Ride the Lightning by John Lutz Page A

guessing game while Curtis Colt waited his turn in the electric chair. Nudger had never seen an execution; he’d heard it took longer than most people thought for the condemned to die. There were spasms, wisps of smoke, the scent of charred flesh.
    His stomach actually twitched. How did he ever get pulled into this case? How did he get pulled into this odd occupation? But he knew how. It had something to do with unpaid bills. And with other kinds of obligations. With not being able to walk away like a sane man. He’d be there at midnight.
    “Can’t we do this now with twenty questions?” he asked, trying one more time to get to bed early tonight.
    Candy Ann shook her head. More drops of water flew, playing bright tricks with the lamplight. For a moment there was magic in the trailer. “No, Mr. Nudger. Sorry.”
    Nudger sighed and stood up, feeling as if he were about to bump his head on the low ceiling even though he was barely six feet tall. “All right, Candy Ann, we’ll do it your way.”
    She smiled again, as if thanking him, as if he’d had a choice.
    “Make sure you’re on time tonight, Mr. Nudger,” she called as he went out the door. “It’s important.”
    Nudger wondered at the different worlds people lived in, while the real world had its way with them.
    He didn’t notice the car following him as he turned the Volkswagen out of the trailer park.
    VI I
    udger drove to his office to wait for midnight. He checked his phone-answering machine again. Another call from Eileen, who demanded in her no-nonsense voice that he call her back as soon as possible. He reached for the phone, almost lifted the receiver, then slowly drew his hand back and settled down in his swivel chair, which gave a soft little squeal, as if assuring him he’d been wise not to call. He didn’t feel like talking to Eileen right now. Ever again, actually.
    In the yellowish glow from his desk lamp, he leafed once more through his file on Curtis Colt, hoping he’d notice something he’d missed. But there was nothing pointing toward Colt’s possible innocence. Probably because Colt was guilty.
    After half an hour, Nudger closed the file folder and abruptly shoved it away from him on the desk. There was frustration and quiet despair in the gesture. He wished Danny’s Donuts was open downstairs; he could use some one to talk to. The Cardinals were still playing phenomenal baseball and had won five games in a row now; Danny, who was an avid fan, would be happy to discuss baseball for the next few hours.
    Or it might not hurt to talk with Danny about Curtis Colt. Danny was a good sounding board and sometimes pro vided insight. He tended to think in terms of stereotypes, but once he saw someone like Colt as an individual, his soft heart took over. Danny was all for capital punishment, but if Jack the Ripper had been someone he knew, Danny would have figured those girls did something to provoke him.
    Curtis Colt was no mad-dog killer, nothing exceptional as criminals went; he was a garden-variety holdup man who had panicked and pulled the trigger when the job went sour. Or was he only that? There were disturbing reverberations around the shots he’d fired. Nudger decided he’d better learn more about Colt.
    The phone jangled, startling Nudger. The swivel chair cried out as he sat up straight. Eileen? For a moment his hand hesitated, then he lifted the receiver and held it tight to his ear, as if there were someone in the quiet office he didn’t want to overhear the conversation.
    It wasn’t Eileen on the line; it was Harold Benedict, of the law firm of Benedict and Schill, for whom Nudger sometimes did work. He said he’d been trying to contact Nudger all day.
    “Why didn’t you leave a message, Harold?” Nudger asked.
    “You never answer your messages, Nudger. I don’t know why you even have a recorder.”
    “I listen sometimes, I just don’t call back. People who leave a message for you to call them back usually mean trouble.