Read Online Ride the Nightmare by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Matheson
Ads: Link
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 tochildren’s piano
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 tochildren’s piano
Similar Books
