Chase

5

At six o'clock, Chase was sitting on the edge of his bed by the nightstand and telephone, sipping Jack Daniel's. He put the drink down, wiped his sweaty hands on his slacks, cleared his throat so that his voice wouldn't catch when he tried to speak.

At five minutes past six he began to feel uneasy. He thought of going downstairs to ask Mrs. Fielding what time her clocks showed, in the event that his own was not functioning properly. He refrained from doing so only because he was afraid of missing the call while downstairs.

At six-fifteen he washed his hands.

At six-thirty he went to the cupboard, took down his whiskey bottle of the day — which he'd barely touched — and poured a glassful. He did not put it away again. He read the label, which he had studied a hundred times before, then carried his drink back to the bed.

By seven o'clock he was feeling the liquor. He settled back against the headboard and finally considered what Fauvel had said: that there was no Judge, that he had been illusory, a psychological mechanism for rationalizing the gradual diminishment of Chase's guilt complex. He tried to think about that, to study the meaning of it, but he could not be sure if this was a good or a bad development.

In the bathroom, he drew a tub of warm water and tested it until it was just right. He folded a damp washcloth on the wide porcelain rim of the tub and placed his drink on that. The whiskey, the water, and the rising steam conspired to make him feel as though he were floating up into soft clouds. He leaned back until his head touched the wall, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about anything — especially blocking all thoughts of Judge and the Medal of Honor and the nine months that he had spent on active duty in Nam.

Unfortunately, he began to think of Louise Allenby, the girl whose life he had saved, and in his mind's eye he saw her small, trembling, bare breasts, which had looked so inviting in the weak light of the car in lovers' lane. The thought, though pleasant enough, was unfortunate because it contributed to his first erection in nearly a year. That development was perhaps desirable; he wasn't sure. But it seemed inappropriate, given the hideous circumstances in which he'd seen the girl half undressed. He was reminded of the blood in the car — and the blood reminded him of the reasons for his recent inability to function as a man. Those reasons were still so formidable that he couldn't face them alone. The erection was short-lived, and when it was gone, he wasn't certain if it indicated an eventual end to his psychological impotency or whether it had resulted only from the warm water.

He got out of the water when his whiskey glass was empty. He was toweling himself when the telephone rang.

The electric clock showed two minutes past eight.

Naked, he sat on the bed and answered the phone.

"Sorry I'm late," Judge said.

Dr. Fauvel had been wrong.

"I thought you weren't going to call," Chase said.

"I required a little more time than I'd expected to locate some information on you."

"What information?"

Judge ignored the question, intent on proceeding in his own fashion. "So you see a psychiatrist once a week, do you?"

Chase did not reply.

"That alone is fairly good proof that the accusation I made yesterday is true — that your disability pension is for mental, not physical, injuries."

Chase wished that he had a drink with him, but he could not ask Judge to hold on while he poured one. For reasons that he could not explain, he didn't want Judge to know that he drank heavily.

Chase said, "How did you find out?"

"Followed you this afternoon," Judge said.

"Bold."

"The righteous can afford to be bold."

"Of course."

Judge laughed as if delighted with himself. "I saw you going into the Kaine Building, and I got into the lobby fast enough to see which elevator you took and which floor you got off at. On the eighth floor, besides Dr. Fauvel's offices, there are two dentists and three insurance companies. It was simple enough to look in the waiting rooms of those other places and inquire after you, like a friend, with the secretaries and receptionists. I left the shrink's place for last, because I just knew that's where you were. When no one knew you in the other offices, I didn't have to risk glancing in Fauvel's waiting room. I knew."

Chase said, "So what?"

He hoped that he sounded more nonchalant than he felt, for it was somehow important to make the right impression on Judge. He was sweating again. He would need to take another bath by the time this conversation was concluded. And he would need a drink, a cold drink.

"As soon as I knew you were in the psychiatrist's office," Judge said, "I decided I had to obtain copies of his personal files on you. I remained in the building, out of sight in a maintenance closet, until all the offices were closed and the employees went home."

"I don't believe you," Chase said, aware of what was coming, dreading to hear it.

"You don't want to believe me, but you do." Judge took a long, slow breath before he continued: "The eighth floor was clear by six o'clock. By six-thirty I got the door open to Dr. Fauvel's suite. I know a little about such things, and I was very careful. I didn't damage the lock, and I didn't trip any alarms because there were none. I required an additional half an hour to locate his files and to secure your records, which I copied on his photocopier."

"Breaking and entering — then theft," Chase said.

"But it hardly matters on top of murder, does it?"

"You admit that what you've done is murder."

"No. Judgment. But the authorities don't understand. They call it murder. They're part of the problem. They're not good facilitators."

Chase said nothing.

"You'll receive in the mail, probably the day after tomorrow, complete copies of Dr. Fauvel's notes on you, along with copies of several articles he's written for various medical journals. You're mentioned in all these and are, in some of them, the sole subject of discussion. Not by name. 'Patient C,' he calls you. But it's clearly you."

Chase said, "I didn't know he'd done that."

"They're interesting articles, Chase. They'll give you some idea of what he thinks of you." Judge's tone changed, became more contemptuous. "Reading those records, Chase, I found more than enough to permit me to pass judgment on you."

"Oh?"

"I read all about how you got your Medal of Honor."

Chase waited.

"And I read about the tunnels and what you did in them — and how you failed to expose Lieutenant Zacharia when he destroyed the evidence and falsified the report. Do you think the Congress would have voted you the Medal of Honor if they knew you killed civilians, Chase?"

"Stop."

"You killed women, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"You killed women and children, Chase, noncombatants."

"I'm not sure if I killed anyone," Chase said more to himself than to Judge. "I pulled the trigger… but I was… firing wildly at the walls… I don't know."

"Noncombatants."

"You don't know what it was like."

"Children, Chase."

"You know nothing about me."

"You killed children. What kind of animal are you, Chase?"

"Fuck you!" Chase had come to his feet as if something had exploded close behind him. "What would you know about it? Were you ever over there, did you ever have to serve in that stinking country?"

"Some patriotic paean to duty won't change my mind, Chase. We all love this country, but most of us realize there are limits to-"

"Bullshit," Chase said.

He could not remember having been this angry in all the time since his breakdown. Now and then he had been irritated by something or someone, but he had never allowed himself to feel extremes of emotion.

"Chase-"

"I bet you were all for the war. I'll bet you're one of the people that made it possible for me to be there in the first place. It's easy to set standards of performance, select limits of right and wrong, when you never get closer than ten thousand miles to the place where it's all coming down."

Judge tried to speak, but Chase talked him down:

"I didn't even want to be there. I didn't believe in it, and I was scared shitless the whole time. All I thought about was staying alive. In that tunnel, I couldn't think of anything else. I wasn't me. I was a textbook case of paranoia, living in blind terror, just trying to get through."

He had never spoken about the experience so directly or at such length to anyone, not even to Fauvel, who had pried his story from him in single words and sentence fragments.

"You're eaten with guilt," Judge said.

"That doesn't matter."

"I think it does. It proves you know you did wrong and you-"

"It doesn't matter, because regardless of how guilty I feel, you haven't the right to pass judgment on me. You're sitting there with your little list of commandments, but you've never been anywhere that made a list seem pointless, anywhere that circumstances forced you to act in a way you loathed."

Chase was amazed to realize that he was crying. He had not cried in a long time.

"You're rationalizing," Judge began, trying to regain control of the conversation. "You're a despicable, murdering-"

Chase said, "You've not exactly followed that commandment yourself You killed Michael Karnes."

"There was a difference," Judge said. Some of the hoarseness had returned to his voice.

"Oh?"

"Yes," Judge said defensively. "I studied his situation carefully, collected evidence against him, and only then passed judgment. You didn't do any of that, Chase. You killed perfect strangers, and you very likely murdered innocents who had no black marks on their souls."

Chase hung up.

When the phone rang at four different times during the following hour, he was able to ignore it completely. His anger remained sharp, the strongest emotion that he had experienced in long months of near catatonia.

He drank three more glasses of whiskey before be began to feel mellow again. The tremors in his hands gradually subsided.

At ten o'clock he dialed the number of police headquarters and asked for Detective Wallace, who at that moment was out.

He tried again at ten-forty. This time Wallace was in and willing to speak to him.

"Nothing's going as well as we hoped," Wallace said. "This guy doesn't seem to have been printed. At least, he's not among the most obvious profile group of felons. We still might find him in another group — military files or something."

"What about the ring?"

"Turns out to be a cheap accessory that sells at under fifteen bucks retail in about every store in the state. Impossible to keep track of where and when and to whom a particular ring might have been sold."

Chase committed himself reluctantly. "Then I have something for you," he said. In a few short sentences, he told the detective about Judge's calls.

Wallace was angry, though he made an effort not to shout. "Why in the hell didn't you let us know about this before?"

"I thought, with the prints, you'd be sure to get him."

"prints hardly ever make a difference in a situation like this," Wallace said. There was still a bite in his voice, though it was softer now. He had evidently remembered that his informant was a war hero.

"Besides," Chase said, "the killer realized the chance of the line being tapped. He's been calling from pay phones and keeping the calls under five minutes."

"Just the same, I'd like to hear him. I'll be over with a man in fifteen minutes."

"Just one man?"

Wallace said, "We'll try not to upset your routine too much."

Chase almost laughed at that.

From his third-floor window, Chase watched for the police. He met them at the front door to avoid Mrs. Fielding's involvement.

Wallace introduced the plainclothes officer who came with him: James Tuppinger. Tuppinger was six inches taller than Wallace — and not drab-looking. He wore his blond hair in such a short crew cut that he appeared almost bald from a distance. His eyes were blue and moved from one object to another with the swift, penetrating glance of an accountant itemizing an inventory. He carried a large suitcase.

Mrs. Fielding watched from the living room, where she pretended to be engrossed in a television program, but she did not come out to see what was happening. Chase got the two men upstairs before she could learn who they were.

"Cozy little place you have," Wallace said.

"It's enough for me," Chase said.

Tuppinger's gaze flicked about, catching the unmade bed, the dirty whiskey glasses on the counter, and the half-empty bottle of liquor. He did not say anything. He took his suitcase full of tools to the phone, put it down, and began examining the lead-in wires that came through the wall near the base of the single window.

While Tuppinger worked, Wallace questioned Chase. "What did he sound like on the phone?"

"Hard to say."

"Old? Young?"

"In between."

"Accent?"

"No."

"Speech impediment?"

"No. Just hoarse — apparently from the struggle we had."

Wallace said, "Can you remember what he said, each time he called?"

"Approximately."

"Tell me." He slumped down in the only easy chair in the room and crossed his legs. He looked as if he had fallen asleep, though he was alert.

Chase told Wallace everything that he could remember about the strange conversations with Judge. The detective had a few questions that stirred a few additional details from Chase's memory.

"He sounds like a religious psychotic," Wallace said. "All this stuff about fornication and sin and passing judgments."

"Maybe. But I wouldn't look for him at tent meetings. I think it's more of a moral excuse to kill than a genuine belief "

"Maybe," Wallace said. "Then again, we get his sort every once in a while."

Jim Tuppinger finished his work. He outlined the workings of his listening and recording equipment and further explained the trace equipment that the telephone company would use to seek Judge when he called.

"Well," Wallace said, "tonight, for once, I intend to go home when my shift ends." Just the thought of eight hours' sleep made his lids droop over his weary, bloodshot eyes.

"One thing," Chase said.

"Yeah?"

"If this leads to something — do you have to tell the press about my part in it?"

"Why?" Wallace asked.

"It's just that I'm tired of being a celebrity, of having people bother me at all hours of the day and night."

"It has to come out in the trial, if we nab him," Wallace said.

"But not before?"

"I guess not."

"I'd appreciate it," Chase said. "In any case, I'll have to appear at the trial, won't I?"

"Probably."

"If the press didn't have to know until then, it would cut down on the news coverage by half."

"You really are modest, aren't you?" Wallace asked. Before Chase could respond to that, the detective smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and left.

"Would you like a drink?" Chase asked Tuppinger.

"Not on duty."

"Mind if I-?"

"No. Go ahead."

Chase noticed that Tuppinger watched him with interest as he got new ice cubes and poured a large dose of whiskey. It wasn't as large as usual. He supposed he'd have to restrain his thirst with the cop around.

When Chase sat on the bed, Tuppinger said, "I read all about your exploits over there."

"Oh?"

"Really something," Tuppinger said.

"Not really."

"Oh, yes, really," Tuppinger insisted. He was sitting in the easy chair, which he had moved close to his equipment. "It had to be hard over there, worse than anybody at home could ever know."

Chase nodded.

"I'd imagine the medals don't mean much. I mean, considering everything you had to go through to earn them, they must seem kind of insignificant."

Chase looked up from his drink, surprised at the insight. "You're right. They don't mean anything."

Tuppinger said, "And it must be hard to come back from a place like that and settle into a normal life. Memories couldn't fade that quickly."

Chase started to respond, then saw Tuppinger glance meaningfully at the glass of whiskey in his hand. He closed his mouth, bit off his response. Then, hating Tuppinger as badly as he hated Judge, he lifted the drink and took a large swallow.

He said, "I'll have another, I think. Sure you don't want one?"

"Positive," Tuppinger said.

When Chase returned to the bed with another glassful, Tuppinger cautioned him against answering the phone without first waiting for the tape to be started. Then he went into the bathroom, where he remained almost ten minutes.

When the cop returned, Chase asked, "How late do we have to stay up?"

"Has he ever called this late — except that first night?"

"No," Chase said.

"Then I'll turn in now," Tuppinger said, flopping in the easy chair. "See you in the morning."

In the morning, the whispers of the dead men woke Chase, but they proved to be nothing more than the sound of water running in the bathroom sink. Having risen first, Tuppinger was shaving.

When the cop opened the door and came into the main room of the tiny efficiency apartment a few minutes later, he looked refreshed. "All yours!" He seemed remarkably energetic for having spent the night in the armchair.

Chase took his time bathing and shaving, because the longer he remained in the bathroom, the less he would have to talk to the cop. When he was finally finished, it was quarter to ten. Judge had not yet called.

"What have you got for breakfast?" Tuppinger asked.

"Sorry. There isn't anything here."

"Oh, you've got to have something. Doesn't have to be breakfast food. I'm not particular in the morning. I'll eat a cheese sandwich as happily as bacon and eggs."

Chase opened the refrigerator and took out the bag of Winesap apples. "Only these."

Tuppinger stared at the apples and into the empty refrigerator. He glanced at the whiskey bottle on the counter. He didn't say anything.

"They'll do fine," Tuppinger said enthusiastically, taking the clear plastic bag of apples from Chase. "Want one?"

"No."

"You ought to eat breakfast," Tuppinger said. "Even something small. Gets the stomach working, sharpens you for the day ahead."

"No, thanks."

Tuppinger carefully peeled two apples, sectioned them, and ate them slowly, chewing well.

By ten-thirty Chase was worried. Suppose Judge did not call today? The idea of having Tuppinger here for the afternoon and the evening, of waking up again to the sound of Tuppinger in the bathroom shaving, was all but intolerable.

"Do you have a relief man?" Chase asked.

"Unless it gets too protracted," Tuppinger said, "I'll stick with it myself."

"How long might that be?"

"Oh," Tuppinger said, "if we don't have it wrapped up in forty-eight hours, I'll call in my relief."

Though another forty-eight hours with Tuppinger was in no way an attractive prospect, it was probably no worse — perhaps better than it would have been with another cop. Tuppinger was too observant for comfort, but he didn't talk much. Let him look. And let him think whatever he wanted to think. As long as he could keep his mouth shut, they wouldn't have any problems.

At noon Tuppinger ate two more apples and cajoled Chase into eating most of one. They decided that Chase would go for take-out fried chicken, fries, and slaw at dinnertime.

At twelve-thirty Chase had his first Jack Daniel's of the day.

Tuppinger watched, but he didn't say anything.

Chase didn't offer him a drink this time.

At three in the afternoon the telephone rang. Although this was what they had been waiting for since the night before, Chase didn't want to answer it. Because Tuppinger was there, urging him to pick it up while he adjusted his own earphones, he finally lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" His voice sounded cracked, strained.

"Mr. Chase?"

"Yes," he said, immediately recognizing the voice. It was not Judge.

"This is Miss Pringle, calling for Dr. Fauvel, to remind you of your appointment tomorrow at three. You have a fifty-minute session scheduled, as usual."

"Thank you." This double check was a strict routine with Miss Pringle, although Chase had forgotten about it.

"Tomorrow at three," she repeated, then hung up.

At ten minutes before five, Tuppinger complained of hunger and of a deep reluctance to consume a fifth Winesap apple.

Chase didn't object to an early dinner, accepted Tuppinger's money, and went out to buy the chicken, French fries, and slaw. He purchased a large Coca-Cola for Tuppinger but nothing for himself. He would drink his usual.

They ate at a quarter past five, without dinner conversation, watching an old movie on television.

Less than two hours later Wallace arrived, looking thoroughly weary although he had only come on duty at six. He said, "Mr. Chase, do you think I might have a word alone with Jim?"

"Sure," Chase said.

He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the water in the sink, which made a sound like dead men whispering. The noise put him on edge.

He lowered the lid of the commode and sat facing the empty tub, realizing that it needed to be scrubbed. He wondered if Tuppinger had noticed.

Less than five minutes passed before Wallace knocked on the door. "Sorry to push you out of your own place like that. Police business."

"We haven't been lucky, as Mr. Tuppinger probably told you."

Wallace nodded. He looked peculiarly sheepish, and for the first time he could not meet Chase's gaze. "I've heard."

"It's the longest he's gone without calling."

Wallace nodded. "It's possible, you know, that he won't be calling at all, any more."

"You mean, since he passed judgment on me?"

Chase saw that Tuppinger was disconnecting wires and packing his equipment into the suitcase.

Wallace said, "I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Chase. The killer has passed his judgment — or lost interest in you, one or the other — and he isn't going to try to contact you again. We don't want to keep a man tied up here."

"You're leaving?" Chase asked.

"Well, yeah, it seems best."

"But another few hours might-"

"Might produce nothing," Wallace said. "What we're going to do, Mr. Chase, is we're going to rely on you to tell us what Judge says if, as seems unlikely now, he should call again." He smiled at Chase.

In that smile was all the explanation that Chase required. He said, "When Tuppinger sent me out for dinner, he called you, didn't he?" Not waiting for a response, he went on: "And he told you about the call from Dr. Fauvel's secretary — the word 'session' probably alarmed him. And now you've talked to the good doctor."

Tuppinger finished packing the equipment. He hefted the case and looked quickly around the room to be sure that he had not left anything behind.

"Judge is real," Chase told Wallace.

"I'm sure that he is," Wallace said. "That's why I want you to report any calls he might make to you." But his tone was that of an adult humoring a child.

"You stupid bastard, he is real!"

Wallace flushed with anger. When he spoke, there was tension in his voice, and his controlled tone was achieved with obvious effort. "Mr. Chase, you saved the girl. You deserve to be praised for that. But the fact remains, no one has called here in nearly twenty-four hours. And if you believed such a man as Judge existed, you surely would've contacted us before this, when he first called. It would've been natural for you to rush to us — especially a duty — conscious young man like yourself. All these things, examined in the light of your psychiatric record and Dr. Fauvel's explanations, make it clear that the expenditure of one of our best men isn't required. Tuppinger has other duties."

Chase saw how overwhelmingly the evidence seemed to point to Fauvel's thesis, just as he saw how his own behavior hadn't helped him. His fondness for whiskey in front of Tuppinger. His inability to carry on a simple conversation. Worst of all, his anxiety about publicity might have appeared to be the insincere protestations of a man who, in fact, wanted attention. Still, with his fists balled at his sides, he said, "Get out."

"Take it easy, son," Wallace said.

"Get out right now."

Wallace looked around the room and let his attention come to rest on the bottle of whiskey. "Tuppinger tells me you haven't any food on hand, but that there are five bottles in that cupboard." He did not look at Chase. He seemed to be embarrassed by Tuppinger's obvious spying. "You look thirty pounds underweight, son."

"Get out," Chase repeated.

Wallace was not ready to leave yet. He was searching for some way to soften the accusation implicit in their departure. But then he sighed and said, "Son, no matter what happened to you over there in Vietnam, you aren't going to forget about it with whiskey."

Before Chase, infuriated at the homespun psychoanalysis, could order him out again, Wallace finally left with Jim Tuppinger at his heels.

Chase closed the door after them. Quietly.

He locked it.

He poured a drink.

He was alone again. But he was accustomed to being alone.