Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  Another bow was being drawn. Another arm. He didn't remember how the transfer was made, but the young man was turned and hoisted again and the new screams were half-choked in vomit.

  Baker looked away. There was no satisfaction now. Only disgust. He looked to where Macduff lay on his side, the upper two thirds of his body still wreathed in lapping flames and his hind legs moving in small, convulsive kicks. Baker wanted to turn away from that too but he was moving closer. His own body and that of the coughing, mewling Bellafonte were moving closer to the dog, and now the others were screaming again and Bellafonte's face was being ....

  “You forced that young man's face into the pyre that was your dog. Do you recall that, Baker?”

  Baker looked past him, saying nothing.

  “With your hand, you gripped his hair and you held his face against the flaming head of your dog and you held it there. You held it there until the screams were quiet. You held it there until his face was cooked and until the young man's eyes had turned to grease.”

  Baker looked pale and ill. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his eyes flashed angrily at Sonnenberg.

  ”I know,” the doctor said gently. “That was cruel of me. But you must begin to see the question that it raised. Was that the behavior of an ordinary, civilized suburbanite, no matter how great the provocation?”

  “You're saying it was Abel.” Baker's voice was flat and dulled.

  “Was it Jared Baker?’

  “No.”

  “It was Abel. He's always been there, sometimes not very far beneath the surface. On that occasion, Abel broke through. You let him through. He seemed out of control, but I don't think he was. He certainly didn't go back by himself. You put him back. I'm convinced that you can control him. You can control him by a simple act of will.”

  Baker glanced at him doubtfully. But Sonnenberg was right on at least one point. Baker had never tried to stop it. It ended when Baker wanted it to end. And then this other one was gone.

  “Do not fear him, Jared. Abel is your friend. He did only what Jared Baker would have wished to do but for the constraints of his upbringing.”

  “And you chose me because you knew? You knew that Abel, and I suppose Charley, are both in here someplace?”

  “They are there in everyone. Anyone can do what I did with those photographs. It works with any face at all. What makes you unique is that your Abel has come out. He is therefore close at hand. Yes, I knew. That is why I sent Ben Meister to you. I would have gone to any length, Jared, to keep you from harm. I confess that I do not regret your fugitive status. The murder of Judge Bellafonte was a blessing to me in that it narrowed your options. On that matter, by the way, I'll attend to the housekeeping later. For now, though, it remained only for me to determine whether you were a half-decent subject for hypnotic regression. If it developed that you were not, I would have had you painting houses in Wichita or some such place and sending me a monthly fee for maintaining you in your fugitive identity.”

  “You said ‘hypnotic regression,’ ” Baker said slowly. “Doesn't that mean going backward into other lives?”

  “Did I say regression?” Sonnenberg blinked twice. ”I meant suggestion, of course.”

  Baker didn't believe him. He knew that Sonnenberg was holding something back. It had to do with . . . painting? Being a house painter in Wichita? What was that he'd promised during the first day? “You said I could paint. That I could be an artist”

  Sonnenberg drew in a long breath. “I'm becoming very impressed with you, Jared Baker.”

  “Was that what you were thinking?”

  ”I was rather saving it until later. Not to muddy the water, you understand.”

  “How could I be a painter?” he asked. “Regression is part of it?”

  Sonnenberg threw his arms wide in a gesture of frankness. “Regression, I'll tell you, is almost all of it. The technique, incidentally, has developed well beyond the random popping up of Bridey Murphy types from past lives. Quite exciting things are being done, pioneered particularly by the Russians. For example, Jared Baker the artist of modest ability might be regressed under hypnosis to another life in which it is suggested that he was van Gogh or Degas or Delacroix. Under deep hypnosis, you would be one of those men. You would recall much that you've ever known about the period in which they lived. Your imagination would provide much more. You would then be brought forward to approximately your normal conscious state, although you'd be left in a light trance, which would be no impediment whatsoever. Within that light trance, you would never consciously believe that you were actually Edgar Degas, for example, but you would develop a very strong psychological affinity for his techniques, his tastes, and for those aspects of his personality you find attractive. The result would be a much faster development of your own ability. Or study medicine or architecture or Keynesian economics, even if you've had no aptitude whatever for those subjects in the past.”

  “Or law?”

  Sonnenberg smiled. “Benjamin Meister is a legitimate attorney. Among other things. But yes, even law. The technique is well established and, yes, I've used it myself. It's a dandy.”

  “Not theoretical?”

  “No.”

  “How theoretical is this multiple personality business?”

  “Hillman out at Cal Tech has dipped a toe into it. He was the first to discover an independent consciousness in an otherwise entranced subject. I'm not sure he knows what he's got.”

  “Or he's afraid of it.”

  “He's never found a Jared Baker.”

  Baker slowly returned the smile. His expression showed that the hook was taken. Not deeply. Not irrevocably. The barb still hadn't entered flesh. But the hook was in and more line would be played out. The business about Degas and the rest seemed to have helped after all.

  “One step at a time, Dr. Sonnenberg?”

  “One step at a time. Jared Abel Baker Charley.”

  8

  It was a month later in a different place.

  Connor Harrigan had not yet heard the name of Jared Baker. Or that of Marcus Sonnenberg. His mind then was on black thoughts of Duncan Peck and on what he would do if Peck insisted on running one more goddamned yard.

  The older man was smirking. He gave Harrigan an encouraging slap on the rump and pointed to the Rochambeau Bridge, still two miles distant. Harrigan's eyes widened in outraged disbelief.

  “What are you? Crazy?” he gasped, but kept on. He swept his arms wide to take in the several dozen runners who cruised without effort along the paths of East Potomac Park. “All you people are crazy,” he wheezed. “Lunchtime. The only one you get all day and half the government is out here running their asses of.”

  Duncan Peck waved him forward but said nothing, only smiled his satisfaction. He was fifteen years older than Connor Harrigan and thirty pounds lighter. And it was a point of pride with him that he could run five miles without once parting his lips for air.

  Harrigan answered with a digital gesture indicating non-compliance. “Bullshit.” He spat, using the last of his air to expel the word. He staggered to a halt, stepping off the hot asphalt track that felt as if it were melting through his sneakers. Peck turned, jogging in place for several beats until it became clear that Connor Harrigan would run no more except at gunpoint. Harrigan collapsed on the grass under the shade of a Japanese cherry tree.

  “You know who you look like right now?” Peck asked. “You look just like Tony Galento after Joe Louis clubbed him into a sitting position. Have you ever seen that photograph? Galento, leaning on one arm, his great belly heaving, his face spent and beaten ...”

  Harrigan looked up through eyes hooded with fatigue and malice. He didn't bother to reply.

  “Look at me,” Peck boasted, standing over him. “Not even out of breath. You can get yourself into this sort of shape, you know. All you have to do is work at it.”

  Harrigan spat again. “You think I didn't work to get like I am?” He grabbed the four inches of fles
h that hung over the cord of his borrowed sweatpants. “There's a bloody fortune in Roquefort and martinis there. Be respectful.”

  Peck rolled his eyes in despair. “You were almost there,” he told Harrigan. “You were right on the edge of getting your second wind. You would have felt a certain rush of pride and strength . . ”

  “What I was about to do was die. Not that you'd give a shit because you could still jog alongside the ambulance. And I'd never find out why you have me out here playing chicken with a coronary.”

  Peck feigned wounded innocence. “Why must there be a reason for two friends to ...”

  Harrigan curled his mouth and raised one eyebrow. Peck had to smile. Two more joggers ran by. Connor Harrigan looked past Duncan Peck's legs at all the other runners, noting the number of men and a few women who were running in pairs. Or in groups of three. And the number of conversations that seemed to be going on through lips that were kept close together and from faces that did not turn sideways. But the faces were animated. It was possible to know the intensity of a discussion even at a distance.

  ”I can remember when people used to get a sandwich and a beer at lunchtime,” he observed. “Or if they had to talk quiet, they'd take a walk or sit in a parked car. These days they go jogging. How many of these guys do you figure are meeting off the record right now?”

  ”A few, I suppose. But they're not conspiratorial meetings, necessarily. It's healthy and it's private, that's all.”

  “Plus which, a jogging track is a bitch to eavesdrop. But of course that never occurred to you.”

  “Ah, Harrigan,” Peck sighed, affecting a weary sadness, “would that I could refresh your cynical soul.”

  ‘‘Right!” One lip curled up. “When do I find out what's on your mind?”

  “Walk with me.”

  “What for? You think the cherry tree's wired?”

  “An individual will come running by here in a few minutes. He's like clockwork. He'll be wearing a Notre Dame jersey with its sleeves cut off. I want you to take a good look at him.”

  Duncan Peck offered a hand to the reluctant Connor Harrigan and pulled him to his feet. Peck moved closer. Reaching into a zippered pocket of his windbreaker, he drew out a plastic envelope containing several papers along with a supply of blister pads and ammonia capsules. It amused Harrigan that Peck tried to conceal the latter with his hand. Peck avoided his eyes as he handed him a small color photograph of a man in uniform.

  “You're looking at Captain William Berner. West Point, 1965. Two Vietnam tours between 1966 and 1973. Some combat. Mostly Special Operations. His fitness report mentions that he's exceptionally discreet. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yeah. He kills people when the army tells him to and he never brings it up again.”

  “Very good. Over the next three years he sat around hoping for a nice new war. None came, and Berner resigned his commission. On the day his separation came through, he drove out of Fort Ord and went straightaway to a VA hospital in San Diego, where he slipped a cyanide pill to a sergeant named Dengler. Dengler had been Berner's driver until he got his arms and part of his face blown off. Den-gler's wife, who visited him rarely, finally filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. It seems he never hugged her anymore. Dengler, as you might imagine, was despondent and had to be held under restraint to keep him from ending his own life. In any event, Berner killed Dengler, no doubt at Dengler's request, and then drove to Reno, where he killed Dengler's wife, no doubt against her wishes. The killings were in all the West Coast and hometown papers. Berner vanished.”

  Peck took the photograph from Harrigan and returned it to the plastic envelope. He was zipping his pocket shut when, without warning, Harrigan lurched and stumbled against him, clutching his chest. Harrigan sucked air grotesquely as rising blood enflamed his face and pounded at his temples.

  “Connor?” Duncan Peck shouted. “Connor, what's happening?”

  Harrigan shook his head but appeared unable to speak.

  “Here,” another voice said. “Get him on the grass.” It was a heavily mustached man in his late thirties. His hair, dripping sweat, was almost the color of copper. And he wore a Notre Dame jersey with the sleeves cut off.

  “It's okay ...” Harrigan protested. “It's all right.”

  Notre Dame eased him to a sitting position and placed his fingers lightly against Harrigan's throat. “Pulse is quieting down,” he said. “Are you in pain anywhere?”

  “No ... no. Everything just went bright for a second and I got dizzy is all. I'm okay. I'm just embarrassed as hell.”

  “You're not okay,” Peck answered angrily. “Do you know what those symptoms are? They're warning signs of a stroke. You can't keep yourself in such rotten shape and .. ”

  “Your friend's right.” Notre Dame's voice was gentler. “Running is something you have to ease into. And you really should see a doctor.”

  Harrigan was breathing normally, and the redness of his face had drained away. “This afternoon,” he said, looking at Notre Dame. “I'll get a checkup this afternoon.”

  Notre Dame smiled and tapped him on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. “Just start slow, okay? If you work at it, you can be passing me by next summer.” Notre Dame waved and glided into an easy lope toward the Jefferson Memorial.

  Duncan Peck watched him go, then turned and looked into Harrigan's eyes.

  “Are you able to walk, Connor? Perhaps I should call for a ride.”

  “Will you stop? I'm fine.” There was now no sign of his recent distress.

  “But you're .. ”

  “Listen. You wanted me to look close at Notre Dame? I looked close at Notre Dame.”

  “You . . . ? You son of a bitch. That was an act?” Now Peck reddened as he shoved abruptly to his feet.

  “You're sputtering.” Harrigan clucked. “And you're getting all flushed. Those are warning signs that you're getting all pissed off and you're going to have a worse stroke than I did.”

  “Well, it's just lovely that you got a good look at him.” Peck's voice was dripping. “But our friend also had a very nice look at you.”

  “And I'll tell you something else,” Harrigan said, ignoring the last. “He's as big a pain in the ass as you are. Did you hear all that about how terrific running would be if I work at it? You guys all sound like you read one book in your whole life and that was The Complete Book of Running. In a few days, I might decide to be out here again doing this shit. And your Captain Berner there is going to be pulling up alongside me asking me what the doctor said, telling me what he forgot to say, and then he's going to tell me where to buy the right kind of shoes.”

  Peck stared at him, appraisingly at first, then trying not to smile. “That was very neatly done, Connor.”

  ”I work at it.”

  “You're satisfied that was Berner?”

  “Under the sweaty mustache? No question. His hair is that color because he went swimming in chlorinated water too soon after dying it. He's got an old scar high on his cheek that's not old and it's not a scar. Someone tattooed it on using bleach. He's wearing colored contact lenses and his face is shorter, probably from dental work, to give him more of an overbite and a new profile.”

  “Connor,” said Peck, applauding on his fingertips, “you really are quite extraordinary.”

  “I'm a treasure. What name's he using now and who turned him into Notre Dame? I assume he's got all new paper.”

  “It gets a lot more interesting than fake documents. His name, these days, is Roger Hershey. He works for the Smithsonian as an archivist in the anthropology section. Been there two years. Before that, he was a field archaeologist for six years, mostly in Mexico and the Southwest. His specialty is the pre-Columbian era. Graduated from Notre Dame in 1965. Master's from Arizona State, and he's working toward a doctorate between field trips. Never been in the service.”

  “That's good paper. Someone went to a lot of trouble.”

  “You have no idea.” Duncan Peck pa
used and scanned the area in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sweep, then beckoned Harrigan to walk with him.

  “About four months ago, Berner was spotted. Right here on this track. He was seen by a major who was in town on temporary duty with the Joint Chiefs.” Peck pointed across the river toward the distant tan mass of the Pentagon.

  “This major,” Peck continued, “was sure that Berner was Berner until he talked with him for a while. Then he realized that the two men, Berner and Hershey, were about as different as a lion and a lamb. Berner, for example, was always rather stiff. A loner. He had a few fierce loyalties, viz. Sergeant Dengler, but few if any friends and almost no outside interests. He wasn't what you'd consider rousing company. Hershey, on the other hand, is cultured, friendly, soft-spoken, kind, as you've seen, and an enthusiastic hobbyist whose interests range from fishing to carpentry, to say nothing of pre-Columbian art. This is all one man, Connor. One man with two entirely different personalities. More remarkable, Hershey has a depth of knowledge in a number of fields that Berner cared nothing about only thirty months ago. That's roughly when he disappeared.”

  “And Hershey's been at the Smith how long? Two years?”