Pete Barnabee.
Radley stared at it, heart thudding in his chest. No. No, it couldn't be. Not Pete. Not the man—
Whom he'd hired only a couple of months ago. Without really knowing all that much about him...
"No wonder we've been losing money," he murmured to himself. Abruptly, he got to his feet. "Wait a minute," he cautioned himself even as he grabbed for his coat.
"Don't jump to any conclusions here, all right? Maybe he stole something from someone else, a long time ago."
"Fine," he answered tartly, unlocking the deadbolts with quick flicks of his wrist. "Maybe he did. There's still only one way to find out for sure."
There were more people on the streets now than there had been on his walk through the dinnertime calm the night before: people coming home from early-evening entertainment or just heading out for later-night versions.
Radley hardly noticed them as he strode back to the print shop, running the inventory lists through his mind as best he could while he walked. There were any number of small items—pens and paper and such—that he wouldn't particularly miss even if Pete had been pilfering them ever since starting work there.
Unfortunately, there were also some very expensive tools and machines that he could ill afford to lose.
And he'd already discovered that Thieves, Petty and Thieves, Grand were both included under the Thieves heading.
He reached the shop and let himself in the back door. The first part of the check was easy, and it took only a few minutes to confirm that the major machines were still there and still intact. The next part would be far more tedious. Digging the latest inventory list out of the files, he got to work.
It was after midnight when he finally put up the list with a sigh—a sigh that hissed both relief and annoyance into his ears. "See?" he told himself as he trudged back to the door. "Whatever Pete did, he did it somewhere else.
Unless," he amended, "he's just been stealing pencils and label stickers." But checking all of those would take hours... and for now, at least, he was far too tired to bother. "But I will check them out eventually," he decided. "I mean, I don't really care about stuff like that, but if he'll steal pencils, who's to say he won't back a truck up here someday and take all the copiers?"
It was a question that sent a shiver up his back. If that happened, he would be out of business. Period.
He headed toward home, the awful thought of it churning through his mind...
and, preoccupied with the defense of his property, he never even heard the mugger coming.
He just barely felt the crushing blow on the back of his head. He came to gradually, through a haze of throbbing pain, to find himself staring up at a soft pastel ceiling. The forcibly clean smell he'd always associated with hospitals curled his nostrils.... "Hello?" he called tentatively.
There was a moment of silence. Then, suddenly, there was a young woman leaning over him. "Ah—you're back with us," she said, peering into each of his eyes in turn. "I'm Doctor Sanderson. How do you feel?"
"My head hurts," Radley told her. "Otherwise... okay, I guess. What happened?"
"Best guess is that you were mugged," she told him. "Apparently by someone who doesn't like long conversations with his victims. You were lucky, as these things go: no concussion, no bone or nerve damage, only minor bleeding. You didn't even crack your chin when you fell."
Reflexively, Radley reached up to rub his chin. Bristly, but otherwise undamaged. "Can I go home?"
Sanderson nodded. "Sure. You'll have to call someone to get you, though—your friend didn't wait."
"Friend?" Radley frowned. The crinkling of forehead skin gave an extra throb to his headache.
"Fellow who brought you in. Black man—medium build, slightly balding. Carried you about five blocks to get you here—sweating pretty hard by that time, I'll tell you." She frowned in turn. "He told the E/R people you needed help—we just assumed he was a friend or neighbor or something."
Radley started to shake his head, thought better of it. "Doesn't sound like anyone I know," he said. "I certainly wasn't with anyone when it happened."
Sanderson shrugged slightly. "Good Samaritan, then. A vanishing breed, but you still get them sometimes. Anyway. Your shoes are under the gurney there; come on down to the nurses' station when you're ready and we'll run you through the paperwork."
He thought about calling Alison to come get him, but decided he didn't really want to wake her up at this time of night. Especially not when he'd have to explain why he'd been out so late.
With his wallet gone, he had no money for a cab, but a tired-eyed policeman who had brought in a pair of prostitutes gave him a lift home. What the blow on the head had started, the long trek up the steps to his apartment finished, and he barely made it to his bed before collapsing. His headache was mostly gone when he awoke. Along with most of the day.
"Yeah, I figured you were sick or something when you didn't show up this morning," Pete said when he called the print shop. "Didn't expect it was something like this, though. You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Radley assured him, a wave of renewed shame warming his face.
How could he ever have thought someone with Pete's loyalty would betray him?
"Let me shower and change and I'll come on down."
"You don't need to do that," Pete said. "Not hardly worth coming in now, anyway.
If I may say so, it don't sound to me like you oughta be running 'round yet, and I can handle things here okay." There was a faintly audible sniff/snort, and Radley could visualize the other man smiling. "And I really don't wanna have to carry you all the way home if you fall apart on me."
"There's that," Radley conceded. "I guess you're right. Well... I'll see you in the morning, then."
"Only if you feel like it. Really—I can handle things until you're well.
Oops—gotta go. A customer just came in."
"Okay. Bye."
He hung up and gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. Yes, Pete might have had to carry him home, at that. That little outing had sure gone sour.
As had his attempt to catch a murderer. And his attempt to solve a rape. And his attempt to stop an embezzlement.
In fact, everything the Book had given him had gone bad. One way or another, it had all gone bad.
"But it's truth," he gritted. "I mean, it is. How can truth be bad?"
He had no answer. With a sigh, he stood up from the kitchen chair. The sudden movement made his head throb, and he sat down again quickly. Yes, Pete might indeed have wound up carrying him.
Like someone else had already had to do.
Radley flushed with shame. In his mind's eye, he saw a medium-build black man, probably staggering under Radley's weight by the time he reached the hospital.
Quietly helping to clean up the mess Radley had made of himself.
"I wish they'd gotten his name," he muttered to himself. "I'll never get a chance to thank him."
He looked down at the Book... and a sudden thought struck him. If the Book contained the names of all the criminals in town, why not the names of all the Good Samaritans, too?
He opened to the Yellow Pages, feeling a renewed sense of excitement. Perhaps this, he realized suddenly, was what the Book was really for. Not a tool for tracking down and punishing the guilty, but a means of finding and rewarding the good. The G's... there they were. Ge, Gl, Go...
There was no Good Samaritans listing.
Nor was there an Altruists listing. Nor were there listings for benefactor, philanthropist, hero, or patriot. Or for good example, salt of the earth, angel, or saint.
There was nothing.
He thought about it for a long time. Then, with only a slight hesitation, he picked up the phone. Alison answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?"
"It's me," Radley told her. "Listen." He took a careful breath. "I know the difference now. You know—the difference between true and truth?"
"Yes?" she said, her voice wary.