Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

Then, with single-minded purpose, he decided that evildoers had to pay for the deaths of his father, his sister, and his brother. He made a mental list of those satanic acolytes who brought misery on people. The politicians who supported war; the bankers who took away peoples’ homes; the terrorists and mass murderers who killed the innocent.

Yes, the evildoers must be punished , he thought. And I will be the hand of God who will make them pay.

It’s 12:35 a.m. and the retired newspaperman, Larry, looks at his watch and says to the guy sitting on the barstool next to him, “I should probably get home. Looks like my buddy’s not gonna make it.”

The other guy, who introduced himself as Frank when he sat down next to Larry more than an hour ago, says, “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. You sure have some good stories. I had a friend, worked for a big paper like yours, he had no end of great stories. And he wasn’t even a reporter. He was an editor. But he still had his share of tales.”

“Same here. I was an editor most of my time at the paper. Started as a reporter. Most everyone does. But ended up working on the desk. City desk, mostly. Did some time on foreign, too.”

“This friend,” Frank says, “was so tired half the time. He worked the overnight shift.”

“That’s the worst.”

“But he said some pretty weird stuff could happen in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, well, the real struggle can be staying awake,” Larry says. “I worked overnights for a couple of years straight. Don’t know how I survived it, but I was a young man, could take the abuse. Coming in at eleven, driving home at six in the morning. Nearly ran off the road a couple of times. But if something happens, that can get the adrenaline flowing. Keeps you awake.”

“All the nutcases come out at night, I bet,” Frank says.

“No shit. Sometimes they’d wander right into the newsroom. Come into the building, head up the elevator. This was back in the eighties, before everyone started tightening up security. Had a guy come in once, wielding a shock absorber. Swear to God. Started swinging it around like a baseball bat. Cops came in and got him. And the switchboard would shut down at midnight, so anyone who phoned the paper, the call went right to the newsroom, so I’d be at my desk, editing a story, writing a headline for something that was to go into the morning edition, which closed at one-thirty, and the phone’d ring, and it’d be some guy complaining that his paper was late.”

Frank laughs. “Who calls in the middle of the night about a late paper?”

Larry shakes his head. “Exactly.”

“What was the weirdest thing that ever happened to you on overnights?”

Larry thinks a moment. “Oh, here’s an interesting one.” He glances at his watch again. “What the hell. Oh, and keep in mind, this was before caller ID and call display and all that stuff.”

“Okay,” says Frank.

“Let me get another beer.”

And this is the story Larry tells:

The guy who said he was going to kill as many people as possible the following day called into the newsroom at five minutes past one.

Larry, the overnight city editor, had arrived two hours earlier, relieving Charlene from her duties on the desk. She’d just overseen the production of the metro pages, all the local news, and was in the process of typing up a turnover note that included a list of things that might need to be checked on over the next several hours, or followed up on the next day.

“Mikey’s at a late night city council meeting where they might vote on putting in bike lanes on Connor Street,” she told Larry. “So he might file a top to his story. But if nothing new happens, you won’t hear from him. Oh, and there was a house fire on Wilton. Heard about it on the scanner. Just a one-alarm, doesn’t look huge, but sent Guffman in case it’s worth a pic. Otherwise, things couldn’t be deader. National had the big story tonight. You’ll have an easy shift.”

“Don’t say that,” Larry said. “Last time you said that, three minutes after you left they found that kid’s body in the attic.”

Charlene smiled. “Over to you. Oh, and you’ve got Jeff in the radio room. Harvey booked off sick so Jeff’s doing a double.”

“Anybody call Melanie to come in early so Jeff doesn’t have to stay until six?”

“Tried. She must have left the phone off the hook. She’s no fool.”

Charlene took off and Larry got settled into his seat on the city desk. Got signed onto the newsroom computer system, checked for any personal inter-office messages. He’d asked for the second week of August off and wondered if the city editor had gotten back to him. She had not.

About fifteen minutes into the shift, the early copies of the first edition to roll off the presses were delivered to the newsroom by the copy boy. He dumped a stack of them on the city desk, then continued to distribute them to various offices.

Larry unfolded the paper so he could see the entire front page. Most of it was devoted to an event on the other side of the country. A man with a high-powered rifle had gone into a fast-food joint near Monterey and started picking off people one by one. Twenty dead, fifteen injured. A police sniper took out the shooter. The only other story on the front was an update on a local highway expansion. The massacre turned inside to four clear pages of sidebars.

Larry scanned the headlines, looking for glaring typos. Nothing jumped out at him, so he turned inside, had a look at pages two and three. This was followed by a quick sweep through the main section. A fast read of headlines, and a read of Charlene’s note, brought him up to speed on everything he was going to need to know. The city council bike path story, the one that might need updating, was on page six.

He got out of his seat and strolled across the newsroom to the glass room-within-a-room that was known as the radio room. It was filled with radio scanners that picked up chatter on all the police and fire channels. If a reporter heard something that sounded like a story, he could head out, or alert the city desk, and they’d despatch someone.

Sitting in the chair tonight was Jeff. If something happened, he’d be the one who was despatched. He was the entire reporting staff on the graveyard shift.

“How’s it going?” Larry asked.

Jeff shrugged. He had one ear for Larry, the other on the constant stream of static and chatter coming from the radios. There was always talk going on. What you listened for was a change in tone. Cops or firefighters raising their voices, talking hurriedly. That was when you knew something was up.

“Got stuck doing a double?”

Jeff said, “This is the third time Harvey’s done this to me, and it’s always on a Sunday night, when I know he’s in Boston, where he’s got this new girlfriend. He wants a three-day weekend with her, the asshole. So while I’m sittin’ here, trying to keep my fucking eyes open, he’s gettin’ his knob polished.”

“Looks quiet, anyway,” Larry said.

Jeff shrugged again. “Who knows.”

“Want a coffee? I’m going down to the caf.”

“Please.” Jeff went to dig some change out of his pocket but Larry raised a hand.

“I got it.”

Larry departed. Jeff folded his arms on the desk to make a pillow and slowly lowered his head onto them. He was still like that when Larry came back with the coffee.

“You nod off?”

“Nope,” Jeff lied. He knew, even if he was asleep, urgent-sounding voices on the radios would have brought him around.