The Box: Uncanny Stories Read Online Free Page B

hooked.
     
    G reg drained his glass and fell back heavily on the sofa arm, making a face. It was the last cheap whiskey he’d ever drink; from now on, it was exclusively the best. He turned his head to look at Carrie. She was standing by the window of their hotel living room, staring at the city. What the hell was she brooding about now? Likely, she was wondering where that blue convertible was. Momentarily, Greg wondered himself. Was it parked?—moving? He grinned drunkenly. It gave him a feeling of power to know something about that car that even its owner didn’t know: namely, that, in eight days, at two-sixteen on a Thursday afternoon, it would run down a little boy and kill him.
    He focused his eyes and glared at Carrie. “All right, say it,” he demanded. “Get it out.”
    She turned and looked at him imploringly. “Does it have to be so much?” she asked.
    He turned his face away from her and closed his eyes.
    “Greg, does it—”
    “
Yes
!” He drew in a shaking breath. God, would he be glad to get away from her!
    “What if they can’t pay?”
    “
Tough
.”
    The sound of her repressed sob set his teeth on edge. “Go in and lie down,” he told her.
    “Greg, he hasn’t got a chance!”
    He twisted around, face whitening. “Did he have a better chance before we came?” he snarled. “Use your head for once, God damn it! If it wasn’t for us, he’d be as good as dead already!”
    “Yes, but—”
    “I said go in and lie down!”
    “You haven’t seen the way it’s going to happen, Greg!”
    He shuddered violently, fighting back the urge to grab the whiskey bottle, leap at her and smash her head in. “
Get out of here
,” he muttered.
    She stumbled across the room, pressing the backof a hand against her lips. The bedroom door thumped shut and he heard her fall across the bed, sobbing. Damn wet-eye bitch! He gritted his teeth until his jaws hurt, then poured himself another inch of whiskey, grimacing as it burned its way into his stomach. They’ll come through, he told himself. Obviously, they had the money and, obviously, the woman had believed him. He nodded to himself. They’ll come through, all right. Ten thousand; his passport to another life. Expensive clothes. A class hotel. Good-looking women; maybe one of them for keeps. He kept nodding. One of these days, he thought.
    He was reaching for his glass when he heard the muffled sound of Carrie talking in the bedroom. For several moments, his outstretched hand hovered between the sofa and the table. Then, in an instant, he was on his feet, lunging for the bedroom door. He flung it open. Carrie jerked around, the phone receiver in her hand, her face a mask of dread. “Thursday, the fourteenth!” she blurted into the mouthpiece. “Two-sixteen in the afternoon!” She screamed as Greg wrenched the receiver from her hand and slammed his palm on the cradle, breaking the connection.
    He stood quivering before her, staring at her face with widened, maniac eyes. Slowly, Carrie raisedher hand to avert the blow. “Greg, please don’t—” she began.
    Fury deafened him. He couldn’t hear the heavy, thudding sound the earpiece made against her cheek as he slammed it across her face with all his might. She fell back with a strangled cry. “You bitch,” he gasped. “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!” He emphasized each repetition of the word with another savage blow across her face. He couldn’t see her clearly either; she kept wavering behind a film of blinding rage. Everything was finished! She’d blown the deal! The Big One was gone!
God damn it, I’ll kill you
! He wasn’t certain if the words exploded in his mind or if he was shouting them into her face.
    Abruptly, he became aware of the telephone receiver clutched in his aching hand; of Carrie lying, open-mouthed and staring on the bed, her features mashed and bloody. He lost his grip and heard, as if it were a hundred miles below, the receiver thumping on the floor. He stared at