by Clark Howard
“J. Walter Keyes,” he said clearly, “for the crime of Inhumanity you are hereby sentenced to the punishment of Vegetation.
“You are to be reduced from your present animal state to the status of a living vegetable, so that you will never again be capable of communing with mankind.
“Your punishment is to be accomplished surgically in the following manner:
“One, your eyesight is to be taken away so that you may never again see a human being;
“Two, your hearing is to be taken away so that you will never again hear the sounds of mankind;
“Three, your power of speech is to be taken away so that you may never again communicate your thoughts to man;
“Four, the use of your hands is to be taken away by amputation of both arms above the elbows, so that you may never again experience the touch of natural or worldly creations;
“—and five, the use of your legs is to be taken away by amputation above the knees, so that you may never again walk the earth of mankind.”
Keyes was leaning forward in the chair as far as the straps on his forearms would permit. His face was totally drained of color; his mouth, gone bark-dry, hung open, its lips a lifeless white. His eyes had widened astonishingly; bloodshot and glazed, they literally bulged in their sockets.
He stared in shock at the cool, commanding figure before him, the horror of the man’s words spreading through his mind like some dark, evil ink. For perhaps half a minute his terrified thoughts reverberated with hollow sounds of what he had just heard:
Your eyesight—
—your hearing—
—your speech—
—your hands—
—your legs—
Then he fainted.
Twenty Three
Devlin sat in his car in the darkness, concealing a glowing cigarette in his cupped hand, watching, across and three houses up the street, the home of Judge Wilke.
It was nearly eight o’clock. Devlin had followed the judge home from Justice Hall shortly after five. He had watched the elderly man park in the driveway and enter his house. Now, more than two and a half hours later, he was still watching.
On the seat beside him was a silver flask of brandy and a sheet of paper on which was written the residence addresses of Wilke, Doctors Fox and Price, and Barry Chace. The addresses of Reverend O’Hara and Todd Holt he already knew. All of them combined were part of a rotating surveillance plan that Devlin had devised in the hope that one or the other of the men might lead him to Keyes.
Checking his watch now, he noted that he had only seven more minutes to watch the Wilke home. The judge had remained in all evening and had received no visitors. There were, Devlin had learned, two other occupants of the house: Wilke’s widowed daughter and her twenty-year-old son, a college student. With them living in the house, it was not likely that Keyes was being held there.
Devlin extinguished his cigarette in the dashboard ashtray and opened the silver flask. He took a sip of the brandy, held it until it set his tongue on fire, then swallowed it. He thought briefly of Jennifer. She had not been at the apartment when he returned the previous night. A note on the desk told him that she had returned home, that she would be waiting when he felt that he could come to her with a clear conscience.
Devlin was more than a little disappointed to find her gone. He had badly needed someone to talk to, having just returned from his unsuccessful visit with Todd Holt and Janet Sundean—
Janet Sundean, he thought incredulously. Jan, the gawky, pigtailed little girl who insisted on falling asleep on his lap whenever he visited her father for one of their long philosophical discussions; who pestered him mercilessly while he was constructing the massive fireplace in the Sundean home. Little Jan, daughter of the Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court; all grown up now—and involved in this insane vigilante plot or whatever it was—
Incredible, he thought.
Inside the house across the street, Judge Wilke was at his desk, a yellow legal pad before him, preparing to compose a statement which he would issue to the press after J. Walter Keyes was returned, in his vegetated state, to society.
The judge opened a drawer of the desk and took out a bottle of ink. Removing the cap, he proceeded to fill an old-fashioned plunger type fountain pen, its enamel nearly gone from the volume of use it had endured. The pen had been given to him as an anniversary present by his late wife almost thirty years ago. The judge never carried it in his vest pocket anymore, as he once had; now he kept it in his desk and used it only for personal writing, because it, like himself, was well worn with age and he wanted it, if possible, to last as long as he did. He had already left instructions with his daughter that it was to be buried with him when he was laid to rest next to the woman who had given it to him.
The pen filled, he turned to the composition of his statement. He intended to make it a strong one, very strong. Of course, he would be impeached for it and removed from the bench, but that did not matter too much. What was important was that the public realize that what had been done to Keyes was not a crime but an act of justice. Pure justice—
It was a thing he had dreamed of for fifty years—
At fifteen minutes past eight, Devlin parked his car around the corner from the home of Dr. Milton Price. He got out and walked past the house on foot. Through a large picture window in front he was able to see the doctor’s wife and two teenage daughters in the living room. Both family cars were in the drive, so Devlin was reasonably certain that Price was also in the house. He returned to his own car, reparked it where he would have a view of the house, and settled down to watch for the two-hour period he had allowed for Price.
Dr. Price, like Judge Wilke, was also preparing a statement in writing, though not for the press. Price’s opinion of the Keyes affair was to be in the form of a lecture, to be delivered to each of three psychology classes he taught at the university. It would, like the judge’s, be strongly in support of the Eden Movement’s aims and purpose, which by that time would have been made public for all the world to know. The stand would no doubt cost him his professorship at the university—but not before he had indoctrinated the theory of pure justice into some sixty-five impressionable students.
Downstairs he could hear his wife giving the girls their bi-weekly piano lesson. His wife played beautifully; someday the girls would too. Briefly he hoped that his public position regarding the Keyes matter would not affect his family too adversely. He would be in the minority, of course, in his viewpoint, but he had been in similar positions before and Lucille and the girls had stood by him. Nothing in the past had been quite this serious or controversial, he had to admit, but he had confidence in his family. Of course, the girls were growing up awfully fast, developing their own ideas about things. Soon, much too soon, they would not be girls any longer, they would be young women—
God forbid, he shuddered involuntarily, that either of them should ever come under the influence of anyone like Keyes—
Devlin watched the Price home until ten o’clock. There was, he decided, little possibility that Keyes would be there either: too many people in the house besides Price. He started his car and drove to the residence of Barry Chace.
Chace, a bachelor, lived alone in a third floor apartment of a building near the downtown area. Devlin had located the exact apartment earlier in the day while Chace was at work; he knew which two windows belonged to Chace and even which one opened into the living room and which into the bedroom.
As he drove around to the side of the building Chace’s apartment faced, Devlin saw at once that both windows were dark. He parked and walked to a corner telephone booth and dialed Chace’s number. There was no answer. Devlin walked back down the street and stood for a moment looking up at the dark windows. Would it be possible, he wondered, to conceal a prisoner in an apartment, with so many people living in such close proximity? He supposed so; but it would be difficult. They might use drugs, of course, to keep him quiet; but that would present a
variety of problems: feeding, sanitation, others. It was highly unlikely, he decided, shaking his head and walking back to his car.
Devlin next drove to the home of Dr. Damon Fox. It was a large, stately brick residence at the end of a secluded street in the foothills. There he found three cars parked on the circular driveway. Turning his own car around, he drove halfway back up the block and parked. He returned to the Fox home on foot, cautiously, walking in shadows as much as possible. When he was close enough, he noted the license numbers of the three cars and paused to scribble them on the inside of a matchbook cover.
Presently he returned to his car and used a penlight to locate the page in his notebook on which was listed the makes, models and license numbers of all autos registered in the names of the men he was following. Comparing the list with the numbers on the matchbook cover, Devlin learned that Dr. Fox had two visitors: Todd Holt and Barry Chace.
So, he thought, the plot thickens. He put away the penlight, lighted a cigarette, and settled back in the seat to watch.
There were actually three visitors in the Fox home; the third was Janet Sundean.
She sat with Todd and Barry before a long rectangular table upon which stood a series of anatomy charts, and behind which stood Dr. Fox.
“This operation is not nearly as difficult or involved as you may think,” the doctor was saying. “Most surgical procedures are done for the purpose of repair; that is generally where the difficulty lies. In our case, of course, we will not be repairing, merely removing, so from a surgical standpoint it will be comparatively simple.” He hesitated and glanced at Janet. “I do want to emphasize, however, that it will not be a very pretty experience in which to participate. Among other things, it will be quite gory—and bloody.”
“If you’re worried about me, Damon,” Janet said quietly, “please don’t. I believe very strongly in what the Movement is doing; as strongly as any of you, I can assure you. I can be quite persevering when the situation requires it.”
“I can vouch for that, Damon,” Todd Holt said wryly, smiling. Janet threw him an icy glance, then barely concealed her own smile.
“Very well,” Dr. Fox said. “As a precautionary measure, I will have one of our colleagues standing by with ammonium hydroxide ampules, just in case one of you should suffer sudden nausea. Actually, it will only be necessary for two of you to assist me; that will probably be you, Janet, and you, Barry, since both of you are slighter of build than Todd; the less crowded it is around the table, the better. Todd, you can serve as a standby, in case you’re needed.”
The doctor paused and rubbed his delicate hands together briefly. His composure, his entire manner, was in its usual crisp, businesslike vein, completely belying the purpose of the situation at hand. It was, almost, as if Damon Fox were nerveless.
“The physical makeup of the Blue Room,” he continued, lifting a diagram from the table, “once it has been converted for the operation, will resemble this—”
It was after midnight when Devlin saw the visitors depart Dr. Fox’s home. Although he had not considered the possibility of Janet Sundean being with them, the sight of her getting into Todd’s car did not surpise him. She was, he had reconciled himself to the fact, as deeply involved in the Keyes affair as any of them.
The two cars pulled out of the Fox driveway and separated at the first corner, going in opposite directions. Devlin, driving without headlights, followed the car driven by Barry Chace. He had quickly surmised that following Todd would lead him nowhere, since Todd probably would be taking Janet home; plus which he was not entirely certain that he could follow Todd without being discovered.
Barry Chace drove directly back to his apartment house, parked his car, and went upstairs. Devlin drove around to the side of the building and watched the apartment windows light up. He logged the time next to Chace’s name on his list, waited half an hour to be certain that the statistician was remaining home, then began a final check of each residence he had watched since the night began.
The wide circle he had mapped out took him an hour to drive. He found Wilke and Price homes dark and quiet. The Fox house was the same. A brief turn past the church residence of Reverend O’Hara, which he had not reached in his itinerary that night, assured him that all was in order there, and set him to pondering, as he drove toward Todd Holt’s apartment house, whether O’Hara’s church might not be a likely place to hold an abducted man. Did it, he wondered, have a basement? Most churches did have; if not a basement, at least some kind of room for meetings, social gatherings and such. That, he decided, was a strong possibility. A church building, unoccupied, unused generally except on Sundays—
He found, when he arrived, that Todd was at home; his car, parked near the building, was securely locked for the night.
The final place to check was back at Barry Chace’s building. Chace’s apartment was dark now, his car still where he had left it.
It was after two in the morning when Devlin got back to his own apartment. He set the alarm for six and went to bed.
At seven o’clock, with the early morning sun just beginning to warm the air, Devlin sat back behind the wheel of his car, again watching the home of Dr. Fox. The doctor emerged from the house at seven-twenty and drove toward the expressway. Devlin followed him until he entered the expressway and headed toward the city limits, in the direction of the state hospital.
Devlin switched then to the nearest person on his list, which happened to be Barry Chace. He arrived at Chace’s apartment house just in time to follow the smartly dressed Negro to his office at the headquarters of International Statistical Data, Incorporated. He watched Chace leave his car with a parking lot attendant and enter the downtown office building.
By then it was nearly nine. Hungry, Devlin found a drive-in and ordered breakfast. As he ate, he found himself thinking about Keyes. Damn it, they have to feed the man; one of them has to be looking after him in some way—
Unless, the thought occurred to him, there were others involved—
Was that possible? Certainly, anything was possible. But was it probable? Not too. Still—
He shook his head in frustration and took out his list for the day. He would check on Judge Wilke first; that was easy enough, just look in the courtroom. Then Dr. Price out at the university. Then Todd at Chief Justice Sundean’s offices in the State Building. Then—
By noon Devlin had satisfied himself that each one of his subjects was engaged in a normal, daily routine. Each was exactly where he was supposed to be; no one was missing. He had even accidentally located Janet Sundean, who had no regular job but who apparently was helping her father in the Chief Justice’s business offices where Todd Holt also was working.
Wherever Keyes was being held, Devlin decided, it was obvious that none of the known members of the conspiracy were guarding him. Which meant one of two things: either he was alone in a secure, escape-proof place somewhere, or there were others involved; others of whom Devlin had no knowledge.
He decided to drive out to Reverend O’Hara’s church and watch there for awhile. On the way he thought of Jennifer again; he had not talked to her in nearly two days now; but perhaps, he decided, that was for the best. His mind was already cluttered up enough without adding more to the melee of his thoughts. She was a lovely woman—lovely, exciting to him, infinitely desirable; how good it would be to share a long, quiet time with her, in some beautiful place, like Ireland, away from all the pressures of the world, away from everything grey and sordid, with just the good of life between them, just the mist and an open fire and the warmth of good brandy and old Irish quilts on the bed—
It could be done, he thought more seriously. He had a fairly healthy savings account, enough at least for a year in Ireland, and Jennifer he was sure had considerable personal funds of her own. They could just walk away, both of them; her from the undesirable marriage which was obviously affecting her mental and physical well-being, and him from his unfortunate involvement in an affair which already had c
ost him two close friends and now was forcing him to struggle with his own conscience—
Just walk away. How easy it would be. Fly to the east, stop off to pick up Jennifer’s daughter, and go on to Shannon. From there—well, they could find a place. A place to love and be happy and—
And think of Keyes, his mind told him. Everytime you touched her, you’d think of Keyes, and you’d wonder if he died because you ran away with his wife instead of doing your job of finding him.
Yes, it would be easy to run. But after the running was over—
Devlin guided his car to the curb across the wide street from Reverend Abraham O’Hara’s church, and parked. He could see the minister’s car in a corner of the asphalt lot near the rectory gate. Loosening his tie, he lighted a cigarette and settled back in the seat to watch.
In the basement of the church, Abraham O’Hara, in shirt sleeves, was carefully stacking freshly inked sheets of paper which he had just run off on a mimeograph machine. He wore rubber gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints on the paper. In a corner of the same room, his wife, wearing similar gloves, was rolling envelopes into an electric typewriter and addressing them.
Pausing a moment to rest, the minister sat down and lifted one of the mimeoed pages to re-read it. Written in the form of a standard press release, the page, along with five others to which it would be attached, would form a story which would tell the world of the transgressions and punishment of J. Walter Keyes. It was a story which, as the Examiner had directed, was designed to strike a terrible fear into the heart of everyone who read it. It described the evil which Keyes had wrought, and its potential consequences; it told, without identifying the members, of the purpose of the Eden Movement; and it warned mankind to suppress its own evil or subject itself to the fate of men like Keyes.