Read Chase: Roman for Free Online

funny.
        After that was over, he found an old movie and let the dial set on it.
        The stack of glasses on the cupboard left no room for him to place his present glass when he was finished with it. He carried them into the bathroom and washed them in the sink with hot water and Ivory soap, dried them with a clean towel and returned them to the cupboard.
        Except for the phone call, he had the whole evening ahead of him.
        At six o'clock on the nose, the telephone rang.
        ‘Hello?’
        ‘Good evening, Chase,’ the killer said. His voice was still awful.
        Chase sat down on the bed.
        ‘How are you tonight?’
        ‘Okay,’ Chase said.
        ‘You know what I've been up to all day?’
        ‘Research.’
        ‘That's right.’
        ‘Tell me what you found,’ Chase said, as if all of it would be news to him even though he was the subject. And maybe it would be.
        ‘First of all, you were born here a little over twenty-four years ago on June 11, 1947, in Mercy Hospital. Your parents died in an automobile accident when you were eighteen. You went to school at State and graduated in a three-year accelerated programme, having majored in business administration. You did well in all subjects except a few required courses, chiefly Basic Physical Sciences, Biology I and II, Chemistry I and Basic Composition.’ The killer whispered on for three more long minutes, listing impersonal facts that Chase had thought ended with himself. But courthouse records, college files, newspaper morgues and half a dozen other sources had provided far more information about his life than the killer could have gleaned from the recent articles in the Press-Dispatch.
        ‘I think I've been on the line about five minutes,’ the killer said. ‘It's time I went to another booth. Is your phone tapped, Chase?’
        ‘No,’ Chase said.
        ‘Just the same, I'll hang up now and call you back in a few minutes.’ 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.