When he went outside, the mall parking lot was deserted but for the cars in front of the tavern. The stores had closed twenty minutes before.
The night air was sultry after the air-conditioned tavern. It seemed to press Chase to the blacktop, so each step that he took was flatfooted, loud, as though he were walking on a planet with greater gravity than that of earth.
As he was wiping sweat from his forehead, stepping around the front of the Mustang, he heard an engine roar behind him and was pinned by headlights. He didn’t turn to look, but vaulted out of the way and onto the hood of his car.
An instant later a Pontiac scraped noisily along the side of the Mustang. Showers of sparks briefly brightened the night, leaving behind a faint smell of hot metal and scorched paint. Although the car rocked hard when it was struck, Chase held fast by curling his fingers into the trough that housed the recessed windshield wipers. If he fell off, the Pontiac sure as hell would swing around or back up to run him down before he could scramble away again.
Chase stood on the hood of the Mustang and stared after the retreating Pontiac, trying to see the license number. Even if he had been close enough to read the dark numerals, he couldn’t have done so, because Judge had twisted a large piece of burlap sacking over the plate.
The Pontiac reached the exit lane from the mall lot, took the turn too hard, and appeared in danger of shooting across the sidewalk and striking one of the mercury arc lights. But then Judge regained control, accelerated, went through the amber traffic light at the intersection, and swung right onto the main highway toward the heart of the city. In seconds, the Pontiac passed over the brow of a hill and was out of sight.
Chase looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the short, violent confrontation. He was alone.
He got down from the hood and walked the length of the Mustang, examining the damage. The front fender was jammed back toward the driver’s door, though it hadn’t been crushed against the tire and wouldn’t prevent the car from being driven. The entire flank of the vehicle was scraped and crumpled. He doubted that there was any serious structural or mechanical damage – although the body work would cost several hundred bucks to repair.
He didn’t care. Money was the least of his worries.
He opened the driver’s door, which protested with only a thin shriek, sat behind the wheel, closed the door, opened his notebook, and reread his list. His hand trembled when he added the ninth, tenth, and eleventh items:
Third alias – Eric Blentz
Given to rash action in the face of previous failures
Pontiac, second car (stolen just to make the hit?)
He sat in the car, staring at the empty lot, until his hands stopped shaking. Weary, he drove home, wondering where Judge would be waiting for him the next time.
* * *
The telephone woke him Saturday morning.
Rising from a darkness full of accusatory corpses, Chase put a hand on the receiver – then realized who might be calling. Judge hadn’t phoned since early Wednesday night. He was overdue.
“Hello?”
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Fauvel here.”
It was the first time that Chase had ever heard the psychiatrist on the phone. Except during their office sessions, all communications were through Miss Pringle.
“What do you want?” Chase asked. The name had fully awakened him and chased off his lingering nightmares.
“I wondered why you hadn’t kept your Friday appointment.”
“Didn’t need it.”
Fauvel hesitated. Then: “Listen, if it was because I talked to the police so frankly, you must understand that I wasn’t violating a doctor-patient relationship. They weren’t accusing you of any crime, and I thought it was in your best interest to tell them the truth before they wasted more time on this Judge.”
Chase said nothing.
Fauvel said, “Should we get together this afternoon and talk about it, all of it?”
“No.”
“I think you would benefit from a session right now, Ben.”
“I’m not coming in again.”