Chase: Roman

The line went dead, hissing in Chase's ear like a snake.
        Five minutes later the killer called again.
        ‘What I gave you before was just so much dry grass, Chase. But let me add a few more things and do some speculating; let's see if I can add a match to that dry grass.’
        ‘What do you mean?’ Chase asked.
        ‘For one thing,’ the man said, ‘you inherited a lot of money, but you haven't spent much of it. Thirty thousand after taxes, but you live frugally.’
        ‘How would you know that?’
        ‘I drove by your house today and discovered you live in a furnished apartment on the third floor. When I saw you coming home, it was apparent that you don't sink much into a nice wardrobe. Until you won your Mustang through bravery, 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,’ Chase said hotly. He was suddenly more terrified of this stranger than of all the dead men in his nightmares. He was beginning to feel like a subject on exhibition, housed in a glass cage, all the faces in the world pressed against the walls, peering in.
        The man laughed. ‘I can hardly stop. Remember the necessity to evaluate your moral content before passing judgment, Mr Chase.’
        Chase hung up this time. The fact that he had taken the initiative cheered him considerably. When it began to ring again, he summoned up the will not to answer it. After thirty rings, it stopped. When it rang again, ten minutes later, however, he picked it up and said hello.
        The killer was furious, straining his ruined throat to the limit. ‘If you ever do that again, you rotten son of a bitch, you'll be sorry! It won't be a clean kill. I'll see to that. Do you understand me?’
        ‘Yes,’ Chase said, feeling ill.
        The stranger calmed at once. ‘Something else, Mr Chase. That “wounded in action” bit excites me. You don't appear disabled enough to deserve a pension, and you more than held your own in our fight. That gives me ideas. It makes me think your wounds aren't physical at all.’
        Chase said, ‘Oh?’ His heart was beating too fast and his mouth had gone dry.
        ‘I think you had psychological problems that put you in that army hospital and got you a discharge.’ He waited.
        ‘You're wrong,’ Chase said.
        ‘Maybe, maybe not. I'll have to take more time to check into it, that's all. Well, rest easy tonight, Mr Chase. You're not scheduled to die yet.’
        ‘Wait!’ Chase said.
        ‘Yes?’
        ‘I have to have a name for you. I can't go on thinking of you in totally abstract terms like “the man” and “the stranger” and “the killer.” Do you see how that is?’
        ‘Yes,’ the man admitted.
        ‘A name?’
        He considered a moment, then said, ‘You can call me Judge.’
        ‘Judge?’
        ‘Yes, as in “Judge, jury and executioner,” Mr Chase.’ He laughed until he coughed, then hung up, like a prankster.
        Chase went to the refrigerator and got an apple. He carried it to the table and put it down on a napkin, went to get a paring knife from the utilities drawer. He peeled the apple and cut it into eight sections, chewing each one thoroughly. He supposed it was not much of a supper, but then there were a lot of energy-giving calories in a glass of whiskey. He poured himself a few ounces over ice, for dessert.
        He washed his hands, which had become sticky with apple juice.
        With another drink, he went to the bed and sat down, staring through the movie on the television screen. He tried not to think about anything except the routines he was used to, the things he relied on. Breakfast at Woolworth's, paperback reading material, liquor purchases. Old movies on television, the twenty-eight thousand dollars in the savings account, his pension cheque, the wonderful bottle a day. Those things were what counted, what gave life its substance. Anything else was misleading, dross that had no place in his scheme of things.
        Again he refrained from calling the police.
        

    Three
        
        The nightmares were so bad that Chase slept fitfully, waking repeatedly at the penultimate moment of horror, redreaming the tight circle of dead men and the silent harangue that they directed against him