Chase by Dean Koontz

tried to recall everything he had seen so that no clue as to Judge's real identity might slip by. Judge owned a silenced pistol and a red Volkswagen. He was a bad shot, but judging from the way he had taken off, a fairly good driver. Judge got nervous easily, as his blind firing had proved. And that was about the sum of it.
    What next? The police?
    But when he remembered Wallace and his patronizing tone, he rejected that right away. He had sought help from Cauvel and been given a form of aid he did not want and could not use, advice that was superfluous. The police had been even less help. That left only one thing for it. He would have to handle the whole business himself, open his eyes and ears and begin to track Judge down before Judge killed him.
    The decision made, he could not imagine how he had ever contemplated handling the situation any other way.
     
    Mrs Fiedling met him at the door, stepped backwards in surprise when she saw what condition he was in. She put a hand before her mouth and sucked in a breath so nicely that the gesture looked planned. She said, ‘What happened to you?’
    ‘I fell down,’ Chase said. ‘It's nothing.’
    ‘But there's blood on your face,’ she said. Chase noted with interest that she hadn't put her hand to her breast in surprise, but to her mouth - and her dress was open the usual three buttons. ‘And just look at you, all skinned and bruised!’
    ‘Really, Mrs Fiedling, I'm perfectly all right now. I had a little accident, but I'm on my feet and breathing.’
    She looked him over more carefully now, as if she might be getting a bit of a charge from the details of his wounds, and said, ‘Have you been drinking again, Mr Chase?’ Her tone had gone swiftly from that of concern to outright disapproval. That was all the more noticeable because this was the first time she had mentioned his fondness for whisky since she had learned that he was a hero.
    ‘No drinks at all,’ Chase said.
    ‘You know I don't approve.’
    ‘I know,’ he said, starting past her for the stairs. They looked a long way off.
    ‘You didn't wreck your car?’ she called after him.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    He started up the steps, looking anxiously ahead toward the turn at the landing which signified escape of sorts. Strangely, though, he did not feel nearly as oppressed by Mrs Fiedling as he did most times he encountered her.
    ‘That's good news,’ she said. ‘As long as you have your car, you'll be able to look for jobs much better than before.’ Her blue fur mules slapped on the hall floor as she walked toward the steps.
    That's right!’ he called back to her.
    He turned the landing, steadying himself with a hand on the polished rail. From that point, he took the steps two at a time, even though his legs protested, walked briskly down the second-floor corridor and climbed the attic steps to his own apartment. In his room, he bolted the door and relaxed.
    After he had taken in a glass of Jack Daniel's over ice, he drew a tub of water as hot as he could tolerate it, and settled into it much like an old man with arthritis or worse complaints. It slopped over his open sores and made him sigh both with pleasure and pain in equal measure. It was almost as if the water were pouring through him.
    Forty-five minutes later, clean, he dressed his worst wounds with Merthiolate and put on lightweight slacks, a sports shirt, socks and loafers. With a second glass of whisky in hand, he sat down in the easy chair to contemplate his next move. He looked forward to action with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
    The most natural course seemed to be to speak with Louise Allenby, the girl who had been with Michael Karnes the night he was killed. They had been questioned separately by the police, but there was always the possibility they might be able to come up with something that one or both of them had overlooked that night - especially if they worked together, feeding each other bits of memories to see if