Overload

"I guess we'd better go," Wally said. "It was nice seeing you, Nim."

”The same here," Nim responded, "and, Wally-good luck in everything]"

When all three had gone, Nim stood rooted, thinking. He knew what was there now, in those files. He knew, too, what had to be done. But he must verify, authenticate his memory, first.

In another three days. Immediately after the convention.

2

Rush, rush, rush! That was always the way it was, Nancy Molineaux thought as she pushed her Mercedes well past the speed limit, taking chances in the traffic, keeping a wary eye on the rear view mirror for any cruising cops.

The pressures of life never seemed to let up for a single goddam day.

She had hurriedly phoned in her story on Goldman, which would appear in this afternoon's edition, and now-already ten minutes late was on the way to meet Yvette. Nancy hoped the girl would have sense enough to wait.

This afternoon Nancy had some loose ends of other work to clear up, for which she would need to return to the Examiner office. Ob yes, and somehow she had to sandwich in time to get to the bank because she needed money. She had a dentist appointment at four. Then, this evening she had promised to go to two parties, one a "drop in," early, and another which would groove on for sure until well past midnight.

But she liked a fast tempo, at work and play, though there were days like this one-when a bit too much happened.

While she drove, Nancy smiled as she thought of her report of Goldman's speech. It would probably surprise him because it was a straightforward, no-slant job, as she had intended.

Several hundred leaders of America's electric power industry today gave a standing ovation to Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, who declared that politically dominated regulatory agencies are abusing public trust and "compete brazenly with each other in establishing power bases."

He was addressing the National Electric Institute convention, meeting in this city.

Earlier, Goldman criticized some environmentalists who, he said, oppose everything. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, we of the power industry can propose ...

Etcetera, et cetera.

She had quoted some of his statements, also, about that electric power famine he claimed was coming, so if Goldman had any beef this time it would have to do with what he had said himself, not the reporting.

Jesus! How did some of those slow-thinking freaks who had cars ever get drivers' licenses? She was second in line at a traffic light which had gone to green, but the guy in front hadn't moved yet. Was be asleep? She sounded her horn impatiently. Shit! the traffic light winked to amber, then red as Nancy reached it. But the cross street seemed clear so she took a chance and ran the red. After a few more minutes she could see that crummy bar ahead, where she had been last week. How late was she? As she came level with the bar, Nancy glanced at her Piaget watch. Eighteen minutes. And wouldn't you know!-there was no parking space today. She found a spot two blocks away and, after locking the Mercedes, hurried back.

Inside the bar it was dark and mildewy, as before. As Nancy paused, letting her eyes adjust, she had the impression that nothing had changed in seven days, not even the customers.

Yvette had waited, Nancy saw. She was seated alone, a beer in front of her, at the same corner table they had occupied previously. She glanced up as Nancy approached, but gave no sign of interest or recognition.

"Hi!” Nancy greeted her. "Sorry I'm late."

Yvette shrugged slightly, but said nothing.

Nancy signaled a waiter. "Another beer." She waited until it came, in the meantime covertly inspecting the girl, who had still said nothing. She appeared to be in even worse shape than a week ago-her skin blotchy, hair a mess. The same clothes were dirty and looked as if they had been slept in for a month. On her right band was the improvised glove, presumably shielding a deformity, which Nancy had noticed at their first encounter.

Nancy took a swig of her beer, which tasted good, then decided to come to the point. "You said you'd tell me today what goes on in that house on Crocker Street, and what Davey Birdsong does there."

Yvette looked up. "No, I didn't. You just hoped I would."

"Okay, well I'm still hoping. Why don't you start by telling me what it is you're afraid of?"

“I'm not afraid anymore." the girl made the statement in a flat, dull voice, her face expressionless. Nancy thought: She wasn't getting anywhere and maybe it had been a waste of time coming. Trying again, she asked, "So what happened between last week and this to make the difference?"

Yvette didn't answer. Instead she seemed to be considering, weighing something in her mind. While she did, as if instinctively and unaware of what she was doing, she used her left hand to rub the right. First with the glove on, then she slipped it off.

With shock and horror Nancy stared at what was exposed.

What had been a hand was an ugly red-white mess of weals and scars. Two fingers were gone, with uneven stubs remaining and loose flesh protruding. The other fingers, while more or less complete, had jagged portions missing. One finger was grotesquely bent, a dried yellow piece of bone exposed.

Nancy said, sickened, "My God! What happened to your hand?"

Yvette glanced down, then realizing what she had done, covered the hand hastily.

Nancy persisted, "What happened?"

"It was . . . I had an accident."

"But who left it like that? A doctor?"

"I didn't go to one," Yvette said. She choked back tears. “They wouldn't let me."

"Who wouldn't?" Nancy felt her anger rising. "Birdsong?"

The girl nodded. "And Georgos."

"Who the hell is Georgos? And why wouldn't they take you to a doctor?"

Nancy reached out, gripping Yvette's good hand. "Kid, let me help you! I can. And we can still, do something about that hand. There's time."

The girl shook her head. The emotion had drained from her, leaving her face and eyes as they had been earlier-empty, dull, resigned.

"Just tell me," Nancy pleaded. "Tell me what it's all about."

Yvette let out her breath in what might or might not, have been a sigh.

Then, abruptly, she reached down beside her to the floor and lifted up a battered brown purse. Opening it, she took out two recording tape cassettes which she put on the table and slid across to Nancy.

"It's all there," Yvette said. Then, in a single movement, she drained what remained of her beer and stood up to go.

"Hey!” Nancy protested. "Don't leave yet! We only just got started. Listen, why not tell me what's on those tapes so we can talk about it?"

"It's all there," the girl repeated.

"Yes, but . . ." Nancy found she was talking to herself. A moment later the outer door opened, briefly admitting sunlight, then Yvette was gone.

There seemed nothing to be gained by going after her.

Curiously, Nancy turned the tape cassettes over in her band, recognizing them as a cheap brand which could be bought in packets for a dollar or so each. Neither cassette was labeled; there was just a penciled 1, 2, 3, 4 on the various sides. Well, she would play them on her tape deck at home tonight and hope there was something worthwhile there. She felt let down and disappointed, though, not to have got some definite information while Yvette was with her.

Nancy finished her beer and paid for it, then left. A half hour later she was in the Examiner city room, immersed in other work.

3

When Yvette told Nancy Molineaux, "I'm not afraid anymore," the statement was true. Yesterday Yvette had reached a decision which relieved her of concern about immediate affairs, freed her from all doubts, anxiety and pain, and removed the overwhelming fear-which she had lived with for months-of her arrest and life imprisonment.

The decision yesterday was simply that, as soon as she had delivered the tapes to that switched-on black woman who worked for a newspaper, and who would know what to do with them, Yvette would kill herself. When she left the Crocker Street house this morning-for the last time-she carried with her the means to do so.

And now she had delivered the tapes, those tapes she put together, carefully and patiently, and which incriminated Georgos and Davey Birdsong, revealed what they had done and what they planned, and disclosed the scenario of destruction and murder intended for tonight or rather 3 am tomorrow morning-at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Georgos hadn't thought she knew about that but all the time she had.