John Lutz - Ride the lightning

A different light. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe someone had deliberately started the rumor to scare Nudger away from the Colt case. They would know they could get the story of the state's displeasure to Nudger through Benedict. Nudger did work for Benedict; they were friends of a sort. If someone in Jefferson City wanted to get something like this to Nudger's ear, Benedict would be the perfect conduit.

"Possibly you're being used," Nudger said.

Benedict finished his Coke, making a rattling, slurping noise with the straw. He knew what Nudger meant. "I've thought of that. You could be right. On the other hand, I felt it my duty as a business associate-well, as a friend-to tell you what I heard. It might be true, like anything else in this world."

"Anything else?" the waitress asked, startling Nudger. She was standing just behind his left shoulder, leaning close.

"Nothing, thanks," Nudger said. Benedict shook his head no and smiled at her. She left their check on the table and limped away.

Nudger knew Benedict had taken a risk for him. "I appreciate your telling me this," he said. "You are a friend. A good one."

Benedict looked momentarily embarrassed. He was used to being accused of maliciousness, deviousness, irrelevance, incompetence, and ambulance chasing; compliments were rare in his line of work. Possibly he didn't like them, maybe even considered them an indication of weakness.

As Benedict reached for the check, Nudger snatched it out from beneath his hand. Benedict, back in character, didn't object.

He and Hammersmith were eating well off Nudger lately.

On the drive back to his apartment, Nudger found himself glancing into his rearview mirror. A large car with a weak, yellowish right headlight stayed close behind him for a while, but continued down Manchester when he made a right turn on Sutton.

What Benedict had said bothered Nudger, about how whether Colt was innocent now mattered only to Colt. It wasn't quite true, but it was true enough to be disturbing. It seemed that justice itself had become irrelevant. Only Candy Ann, Siberling, and Nudger wanted Colt to be innocent.

Nothing else Benedict had said might be true. Possibly it was all rumor, and not even deliberately begun. It might be only coincidence that Randy Gantner worked for a construction company that did state highway work. And not such a coincidence at that; how many big construction companies, or large Missouri companies in whatever business, didn't somewhere along the line do work directly or indirectly for the state?

Still, when Nudger got home, he examined his phone as he had Edna Fine's. He found nothing, but that didn't mean the line wasn't tapped. Or that the apartment wasn't bugged. There were too many spy and pry gizmos in this world for comfort.

He spent an hour carefully searching the apartment for bugs. Benedict's assumption that his phone might be tapped had gotten to him, fanned his frustration and anger.

The going was slow. Nudger wished he had some electronic sweeping equipment to make things easier. Maybe he'd lighten up on his next alimony payment to Eileen and see what Radio Shack had to offer.

Behind the sofa, he found a huge brown spider that threw a strong scare into him.

But that was the only bug he found.

In the morning, Nudger read a news account in the Post- Dispatch revealing that a "surprise witness" had submitted a statement in the Curtis Colt case. The article went on to explain that Colt's alleged fiancee had known of his whereabouts the night of the murder but had remained silent during the trial for personal reasons. Now she had second thoughts and was trying to save Colt's life. The prosecuting attorney was quoted as saying that this sort of thing wasn't unusual in capital-offense cases; the woman's story, apparently corroborated by a private detective she'd hired, would be dealt with in due legal course.

Nudger set the folded paper down on Danny's counter and snorted in disgust. He knew what "due legal course" meant: Curtis Colt would be executed on time tomorrow morning. Danny rang up a sale of glazed-to-go for one of the office workers from across the street, then drifted over and brought Nudger's coffee back up to the cup's brim. He gazed at Nudger with his sad hound eyes. "It ain't going good?" Danny asked. "Not good at all." Nudger bit into his free doughnut, remembering not to grimace in front of sensitive Danny. He wondered what use the office girls across the street had found for the glazed-to-go they bought faithfully every weekday morning. The doughnuts were too greasy for paperweights, though they were plenty heavy enough for their size. Maybe they used them to play some sort of field hockey in the ladies' room.

"Maybe Colt really is guilty," Danny offered.

"I don't think he is, Danny. And I guess that's the real problem. I started out on this case going through the routine, earning my fee. Then somehow I became a believer."

"You wouldn't believe without reason, Nudge. What about this Candy Ann woman in the paper, what she says?"

"She's telling the truth," Nudger said. "Even her lawyer thinks so. Genuinely thinks so."

Danny looked thoughtful and wiped his hands on the grayish towel tucked in his belt. "I wonder if the prosecutor really thinks Colt's innocent, too."

Nudger had wondered that himself. "Has anyone else been around looking for me?" he asked.

Danny shook his head. "Not lately, Nudge."

"You going to be baking this morning?"

"Nope. I'm overstocked now, especially with jelly doughnuts."

"Keep an eye on the street," Nudger said, "and let me know if anyone starts up to my office."

"Sure. You expecting somebody you don't want to see?"

Nudger thought about that. He was expecting too many people he didn't want to see. That was what his job, his life, had come down to. He sure wished he knew some sort of trade other than the twisted one he worked.

"Probably anybody who'd come by this morning, I'd be better off being warned," he said.

Carrying his coffee, the folded paper, and the weighty uneaten part of his Dunker Delite, he left the doughnut shop and trudged upstairs to his office.

While he was waiting for the window unit to cool the place down, he went in and stood before the basin in the half bath and splashed cold water onto his face. He dried with a rough towel almost as gray as Danny's, then walked to the window and looked down at Manchester Avenue. Nobody was parked across the street, and only the usual number of pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks.

He sat at his desk and went through his mail, ignoring his answering machine. But the phone wouldn't leave him alone. It jangled and Nudger snatched it up, thinking it might be Danny warning him someone was on the stairs.

It was Candy Ann.

"A buncha reporters came out to the Right Steer and wouldn't let me work," she said. "The boss told me go ahead and take the day off, but when I went home more of them was outside the trailer waiting for me. They even had a little TV camera."

"You tell them anything?"

"No. Mr. Siberling told me not to talk to the press without him there."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in a room at the Ramada Inn out by the airport. Mr. Siberling came by my place and read a statement to the reporters, then he drove me out here without anybody knowing where we was going. So I'd be let alone."

"Are you all right?" Nudger asked.

There was a pause. A muffled roar, as if from a jet aircraft flying directly overhead, came over the phone. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Is Siberling there?"

"No, he said he couldn't be. He's still working on the appeal for a stay of execution, he said. He left me here about half an hour ago. It's room Two-twenty."

"Stay there; don't go out except to eat," Nudger told her. That should be safe; there hadn't been time for a photograph of Candy Ann to appear in the papers, and probably she wouldn't be on TV until the evening news. "If anybody from the media does question you, just tell them no comment and go back to your room."