A banshee-like wail reverberated off the walls and ceiling of the apartment. The sound made Lucas feel as though he’d been transported to an unearthly place. It wasn’t until he’d grasped that the noise had come from him that his sorrow turned to an all-encompassing anger, and then that anger turned to rage. Everything he had loved and believed in was gone. Gone forever.
And, in that very moment, his mind seemed to come apart and then repair itself. Like pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly before and, despite a completely different design, fit together again. He felt transformed. The memory of how he’d attacked the killer in the church flooded his brain. Images of his hand holding the heavy object that the priest had dropped flashed before his eyes. As though watching a slow-motion movie, he saw his arm repeatedly rise and fall as he struck the killer in his face, turning the man’s features into a ghastly mess. A warm rush flowed through his body and he suddenly felt at peace.
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.
* * *
NIGHT SHIFT
LINWOOD BARCLAY
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.
The phone rang.
Jeff sighed and reached for it. “Newsroom,” he said.
“I’m sick and tired of you sons of bitches,” a man on the other end said. “You liberal fucking rag. Bunch of commies is what you are.”
“I know this voice,” Jeff said. “You called here the other night. I’m gonna give you a little warning. You call one more time, and I’m going to report you to the circulation department and they’re going to cancel your subscription.” He slammed the phone down, chuckled to himself. “I wonder if we could really do that?”
“I wish,” Larry said.
“You put sugar in this?”
Larry tossed a couple of packets at him. “Enjoy,” he said.
Jeff adjusted the volume on some of the radios, bringing up a couple, turning down a couple of others. Finding just the right balance of mayhem between fire and police.
The phone rang again.
“Newsroom,” he said.
“Are you the person my husband was talking to?” a woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Jeff said wearily.
“He just called and said some mean things about your paper.”
“Oh, yeah, him.”
“Please, please don’t cancel our subscription! I love the crossword. If I didn’t get my daily crossword and horoscope I’d go out of my mind. I promise he won’t call again.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jeff said, and hung up.
About half an hour later, shortly after one, the phone rang again. Jeff sighed and picked up. “Newsroom,” he said.
“Did you see that story?” a man asked.
“What story was that, sir?” Jeff said.
“In California. The guy who went in and shot everybody.”
Jeff glanced over at the early edition the copy boy had left for him. He hadn’t opened it, but the shooting story was above the fold.
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“That was wild, wasn’t it?” the man said.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Jeff asked.
“I just wanted to tell you, that’s gonna happen here. Tomorrow. Well, later today, I guess, since it’s already tomorrow.”
Jeff sat up a little straighter in his seat, turned down a radio that was putting out a lot of static. “How would you know something like that, sir?” Jeff asked.
“Because I’m going to do it.”
“You? You’re going to go into a restaurant and shoot a bunch of people?”
“I’ve been thinking about doing something like that for a long time. Then this guy did it. If he can do it, I can do it. I’m ready.”
“Who am I talking to?” Jeff asked.
“My name’s Tim,” he said.
“How you doing, Tim. I’m Jeff.”
“Hello, Jeff.”
The guy sounded so fucking calm, Jeff thought. He grabbed his pen and started making notes in the spiral notebook he always kept on hand.
“What’s your last name, Tim?” he asked, feeling his pulse slowly quicken.
“I don’t think I should give you that.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I get that. So, this thing in California. That didn’t exactly work out well for the shooter, you know. He’s dead. If you decide to do what he did, you know, you’re probably going to end up the same way.”
“I know.”
“So, if you want my opinion,” Jeff said, and uttered a nervous laugh, “I’d reconsider.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You there, Tim?”
“I’m here.”
“You heard what I said?”
“I did. But I’m going to do it anyway. I don’t care what happens to me.”
Jeff looked through the glass. Fifty feet away, Larry was sitting at his computer terminal, tapping away. Jeff started waving, trying to get his attention.
“Nothing really matters anymore,” Tim said.
“Don’t say that,” Jeff said, still waving. He stood, banged lightly on the glass. Not so loud that the caller would hear, but loud enough, he hoped, that he could get Larry’s attention.
Take your eyes off the fucking screen, Jeff thought.
“Why’s that?” Jeff asked. “Why would you say nothing matters?”
Larry noticed movement in the corner of his eye, stopped looking at the screen, and glanced Jeff’s way. Jeff waved him in urgently. Larry pushed his chair back, stood, and started walking toward the radio room at a leisurely pace.
Could you walk a little slower maybe? Jeff thought.
“My marriage broke up, for one thing,” Tim said. “I never should have gotten married in the first place. We weren’t right together. It was a mistake. I thought I’d got her pregnant, and I guess I did. But then she lost the baby before the wedding date, but I didn’t feel I could back out then. You know, sometimes you feel talked into these things, there’s nothing you can do to get out of it, and then it’s too late.”
“Yeah, sure, I hear ya,” Jeff said as Larry stepped into the room.
“What’s going—”
Jeff put his finger to his lips. He started writing a note, in block letters, on his notepad. He tore it off and handed it to Larry while he kept listening to Tim.
CALL COPS. GUY NAMED TIM SAYS HES GOING TO SHOOT BUNCH OF PEOPLE TODAY.
It took Larry half a second to read the note. He mouthed two words: “Tim who?”
Jeff shook his head quickly, said, “Yeah, marriage. You never know how that’s going to work out. I’ve never been married. Thought about it once or twice, but then the women came to their senses.”
Larry ran back to his desk, dropped into his chair, looked at the list of contact numbers taped next to the phone, dialed the police non-emergency line, which connected him to a desk sergeant. He quickly identified himself to the woman who answered.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“My reporter is talking to a guy on the phone who says he’s going to shoot a whole bunch of people later today.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Not much. His name’s Tim. Other than that, I got no idea.”
“I’m going to put you through to a detective. Hold. I’m gonna brief him before I connect you.”
“Okay.”
Larry waited. About thirty seconds went by before a man came on the line and said, “Durkin here. Who’s this?”
Larry told him, then filled him in on what little he knew.
“Is it this thing in California?” Durkin asked. “Got him all inspired?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, I’m going to give you my direct line. I’ll be here all night. This is what I want you to tell—what’s your reporter’s name?”
“Jeff.”
“This is what I want you to tell Jeff.”
Larry scribbled, then signed off with Durkin. He ran back to the radio room, where Jeff was still on the phone. Larry handed him the note.
COPS SAY KEEP HIM ON LINE.
When Jeff got that far, he gave Larry a look that said, “Really? Never would have thought of that.”
The rest of the note read: GET FULL NAME, ANYTHING ABOUT HIM. ADDRESS.
Jeff rolled his eyes, tossed the note back, gave Larry a thumbs-up, mouthed “Brilliant.” Then said, into the phone, “We’ve all been there, I know.”
Jeff had taken more notes while Larry was on the phone with the police. He handed them over.
MARRIAGE BROKE UP. LOST JOB. WONT SAY WHERE HE WORKED. BIT OF ACCENT, THINK MAYBE PA.
Larry pointed to the last word. Jeff mouthed “Pennsylvania.” Then shrugged, suggesting he might be wrong. Larry nodded, then ran back to his desk to make another call.
Tim said, “I hope I’m not keeping you from something.”
Jeff said, “No problem. I’m just on the graveyard shift, killing time.” Soon as he said the words graveyard and killing he wondered if he should be choosing his words more carefully.
“You always have to work these kinds of hours?” Tim asked.
“I haven’t done this shift for a while. I’m doing a double.”
“A double?”
“A double shift. I was supposed to be off at eleven, but the guy who was supposed to relieve me booked off sick, so I’m here till six.”
“Nice guy.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Right now some girl’s rockin’ his world. So what kind of work did you do? What’d you get laid off from?”
“Retail,” he said. “A mall job. Laid off makes it sound like they were cutting back. It wasn’t exactly like that for me.”
“What happened?”
“I talked back to a rude customer. Got fired.”
“What’d you do, exactly?” Jeff asked.
“Someone was trying to return something without a receipt. I think they actually stole it from another store and brought it to us for a refund. Happens all the time. Sometimes right in the store. They find something on the rack, tear off the tags, come up asking for their money back. I told her to take a hike and she complained to the manager and I got fired.”
“Sounds like you were trying to do the right thing.”
“I don’t know. If I’d just given her the refund there wouldn’t have been all the fuss. Store doesn’t want bad publicity, customers bad-mouthing the place. But people are so dishonest. People are awful.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got a few subscribers call in and they’re not so nice, either. So…what store was this?”
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 12
