"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?"