He had weathered the uproar, granting as few interviews as possible, talking is monosyllables on the phone. The only thing for which he had been required to leave his room was the banquet, and he had been able to cope with that only because he knew that once it was over, he could return to his attic apartment and resume the uneventful life that had been wrenched from him.
The incident in lovers’ lane had changed his plans, postponed a return to stability. The papers would carry the Medal of Honor story again, with pictures, along with the report of his latest act of foolish interference. There would be more calls, congratulations, interviewers to be turned down.
Then it would die out. In a week or two – if he could tolerate the spotlight that long – things would be as they had once been, quiet and manageable.
He took another swallow of whiskey. It tasted better than it had a short while ago.
There were limits to what he could endure. Two more weeks of newspaper stories, phone calls, job offers, and marriage proposals would take him to the end of his meager resources. During that same time, if he had to share his room with an officer of the law and be followed everywhere he went, he would not hold up.
Already he felt the same vague emptiness arising in him that had filled him so completely in the hospital. It was that profound lack of purpose that he must stave off at all costs. Even if it meant withholding information from the authorities.
He wouldn’t tell the police about the call.
He drank more Jack Daniel’s.
Good people down there in Tennessee, distilling Jack Daniel’s for the solace of the world. Good product. Better than fame or praise or love. And cheaper.
He went to the cupboard and refreshed the glass with another two ounces from the dark bottle.
He worried that he was keeping a lead from the police, but the cops were clever. They would find the man without Chase’s assistance. They would find fingerprints on the door handle of the Chevrolet and on the murder weapon. He knew that they had already issued a statement to the effect that the killer would be suffering from a badly bruised throat and resultant laryngitis.
What Chase was keeping from them would do little to speed up their efficient law-enforcement machine.
He knew he was lying to himself.
It wasn’t the first time.
He finished his drink. It went down quickly, smoothly.
He poured more whiskey, returned to bed, slid beneath the covers, and stared at the blank eye of the television.
In a few days everything would be back to normal. As normal as this world could ever be. He could settle into old routines, living comfortably on his disability pension and the moderate inheritance from his parents’ estate.
He had no need to get a job or to talk to anyone or to make decisions. His only task was to consume enough whiskey to be able to sleep despite the nightmares.
He wasn’t lonely: He communed with Jack Daniel’s.
He watched the blank television.
Sometimes he felt that the TV was watching him too.
Time passed. It always did.
He slept.
3
CHASE ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, FRIGHTENED AWAKE BY DEAD men talking to him through mouths full of graveyard soil. After that the day deteriorated.
His mistake was in trying to go on with his day as if the events of the previous night had never happened. He rose, bathed, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs to see if there was any mail on the hall table. There was none, but Mrs. Fielding heard him and hurried out of the perpetually gloomy living room to show him the first edition of the Press-Dispatch. His picture was on the front page: He was turning toward Louise Allenby as she got out of a squad car. The girl appeared to be crying, gripping his arm with one hand, looking far more grief stricken than she had actually been.
“I’m so proud of you,” Mrs. Fielding said.
She sounded as though she were his mother. Indeed, she was old enough for the post – though whatever mothering instinct she showed always seemed strained and false. Her hair was tightly curled and bleached blond. The excessive rouge and bright lipstick made her seem older than she actually was.