Ride the Nightmare (14 page)

“Mom, I…” He couldn’t finish. He followed her across the lawn and opened the door of the car for her. He hurried around it and got in beside her, gunned the engine. He made a quick U turn and headed back toward Wilshire Boulevard.

As he drove, he began to tell her exactly what had happened.

“Look out!”

Steve’s head jerked up, the revolver bucked explodingly in his hand. Across the room, Adam dove to one side as a jagged hole appeared in the wall beside him. Helen stood frozen, her ears ringing. Steve looked around as if trying to remember where he was. His gaze fell on Adam, who was scrambling to his feet.

Then they were all looking over at Connie as she sat up with a shrill cry. The sound seemed to free Helen. Ignoring the gun, she ran across the room and knelt by her daughter, embraced her tightly.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” she heard Adam raging. “It’s quarter after one! You gave him till one!”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Steve.

“All right, listen, damn it!” Adam said, hastily, “We can still get out of here. We’ll flag a car, get started for Mexico. On the way, we’ll stop at a doctor’s. What do you say? Let’s get
out
of here! We’re pushing our luck. He could have called the cops a dozen times over since he left.”

“Bastard,” mumbled Steve.

“For Christ’s sake, use your head! Do you
want to
die?”

Steve didn’t speak. He looked at Adam with glazed, unblinking eyes. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

Adam stared at him.

“Steve?” he said.

Steve coughed. He made a gagging sound and tried to speak. The saliva rolled across his chin. “
Bastard
,” he said under his breath as if it weren’t even a word. He raised the pistol shakily and rubbed the barrel end across his chin. Adam kept staring at him. Helen glanced across her shoulder and saw how Steve was weaving on the chair, his head wobbling as if imperfectly attached. He’s
going
, she thought. She started to get up but Connie clung to her desperately.

Steve muttered something. Helen didn’t hear him. She held on to Connie. It’s all right, baby, prompted her mind but she couldn’t speak the words aloud.

“
Coffee
, damn you!” snarled Steve, hoarsely.

Helen looked around. He was staring at her vacantly, his mouth hanging open.

“Coffee,” he muttered.

Helen swallowed. “Wh-where?” she asked.

His head hitched around slowly and he looked across the room toward a small alcove. Helen followed his gaze and saw a rusty kerosene stove standing on a shelf, a coffee pot on top of it.

“All right,” she said. She straightened up, pulling Connie with her.

“Come with Mommy,” she said.

Connie walked beside her shakily, silent except for the gasping sobs that shook her body. They moved between the two men and entered the alcove. Helen glanced back. Now she was twice as far from the wounded man as Adam was. If Steve fell there was no possible way she could reach the gun in time.

Biting her lip, she turned back to the stove. She had to heat the coffee quickly, get it to Steve before it was too late. He’d lost so much blood though. There was a dark patch of it on the floor around him; the cloth of his shirt and trousers was saturated with it.

Hastily, she picked up the book of matches beside the stove, then froze as Steve gasped with pain. Stooping hurriedly, she looked over and saw him gaping at Adam, his mouth almost wide open. She glanced at Adam. He was almost coiled against the wall, ready to leap. Helen stood with the matches, one arm still tensed around Connie.

“Mommy, let’s go,” said Connie.

“Yes, yes.” Hands shaking, Helen tore one of the matches loose and struck it. It didn’t light. She dropped it quickly, tore another one free, glancing toward Steve.

He was leaning to one side; it seemed as if he had to fall from the chair at any second. His eyes were almost closed, the revolver was in his lap as if he hadn’t the strength to lift it anymore. With a faint, shaking murmur, Helen struck the match once, twice. A tiny flame seared up, she leaned forward and touched it to the burner. It wouldn’t light.

Helen made a frightened sound and looked back once again at Steve. His eyes were almost shut. He sagged off balance. She started to turn, the match still in her hand. He grunted and sat up a little, a look of dread on his face. He looked over at her and she turned back to the stove, dropping the match with a hiss as it burned her fingers.

Shaking helplessly, she lit a third match, then noticed that the tiny cock hadn’t been opened on the stove. She twisted it, touched the match flame to the burner. In a moment, it ignited with a faint, puffing sound, burning blue. Helen leaned over automatically and looked into the pot. She had to—

There was a crashing sound behind her. Helen whirled. Across the room, Steve was sprawled on his side, trying to struggle up. Helen saw him raise the gun to fire at Adam who was rushing at him. Before he could pull the trigger, Adam’s shoe was kicking the revolver from his hand, it was clattering across the floor. Adam started for it but Steve, with a final effort, lunged out and grabbed at his ankle. Adam lost balance and went crashing down heavily on his chest.

Helen didn’t wait to see anymore. In an instant, her fingers had clamped down on Connie’s wrist and she was rushing for the doorway, half dragging her daughter with her. Running, she glanced over at the two men and saw Adam kick his right foot against Steve’s bandaged shoulder. The wounded man fell back, screaming.

Then she and Connie were out the doorway.
Which way?
Muscles seemed to answer before her mind, driving her along the front of the shack and around its side. There could be no doubt about the result inside. In a matter of moments, Adam would be coming after them with the gun. His first instinct, she sensed, would be to go toward the road, assuming that it had, also, been her first instinct. There was not enough time to make the road though. Their only chance was to hide in the brush until—

Reason ended there. There was no until. She pulled Connie across the dry, eroded ground, past the back edge of the shack and toward a tangle of bushes. Suddenly, in the shack, there was a shot, another. It was over!

“Hurry, baby!” she gasped. Her grip tightened on Connie’s wrist as her daughter started to fall. She pulled Connie up almost brutally. “Run!” she said, “
Run fast!
”

Then the only sound was that of their feet and of their straining breath. Helen looked back across her shoulder. No sign of Adam yet.

Abruptly, they were in the bushes, their bodies thrashing past the dry-leaved branches. Connie cried out as one of the branches whipped across her forehead. Helen glanced down at her and saw a long, red scratch across her brow.

“Keep your head down!” she ordered, “I’ll lead you!”

She grunted as a razor-edged twig sliced across her arm. She glanced back again. Had he heard them yet? They were making so much noise! She tried to run faster but Connie tripped and fell and, for several yards, Helen was almost dragging her. She stopped an instant to haul her erect, then started running again.

“Hurry, baby!” she whispered.

Now they were out of the bushes, struggling through long, brownish grass. Helen felt the dry blades scourging at her legs and skirt. Connie started to fall again and she pulled her up, a painful shooting in her back and shoulder. Breath was hot and stinging now, burning her throat. Abruptly, a stitch needled at her side. She bit her lip to cut off the gasp of pain. They couldn’t stop! With a lunge, she started up the hill, her sandals slipping on the hard, flaking ground. Again, she looked behind. Where was he now?

“Mommy, I can’t!”

“You can!” She dug her fingers into Connie’s wrist. “You have to!”

Once more, Connie, unable to match her mother’s stride, was pulled from her feet. Once more, Helen jerked her forward and up. The slope was so steep now that she was unable to run. She could only climb with short, desperate strides, pulling Connie with her.

They reached the top of the hill. The heat which had clung to the hollows was gone now, replaced by a damp coldness. Helen looked back, for an instant, her eyes catching sight of the broad hills in the distance, the curving ribbon of the Latigo Canyon Road. Then her gaze had dropped, she saw the shack below, the dirt lane, the—

Breath caught. Adam was just charging from the bushes. He was stopping, looking around.

“
No
.” Helen spun around and lunged over the crest of the hill, dragging Connie with her.

Suddenly, they were plunging down a grass-thick slope, their legs pumping frantically to keep themselves from falling. Helen felt herself losing balance and, twisting, pressed the sides of her sandals against the ground, leaning in heavily toward the slope. She fell on her hip and slid on the ground, wincing as it raked skin from her calf, then from her thigh as her skirt pulled up. Connie cried out faintly and fell against her. They were skidding downward, jolting violently against the bottom of the narrow draw. Pain lanced along Helen’s right ankle as it twisted beneath her.

They stayed there for a second, gasping at the warm, heavy air. Helen tried to hold her breath and listen. It seemed as if she heard, in the distance, a thrashing noise, a sound of thudding shoes.

“Hurry!” she said, and suddenly, they were running again, rushing along the foot of the draw, unable to climb because the wall on its other side was too steep.

Helen clenched her teeth against the shooting pains in her ankle, her side. She mustn’t stop! Eyes straight ahead, her face a mask of dread, she kept on running. In front of them, the draw turned gradually toward the east.

“I can’t, Mommy!” Connie cried out shrilly.

“You can!” Helen almost sobbed the words. She pulled Connie up again, then, hastily, lifted her. She thudded along the rock-strewn base of the draw. Something exploded up above. There was a piercing whistle and earth erupted nearby. Connie shrieked. Dirt specks stung into Helen’s cheek and she jerked her head around.

Adam was running along the crest of the draw, pointing the revolver at them. With a desperate lunge, Helen ran around the beetling wall. They were out of sight of Adam now. Helen dropped Connie to her feet.

“Run!” she commanded.

Ahead, the draw widened into a grass-covered slope. The two of them ran onto it, frightening off a flock of birds which scattered darkly into the air. Helen’s gaze kept jumping around as they fled, searching for a place to hide. They couldn’t go much farther. Connie was dragging at her arm so much that she was virtually carrying her. Her own legs were exhausted, her ankle threatened to give at any second. Still there was no place to stop, to hide. There was nothing in sight but open space and knee-high grasses.

“Mommy—” It was a weak, breathless plea.

“Little further!” Helen gasped, looking back.

In the distance, Adam was scuffing down the wall of the draw, raising a cloud of dust. Helen turned back with a faint sob. They had to go on!

Ahead, the open slope was closing in again to form another draw. Helen headed for the entrance to it, lips pressed together bloodlessly as she fought the burning pains in her ankle. She looked back once more. Adam was just emerging from the draw, running hard, the revolver lowered in his hand. He wouldn’t fire until he caught
them, Helen realized. He’d already used three of six bullets. He wouldn’t waste the three remaining.

“You’ve got to
run
!” she cried frantically.

“I
can’t.
”

Impulsively, Helen snatched her daughter up and kept on running, almost blindly now, as if she ran on some fantastic treadmill in limbo, unable to stop, her body afire with pain, wanting to collapse, unable to collapse. She had to save Connie!

What if she stopped, the thought burst wildly in her mind—stopped, put Connie down and ran back? Could she force him to use all three bullets on her?

No! She sobbed and bit her lip, unable to meet Connie’s panic-dazed look. Even if she made him use the three bullets, Connie still wasn’t safe. Adam could kill her with his hands. He could—

She was so involved in terrified thought that she almost ran into the canyon wall in front of her. She staggered to a halt, put Connie down and looked with stark, uncomprehending eyes at the steep walls rising on three sides.

The only exit was in back of them.

Helen turned on shaking legs. A hundred and twenty yards away, Burrik was coming at them. She stood trembling, watching him approach. No, her mind protested; No, it can’t be. She stumbled back slowly, against the canyon wall, Connie half-behind, little arms clamped desperately around Helen’s thigh.

“It’s all right, baby,” she whispered hoarsely, “Mommy’s with you.”

Suddenly, Helen was conscious of something hard and thin pressing against the pain of her thigh where the small hands clutched. Instinctively, she reached down. In her pocket was the book of matches, thrust there by habit, and forgotten.

She pushed the child away and, ignoring her cries, knelt on the grass. Fingers trembling, she pulled open the cover and struck a match, held it to the grass. For a moment, nothing happened. It’s too wet! she thought in horror. Then there was a faint crackle and, abruptly, the grass was burning, the bright flame rising, smoking whitely. Helen lurched back from it and looked up.

Adam was less than seventy yards away.

Desperately, Helen lunged to the right, fell to one knee and struck another match. More grass ignited, crackling. She pulled away from it, ran to the left and set fire to more.

This time when she straightened up and looked toward Adam, she could barely see him through the mounting barrier of flame. She set fire to another patch, another—then ran to Connie and pulled her to the canyon wall. She stood there numbly, waiting, expecting to see Adam come charging through the fire. There were open patches in it wide enough to pass a running man. She held Connie to herself and waited, staring.

Seconds passed, a minute finally and Helen realized that Adam wasn’t going to come through. She glanced up. He might climb the walls and fire down at them but there wasn’t too much chance of hitting them from such a height. They were—