He levered himself carefully from the bed and reached for his trousers hanging over a nearby ladderback chair. Painfully, he stuffed one leg and then the other into the pants.
A voice from down the hall. “They’re all gone. I been sitting out there since six a goddamn o’clock and I counted. The woman too. She left near eight.”
A hoarse whisper. “Keep it down. His room’s upstairs.”
Footsteps … quiet as if purposely muffled. Martin eased the door open a crack and looked down the hall toward the front stairs.
Two men were poised by the banister at the foot of the steps. One had a hand on the balustrade.
The man with the gun in his right hand was the same one who yesterday afternoon had clenched a whirling chain. Martin closed the door quietly and felt the tremble begin in his knees as spasms worked their way up his body.
He knew they were after him. They would search the house until they found him, so he must hide.
Barbados.
The word sprang into his mind with a ringing clarity. He didn’t know what it meant, but it seemed to signal further fear from another time.
He must find a hiding place. He was afraid to leave the room because they might hear him in the hall or notice the squeaking screen on the back door.
Briefly, he considered slithering under the bed and huddling against the wall, but rejected the idea, remembering something from the past. In a dim time, long ago, he saw himself as a small, frightened child who sneaked under the bed. Attendants, huge adults in a child’s retrospect, poked with broom handles until the pain forced him out.
Martin stepped toward the closet. The door was open a few inches, and he eased it further aside and slipped inside. He could smell her fragrance on the hanging clothes. Gently, he pushed a rack of summer dresses and slipped to the back of the closet. Then he pulled the clothing back over the rod and hid his feet behind a suitcase on the floor.
The house spoke its familiar sounds. A gentle wind brushed the cupola on the roof, and the squeak of an ancient weather vane could barely be perceived.
Steps overhead. Stealthy, hurried footfalls. They had finished with the room he shared with Roger and were now methodically checking the other rooms on the second floor.
Barbados.
Again the word he could not fathom, except to know the fear it provoked was somehow connected with what was now happening.
They were coming down the stairs. He heard the protest of a floorboard midway down the flight. Next they were in the main hallway. Then one was in the living room, the other checking the dining room.
The nearly silent steps, which he had to strain to hear, approached the room where he hid.
The door to the bedroom opened.
“This is the broad’s room,” a voice said.
“Check it anyway, idiot.”
A grunt, as a large man fell to his hands and knees to peer under the bed. The door to the closet was yanked open. A hand pushed aside the rack of clothes and they squeaked in protest as the hangers moved across the metal rod.
A hand with fat fingers, inches from his face. Then the clothing was returned to normal position. The door slammed.
They hadn’t seen him and he heard them leave the room. His knees continued to tremble.
Barbados.
Again so clear and terrifying.
Rutledge Galation Baxter fully intended to be president of the United States and the reporter from Time’s Washington Bureau knew it. The newsman stood next to the rowing machine in the Senate gym with his ballpoint pen poised over a lined steno pad. He watched the senator’s arms and shoulder muscles bunch as he stroked the oars.
The reporter adjusted the steel-rim glasses on his nose and looked up. “I’ll need to include the usual background on you, sir. I understand that you are a West Point graduate?”
“A year at VMA first and then class of ’55. On active duty I served primarily with the special forces and retired as a full colonel after twenty years. But you can get that kind of material from the bio my office hands out.”
The reporter nodded. Rutledge tightened the rowing mechanism to its most difficult position and began to stroke. The increased tension on the machine caused the cords of muscles on his forearms and shoulders to stand out in bold relief.
“The Baxters were in banking, weren’t they?”
Rutledge knew that the man had done his homework and the casual question was actually pointed. He carefully considered his reply, hiding the delay by an increase in his rowing speed. After a dozen more strokes he stopped and stepped out of the machine. He toweled his perspiring face. “Insurance actually. My father was primary stockholder in the Patrick Henry Group.”
“I would assume those shares passed to you on his death?”
“And to my sister.” The senator smiled in the boyish manner that had become his trademark. “They—my shares—are worth eight million, if that’s of any interest.”
“You’re most candid, sir.”
“I have nothing to hide.” The reporter hovered by his elbow as he walked toward the shower room.
An attendant dressed in starched white duck pants and a form-fitting tee shirt signaled to Rutledge. “Phone, sir. You can take it in the office.”
Rutledge smiled, waved, and strode briskly to the small glass-fronted office where he snatched up the phone from its cradle. “Senator Baxter here.”
“You damn well assigned me a couple of ding-a-lings,” Althea said curtly.
“Are you sure your end of this phone is safe?” Baxter’s voice was sonorous even in routine conversation.
“Who the hell knows? I’m in a piping hot phone booth in some hicksburg called Dawsonville. If anybody’s tapping the line here, they’re doing it with an oatmeal box and a ball of twine.”
“You want more help up there?”
“No. It would just bring in more people that shouldn’t know. I’ll muddle through with what I have. I guess it’s bad luck, but for the time being, it seems that your friend has disappeared.”
“I’ll put a routine call through to the training school. That might turn up something.”
“I’ll call back on schedule,” she said as she prepared to hang up.
“Althea.” His voice was impelling and insistent.
She hesitated and put the receiver back to her ear. “Yes?”
“You know I count on you. You’ve never failed me yet.”
“I know,” she replied and then hung up with resolution. Leaving the phone booth, she walked back toward the car. George and Henry were sitting in the front seat like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, both staring straight ahead as if acknowledging her presence would be the revelation of a secret they should not possess. She slammed into the back of the car. “Turn up the damn air conditioner,” she snapped with irritation.
Tweedledum, also known as George, immediately switched the air conditioner to high. Tweedledee turned the ignition and threw the car in gear. They left the curb with a faint squeal of tires.
The driver looked up into the rearview mirror at her reflection. “Where to?” Henry asked.
Althea closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. She visualized the random numbers that were the code sequence for the next calling time and location of the pay phone. The town of Abbott at 3:00 P.M. clicked into place.
“Where to, Al?” Henry repeated impatiently.
“Don’t call me that. We’ve got time to kill. Drive around and see if you can find a decent place to eat. Some place where they know how to make a drinkable martini.”
Through some marvelous accident they located the Leather-stocking Inn only a half-dozen miles from the location of Althea’s last phone call. The dining room was cozy, the cocktail glasses iced, the vodka martinis mixed to perfection. She noticed with distaste that her companions had steins of beer.
She would dawdle over her cocktail, have a small lean steak for lunch, and then make the contact. Rutledge, or someone in his employ, would have information that
would allow them to proceed.
Rutledge had given her the life she wanted. Somehow the boyish-appearing senator seemed able to sense a proclivity to violence that lurked beneath the surface of certain people. They became lovers, and he sensed it in her. Through his assignments she had moved into a role that was far more exciting … in her case, more fulfilling, than anything she had done before.
Sara Bucknell kept working at her nails with the small brush. The damn grease still wouldn’t come out. She was tired. The day of physical labor—bending and rushing outside in the hot sun—had fatigued her far more than she would have imagined.
She wondered with further irritation where Martin was. She had assumed he would still be in her bed asleep when she arrived home from the service station. Well, if he were well enough to run around the grounds, he would be well enough to get his hide to work in the morning.
“Phone call, Miss Bucknell.”
“Thank you, Roger,” she yelled through the bathroom door as she dried her hands quickly and rushed to the wall phone in the hallway.
“Sara, it’s Ray.”
She felt a warm glow and unconsciously brushed a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. “Hi, darling,” she answered and then furtively glanced down the hall to see if any of her charges had heard the term of endearment. She wondered, with a slight smile, if the others suspected she was sleeping with the school’s chief psychologist.
“Is Martin Fowler there? I mean, is he in the house now?”
She was slightly taken aback. “I don’t know, Ray. He was here this morning. I just got in myself. Let me find out.”
She let the phone dangle from its cord as she quickly hurried to the living room. The television was on and several of the home’s occupants were grouped before it. “Roger, have you seen Martin?”
“He’s out in the barn … like he’s hiding or something.”
“Are you sure he’s there?”
“Sure. I saw him a couple a minutes ago.”
She nodded, “Thanks,” and rushed back to the phone. “Martin’s outside, Ray. Do you want me to get him?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Is he still working at the service station job?”
“Why, yes, he is. Why the sudden interest in Martin?”
“Damned if I know,” was the near-hearty reply. “Some big mucky-muck in Albany was making inquiry. Seems that Martin piqued some interest in one of the VIPs who was at Camp Mohawk recently. They wanted to make sure he was getting along all right.”
“Sure, he’s fine.” The lie was automatic and she wondered why she had told it. Martin was not fine. Martin had been beaten to a pulp yesterday, shot, and nearly lost his job today. She hesitated a moment, but hated to make the long explanation over the phone. “When will I see you again, darling?”
“Not this weekend, but I can break away next week for a three-dayer.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you on Tuesday,” he answered. “Have to rush and call Albany back with the info. Bye, love.”
She hung up and left the house to go out to the barn to find Martin.
He was in the loft and had obviously been watching the double doors, for he appeared above her as she stood in the circle of light in the center of the barn. “That you, Miss Bucknell?”
“Come on down, Martin.” She watched as he slowly climbed down the ladder from the hayloft. “What are you doing in here?”
He stood before her like a small boy caught in some unconscionable act. “They were here today, Miss Bucknell.”
“Who?”
“Two men. One of them was the one who beat me yesterday. They sneaked into the house and came looking for me and I hid in your closet.”
“Are you sure you aren’t just imagining things, Martin?”
“No, ma’am.”
She realized with a start that she was dealing with this man who was nearly her own age with the condescension most adults reserved for children. And yet in a way, these educable retarded were children.
“You were frightened yesterday, Martin. You had a rough night and were probably half-delirious most of the day. Perhaps you imagined they came into the house.”
“I saw them, Miss Bucknell.”
“You thought you saw them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, come on inside and let’s get ready for dinner. Remember, we all have to help with the chores.”
He followed her dutifully back across the yard and through the squeaking rear screen door.
“If it will make you feel better tomorrow,” Sara continued, “I’ll drive you to and from work.”
“Thank you.”
The argument at breakfast started over the prize in the Coco-Pops cereal package. Martin sat at the far end of the table, opposite Sara, and stared mournfully down into a bowl of com flakes. He was oblivious to the confrontation going on around him.
Roger stood, reached across the table, and snatched the Coco-Pops out of the hand of Nicholas Baker.
“It’s my turn!” he said as he reached deep into the cereal with his fingers in a search for the hidden prize.
“No fair!” Nicholas shouted back. “You have to wait until you eat to where the prize is.”
“That’s enough!” Sara said more harshly than she intended. “I’ll take that.” She grasped the offending package and aligned it alongside her own cereal dish. “Roger, you can have corn flakes.”
“I don’t like corn flakes.”
“You had better hurry or you’ll be late to the hospital. And that goes for all of you.” She looked over the table at her charges. Several of the men worked at the Horton Hospital, and several more for the State Forestry Service doing maintenance chores in the Adirondack State Forest that surrounded the area. They worked hard, and once they were taught and had mastered a task, they would perform it well hour after hour. They could be a definite asset to society, she thought; and if all went well, would eventually maintain themselves with only occasional supervision. Meegan House was the first step, and as Ray Heath had told her, they would make periodic evaluations and gradually move those that were able to function into their own apartments and rooms. It was a lengthy process, but a worthwhile one.
Martin’s face looked terrible. He seemed physically recovered from the beating, although he moved one arm awkwardly from stiffness due to his wound. He would need makeup to cover the most blatant of his facial bruises.
“If you’re through with your breakfast, Martin,” she said, “I’d like to see you in my room.”
A chorus of whoops and “oh, ohs” went up from the table.
“Miss Bucknell likes Martin,” Roger chortled.
Sara, at the archway to the living room, turned. “We’ll leave the door open.” She went back to her bedroom and Martin followed her.
He stood in the doorway as she searched through her dresser looking for makeup that would disguise his bruises. “I don’t want to go,” he said.
“I said I’d drive you to work. And at five-thirty I’ll pick you up in the van and bring you home.” She beckoned to him and he sat stiffly on the edge of her bed.
“I still hurt,” he said.
“Of course you do, but you can make it. You want to keep your job, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She peeled his tee shirt up and over his head and began to knead his shoulders. Occasionally, he winced, but his eyes half closed. “You’re very strong, Martin. I know you can do it.” As her hands rippled across the firm muscles of his back, she looked over his shoulder into the mirror. He just missed being handsome—that dull expression—she thought. His body was tanned and well proportioned and …
She stood abruptly and hurried to the bathroom where she made a pretense of searching through the medicine chest. “I’ll get something for your face,” she called out.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She had felt attracted to a man who was her charge, and who by some accident of genes or birth trauma was ne
arly a child.
Ray Heath, where are you when I need you? she thought. She found the makeup she needed and returned to the bedroom. Standing stiffly before Martin, Sara began to apply the lotion to hide his wounds.
Roger Toumy loved to mop floors, and the hospital cafeteria was his favorite place because the results were so dramatic. The restaurant’s floor was a white tile, and new construction for a south wing had spread dirt and sand on the outside walks which was tracked into the cafeteria. Roger dipped the mop into the wheeled bucket, pulled it halfway out and stepped on the lever to activate the wringer. He watched water drip fom the mop strands and then swished the mop from the bucket and began to do a new section of floor.
“Young man.”
Roger stopped mopping, stood erect, and turned to the table near where he was working. He hoped his white duck pants and tunic were clean and looked like a real uniform. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied sharply.
“You live in Meegan House, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have a nephew there. Perhaps you know him, Martin … Martin Fowler.”
“Martin and I are roommates,” he replied with pride.
“Is that right? How nice. Is Martin there now?”
“He will be when he gets off work.”
“Then he is at work today?”
“Miss Bucknell took him. I saw them go out.”
“You like Miss Bucknell?”
“She’s all right. I think she likes Martin.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“The other night, when they thought I was asleep, I heard her drive up and come into the house with her arm around Martin. They went into the bedroom and didn’t come out all night.”
“They’re good friends?”
“She took him to her bedroom this morning,” Roger said with pride at his powers of observation. “I peeked. He had his shirt off and she was rubbing him.”
“That’s interesting.”
“I like your hair,” Roger said. “Red is my favorite color.”
As she drove the van into the gas station to pick him up, Martin’s face beamed with the most expression she had ever witnessed him exhibit. She reached over and unlatched the passenger door. “Hop in,” Sara said cheerily.
The Man Who Heard Too Much Page 4
