Read Chase: Roman for Free Online Page A

‘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 as they closed in with their hands outstretched…
        He rose early, abandoning any hope of rest, bathed and shaved, sat down at the table and peeled an apple for breakfast. He did not want to face the regular customers at Woolworth's counter now that he was something more than just another face to them, yet he could not think of another place where he could go unrecognized. The apple was not much on which to start the day. He decided that he would have to go out for lunch if he could remember the name of a restaurant where one could have some degree of privacy.
        After lunch, of course, he could survive on Jack Daniel's quite nicely.
        The time was 9:35 in the morning.
        It was much too early to begin drinking, for he would only make himself ill hitting a bottle already. After lunch. But what could he do with the long hours between now and noon? He turned on the television but couldn't find any old movies, turned it off. He had read what books there were in the room.
        At last, with nothing to do, he began to recall the details of the nightmare that had wakened him, and he knew that was no good. He picked up the phone; for the second time he placed a call, working the unfamiliar dial clumsily.
        It rang three times before a pert young woman answered. She said. ‘Dr Cauvel's office, Miss Pringle speaking, can I help you?’
        Chase said, ‘I'd like to see the doctor.’
        ‘Are you a regular patient?’
        ‘Yes.