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

“What?”

“A trap. You’d tell the police and they’d come and get me.”

“No, man, it’d just be to talk. How long have we been talking? I feel like we’ve developed a level of trust between us. Look, I won’t lie to you. I don’t want you to go into a burger joint today and shoot a whole bunch of people to death. So, yeah, I got an agenda. But that’s it.”

“I don’t think so. I have to do what I have to do.”

“Okay, so, you know what I would have to do.”

“What?”

“Soon as you get off the line, we’d have to put out a warning. Tell everybody not to go to their favorite restaurant today because we got a tip someone was going to walk in and start shooting. So, even if you were still going to do this, there wouldn’t be anyone to shoot. Everyone would be on guard, you know what I’m saying?”

“I guess you would have to do that,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you for doing that.”

“Thanks.”

“So I’d just have to make it another day. Maybe next week.”

“No, no. You’d have to call the whole thing off.”

“I have the guns,” Tim said.

“Yeah?”

“Like, more than one. So if I run out of bullets with the first one, I can switch to the other. It’ll take the police a while to get there. I think I can kill a lot of people by then.”

“Jesus, Tim, if I can’t talk you out of this, think what it’s going to do to my conscience.” Jeff paused, thinking. “I’m gonna have a lot to unload on my own psychiatrist next time I go.”

“You’re seeing someone, too?”

“I thought everybody had a shrink,” Jeff said. “Who isn’t fucked up, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, we all got problems.”

“Be a small world if we were both seeing the same head shrinker,” Jeff said. He grabbed a section of newspaper at random, scanned the page for a name, any name. He spotted an entertainment piece about that sitcom that takes place in a Boston bar. “I’m seeing Dr. Danson. Any chance that’s who you’re seeing?”

“No, I’m seeing Dr. Willoughby,” he said. “He’s nice, but I don’t think he’s really doing anything for me.”

Jeff wrote DR. WILLOUGHBY on his notepad and started waving it in front of the glass. Larry came running, ripped the note from Jeff’s pad, ran back to his desk and dialed.

“Durkin.”

“I got a name,” Larry said. “The psychiatrist. The one Tim’s seeing.”

“Fire away.”

“Willoughby. I’m not sure of the spelling. I’ve got a phone book right in front of me. Hang on.”

Larry dropped the receiver, dragged over the thick yellow pages directory, and opened it to psychiatrists. “Willoughby. Willoughby. Yes!” He grabbed the receiver. “I’ve found a listing for a doctor with that name. I’ve got an address and a phone number.”

“Office address?” asked Durkin.

“I guess.”

“Not going to do a lot of fucking good at four in the morning. I need a residence. We gotta wake this doc up and talk to him. We’ve got our own resources.”

Larry heard Durkin put the phone down at his end. He had to wait for more than a minute before Durkin came back.

“Okay, thanks,” he said, and ended the call.

Larry put the receiver back on the base and said, “You’re welcome.”

He wrote GAVE COPS NAME on a slip of paper and delivered it to Jeff, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“Maybe I should do it sooner,” Tim said. “Find a breakfast place.”

“Aw, come on, Tim.”

“If you’re going to get the word out, I need to act sooner. Gotta get this done before you can issue a warning.”

“Okay, okay, listen, let’s talk about this. Let’s talk about — let’s talk about your family. Things didn’t work out with your wife, but... what about kids? You got kids?”

“No. I told you. She lost the baby before we got married. Aren’t you listening?”

“Yeah, but I thought maybe you had another one. What about parents? I know you said your dad was a shit, I heard the college football stuff, but what about your mom? She still with us?”

“Yeah. She is. But she’s in a nursing home.”

“She got all her marbles?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s she going to say?”

“Huh?”

“When she turns on the news and finds out her son shot a whole bunch of people? How’s she supposed to go on after that? Everyone pointing to her on the street, saying, ‘See that lady? It was her son that killed all those people.’ Is it fair to do that to her?”

Tim didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t care.”

“Come on. She’s your mom .”

“I want her to know. I want her to have to deal with this. She’s got it coming.”

Jeff couldn’t hold it any longer. He pulled the wastepaper basket out from under the desk, stood, unzipped and let loose, just as Larry stepped into the room.

“Shit, sorry,” he whispered and stepped back.

Jeff shook his head tiredly. When he was done, he tucked himself back in place as best he could with one hand still holding the phone, listening to Tim the entire time. He sat back down and pushed the can back under the desk.

Larry re-entered the room, scribbled on Jeff’s pad NO NEWS. ANYTHING I CAN DO?

Jeff managed a grin, pointed to the can. Larry declined the offer to take it to the men’s room to empty it and instead went back to his desk. Along the way, he glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly four-thirty.

Thank God , he thought, nothing else happened tonight. The fire turned out to be nothing, and Mike had never filed a new top to the bike lane story. Council must not have come to a decision. Had there been some overnight development, there was no way he could have pulled Jeff off that phone call to deal with it. Not with God knew how many lives at stake.

His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Durkin. Just thought I’d let you know. We found the psychiatrist. Sent a car over to his house, woke him up. They asked him, you got a patient who might be inclined to go into a crowded place and shoot up a whole bunch of people? Oh no, he says. I know just who that would be.”

“He told them? He gave you guys a name?”

“In this kind of circumstance? Yeah, he gave us a name. Tell your reporter to keep him on the line just a little while longer.”

“I will.”

“And there’s something I want to talk to you about after,” Durkin said.

“I’m here till six.”

“Okay.”

The detective ended the call. Larry ran back to Jeff with one last note: KEEP HIM TALKING LITTLE WHILE LONGER.

Jeff nodded.

Tim was saying, “Maybe not a place where people go to eat. I got a better idea. Maybe the subway. There’ll be hundreds of people down on the platform. Just before the train comes in, I can jump on the tracks. I think that’d be a good way to go out.”

“I went to one of those once,” Jeff said.

“One of what?”

“Jumper, in the subway. Man, that is not the way you want to go out. He was in pieces.”

“But it’ll be fast,” Tim said.

“They’ll be looking all over the place to find all your bits,” Jeff said.

“You’re not scaring me. But I appreciate you talking to me. I’m gonna go now.”

“No man, hang on. Let’s keep talking. Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“I just took a piss in a trash can.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. Whipped it out, took a whiz right here at my work station. Good thing you called in the middle of the night. Doing that in the day, women around, that could get me in a little trouble with personnel, you know?”

Tim chuckled. “That is pretty — hang on.”

“What?”