Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

She looked as though he had slapped her. Tears glistened in her eyes. “That’s not fair,” she said angrily. “I never asked you to get yourself killed for me, or for Jonathan.”

“Hell, I didn’t say you did,” he’d snapped. “But how am I supposed to find out what happened to the 811 if I don’t go after the story? How—”

Her sob broke him off in mid-sentence. “I’ve already lost one man I loved,” she said. “I couldn’t bear it if—”

“Oh, for chrissake, cut out the hysterics.” His voice was thick with angry sarcasm. “It doesn’t become you. What would dear old Dad think?”

She’d glared at him, her eyes narrow and dancing with fury. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You son of a bitch. You don’t get it at all, do you?”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

Pace caught sight of Melissa, backing away from them, her forehead deeply furrowed in concern, and he realized that he and Kathy had been shouting at each other. He sagged back onto the pillows in misery. Weariness and dull pain combined to drain the last of his strength. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Let’s not hammer this out here, okay?”

So it was when Casey Boudreaux arrived minutes later with the wheelchair, Pace was willing to accept the ride to the hospital’s front door, a destination far too distant for his legs and spirit to carry him. Boudreaux’s Cajun lecture failed to lighten anyone’s mood.

The ride from the hospital to Pace’s New Hampshire Avenue apartment building was short and very quiet. Despite his resolve to try to relax, Pace could not keep his eyes from darting back and forth across the path of Kathy’s red BMW convertible, keeping watch for a wrecked light-blue Ford van lurking in an alley or a side street.

If it was there, Pace didn’t spot it.

Mostly he saw the usual assortment of homeless and those who were happier panhandling than working. Directly across 23rd Street from the hospital’s main entrance, one man caught Pace’s attention. He sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, his back against the chain-link fence of a hospital-staff parking lot, an empty KFC bucket beside him. In his lap he held a sign: I’M HUNGRY. There was something primal in the simple plea, but Kathy was past the man before Pace could suggest pausing to give him a few dollars. A gauntlet of Washington Circle beggars waved plastic cups at passing cars in hope that those in their Mercedes or BMers or Jags would lower the windows of their $50,000 automobiles and drop a few coins for the wretched who hadn’t the price of a hot meal. But it was spring, and the wet, wintry bluster that seeds lucrative guilt wilted under the warming sun. The only windows lowered were to let in soft, fresh air. At that hour of the day, the windows of opportunity for the needy were closed.

Pace shoved the scene from his mind and debated what to do about Kathy and Sissy. He felt sick when he thought of what the scene might have been had the two of them accompanied him to the basement garage. Would all three have been killed? He knew if—no, when he went back to the Converse story, he would be at risk, and their proximity to him could endanger them as well. He told Kathy the day before he was thinking about sending Sissy home early and asked if she wouldn’t feel safer back in Georgetown for a while. She dismissed the suggestion out of hand.

“I don’t think Sissy would understand any more than I would,” she said.

“It’s not a matter of rejecting either of you,” Pace explained. “It’s for your safety.”

“Well, you and Melissa’s mother have to decide what to do about her safety, but I decide what to do about mine, and I’m staying,” Kathy insisted.

Brave lady. Strange attitude. She was willing to put herself at risk but rejected his risking himself. Pace didn’t understand. He wondered how much he’d damaged their relationship with the scene in the hospital room.

Kathy’s BMW swung off Washington Circle and headed north on New Hampshire Avenue. Pace let his mind drift.

I’ve never felt threatened here. Crime was something that happened to other people. I live in a good neighborhood, a good building with a coded garage door, security in the lobby twenty-four hours a day, good lighting, good locks on the doors. Mugging is the last thing I feared. Did I create a scenario to cover a crime I thought would never reach me? Did I transmute two street punks into something more sinister?

Bullshit. I know what I know. I know what I saw.

“I know what I saw,” Pace muttered as Kathy’s car slipped into a two-hour parking spot about twenty-five paces from the entrance to his building.

“Nobody’s questioning that, Steve,” Kathy responded. “Nobody’s suggesting you’re telling anything but the truth.”

He dismissed her support with a wave of his hand.

The telephone message-recorder in Pace’s bedroom was flashing—urgently, he thought. When there was trouble, the red light seemed to blink faster and brighter than for social calls. He knew before he replayed the messages that several would be from Joan. He refused Kathy’s offer to retrieve the messages. He was not an invalid.

“Would you at least write down any that are for me?” she asked in something of a huff. “I live here too, you know. And then would you please get into bed?”

Pace nodded agreement on both counts, and when the bedroom door closed, he switched the recorder to the playback setting. He heard the tape respool for nearly two minutes. That meant there were plenty of messages. They began to replay.

“Hi, Steve, this is Sally. Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you. Clay said he saw you in the hospital and you looked awful. Call me when you feel up to it, and we’ll talk about the Antravanian accident. No hurry. There’s nothing new at this end. Get well. Beep. Steve, this is Joan. Will you call me as soon as you can, please? I’m a little concerned about Sissy. Oh, you, too, of course. Beep. Hi. It’s Joan again. I was checking to see if you were home yet. Beep. Click. Beep. Steve, old boy! Glenn here. I’ve got a coupla six-packs of Guinness ready for sharin’ when you feel up to it. Call me when you want to talk about the Sexton story. The urgency is obvious. But don’t call ’til you’re feelin’ better.” Beep.

“Steve, this is Hugh Green. I was troubled to hear about your, well, your accident. I’d like to talk to you about it when you’re back on your feet. I’d like to help where I can—if I can. Meanwhile, tell Kathy to take as much time as you two need together. If I had a Jewish mother, she would say Kathy should stay home and fix you a nice bowl of chicken soup. If you need anything, let me know. Meanwhile, when Kathy has a free minute, would you ask her to call? It’s not urgent. Maybe she should try me at home tonight. Between seven and eight, if that’s convenient. After eight, Gretchen and I will be on our way to a reception at the French Embassy. Eat your heart out, kid. Beep. Click. Beep. It’s Joan again, Steve. I know I must sound like a pest, but please call me as soon as you can. Beep. Click. Beep. Welcome home, Mr. Pace. You got lucky this time. Don’t press your luck.” Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The five tones signaled the end of the tape, but Pace didn’t hear them. He was staring in disbelief at the mechanical message-taker, stunned by the audacity of the last message. But it was his proof he hadn’t dreamed or invented the blue van. The attack on him was deliberate and premeditated, and his attackers knew exactly who their target was. He listened anxiously as the recorder rewound, a mechanical device that knew nothing of the content or impact of the messages it relayed. It couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, couldn’t decipher the difference between life and death, joy and terror. It responded only to the electronic commands programmed into it, spit the short audio bites back on request, and then sat quietly, awaiting its next unanswered telephone.