Ride the Nightmare Read Free

only Chris would come, if only she could call him.
    The man turned and walked away from the window.
    Breath rushed from Helen’s lungs and she became conscious of a cold sweat trickling down her back and sides. Hurriedly, she leaned over the bed and, drawing a Kleenex from her bathrobe pocket, patted gently at the dew of perspiration across Connie’s forehead. Her trembling fingers brushed aside the soft hairs, then drew back the spread so that Connie had only a sheet and blanket over her.
    Straightening up, she turned quickly toward the hall. She’d call the police again. What was the matter with them? Chris had told them he’d been threatened. Didn’t that mean anything to—?
    In the kitchen, a window was broken in.
    There was a cry of pain, then the sound of the door banging violently against the cupboard. As Helen rushed across the living room, there was another cry, then a scuffle of shoes on the linoleum. Her left slipper flew off but she kept on running.
    “
God damn—!
” She heard the fury of the man’s voice. Another cry of pain, a rushing sound, then a loud crash as someone, colliding with the dishwasher, knocked it over. Helen lurched into the kitchen doorway and saw a figure near the doorway.
    “
Chris?
” she gasped.
    The figure recoiled a step. The man’s harsh voice surrounded her. “Put on the light,” he ordered.
    “Don’t shoot!”
    “The
light
!”
    Her shaking hand felt along the wall until it touched the switch, then pushed it up.
    He was short, lean. Helen stared at his white face, at the tangled black hair across his forehead. She looked at the revolver he was holding in his hand. As the man leaned back against the kitchen door to close it, she saw blood running across the hand and dripping to the linoleum in bright spots.
    Chris’s groan made her glance over to where he was struggling up from the floor in a debris of broken dishes and silverware. She saw a red welt rising on the side of his jaw and a ragged scratch across his cheek as if he’d been struck with the pistol barrel.
    She looked back at the man. He was standing by the booth now, a man dressed in a stained serge suit that had been sewn together in places; a man who had a young face yet something old and terrible in his eyes.
    “So.” He panted as he spoke. “I found you, Chris. I found you.”
    “You’re making a mistake!” said Helen. “Can’t you see he’s not the one you’re after! Our name is Martin!”
    She shivered as the man’s pale blue eyes turned on her. His lips flexed back from yellowish teeth in what was more a grimace than a smile.
    “Martin, hanh?” he said.
    The burst of hope she felt lasted only a second, vanishing as hatred returned to the man’s expression. He looked over at Chris who was on his feet now, holding on to the sink.
    “Thought you could change your name,” he said. “Thought that was all you had to do. Just change your name and we’d never find you.”
    Chris caught his breath and Helen started at the shocked expression on his face.
    “Yeah, that’s right,” said the man, still breathing hard, “
we
. You thought you saw the last of us, didn’t you? Thought you really pulled a fast one.”
    “You’ve made a mistake,” Helen told him. “Don’t you—?”
    “Shut up!”
    Helen shrank back and the man forced the thin, mirthless smile back to his lips.
    “Thought you’d never see us again, didn’t you, Chrissie boy? Thought you were safe and sound.”
    “Chris—” said Helen.
    Now the man leaned back against the booth. Holding the revolver loosely, he pushed himself up onto the table and let his legs swing idly above the floor.
    “I been waiting a long time for this, Chrissie boy,” he said. “For a long time I figured you got away from us. Then I saw that picture in
Life
magazine, you know? That was a lucky break for me, wasn’t it?”
    The photograph in
Life
had shown Chris with the Santa Monica Wildcats, the boy’s baseball team he sponsored. In an