by Timothy Zahn
Not on any light/dark setting. Not on any reduction or enlargement setting. Not the white pages, not the Community Service pages, not the Yellow Pages, not the covers.
Not at all.
They returned to the apartment. The chicken was by now stone-cold, so while Radley threw together a passable salad, Alison ran the chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy through the microwave. By unspoken but mutual consent they didn’t mention the book during dinner.
Nor did they talk about it afterwards as they cleaned up the dishes and played a few hands of gin rummy. At eight, when prime time rolled around, they sat together on Radley’s old couch and watched TV.
Radley wouldn’t remember afterwards much about what they’d watched. Part of him waited eagerly for the show to be broken into by the announcement of what he was beginning to regard as “his” murder. The rest of him was preoccupied with Alison, and the abnormal way she sat beside him the whole time. Not snuggled up against him like she usually was when they watched TV, but sitting straight and stiff and not quite touching him.
Maybe, he thought, she was waiting for the show to be broken into, too.
But it wasn’t, and the ’tween-show local newsbreak didn’t mention any murders, and by the time the eleven o’clock news came on Radley had almost begun to give up.
The lead story was about an international plane crash. The second story was his murder.
“Authorities are looking for this man for questioning in connection with the crime,” the well-scrubbed newswoman with the intense eyes said as the film of the murder scene was replaced by a mug shot of a thin, mean-looking man. “Marvin Lake worked at the same firm with the victim before he was fired last week, and had threatened Mr. Cordler several times in the past few months. Police are asking anyone with information about his whereabouts to contact them.”
The picture shifted again, and her co-anchor took over with a story about a looming transit strike. Bracing himself, Radley turned to Alison.
To find her already gazing at him, her eyes looking haunted. “I suppose,” he said, “we’d better go check the book.”
She didn’t reply. Getting up, Radley went into the kitchen and returned with the phone book. He had marked the Murderers listing with the yellow non-plastic bag. … “He’s here,” Radley said, his voice sounding distant in his ears. “Marvin Lake.” He leaned over to offer Alison a look.
She shrank back from the book. “I don’t want to see it,” she said, her voice as tight as her face.
Radley sighed, eyes searching out the entry again. Address, phone number …
“Wait a minute,” he muttered to himself, flipping back to the white pages. L, La, Lak … there it was: Marvin Lake. Address … “It’s not the same address,” he said, feeling an odd excitement seeping through the sense of unreality. “Not even close.”
“So?” Alison said.
“Well, don’t you see?” he asked, looking up at her. “The white pages must be his home address; this one”—he jabbed at the Yellow Pages listing—“must be where he is right now.”
Alison looked at him. “Radley … if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking … please don’t.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “The guy’s a murderer.”
“That hasn’t been proved yet.”
“The police think he’s guilty.”
“That’s not what the report said,” she insisted. “All they said was that they wanted to question him.”
“Then why is he here?” Radley held out the open phone book.
“Maybe because you want him to be there,” Allison shot back. “You ever think of that? Maybe that thing is just somehow creating the listings you want to see there.”
Radley glared at her. “Well, there’s one way to find out, isn’t there?”
“Radley—”
Turning his back on her, he stepped back into the kitchen, turning to the front of the phone book. The police non-emergency number … there it was. Picking up the phone, he punched in the digits.
The voice answered on the seventh ring. “Police.”
“Ah—yes, I just heard the news about the Cordler murder,” Radley said, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. “I think I may have an idea where Marvin Lake is.”
“One moment.”
The phone went dead, and Radley took a deep breath. Several deep breaths, in fact, before the phone clicked again. “This is Detective Abrams,” a new voice said. “Can I help you?”
“Ah—yes, sir. I think I know where Marvin Lake is.”
“And that is … ?”
“Uh—” Radley flipped back to where his thumb marked the place. A sudden fear twisted his stomach, that the whole Murderers listing might have simply vanished, leaving him looking like a fool.
But it hadn’t. “Forty-seven thirty West Fifty-second,” he said, reading off the address.
“Uh-huh,” Abrams grunted. “Would you mind telling me your name?”
“Ah—I’d rather not. I don’t really want any of the spotlight.”
“Yeah,” Abrams said. “Did you actually see Lake at this address?”
This was starting to get awkward. “No, I didn’t,” Radley said, searching desperately for something that would sound convincing. “But I heard it from a—well, a pretty reliable source,” he ended lamely.
“Yeah,” Abrams said again. He didn’t sound especially convinced. “Thanks for the information.”
“You’re—” The phone clicked again. “Welcome,” Radley finished with a sigh. Hanging up, he closed the phone book onto his thumb again and turned back to face Alison.
She was still sitting on the couch, staring at him over the back. “Well?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they won’t bother to check it out.”
She stared into his face a moment longer. Then, dropping her gaze, she got to her feet. “It’s getting late,” she said over her shoulder as she started for the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He took a step toward her. “Alison—”
“Good night, Radley,” she called, undoing the locks. A minute later, she was gone.
For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the door, an unpleasant mixture of conflicting emotions swirling through his brain and stomach. “Come on, Alison,” he said quietly to the empty room. “If this works, think of what it’ll mean for cleaning up this city.”
The empty room didn’t answer. Sighing, he walked to the door and refastened the deadbolts. She was right, after all; it was late, and he needed to be at work by seven.
He looked down at the phone book still clutched in his hands. On the other hand, Pete would be in by seven, too, and it didn’t hardly take two of them to get the place ready for business.
And he really ought to take the time to sit down with the book and find out just exactly what this miracle was that had been dropped on his doorstep.
It was nearly one-thirty before he went to bed … but by the time he did, he’d made lists of every murderer, arsonist, and rapist in the book.
The next time one of those listings changed, he wouldn’t have to wait for the news reports to find out who was guilty.
He got to the shop just before the seven-thirty opening time, feeling groggy but strangely exhilarated.
“Morning, Mr. Grussing.” Pete Barnabee nodded solemnly from up at the counter as Radley closed the back door behind him. “How you doing?”
“I’m fine, Pete,” Radley told him. “Yourself?”
“Pretty tolerable, thank you.”
It was the same set of greetings, with only minor variations, that they’d exchanged every morning since Radley had first hired Pete two months ago. “So. The place ready for business?” he asked the other.
“All set,” Pete confirmed. “You seen the new phone book yet?”
“Yeah—min
e came yesterday,” Radley nodded, resisting the urge to tell Pete about the strange Yellow Pages that had come with his. “The new ad looks pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“Best of the bunch,” Pete said. “Oughta bring in whole stacks of new business.”
“Let’s hope so.” Radley looked at his watch. “Well, time to let the crowds in,” he said, walking around the counter and unlocking the front door. “Incidentally, you didn’t happen to catch any news this morning, did you?” he added as he turned the “Closed” sign around.
“Yeah, I did,” Pete answered. “They didn’t mention our ad, though.”
“Very funny. I was just wondering if the cops found that guy they were looking for in the Cordler murder.”
“Oh, yeah, they did,” Pete nodded. “Marvin Lake or something, right? Yeah, they found him holed up somewhere on West Fifty-second last night.”
Radley felt a tight smile crease his cheeks. “Did they, now?” he murmured, half to himself. “Well, well, well.”
Pete cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know the guy?”
“Me? No. Why do you ask?”
Pete shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem …” He shrugged again.
Again, Radley was tempted. But he really didn’t know Pete well enough to trust him with a secret like this. “I’m just happy that scum like that is off the street,” he said instead. “That’s all.”
“Oh, he’s still on the street,” Pete said, squatting down to fuss with the loading tray on one of the presses. “Made bail and walked right out.”
Radley made a face. That figured. The stupid leaky criminal justice system. “They’ll get him again.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You don’t get many volunteer stoolies after the first one bites it.”
Radley stared at him, his throat tightening. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, it’s just that an hour after Lake walked out of the police station the guy who lent him that apartment turned up dead. Shot twice in the face.” Pete straightened up, brushed off his hands briskly. “Ready for me to start on the Hammerstein job?”
Somehow, Radley made it through the morning. At lunchtime he rushed home.
“Detective Abrams,” he told the person who answered the phone. “Tell him it’s the guy who gave him Marvin Lake’s address last night.”
“One moment.” The line went on hold.
Wedging the phone between shoulder and ear, Radley hauled the phone book onto the table and opened it to the Yellow Pages. The M’s . . . there. Mo, Mu—
“This is Abrams.” The other man sounded tired.
“This is Ra—the guy who told you where Marvin Lake was last night,” Radley said. He had the Murderers listing now. Running a finger down it …
“Yeah, I recognize the voice,” Abrams grunted. “You know where he’s gone?”
Radley opened his mouth … and froze. The Marvin Lake listing was gone.
“You still there?” Abrams prompted.
“Uh … yeah. Yeah. Uh …” Frantically, Radley scanned the listing, wondering if he’d somehow been looking at the wrong place. But the name wasn’t under the L’s, or under the M’s, or anywhere else.
It was just gone.
“Look, you got something to say or don’t you?” Abrams growled. “If you do, spit it out. If you don’t, quit wasting everyone’s time and get off the phone, okay?”
“I’m sorry …” Radley managed, staring at the spot where the Marvin Lake listing should have been. “I thought—well, I’m sorry, that’s all.”
“Yeah. We’re all sorry for something.” Abrams sounded slightly disgusted. “Next time just write me a postcard okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he hung up.
Blindly, Radley groped for the hook and hung up the handset, his eyes still on the page. “This,” he announced to himself, “is crazy. It’s crazy. How can it be here one day and gone the—”
And right in mid-sentence, it hit him. “Oh, real smart, Radley,” he muttered. “What are you using for brains, anyway, oatmeal? Of course Marvin Lake’s not here anymore—if he had any brains he’ll have left town hours ago. And soon as he leaves town …”
He sighed and closed the book, the all-too familiar tastes of embarrassment and frustration souring his mouth. “Doesn’t matter,” he told himself firmly. “Okay. So this one got away. Fine. But the next one won’t. There’s still gotta be a way to use this thing. All you have to do is find it.”
He returned to the shop and got back to work.
If the new display ad had helped at all, it wasn’t obvious from the business load. For Radley the day turned out to be an offset copy of the previous one, with the added secret frustration of knowing that a double murderer had slipped through his fingers.
And then he got home, to find Alison waiting for him.
“Did you see this?” she asked when they were safe behind the triple-locked door. The article the newspaper was folded to …
“I heard about it, yeah,” he said. “Tried to call in Marvin Lake’s new address to the police on my lunch hour, but the listing’s gone. Best guess is he skipped town.”
“So it didn’t really do any good, did it?”
“It did a lot of good,” he countered. “It showed that what the book says is true.”
“Not really. We still don’t know that Marvin Lake killed anybody.”
“We don’t? What about that guy?” He jabbed a finger at her newspaper. “If he didn’t kill Cordler, why would he kill the guy who hid him from the cops?”
“We don’t know he did that, either,” she retorted. “Face it Radley—all you have there is hearsay. And not very good hearsay, either.”
“It’s good enough for me,” he said doggedly. “Half the time people get away with crimes because the police don’t know who to concentrate their investigations on. Well, this is just what we need to change that.”
“And all thanks to Radley Grussing, Super Stoolie.”
“Sneer all you like,” Radley growled. “This is truth, Alison—you know it as well as I do.”
“It’s not truth,” she snapped back. “It may be true, but it’s not truth.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense,” he said, with more sarcasm than he’d really intended. “I can hardly wait to hear what the difference is.”
She sighed, all the tension seeming to drain out of her. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding suddenly tired. “All I know is that that book is wrong. Somehow, it’s wrong.” She took a deep breath. “This isn’t good for you, Radley. Isn’t good for us. People like you and me weren’t meant to know things like this. Please, please destroy it.”
He looked at her … and slowly it dawned on him that his whole relationship with Alison was squatting square on the line here. “Alison, I can’t just throw this away,” he said gently. “Can’t you see what we’ve got here? We’ve got the chance to clean away some of the filth that’s clogging the streets of this city.”
“And to fluff up Radley Grussing’s ego in the process?”
He winced. “That’s not fair,” he said stiffly. “I’m not trying to make a name for myself here.”
“But you like the power.” She stared him straight in the eye. “Admit it, Radley—you like knowing these people’s darkest secrets.”
Radley clenched his teeth. “I don’t think this discussion is getting us anywhere.” He turned away.
“Will you destroy the book?” she asked bluntly from behind him.
He couldn’t face her. “I can’t,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alison … but I just can’t.”
For a long moment she was silent. Then, without a word, she moved away from him, and he turned back around in time to see her collect her purse and jacket from the couch and head for the door. “Let me walk you downstairs,” Radley called after her as she unlocked the dead
bolts.
“I don’t think I’ll get lost,” she said shortly.
“Yes, but—” He stopped.
She frowned over her shoulder at him. “But what?”
“I just thought that … I mean, there are a lot of rapists running loose in this city. …”
She gazed at him, something like pain or pity or fear in her eyes. “You see?” she said softly. “It’s started already.” Opening the door, she left.
Radley exhaled noisily between his teeth. “Nothing’s started,” he told the closed door. “I’m just being cautious. That’s hardly a crime.”
The words sounded hollow in his ears, and for a minute he just stood there, wondering if maybe she was right. “No,” he told himself firmly. “I can handle this. I can.”
Turning back to the kitchen, he pulled a frozen dinner out of the refrigerator and popped it into the microwave. Then, pulling a notebook from the phone shelf, he flipped it open and got out a pen. Time to compare the Book’s listings of murderers, arsonists, and rapists against the lists he’d made last night. See who, if anyone, had sold their souls to the devil in the past fourteen hours.
According to the papers, there had been two gang killings in the city that day, both of them drive-by shootings. Both apparently by repeaters, unfortunately, because no new names had appeared in the Murderers listing. The Arsonists listing hadn’t changed since last night, either.
On the Rapists list, though, he hit paydirt.
The phone rang six times. Then: “Hello?”
A woman’s voice. Radley gripped the phone a little tighter. He’d hoped the man lived alone. “James Whittington, please,” he said.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
A secretary, then, not a wife? A thin straw, but Radley found himself clutching it hard. “Tell him I’d like to discuss this afternoon’s activities with him,” he instructed her. “He’ll understand.”
There was a short silence. “Just a minute.” Then came the sound of a hand covering the mouthpiece, and a brief and heavily muffled conversation. A moment later, the hand was removed. Radley waited, and after nearly ten seconds a man’s voice came on. “Hello?”
“Is this James Whittington?”
