Chase Read online

  "I drove by your house today and discovered that you live in a furnished apartment on the third floor. When I saw you coming home, it was apparent that you don't spend much on clothes. Until that pretty new Mustang, you didn't have a car. It follows, then, that you must have a great deal of your inheritance left, what with the monthly disability pension from the government to pay most or all of your bills."

  "I want you to stop checking on me."

  The man laughed. "Can't stop. Remember the necessity to evaluate your moral content before passing judgment, Mr. Chase."

  Chase hung up this time. Having taken the initiative cheered him a little. When the phone began to ring again, he summoned the will not to answer it. After thirty rings, it stopped.

  When the ringing began again, ten minutes later, he finally picked it up and said hello.

  The killer was furious, straining his damaged throat to the limit. "If you ever do that to me again, then I'll make sure it isn't a quick, clean kill. I'll see to that. You understand me?"

  Chase was silent.

  "Mr. Chase?" A beat. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Wish I knew," Chase said.

  The stranger decided to let his anger go, and he fell into his previous tone of forced irony: "That 'wounded in action' bit excites me, Mr. Chase. That part of your biography. Because you don't appear disabled enough to deserve a pension, and you more than held your own in our fight. That gives me ideas, makes me think your most serious wounds aren't physical at all."

  "Whose are?"

  "I think you had psychological problems that put you in that army hospital and got you a discharge."

  Chase said nothing.

  "And you tell me that I need counseling. I'll have to take more time to check in to this. Very interesting. Well, rest easy tonight, Mr. Chase. You're not scheduled to die yet."

  "Wait."

  "Yes?"

  "I have to have a name for you. I can't go on thinking of you in totally impersonal terms like 'the man' and 'the stranger' and 'the killer.' Do you see how that is?"

  "Yes," the man admitted.

  "A name?"

  He considered. Then he said, "You can call me Judge."

  "Judge?"

  "Yes, as in 'judge, jury, and executioner.'" He laughed until he coughed, and then he hung up as if he were just an anonymous prankster who had phoned to ask if Chase had Prince Albert in a can.

  Chase went to the refrigerator and got an apple. He peeled it and cut it into eight sections, chewing each thoroughly. It wasn't much of a dinner. But there were a lot of energy-giving calories in a glass of whiskey, so he poured a few ounces over ice, for dessert.

  He washed his hands, which had become sticky with apple juice.

  He would have washed them even if they hadn't been sticky. He washed his hands frequently. Ever since Nam. Sometimes he washed them so often in a single day that they became red and chapped.

  With another drink, he went to the bed and watched a movie on TV. He tried not to think about anything except the satisfying daily routines to which he was accustomed: breakfast at Woolworth's, paperback novels, old movies on television, the forty thousand of go-to-hell money in his savings account, his pension check, and the good folks in Tennessee who made Jack Daniel's. Those were the things that counted, that made his small world satisfying and safe.

  Again, he refrained from calling the police.

  4

  The nightmares were so bad that Chase slept fitfully, waking repeatedly at the penultimate moment of horror, as he was surrounded by the tight circle of dead men, as their silent accusations began, as they closed in on him with their hands outstretched.

  He rose early, abandoning any hope of rest. He bathed, shaved, and washed his hands with special attention to the dirt under his fingernails.

  He sat at the table and peeled an apple for breakfast. He did not want to face the regular customers at Woolworth's lunch counter now that he was more than just another face to them, yet he couldn't think of any place where he might go unrecognized.

  It was nine-thirty-five, much too early to begin drinking. He observed few rules, but never drinking before lunch was one of them. He seldom broke that one. Afternoons and evenings were for drinking. Mornings were for remorse, regret, and silent repentance.

  But what could he do with the long hours until noon? Filling time without drinking was increasingly difficult.

  He turned on the television but couldn't find any old movies. Turned it off.

  At last, with nothing to do, he began to recall the details of the nightmare that had awakened him, and that was no good. That was dangerous.

  He picked up the phone and placed another call.

  It rang three times before a pert young woman answered. She said, "Dr. Fauvel's office, Miss Pringle speaking, can I help you?"

  Chase said, "I'd like to see the doctor."

  "Are you a regular patient?"

  "Yes. My name's Ben Chase."

  "Oh, yes!" Miss Pringle gasped, as though it was a small joy to be hearing from him. "Good morning, Mr. Chase." She rattled the pages of an appointment book. "Your regularly scheduled visit is this Friday afternoon at three."

  "I have to see Dr. Fauvel before that."

  "Tomorrow morning we have half an hour-"

  Chase interrupted her. "Today."

  "I beg your pardon?" Miss Pringle's pleasure at hearing his voice seemed to have diminished appreciably.

  "I want an appointment today," Chase repeated.

  Miss Pringle informed him of the heavy workload that the doctor carried and of the numerous extra hours in each day that the doctor required to study case histories of new patients.

  "Please call Dr. Fauvel himself," Chase said, "and see if he can find time for me."

  "Dr. Fauvel is in the middle of an appointment-"

  "I'll hold."

  "But it's impossible to-"

  "I'll wait."

  With a sigh of exasperation, she put him on hold. A minute later, chagrined, Miss Pringle returned to the phone to tell Chase that he had an appointment at four o'clock this afternoon. Clearly, she was perturbed that the rules should be broken for him. She must have known that the government paid the tab and that Fauvel received less compensation than he would have received from one of the wealthy neurotics on his patient list.

  If one had to be psychologically disturbed, it helped to have a unique disturbance that intrigued the doctor — and a measure of fame or infamy to ensure special treatment.

  * * *

  At eleven-thirty, while Chase was dressing to go out for lunch, Judge called again. His voice sounded better, although still far from normal. "How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Chase?"

  Chase waited.

  "Be expecting a call at six this evening," Judge said.

  "From whom?"

  "Very funny. At six o'clock sharp, Mr. Chase." Judge spoke with the smooth authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "I will have several interesting points to discuss with you, I'm sure. Have a good day now."

  * * *

  The inner office of Fauvel's suite on the eighth floor of the Kaine Building, in the center of the city, did not resemble the standard psychiatrist's therapy room as portrayed in countless films and books. For one thing, it was not small and intimate, not at all reminiscent of the womb. It was a pleasantly large space, perhaps thirty feet by thirty-five, with a high shadow-shrouded ceiling. Two walls held bookshelves floor to ceiling; one wall was dressed with paintings of tranquil country scenes, and the fourth was all windows. The bookshelves contained a handful of expensively bound volumes — and perhaps three hundred glass dogs, none larger than the palm of a man's hand and most a good deal smaller. Collecting glass dogs was Dr. Fauvel's hobby.

  Just as the decor of the room — battered desk, heavily padded armchairs, foot-scarred coffee table — didn't match its function, Dr. Fauvel was unlike any stereotypical image of a psychiatrist, whether by intent or by nature. He was a small but solidly built man,
athletic-looking, with hair that spilled over his collar in a manner that suggested carelessness rather than style. He always always wore a blue suit cut too long in the trousers and in need of a hot iron.

  "Sit down, Ben," Fauvel said. "Like something to drink — coffee, tea, a Coke?"

  "No, thank you," Chase said.

  No couch was provided. The doctor did not believe in pampering his patients. Chase sat in an armchair.

  Fauvel settled into the chair to Chase's right and propped his feet on the coffee table. He urged Chase to follow suit. When they were in a pose of relaxation, he said, "No preliminaries, then?"

  "Not today," Chase said.

  "You're tense, Ben."

  "Yes."

  "Something's happened."

  "Yes."

  "But that's life. Something always happens. We don't live in stasis, frozen in amber."

  "This is more than the usual something," Chase said.

  "Tell me about it."

  Chase was silent.

  "You came here to tell me, didn't you?" Fauvel urged.

  "Yeah. But…. talking about a problem sometimes makes it worse." "That's never true."

  "Maybe not for you."

  "Not for anyone."

  "To talk about it, I have to think about it, and thinking about it makes me nervous. I like things calm. Still and calm."

  "Want to play some word association?"

  Chase hesitated, then nodded, dreading the game that they often used to loosen his tongue. He frequently exposed more of himself in his answers than he wished to reveal. And Fauvel did not play the game according to established rules, but with a swift and vicious directness that cut to the heart of the matter. Nevertheless, Chase said, "Go on."

  Fauvel said, "Mother."

  "Dead."

  "Father."

  "Dead."

  Fauvel steepled his fingers as if he were a child playing the see-the-church game. "Love."

  "Woman."

  "Love."

  "Woman," Chase repeated.

  Fauvel did not look at him but stared studiously at the blue glass terrier on the bookshelf nearest him. "Don't repeat yourself, please."

  Chase apologized, aware that it was expected. The first time that Fauvel had expected an apology in these circumstances, Chase had been surprised. They were therapist and patient, after all, and it seemed odd for the therapist to foster a dependent relationship in which the patient was encouraged to feel guilty for evasive answers. Session by session, however, he was less surprised at anything that Fauvel might suggest.

  The doctor again said, "Love."

  "Woman."

  "Love. "

  "Woman."

  "I asked you not to repeat yourself."

  "I'm not a latent homosexual, if that's what you're after."

  Fauvel said, "But the simple 'woman' is an evasion."

  "Everything is an evasion."

  That observation appeared to surprise the doctor, but not enough to jar him out of the stubborn, wearying routine that he had begun. "Yes, everything is an evasion. But in this case it's an egregious evasion, because there is no woman. You won't allow one into your life. So, more honesty, if you will. Love."

  Already Chase was perspiring, and he did not know why.

  "Love," Fauvel insisted.

  "Is a many splendored thing."

  "Unacceptable childishness."

  "Sorry."

  "Love."

  Chase finally said, "Myself."

  "But that's a lie, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Because you don't love yourself "

  "No."

  "Very good," Fauvel said. Now the interchange of words went faster, one barked close after the other, as if speed counted in the scoring. Fauvel said, "Hate."

  "You."

  "Funny."

  "Thanks."

  "Hate."

  "Self-destructive."

  "Another evasion. Hate."

  "Army."

  "Hate."

  "Vietnam."

  "Hate."

  "Guns."

  "Hate."

  "Zacharia," Chase said, although he had often sworn never to mention that name again or to remember the man attached to it or, indeed, to recall the events that the man had perpetrated.

  "Hate," Fauvel persisted.

  "Another word, please."

  "No. Hate."

  "Lieutenant Zacharia."

  "It goes deeper than Zacharia."

  "I know."

  "Hate."

  "Me," Chase said.

  "And that's the truth, isn't it?"

  "Yes." After a silence, the doctor said, "Okay, let's back up from you to Zacharia. Do you remember what Lieutenant Zacharia ordered you to do, Benjamin?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What were those orders?"

  "We'd sealed off two back entrances to a Cong tunnel system."

  "And?"

  "Lieutenant Zacharia ordered me to clear the last entrance."

  "How did you accomplish that?"

  "With a grenade, sir."

  "And?"

  "And then before the air around the tunnel face could clear, I went forward."

  "And?"

  "And used a machine gun."

  "Good."

  "Not so good, sir."

  "Good that you can at least talk about it."

  Chase was silent.

  "What happened then, Benjamin?"

  "Then we went down, sir."

  "We?"

  "Lieutenant Zacharia, Sergeant Coombs, Privates Halsey and Wade, a couple of other men."

  "And you."

  "Yeah. Me."

  "Then?"

  "In the tunnel, we found four dead men and parts of men lying in the foyer of the complex. Lieutenant Zacharia ordered a cautious advance. A hundred fifty yards along, we came to a bamboo gate."

  "Blocking the way.

  "Yeah. Villagers behind it."

  "Tell me about the villagers."

  "Mostly women."

  "How many women, Ben?"

  "Maybe twenty."

  "Children?" Fauvel asked.

  Silence was a refuge.

  "Were there children?"

  Chase sank down in the heavy padding of the armchair, shoulders drawn up as if he wished to hide between them. "A few."

  "They were imprisoned there?"

  "No. The bamboo was an obstacle. The Cong tunnels ran a lot deeper than that, a lot farther. We hadn't even reached the weapons cache. The villagers were assisting the Vietcong, collaborating with them, obstructing us."

  "Do you think they were forced to obstruct you, forced by the Vietcong… or were they willing agents of the enemy?"

  Chase was silent.

  "I'm waiting for an answer," Fauvel said sternly.

  Chase didn't reply.

  "You are waiting for an answer," Fauvel told him, "whether you realize it or not. Were these villagers being forced to obstruct your advance, forced at gunpoint by the Cong in the tunnels behind them, or were they there at their own choice?"

  "Hard to say."

  "Is it?"

  "Hard for me, anyway."

  "In those situations you could never be sure."

  "Right."

  "They might have been collaborationists — or they might have been innocent."

  "Right."

  "Okay. Then what happened?"

  "We tried to open the gate, but the women were holding it shut with a system of ropes."

  "Women."

  "They used women as a shield. Or sometimes the women were the worst killers of all, cut you down with a smile."

  "So you ordered them out of the way?" Fauvel asked.

  "They wouldn't move. The lieutenant said it might be a trap designed to contain us at that point, delay us long enough for the Cong to somehow get behind us."

  "Could that have been true?"

  "Could have been."

  "Likely?"

  "Yes."

  "Go on."

&
nbsp; "It was dark. There was a smell in that tunnel I can't explain, made up of sweat and urine and rotting vegetables, as heavy as if it had substance. Lieutenant Zacharia ordered us to open fire and clear the way."

  "Did you comply?"

  Chase was silent.

  "Did you comply?"

  "Not immediately."

  "But eventually?"

  "The stench… the darkness…"

  "You complied."

  "So claustrophobic down there, Cong probably coming around behind us through a secret tunnel."

  "So you complied with the order?"

  "Yes."

  "You personally — or the squad?"

  "The squad and me. Everyone did."

  "You shot them."

  "Cleared the way."

  "Shot them."

  "We could have died there."

  "Shot them."

  "Yeah."

  Fauvel gave him a rest. Half a minute. Then: "Later, when the tunnel had been cleared, searched, the weapons cache destroyed, then you ran into the ambush that earned you the Medal of Honor."

  "Yes. That was above ground."

  Fauvel said, "You crawled across the field of fire for nearly two hundred yards and brought back a wounded sergeant named Coombs."

  "Samuel Coombs."

  "You received two minor but painful wounds in the thigh and calf of your right leg, but you didn't stop crawling until you had reached shelter. Then you secured Coombs behind a stand of scrub, and having reached a point on the enemy's flank by means of your heroic crossing of the open field — what happened?"

  "I killed some of the bastards."

  "Enemy soldiers."

  "Yeah."

  "How many?"

  "Eighteen."

  "Eighteen Vietcong soldiers?"

  "Yeah."

  "So you not only saved Sergeant Coombs's life but contributed substantially to the well-being of your entire unit." He had only slightly paraphrased the wording on the scroll that Chase had received in the mail from the president himself.

  Chase said nothing.

  "You see where this heroism came from, Ben?"

  "We've talked about it before."

  "So you know the answer."

  "It came from guilt."

  "That's right."

  "Because I wanted to die. Subconsciously wanted to be killed, so I rushed onto the field of fire, hoping to be shot down."

  "Do you believe that analysis, or do you think maybe it's just something I made up to degrade your medal?"

  Chase said, "I believe it. I never wanted the medal in the first place."