Strange Highways

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