the living-room sofa and drew him down. “Tell me,” she said.
    He pulled in a long breath and told her everything from thetime he’d woken up in the plant to the man he’d hidden from before. He didn’t mention Veering. He wasn’t going to allow himself to believe that the old man had anything to do with what was happening.
    “What did the man you hid from look like?” she asked when he was through.
    Chris described him. “No,” she said. “That wasn’t him.”
    Chris tightened. “Has someone spoken to you?”
    “A man came to the university and spoke to me between classes,” she said.
    “What did he look like?”
    “Lean,” she answered. “Pale. Wearing a black suit and hat.”
    He shuddered. “He’s the one who came to my house last night.”
    “Oh, no.” His mother gazed at him in concern.
    “What’s his name?” Chris asked.
    His mother got up and walked into the dining room; her purse was lying on the table. Opening it, she took out her wallet and, reaching into it, removed a business card. She brought it into the living room and handed it to Chris.
    The man’s name was Martin Meehan. There was no indication as to whom he worked for; the only thing on the card other than his name was an Arizona telephone number.
    “Did he show you a badge?” he asked.
    “No.” She shook her head.
    “What did he say?”
    “That you were in trouble and I should make sure to call him if you tried to get in touch with me.”
    Chris swallowed dryly. The dogs are closing in, he thought. “That’s all he said?”
    She nodded. “I tried to find