Free 7 Steps to Midnight by Richard Matheson Page B

now. He didn’t know why, except that any direction seemed as good as another; he just wanted to put distance between himself and Arizona. He tried not to think about his problem; it wasn’t time yet. Anyway, his brain felt progressively more stultified by the hour.
    At 2:14 P.M. , he pulled up to the office of the Bide-A-While Motel.
That’s what I intend to do
, he thought. He went inside and used his MasterCard to pay for a back cabin. It was probably a mistake. The CIA might well have a monitor on every credit card company. By now, surely they had to know that he had only the MasterCard and the American Express. It would be simplicity itself to run him to earth.
    Still, what else could he do? He didn’t have enough cash; he was exhausted.
Let them find me then
, he thought as he signed the slip.
    The woman in the office—tall, lean and as severe-looking as some character in a Dickens novel—made no comment throughout the check-in process, handed him a key, then went back into her apartment. Only later did Chris realize that his unshaven face and the state of his clothes hardly qualified him as a candidate for Guest of the Year at the Bide-A-While.
    He drove to the back cabin and parked the car behind it so it couldn’t be seen from the highway. This struck him as a little stupid since the credit card would give him away if they were on the lookout for its use, as they must be. Still, one must do the logical thing—hide the car. That’s what heroes always do, he thought as he unlocked the door of the cabin and went inside.
Except you’re not a hero
, his mind responded.
You’re a dumb-ass mathematician in flight.
    Inside, he closed all the drapes, then turned on the table lamp beside the bed. The room was hot and stuffy. He switched on the window air conditioner and stood in front of it until a rush of cool air began. Then, with a heavy sigh, he laid down on the bed and closed his eyes.
    ***
    Fifteen minutes later, he opened his eyes. It seemed incredible that he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. He felt exhausted. Yet every time his brain started to do a slow backward somersault into blackness, it seemed to right itself again like some enervated but determined acrobat.
    He looked at the small TV set on the bureau across from the bed. Maybe there was something on the news, he thought. He labored to a sitting position and dropped his legs across the edge of the mattress. Pushing to his feet with a tired groan, he walked over to the bureau and pulled the power button on the TV set. It took almost fifteen seconds for the picture to appear. He twisted the channel selector to see what was available.
    What was available—clear enough to be seen, at any rate—was Channel 8. There was a quiz show in progress. He moved back to the bed and stretched out on it, nudged off his shoes and heard them thump on the carpeting.
    “No help from the audience, please,” the quiz show host requested.
    I could use some help from the audience
, Chris thought. The audience or anybody else. Wasn’t there a single person he could turn to for—?
    Gene
, his mind interrupted itself.
    He opened his eyes.
Yeah
, he thought. Of course. They’d gone to college together, been friends for eleven years. Good, he’d call Gene later; after he got some sleep.
    No, call now, his mind insisted.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, give me a break
, he pleaded. His mind was a pursed-lipped pedant staring him down.
Now
, it demanded.
    With a groan of surrender, Chris sat up again and reached for the telephone on the bedside table. Actually, it made sense to call now, he allowed. If he slept too long, he’d miss Gene at the paper and he didn’t remember his home number, nor was it listed.
    It seemed to take the stony-faced woman in the office half an hour before she gave him a surly “Yes?” on the line.
    “I want to call
The Tucson Herald
,” he told her. “I don’t know the number.”
    “How can I
call
it then?” she asked.
    Jesus, was her life that bad?