The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Yes.” The voice was drowsy.

  Ray half stood to reach over and switch on the light machine. The disc slowly passed to and fro as it flicked across the gleaming interior light.

  “I want you to stare at the light, Martin. I want you to concentrate on the disc. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, you are relaxed and quite sleepy.”

  “Yes.”

  Ray let a full minute pass as Martin continued staring at the light machine. He chose his words carefully before beginning, for he knew he had to lead his patient into a dark labyrinth of memories filled with terror. It would be a long and difficult process and he must proceed with caution.

  “June twenty-eight was a very sunny day,” Ray began. “And we all boarded the bus just outside the school gate. There were a dozen of you and you sat next to Roger.”

  “I remember,” Martin mumbled barely audibly.

  “I stood by the driver and spoke to you before the bus left.”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “You talked about the Mohawk Club.”

  Chapter Ten

  The disc clicked back and forth until its motion merged into one continuous sweep. The bright light seemed to expand until it filled his complete vision to the exclusion of everything else. His limbs felt leaden, and the carefully enunciated soft words of Ray Heath were the only stimuli Martin felt.…

  He turned away from the bright sun to see Ray Heath standing by the driver at the end of the bus. The excited voices of those around him fell silent as the psychologist began to speak.

  “Listen, guys, it’s rather important for you all to do as well as you can at Camp Mohawk. It will be good work experience and may well be the first step for those of you who are to move on to a halfway house.”

  “They got girls up there?” Roger yelled.

  Ray shook his head. “No girls, no women. Just a bunch of important men who are relaxing and having a good time.”

  “Who’s going to feed us?” There were murmurs of agreement at the voicing of that important point.

  Ray smiled and lounged against the pole near the driver’s seat. “Good question. Okay, here’s how it works. The club members have campsites. Now, some of these areas are pretty fancy and include cottages equipped with everything, and some of them are rustic—just a tent or two. The members will do their own cooking. They eat a lot of steaks and things like that.”

  “Throw me a bone,” Roger yelled from his place next to Martin.

  “Right,” Ray snapped back, “and a little more. The members will cook, and there will be enough for you guys.… Now, your jobs will consist of gathering firewood, laying the fire, washing dishes, and otherwise helping out around the camp. Each of you will be assigned to work with various members at the camp.”

  “We get paid money?” asked an astringent, petulant voice from the rear of the bus.

  Ray smiled. “It is the habit of the club members to tip … to give money to school residents at the end of their stay. I might say that in the past they have been most generous.”

  “Enough to buy a car?”

  Ray smiled again. The desire for a car and the ability to drive was probably the most all-consuming passion of these men. “Not quite that generous,” he answered. “Any questions?”

  There were none. Ray stood a moment longer at the doorway of the bus as if reluctant to step off and finally send them away on their own. “Good luck, guys,” he said, waved, and left the bus.

  The driver immediately threw the vehicle in gear, turned toward the highway, and accelerated. Those on the bus were silent, their recent exuberance dismissed as they left the sanctuary of their home.

  Martin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass of the window. The frightening images bounced into mental focus. They sprang forward with such stark clarity that he winced.

  Her hand lashed out and struck him across the face with such severity that he fell back against the headboard of the narrow cot.

  The drunken man by her side laughed and ground out his cigarette against the child’s bare thigh.

  He screamed in pain as they lashed him to the bed and left him alone in the dark. He heard them laughing as they went down the stairs.

  His head snapped back against the seat. His eyes were wide in remembered fright. The fear always returned when he left the school. Once through the wide double gates of the chain link fence, the images returned, and his forehead beaded with the perspiration of fear and hurt.

  He had tried to understand these feelings, and now knew that the pictures he saw were memories of long ago, from the days before he was at school.

  He was determined that this time his nightmares would not keep him from the enjoyment of freedom.… He would work hard. He would try to follow the orders given him, down to the last command. He would do well. He would try and be the best of the group traveling to Camp Mohawk.

  Martin Fowler stared ahead, determined not to close his eyes again that day until he fell exhausted onto whatever sleeping arrangements they made for him.

  The bus drove on deep into the inner recesses of the Adirondacks. A dark raincloud covered the tip of a nearby mountain, but through an odd quirk of meteorological conditions, a ray of bright sunlight shone through the mist and fell to earth in a symmetrical shaft.

  Martin smiled for the first time that day.

  Billie Bamburg stood on the porch of the cottage perched on the side of the hill and watched the approaching vehicle through a pair of Binolux 10 × 50 binoculars. The bus was traveling along the dirt road in the valley below the camp, and it raised a hovering cloud of dust as it approached the main gate. He estimated that it would arrive at the assembly area in twenty minutes.

  That meant twenty minutes for target practice. Then he would walk the few yards down to where the bus parked and select his aide for the next several weeks. He stepped inside the cottage and snorted at the word “aide.”

  Whomever he selected would never be able to learn how to mix a decent drink, but at least he would keep his mouth shut and wouldn’t remember or understand any indiscretions he saw or heard. It was a passable arrangement.

  He went into his small bedroom immediately adjacent to the senator’s, stood before the mirror, and adjusted the thin black tie under the collar of his stiffly starched immaculate white shirt. He nodded at himself in the mirror, picked up the throwing knife from the bureau, and carefully inserted it into the spring sheath strapped to his forearm. He slipped into his black suit jacket and adjusted the fall of the material. He nodded again and went back outside to practice.

  He had painted a small red bull’s-eye on a pine not far from the cottage. The mark was five feet from the ground and approximated the height and size of that crucial point in the average man’s sternum. There was only one throw to the knife and so no margin for error.

  He stood thirty feet from the tree and slightly twisted his arm. The sheath sprang free and the blade was in his right hand, which immediately snapped back and threw.

  The knife cleaved the center of the bull’s-eye and vibrated slightly as it imbedded itself in the trunk. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he walked to retrieve the knife. His timing was still good. A few dozen more morning throws would keep it so.

  Billie Bamburg was five feet two inches tall, weighed one hundred thirty pounds and was one of the most deadly men who had ever served on a Green Berets A team. He specialized in death by stealth, and far preferred the close proximity of a knife thrust or a piano wire garrote to the anonymity of an automatic weapons fire fight.

  Colonel Rutledge Baxter had recognized Billie’s talents nearly as soon as he took command of the unit, and had assigned him to what were euphemistically called “Special Headquarters Assignments.” Billie had initially been disgruntled, that is, until he had been informed that these duties meant carrying out assassinations of individuals who were marked for “termination with extreme prejudice.”

  He had terminated thirty-two me
n and women before the American forces left Viet Nam. Peacetime duties had proven onerous, and he had resigned from the army to work for his former commanding officer who had recently been elected to the Senate.

  He finished the last of his morning’s routine of throws, replaced the knife in its spring sheath, and walked down to the reception area to meet the bus.

  Out of habit, Martin was last off the bus, and stood at the rear of the ramshackle line of training school inmates. A group of men was straggling down toward them. Some were dressed in the work whites of navy stewards, others in army fatigue pants and white tee shirts, while the rest were obvious butler types. The last man in the group was a diminutive man dressed incongruously for the weather in a black suit, narrow tie, and white shirt. With a swagger of authority, the small man crossed to the driver who was now sitting on the bus’s doorstep, smoking a long cigarillo.

  “Any of these guys in good physical shape?” Billie asked.

  “They all been checked out by a doctor before they were sent up here. Nobody’s sick or anything.”

  “No. I mean do any of them do athletics? I need one who can run with my boss in the mornings.”

  The driver’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, but Martin could overhear, just as could half of his peers. “Listen, mister,” the driver said, “half of these guys can hardly walk. They’re retards, you know,”

  “So I’ve heard,” Billie said contemptuously. He turned disdainfully away from the driver and called out to the group. “Any of you jog?”

  They looked back at him blankly.

  “Any of you in terrific physical shape?”

  “Martin is,” Roger said helpfully. “Martin works outside every day.”

  “Which one is Martin?”

  Martin stepped reluctantly forward. He hated to be singled out from the group. “I am.”

  “How far can you run?”

  “I don’t know. Coupla miles.”

  “You’ll do.” He turned back to the driver. “This one will be working for Senator Baxter.” He beckoned to Martin. “Come on, kid. I’ll fill you in with the drill.”

  Martin picked up his bag and slowly followed him. “The drill?”

  “The job. I’ll tell you what to do.”

  Martin saw the cottage where they were heading. It was at the top of a winding trail and seemed to occupy the highest point of the camp. He glanced to the side to see a clear mountain lake sparkling below. A half-dozen. Sunfish, with gaily colored sails, were pulled ashore along the lake bank, while several others were scudding before the wind out on the water itself. There was a quiet ambiance about the place—a small group of men was fishing off a dock, others were walking in twos and threes along well-tended paths, and one lone portly man was standing waist deep in the cool lake water, splashing himself with lethargic movements.

  “This is the ‘Glen,’” Billie said as they passed a cove of trees that surrounded a small natural amphitheater. Logs had been cleaved in half and laid on stakes to form crude seats before the rock stage. “A lot of important guys in this country give talks here. Everything’s off the record, of course, general background information that nobody but nobody knows about beyond the camp. That goes for anything you hear … understand?”

  “Sure,” Martin replied. “They told us that at the school.”

  “That place must be like a prison,” the small man said.

  “It’s not so bad,” Martin answered.

  “How old are you, Fowler?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Christ! You sure in hell don’t look that old. I would have put you at twenty, maybe twenty-one. You’ve still got a year before the cutoff date. You should join the army. You’ll find a home for yourself.” He stopped on the path and turned to face Martin. “I guess they wouldn’t take you, huh?”

  “Probably not,” Martin mumbled.

  Billie turned to continue on to the cabin. “Too bad.”

  They arrived at the cottage and Billie gave Martin a quick tour of the premises. Although somewhat rustic in outward appearance, the interior furnishings were ostentatiously masculine. A ten-pointed deer head was mounted over the large fireplace that nearly filled one wall of the long living room. The furnishings consisted of leather chairs and sofa, and there were exposed beams on the ceiling. One corner held a poker table, another a well-stocked U-shaped bar. Billie quickly opened three doors and briefly exposed a large bedroom, a smaller one, and a compact but efficient kitchen.

  “It’s pretty,” Martin said.

  Billie laughed. “I wouldn’t describe it that way, but it’s okay. I sleep in the small room, the boss in the other. There’s a separate room out back where you can bunk down. We’ll take your things out there later.” He picked up a clipboard from a kitchen counter. “At 7:00 A.M. the boss runs. You’ll go with him and carry his gear that he uses at the halfway mark. When you get back here, wash up anything left over from the night before and then go out for firewood.”

  “I chop down trees?”

  “Naw. They have a shed full of wood near where the bus left you off. Lunch is noon sharp. The senator has one drink … I mix, you serve. Same with lunch, I cook and you serve. You know how to do that?”

  “I think so.”

  Billie looked at him dubiously. “I’ll give you lessons, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “The senator won’t arrive until late tonight, so today’s easy,” Billie continued, “but you start running tomorrow, and then tomorrow evening we have a cocktail party to work … an important one.”

  Martin was up at 5:00 A.M. on the following morning, and was making his second trip to the woodshed down by the reception area when first light broke through the camp. A wispy white fog rose in tendrils from the mountain lake, and a haze of ground fog swirled around tree trunks, giving the encampment an eerie quality. He loaded his arms with as much wood as he could manage and began the uphill trip to the cottage.

  He had awakened abruptly at 4:00 A.M. and had lain on the narrow cot trying to sort his thoughts. The frightening thought that had startled him into consciousness was the realization that Mr. Heath was not going to let him stay at the school. For the past month or two the new chief psychologist had been looking at Martin with questioning glances.

  They were going to send him to a halfway house. The stay at the camp was only the first step, the trial run. If he failed this job, there would be another test, and then another, until he was forced from the school and into an outside life.

  He had sighed in resignation of what was to come and, in so doing, had resolved to do his best.

  Martin continued up the path to the cottage, stowed away the wood, and padded silently around the living room dusting, putting away empty glasses, and preparing for breakfast.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Martin whirled to face a man coming out of the larger bedroom, wearing sweat pants and carrying a pair of running shoes. His hair was tousled, and his face sleep-creased.

  “Martin Fowler, sir,” he replied quietly.

  “From the training school?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Senator Baxter. Get me some OJ—quick.”

  Martin stood rooted in the center of the living room. He tried to remember if OJ was a type of alcoholic drink, something he might have seen made on television.

  “Juice, damn it! In the kitchen,” Rutledge said irritably as he sat down to don his running shoes.

  “Orange juice,” Martin said.

  “God, yes. How can a man run at this ungodly hour without something to build up the blood sugar?”

  Martin hurried into the kitchen and found a pitcher of orange juice in the refrigerator. He located a glass, filled it, and returned to the living room where he handed it to the senator. “Here you are, sir.”

  Rutledge took the glass, downed it in two gulps, and then jogged in place for a few moments. “I hope to hell you can run. Last year the kid we had couldn’t make half a mile.” He threw a
small haversack toward Martin. “Carry that. It’s extra shoes, socks and a towel. I run three miles and then change shoes and socks—you run with me that far. Coming back, you can crawl for all I care. Come on, let’s go.” Without a further word he ran from the cottage and began a brisk jog along a forested path.

  Martin hefted the haversack’s strap over his shoulder and ran after the senator. He caught up with him forty yards down the trail and kept a respectful ten feet behind as the exercise continued.

  They found their stride on a well-tended path that ran along the edge of a cliff. Their bodies were silhouetted against the sky as they ran in perfect formation. The pack, high up on. Martin’s back, was light, and he hardly noticed the weight.

  The senator began to slow as they approached a small mountain stream cascading over flat rocks as it made its way down the hill toward the valley floor below. He stopped, sat on a rock, and held out his hand toward Martin.

  Martin instantly whipped the pack from his back, threw open the two restraining straps, and handed it to the senator.

  Rutledge took a towel from the pack, brushed his face with it, and then wrapped it around his neck. Next he took out a small thermos, filled the cap with water, and handed it to Martin.

  “An officer always drinks after his men.”

  Martin nodded, took the brimming cap, drank, and handed it back to the senator. “Thank you.”

  “You’re doing all right, son. Can you make it back?” Rutledge smiled at Martin, and it was as if a transformation had come over his features. “Well, can you?”

  “I think so, sir,” Martin replied with the knowledge that he’d run double the distance for this smiling man.

  “Good.” Rutledge peeled off his running shoes and socks and changed into fresh pairs from the haversack. When he had finished he looked up at Martin again. “You’d make a good soldier.… What’s your name again?”

  “Fowler, sir. Martin Fowler.”

  “Man in your shape would find the infantry a joy. I guess they wouldn’t take you, would they?”

  “Probably not,” Martin answered for the second time the same question posed by two different men.