Pawn’s Gambit (26 page)

Alison shrugged. “They make thousands of different kinds of plastics these days—”

“All right then, look here.” He cut her off, lifting up the end of the phone book. “Here—at the binding. I'm a printer—I
know
how binding is done. These pages haven't just been slipped in somehow—they were bound in at the same time as all the others. How would someone have done
that
?”

“It's a joke, Radley,” Alison insisted. “It has to be. All the phone books can't have— Well, look, it's easy enough to check. Let me go downstairs and get mine while you get the salad going.”

Her apartment was just two floors down, and he'd barely gotten the vegetables out of the fridge and lined them up on the counter by the time she'd returned. “Okay, here we go,” she said, sitting down at the table again and opening her copy of the phone book. “Prostitutes . . . nope, not here. Embezzlers … nope. Murderers … still nope.” She offered it to him.

He took it and gave it a quick inspection of his own. She was right; none of the strange headings seemed to be there. “But how could anyone have gotten the extra pages bound in?” he demanded putting it down and gesturing to his copy. “I mean, all you have to do is just look at the binding.”

“I know.” Alison shook her head, running a finger thoughtfully across the lower edge of the binding. “Well … I
said
it was overly elaborate. Maybe someone who knows you works where they print these things, and he got hold of the orig—oh, my
God
!”

Radley jumped a foot backwards, about half the distance Alison and her chair traveled. “What?” he snapped, eyes darting all around.

She was panting, her breath coming in short, hyperventilating gasps. “The … the page. The listing …”

Radley dropped his eyes to the phone book. Nothing looked any different. “What? What'd you see?”

“The murderer listing,” she whispered. “I was looking at it and … and it got longer.”

He stared at the page, a cold hand working its way down his windpipe. “What do you mean, it got longer?” he asked carefully. “You mean like someone … just got added to the list?”

Allison didn't answer. Radley broke his gaze away from the page and looked at her. Her face was white, her breath coming slower but starting to shake now, her eyes wide on the book. “Alison?” he asked. “You okay?”

“It's from the devil,” she hissed. Her right hand, gripping the table white-knuckled, suddenly let go its grip, darting up to trace a quick cross across her chest. “You've got to destroy it, Radley,” she said. Abruptly, she looked up at him. “Right now. You've got to—” she twisted her head, looking all around the room—“you've got to burn it,” she said, jabbing a finger toward the tiny fireplace in the living room. “Right now; right there in the fireplace.” She turned back to the phone book, and with just a slight hesitation scooped it up. “Come on—”

“Wait a minute, Alison, wait a minute,” Radley said, grabbing her hands and forcing them and the phone book back down onto the table. “Let's not do anything rash, huh? I mean—”

“Anything
rash
?
This thing is a tool of the
devil.
”

“That's what I mean,” he said. “Going off half-cocked. Who says this is from the devil? Who says—”

“Who says it's from the
devil
?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Radley, just where do you think this thing came from, the phone company?”

“So who says it didn't come from the other direction?” Radley countered. “Maybe it was given to me by an angel—ever think of
that
?”

“Oh, sure,” Alison snorted. “Right. An angel left you this—this—voyeur's delight.”

Radley frowned at her. “What in the world are you talking about? These people are
criminals,
Alison. They've given up their right of privacy.”

“Since when?” she shot back. “No one gives up any of their rights until they're convicted.”

“But—” he floundered.

“And anyway,” she added, “who says any of these people really
are
murderers?”

Radley looked down at the book. “But if they're not, why are they listed here?”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Alison demanded. “Five minutes ago you were wondering how this thing could exist; now you're treating what it says like it was gospel. You have no proof that any of these people have ever committed
any
crime, let alone killed anyone. For all you know, this whole thing could be nothing more than some devil's scheme to make you even more paranoid than you are already.”

“I am
not
paranoid,” Radley growled. “This city's dangerous—any big city is. That's not paranoia, it's just plain, simple truth.” He pointed at the book. “All this does is confirm what the TV and papers already say.”

For a long moment Alison just stared at him, her expression a mixture of anger and fear. “All right, Radley,” she said at last. “I'll meet you halfway. Let's put it to the test. If there really was a murder tonight at”—she looked up at the kitchen wall clock—“about six-twenty, then it ought to be on the eleven o'clock news. Right?”

Radley considered. “Well … sometimes murders don't get noticed for a while. But, yeah, probably it'll be on tonight.”

“All right.” Alison took a deep breath. “If there
was
a murder, I'll concede that maybe there's something to all of this.” She locked eyes with him. “But if there
wasn't
any murder … will you agree to burn the book?”

Radley swallowed. The possibilities were only just starting to occur to him, but already he'd seen enough to recognize the potential of this thing. The potential for criminal justice, for public service—

“Radley?” Alison prompted.

He looked at her, gritted his teeth. “We'll check the news,” he told her. “But if the murder isn't there, we're not going to burn anything until tomorrow night, after we have a chance to check the papers.”

Alison hesitated, then nodded. Reluctantly, Radley thought. “All right.” Standing up, she picked up the book, closed it with her thumb marking the place. “You finish the salad. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

“Where are you going?” Radley frowned, his eyes on the book as she tucked it under her arm.

“Down to the grocery on the corner—they've got a copy machine over by the ice chest.”

“What do you need to copy it for?” Radley asked. “If the police release a suspect's name, we can just look it up—”

“We already know the book can change.”

“Oh … Right.”

He stood there, irresolute, as she headed for the door. Then, abruptly, the paralysis vanished, and in five quick strides he caught up with her. “I'll come with you,” he said, gently but firmly taking the book from her hands. “The salad can wait.”

It took several minutes, and a lot of quarters, for them to find out that the book wouldn't copy.

Not on any light/dark setting. Not on any reduction or enlargement setting. Not the white pages, not the Community Service pages, not the Yellow Pages, not the covers.

Not at all.

They returned to the apartment. The chicken was by now stone-cold, so while Radley threw together a passable salad, Alison ran the chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy through the microwave. By unspoken but mutual consent they didn't mention the book during dinner.

Nor did they talk about it afterwards as they cleaned up the dishes and played a few hands of gin rummy. At eight, when prime time rolled around, they sat together on Radley's old couch and watched TV.

Radley wouldn't remember afterwards much about what they'd watched. Part of him waited eagerly for the show to be broken into by the announcement of what he was beginning to regard as “his” murder. The rest of him was preoccupied with Alison, and the abnormal way she sat beside him the whole time. Not snuggled up against him like she usually was when they watched TV, but sitting straight and stiff and not quite touching him.

Maybe, he thought, she was waiting for the show to be broken into, too.

But it wasn't, and the 'tween-show local newsbreak didn't mention any murders, and by the time the eleven o'clock news came on Radley had almost begun to give up.

The lead story was about an international plane crash. The second story was his murder.

“Authorities are looking for this man for questioning in connection with the crime,” the well-scrubbed newswoman with the intense eyes said as the film of the murder scene was replaced by a mug shot of a thin, mean-looking man. “Marvin Lake worked at the same firm with the victim before he was fired last week, and had threatened Mr. Cordler several times in the past few months. Police are asking anyone with information about his whereabouts to contact them.”

The picture shifted again, and her co-anchor took over with a story about a looming transit strike. Bracing himself, Radley turned to Alison.

To find her already gazing at him, her eyes looking haunted. “I suppose,” he said, “we'd better go check the book.”

She didn't reply. Getting up, Radley went into the kitchen and returned with the phone book. He had marked the
Murderers
listing with the yellow non-plastic bag. … “He's here,” Radley said, his voice sounding distant in his ears. “Marvin Lake.” He leaned over to offer Alison a look.

She shrank back from the book. “I don't want to see it,” she said, her voice as tight as her face.

Radley sighed, eyes searching out the entry again. Address, phone number …

“Wait a minute,” he muttered to himself, flipping back to the white pages. L, La, Lak … there it was: Marvin Lake. Address … “It's not the same address,” he said, feeling an odd excitement seeping through the sense of unreality. “Not even close.”

“So?” Alison said.

“Well, don't you see?” he asked, looking up at her. “The white pages must be his home address;
this
one”—he jabbed at the Yellow Pages listing—“must be where he is right now.”

Alison looked at him. “Radley … if you're thinking what I think you're thinking … please don't.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “The guy's a murderer.”

“That hasn't been proved yet.”

“The police think he's guilty.”

“That's not what the report said,” she insisted. “All they said was that they wanted to question him.”

“Then why is he
here
?”
Radley held out the open phone book.

“Maybe because you
want
him to be there,” Allison shot back. “You ever think of
that
?
Maybe that thing is just somehow creating the listings you want to see there.”

Radley glared at her. “Well, there's one way to find out, isn't there?”

“Radley—”

Turning his back on her, he stepped back into the kitchen, turning to the front of the phone book. The police non-emergency number … there it was. Picking up the phone, he punched in the digits.

The voice answered on the seventh ring. “Police.”

“Ah—yes, I just heard the news about the Cordler murder,” Radley said, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. “I think I may have an idea where Marvin Lake is.”

“One moment.”

The phone went dead, and Radley took a deep breath. Several deep breaths, in fact, before the phone clicked again. “This is Detective Abrams,” a new voice said. “Can I help you?”

“Ah—yes, sir. I think I know where Marvin Lake is.”

“And that is … ?”

“Uh—” Radley flipped back to where his thumb marked the place. A sudden fear twisted his stomach, that the whole
Murderers
listing might have simply vanished, leaving him looking like a fool.

But it hadn't. “Forty-seven thirty West Fifty-second,” he said, reading off the address.

“Uh-huh,” Abrams grunted. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

“Ah—I'd rather not. I don't really want any of the spotlight.”

“Yeah,” Abrams said. “Did you actually see Lake at this address?”

This was starting to get awkward. “No, I didn't,” Radley said, searching desperately for something that would sound convincing. “But I heard it from a—well, a pretty reliable source,” he ended lamely.

“Yeah,” Abrams said again. He didn't sound especially convinced. “Thanks for the information.”

“You're—” The phone clicked again. “Welcome,” Radley finished with a sigh. Hanging up, he closed the phone book onto his thumb again and turned back to face Alison.

She was still sitting on the couch, staring at him over the back. “Well?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe they won't bother to check it out.”

She stared into his face a moment longer. Then, dropping her gaze, she got to her feet. “It's getting late,” she said over her shoulder as she started for the door. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

He took a step toward her. “Alison—”

“Good night, Radley,” she called, undoing the locks. A minute later, she was gone.

For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the door, an unpleasant mixture of conflicting emotions swirling through his brain and stomach. “Come on, Alison,” he said quietly to the empty room. “If this works, think of what it'll mean for cleaning up this city.”

The empty room didn't answer. Sighing, he walked to the door and refastened the deadbolts. She was right, after all; it
was
late, and he needed to be at work by seven.

He looked down at the phone book still clutched in his hands. On the other hand, Pete would be in by seven, too, and it didn't hardly take two of them to get the place ready for business.