7 Steps to Midnight (28 page)

What in the name of God was going to happen at midnight?

And midnight
when
? Today? Tomorrow?

He shivered, refocusing his eyes to stare at the passing countryside. The only sound he heard was the rhythmic clacking of wheels on the railroad tracks.

He looked around the train car. It was not crowded with passengers; he counted nine. The car was modern, sterile in appearance, its seats hard, made of wood, metal and brown plastic. There were overhead luggage racks but he had the bag beside him on the seat, one hand holding on to it as though he feared someone might try to grab it from him.

He looked out through the window again. His throat felt terribly dry; he needed a drink. He drew in trembling breath.

In fleeing from the room, he’d tripped and almost fallen down the steep flight of steps, catching on to the banister at the last second. Maybe it would have been better if he’d fallen and been knocked unconscious, even—he genuinely felt it at the moment—been killed.

He shivered again, uncontrollably. How could that woman know he’d follow her into the courtyard? How did she know he’d go up to that room, see those words above the doorway? Who had put them there? And what had happened to the woman? God, who
was
the woman?

He closed his eyes. He’d tried, in vain, to shut down thinking since he’d boarded the train. It was impossible though. His brain kept spinning a web of unnerving fancies.

Had Veering been, in fact, not merely an annoying hitchhiker, but a harbinger of something truly awful? Had his wager been authentic and, in accepting it so offhandedly, had Chris plunged himself into its nightmarish consequences? What other explanation for these outlandish things happening to him but that the fabric of reality in his existence had been torn apart?

He grimaced scowlingly. And yet so much of it made perfect sense. The turbulence project, his replacement, his assisted flight to Europe, the perils he’d been exposed to—all of these seemed real and feasible, albeit terrifying.

It was the rest of it…

He was beginning to feel more odd with every passing day, his mind an increasing turmoil of anxieties. How long could he go on like this? Something had to snap finally; but when?

Maddeningly, a segment of equation floated through his mind like a bubble.
Fuck off!
he screamed at it. The bubble popped and vanished. He glared out at the field.

And saw—

He felt as though he’d just been plunged into a vat of ice water.

Far across the field stood the figure of a woman.

Wearing a pale white gown.

Chris felt tears of dread spring into his eyes.
I’m going mad
, he thought;
I really am
. It’s her, it’s Alexsandra. She wasn’t a real woman at all. She belonged in ancient Rome, yet there she was; standing in that field, watching the train.

Looking at him, he knew.

A sudden wave of nausea flooded his stomach and, lurching to his feet, he weaved along the aisle as quickly as he could, heading for the men’s washroom.
Don’t leave the bag!
a voice warned urgently, but he couldn’t stop.
God, don’t be occupied!
he thought as he neared the washroom door.

He slammed the door behind himself and locked it, turning just in time; the contents of his stomach burst from his mouth as
he bent over the toilet, bracing himself against the wall with one hand. A spasm of repeating nausea hit him and he bent over more, body jerking as he vomited.

As in a tear-blurred dream, he saw his new passport—he’d slipped it into his shirt pocket to make sure it was safe—drop into the toilet and out the hole through which he saw tracks rushing by, and disappear. “No!” he wheezed. Now he had no identity! He was nothing but a nameless body, throwing up his guts on a train to Lucerne, Switzerland. He
did
feel unreal now. It would not surprise him, if in straightening up, he cast no reflection in the mirror above the sink.

At last, his stomach felt empty and, taking in a deep breath, he stood, avoiding the sight of the mirror, turning on the faucet and washing off his lips, then face, with cold water, rinsing out his mouth.

At last he raised his eyes and stared at the reflection of his dripping features.
Thank God, I recognize myself
, he thought.
I’m still Chris Barton.

Or was he? When the train arrived at Lucerne, would Meehan and Nelson be there to apprehend him? Would his mother be there and his sister and Alexsandra and the man and woman from his house, all pointing at him and shouting, “
Arrest that man? He’s an impostor!
”?

His fingertips felt numb.
I’m really going
, he thought;
I’m falling apart.
He’d never been so disoriented in his life. Was that the wager at work? Was that what was happening? Step by step, was he losing touch with himself? In four more steps would he be undone completely? Was that what those words meant?

After a while, his pulse slowed down—he checked his wrist to make sure—and, opening the washroom door, he went out, half-expecting to see someone sitting in his seat, the dead agent from Montmartre maybe, that wouldn’t have surprised him.

The seat was still unoccupied. To his surprise, the bag was there as well, untouched. His smile was devoid of amusement, as he imagined the bag having turned into a sheep playing a violin; he wouldn’t have been surprised by that either. He would merely have sat down beside it and requested one chorus of “The Swan.”

He closed his eyes. All right, he thought; enough.
Enough.
He wasn’t going to go on like this. When he got to Lucerne, he was going to turn himself in; they’d probably arrest him for not having a passport anyway. Let the police take over, he thought. Whoever had chloroformed him must have been insane to expect him to deliver the ring to Lucerne. He felt uncomfortable with guilt about failing Alexsandra, but it was simply more than he could handle. Anyway,
was
there really an Alexsandra? Or had he been keeping company with a ghost?

He opened his button-down jacket pocket—You couldn’t keep the passport in there, could you, idiot?! he snapped at himself—and took out the tissue-wrapped ring.

He turned the ring over and over in his hands. If it wasn’t a ring from ancient Rome, it was certainly a perfect copy of one, he thought. He felt queasy handling it, considering what it might be—the ring of a dead woman. He wished that he
were
psychic so he could psychometrize it, maybe get some kind of answer to the dark enigma of her.

He looked more closely at the ring. There seemed to be a line around the top of it. Does it open? he thought. He tried to press his index fingernail into the line to see. At first, nothing happened. Abruptly, then, the ring top jumped up on a tiny hinge. There was something in a small receptacle inside. Chris lifted the ring and held it close to his eyes, trying to see what the something was.

A square of microfilm.

***

“
Lucerne!
” the conductor shouted.

Chris twitched so hard, the square of microfilm flew out of its receptacle and fluttered to his lap.

Hastily, he picked it up and put it back inside the ring, pressing down the top until it clicked shut.

Now what? he wondered.

Every time insanity seemed on the verge of claiming him, a touch of harsh reality brought him back.

This had nothing to do with Veering or the wager. This was factual.

Someone wanted him to bring this square of microfilm to Lucerne.

Was Alexsandra even involved? he thought. Or had that been just another lie, another ruse to get him here?

He sat motionless, watching the outskirts of the city drift by.

Microfilm.

So he was back to spies again. Agents. Military secrets. Something to do with his work? No way of knowing.

All he could be sure of was that he was not supposed to know about the microfilm.

But now he did.

Did that change things?

He’d have to wait and see.

At least there was a semblance of relief occurring now. All was not reality slippage—whatever that was. He looked at the city passing by.
Did
this change things? Should he alter his plan?

When the train stopped, he picked up the bag and walked along the aisle to the exit. Stepping down onto the platform, he followed the other passengers toward the station. He still didn’t have his passport, of course. They weren’t going to like that.

They didn’t.

When he reached the exit gate and told the uniformed man there that he’d dropped his passport into the toilet on the train, the man looked at him with obvious suspicion. “Into ze toilet,” he repeated dubiously.

“I was sick—throwing up,” Chris told him. “The passport was in this pocket.” He tapped the shirt pocket. “It slipped out and fell into the toilet, onto the tracks outside. There was nothing I could do, it happened so fast.”

The man nodded, hooded eyes regarding Chris balefully. “You have other identification?” he asked.

“No, I don’t; I’m sorry,” Chris answered.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

Chris wondered what name he should give the man. If the passport was somehow found, he’d have to be Wallace Brewster. If he said he was Chris Barton, he’d be in even deeper trouble
then. Not even considering the fact that a number of people might be on the lookout for Chris Barton.

“Well?” the man asked impatiently.

“Wallace Brewster,” Chris said.

“Well, Mr. Brewster, I’m sorry but I can’t let you into Switzerland with no identification.” The man raised his arm and signaled to someone.

Chris looked to that direction, tensing as he saw a policeman approaching. Now’s the time, he told himself. Tell the policeman the truth and end this goddamn rollercoaster ride. Whatever else might happen, he would at least be able to enjoy the relief of surrendering responsibility. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t at all sure he was up to any further responsibility for himself.

The railroad official said something in German to the policeman. Oh, that’s right, Chris thought; there
is
no Swiss language—they speak German, French or Italian.
So what?
his mind retorted. What difference does that make?

“You are American?” the policeman asked. He sounded to Chris like some actor portraying a Nazi officer in a World War II movie.

“Yes,” Chris said.

“I will have to take you to the police station for a while,” the policeman said, pronouncing his
w
’s like
v
’s, his
v
like an
f
, his
th
like
z
. Chris nodded at him. “Fine,” he said. This really was the time to end it. When they started questioning him, he’d lay it all out—tell them who he really was and what had been happening to him. He’d ask for their assistance.

“We should be able to discover some way of establishing your identification so that you can proceed with your trip,” the policeman reassured him. He sounded kind, immediately undoing the Nazi image.

“Thank you.” Chris nodded again.
That’s what I want, all right
, he thought;
to proceed with my wonderful trip
.

“So,” the policeman said, pronouncing it “
Zo.
” He gestured toward the station exit.

Chris walked beside him across the waiting room. He was
beginning to suffer an increasing sense of guilt now. What if he was wrong about Alexsandra? At this moment, his notions about her seemed infantile. She was a real woman, for God’s sake; he’d held her in his arms, kissed her. She might be in real danger if he didn’t deliver the ring.

He frowned. Deliver it to
whom
? he thought.
A man will meet you there
, the voice on the cassette had told him. What man? Was he watching Chris at this very moment being led away by a policeman? Why in God’s name had they given him the ring with the microfilm in it anyway?
Because no one would stop you
, the answer came;
you could carry the ring into Switzerland without questioning
.

He made a scornful snorting noise that made the policeman glance at him. Well, he
had
been stopped and he was on his way to being questioned right now. So much for their dandy plan, if that’s what it had been.

“There is nothing at all in your bag which might identify you?” the policeman asked.

“No.” Chris shook his head.

“How are you traveling then?” the policeman asked. “You have no credit cards?”

“Only cash,” Chris answered.

“That is very risky,” the policeman said. “I find it odd that you would do that.”

Not as odd as the story you’re going to be hearing soon
, Chris thought.

“What do you have in the bag then?” the policeman asked.

Thank God I don’t have a
gun
anymore
, Chris thought with sudden relief. “Clothes,” he said. “A toilet kit. Some medication.”

“You are ill?”

“Hypertension,” Chris replied.

“Oh, yes.” The policeman nodded again. “What sort of work are you in?”

Subtle police interrogation? Chris wondered. He thrust aside the thought. What the hell, he might as well get started on the truth, he decided. “I’m a mathematician.”

“
Are
you?” the policeman said as they left the station and
walked out onto the sidewalk. He sounded impressed. “What sort of mathematics? You teach?”

He
is
interrogating me
, Christ thought;
he’s suspicious.
He hesitated, then, once again, decided that he’d do better to stick to the truth. “No, I work for the government,” he said.

“Ah.
Of your
country?” the policeman asked.

“Of course.”

“What sort of work?”

Chris tried to repress the irritation he was beginning to feel. “I’m not permitted to discuss that,” he answered.

“Ah-
ha
.” The policeman sounded impressed again. “Military secrets?”

Chris tried not to smile. “Something like that,” he answered.

“Interesting.” The policeman kept nodding. “That is very interesting.”