Ride the Nightmare Read Free Page B

automatically. “Please, may I—?” she began, then broke off as the man slid off the table edge.
    “Cliff, I’m warning you,” said Chris.
    The man seemed to snarl but there was no sound. “You’re warning me,” he said. “That’s funny, Chrissie boy.” He glanced over toward the living room. “All these years,” he said, “I been trying to figure out a way to pay you back.” His frail chest shuddered with breath. “But I never could till now.”
    “Cliff, I’m warning you—!” said Chris, his face whitening.
    “Shut up!” flared the man. “You’re not warning anybody!”
    Helen remained in the doorway as he edged toward her. She stared at him with unbelieving eyes.
    “You’re not—?” she started faintly.
    “Get out of my way,” said the man.
    Chris took a step away from the sink. “You’re not going to touch my girl,” he said.
    “I’m not, hanh?” The man’s voice broke stridently. “I’ll show you whether I am or not!” He bumped against Helen and turned quickly, his dark eyes probing at her. She smelled the sweetish odor of whiskey on his breath and shrank back with a grimace.
    “Look out,” he muttered and tried to pass her. Helen lost her balance and fell toward him, hands clutching out for support.
    “Get away—!” His voice exploded in her ear as he shoved at her.
    It happened so quickly that the man had no chance to raise his gun before Chris was charging into him, clamping rigid fingers over his wrist. Helen went stumbling back into the living room, collided with the edge of the sofa and fell across its arm.
    As she pushed up, she saw Chris and the man struggling in the kitchen. Chris was holding the man’s wrist away from himself, the man was trying to push the barrel end against Chris’s stomach. They slipped and twisted on the smooth linoleum, teeth clenched, lipsdrawn back in frozen grimaces. Helen stood watching them, torn between her instinct to help Chris and her need to get Connie out of the house.
    Suddenly, the man’s right foot kicked out and Chris lost balance. He started falling and lurched his trunk forward to regain equilibrium. The two of them went thudding against the booth. The table shifted on its pivot and Chris dropped off heavily onto the yellow booth, the man bent over him.
    Helen ran at him but his left shoe, kicking out, glanced off her shoulder stunningly and she reeled back against the stove, gasping as her side rammed against one of the control knobs.
    In her bedroom, Connie called, “Mommy?” in a frightened voice. Helen turned instinctively toward her, then back again.
    The man was forcing down the grip that Chris still had on his wrist. He had the advantage of gravity, his right leg pinning Chris against the booth, the weight of his body adding to his strength. As Helen pushed away from the stove, she saw Chris throw a pleading look across the man’s shoulder.
    She rushed at the man again, catching at his suit, but he twisted way from her. The pistol was only inches from Chris’s forehead now. Desperately, he tried to free himself, his body lurching spasmodically, but the man’s leg held him pinned. Again, Helen grabbed the man’s arm, again his left foot shot out, almost knocking her legs from under her. She staggered backward with a gasp.
    “Helen, the knife!”
    She stiffened, looking blankly at Chris’s straining face.
    Her eyes fled down across the floor and picked out the white-handled carving knife he’d held before. Mechanically, she started for it, hardly aware of the glass splinter that gouged into the sole of her bare foot.
    “No, you don’t!” cried the man.
    Whirling, Helen was just in time to see his body flung backward from the booth as Chris, one knee raised, shoved him away. The man went flailing across the floor. He crashed against the toppled dishwasher and fell across it, the revolver flying from his fingers and sliding underneath the stove. Helen shrank against the wall as Chris came running at the