An Eye for an Eye by Leigh Brackett

my life, Ben thought. What the hell good is it to me now.
    Still, you had to do something.
    He walked heavily out to the phone and sat down and started to dial Ernie’s number.
    He could not finish it. He put the phone down and sat looking miserably at the floor. Then he got the whiskey bottle from the kitchen and turned out all the lights and went to bed.
    Sometime during the middle hours of the night he woke and saw a bar of moonlight falling across Carolyn’s bed, and the voice of the woman in the Lanternman spoke in his mind.
    He only said it was in a part of town where nobody knew him.
    How many parts of town were there where Al Guthrie was known? If you took those away, how many would be left?
    He repeated that to himself three or four times. When it had penetrated all the way through he jumped up and blundered out into the hall, turning the light on. He could not remember Lorene’s phone number and it was not listed under her name. He tried Brewer, found it, and dialed.
    The phone rang and rang. Finally it stopped and a woman’s voice said, “What is it?”
    “Lorene?”
    “No. This is Mary Catherine. Who are you and what do you want?”
    “Is Lorene there?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Me. Ben Forbes.”
    “Good God, Mr. Forbes, don’t you know what time it is? It’s twenty minutes to three.”
    “I know, but—please, is Lorene there?”
    “No, she is not.”
    “Do you know when—”
    “No, I do not. Mr. Forbes, what’s the matter with you?”
    “Nothing,” said Ben. “It’s just—I had an important question to ask her.”
    “Well, you call again tomorrow. Not too early.”
    She hung up before he could say anything more. He went back in and lay down on the bed again. He wondered if Carolyn was sleeping, or whether she too was awake and staring at some unresponding ceiling.
    Of course she was still alive. Guthrie wouldn’t lie about that. He wouldn’t kill her before the time was up.
    Unless his own safety demanded it.
    The nights were always the worst. They held you prisoner with your thoughts and there was no escape even in sleep. Because even your sleep was different now, a strained uneasy thing, a half-world peopled with reflections from the waking day. You dreamed about Guthrie and Carolyn, Lorene and death.
    But morning came and you were still there. And you washed and shaved, dressed and breakfasted, held together by the thin glue of habit.
    Johnny Pettit came over with some special hot rolls Louise had made out of a new mix. He sat and made cheery small talk until Ben’s unresponsiveness and the general air of the house daunted him and he went home.
    Ernie MacGrath called about ten. He asked Ben how he was and Ben said he was fine. Ernie said he had heard nothing new and Ben said that he had not either. Ernie said how about coming over for the day and Ben said no, he wasn’t up to it. Ernie did not insist. When he hung up, Ben felt vaguely that something had been lacking in Ernie’s voice and conversation. He did not care enough about it to try to think what it was.
    He restrained himself until eleven and then he called Lorene.
    “Listen,” he said, not giving her a chance to do more than say hello, “I want a list of all the places where you and Al lived in Woodley. The neighborhoods where you used to go to shop, or to bars or garages or restaurants, the places where Al worked.”
    “You want it right now?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “But, gee, Mr. Forbes, there were a lot of them. Al never was one to stay put, always fighting with the landlord or the neighbors. I just got up and I don’t feel like—”
    “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have it.”
    “But why?”
    “Because I have to find Al.” He caught himself, softened the tone of his voice, made it casual. “I thought I explained that to you.”
    “Well, I don’t see how that’s going to help, a lot of places where we used to live.”
    “Please, Lorene. Never mind that. Just give them to me.”
    She hesitated,