Ride the Nightmare

“She’ll be all right,” he said, “They won’t hurt her because they’re planning to ask me for money again. Can’t you see that? They figure I’ll go on paying to protect myself and they’re not going to—”

”And you will,” she said.

He looked at her for a few moments before dropping her hands. “No.” he said, “I won’t.”

He picked up his topcoat and put it on.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the bank.”

“I’m going with you.”

He started to speak, then changed his mind. There was no time.

“Come on then,” he said.

* * *

He could remember joking about it to Bill Albert. “You know which line in the bank moves the slowest?” he’d said, the one I’m in.”

Chris’s gaze moved for the seventh time to the clock over the vault entrance. Ten twenty-one. He watched the long second-hand turning. Swallowing dryly, he turned back to the line. The man at the counter was pushing rolls of change into his cloth sack. Chris glanced at the other lines. One of them was shorter but he didn’t dare take a chance on changing. He’d done it once already and lost time.

He drew in a quick breath. Come on! his mind cried. He thought of Connie being held by Adam and Steve, he thought about Adam’s gun. He twitched as a drop of sweat trickled down his side. Hurry, he thought. Please hurry.

He looked around and saw Helen still sitting on the bench by the wall. She looked as if she were hypnotized the way she stared ahead with dull, blank eyes. He knew what she was feeling and it was a hideous sensation—one of incredulous terror. It was impossible to believe that they might never see Connie again, yet impossible to disbelieve it.

God, let it be true! Chris thought in sudden anguish, recalling what he’d said to Helen. Let them be planning to bleed him dry. Right now, he’d sign away everything he owned or ever would own just to hold Connie in his arms again.

“Good morning. Mr. Martin.”

Chris started at the voice, jerking his head around so fast it hurt his neck.

“Did I startle you?” she asked.

“Oh Mrs. Anthony. I’m—I’m sorry. I—”

”Didn’t see me coming. I apologize.” Mrs. Anthony smiled, “l wanted to talk to you about the concert Sunday.”

Chris stared at her. “Yes,” he said. The line moved forward as the man left the counter. Chris stepped off compulsively. Mrs. Anthony smile faltering, moved with him.

“What the committee was wondering,” she said, “is if it might not be feasible to combine the concert with our Spring Fund Drive.”

Chris nodded jerkily. “Uh-huh.” He felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Please get out of here, begged his mind.

“Now,” said Mrs. Anthony briskly, “we discussed the possibilities at some length at our meeting last Friday afternoon and, after weighing the pros and cons, we reached the decision that it could be effected quite readily.”

Chris ran a hand across his upper lip and drew it away dripping sweat. “I see,” he muttered. He rubbed the hand on his coat distractedly.

“If, before the concert,” Mrs. Anthony continued, “we could have, say, five to ten minutes for a short announcement about the opening of the Drive, we could easily…”

Her voice seemed to drift off into an unintelligible murmur as Chris watched her. The nightmare was back again, endless and insane as nightmares were. To stand here listening to Mrs. Anthony talk about the start of a Spring Fund Drive for The Ladies’ Horticultural Society while, somewhere, Connie was—

“Does that aspect of it seem reasonable?” she asked.

Chris swallowed.

“I—I—what was that?” He smiled mechanically. “I’m afraid I—”

“I said,” said Mrs. Anthony, “does the setting up of a cake booth in back of the auditorium seem to you—”

The line moved and Chris stepped closer to the window. He felt the urge to shove away the two people in front of him, to push Mrs. Anthony away violently, to grab the money from the cashier’s drawer and run to his car, drive to Latigo Canyon at a hundred miles an hour.

“Yes,” he said, “Yes. I—I think that would be fine.”

“Are you feeling well, Mr. Martin?”

“Hmmm?” Chris’s smile was more of a grimace.

“You’re perspiring quite heavily.”

“Oh. No, I—it’s rather…” he sucked in breath, “—hot in here.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Anthony cleared her throat. “Well, then, I can tell the committee that you approve?”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” Chris blurted, “I—think it’s a fine idea.”

Mrs. Anthony nodded once, looking at him curiously. “Well, then,” she said.

Chris looked over at Helen as Mrs. Anthony walked away. She was watching him fixedly. Chris turned back quickly. There was just the woman in front of him now although the cashier was gone. He glanced aside and saw Mrs. Anthony wave to Helen. God, don’t talk to her! he begged silently. He blew out ragged breath as Mrs. Anthony left the bank.

I beg your pardon,” he said, impulsively. The woman in front of him turned.

“I wonder if I could trouble you to—to let me ahead of—”

“I’m sorry, “she said. “I’ve been waiting here for a long time and I’m in just as much of a hurry as you are.”

Are you? Chris thought.

She turned away. “I never,” she was muttering.

Chris closed his eyes a moment. Please, please, please, he thought.

A minute later he was sliding the pass book across the counter. The teller picked it up and opened it, looked at the withdrawal slip.

“I’d like to have it in tens and twenties,” Chris said.

“Yes, sir,” said the teller. He turned away and walked over to the row of file cabinets behind him. Chris watched him, his hands resting limply on the edge of the counter. He saw the teller pull out a drawer and start thumbing through the files.

“I’m in a hurry,” Chris said. The man didn’t hear him.

In a moment, the man pulled out a file and looked at it. Chris waited impatiently.

The man walked past the window toward the front of the bank.

“What are you—?” Chris started.

“Just a moment, sir,” said the teller, politely.

Dazedly, Chris watched him walk away. What in God’s name was happening? For a second, he almost believed that he was dreaming, that this was a nightmare. It was too incredible to be real.

He saw the teller speak to Mr. Finder in front. Mr. Finder looked over at Chris and, smiling, gestured for him to come down to his desk. Chris couldn’t repress the groan. Clenching his teeth, he strode quickly along the counter and pushed at the gate with shaking fingers. It didn’t open.

“It’s locked,” he said, startled at the loudness of his voice.

The girl at a nearby desk looked up, startled; and gaped at him.

“Miss Grey,” called Mr. Finder. She glanced back and Mr. Finder nodded at her. She pushed a button and Chris went through. We’ll never see her again. Helen’s words echoed terribly in his mind.

“What is it?” he asked.