A Movement Toward Eden

by Clark Howard

  “Any time the law is broken it’s a serious matter,” Devlin remarked, glancing pointedly at Todd.

  “That is exactly the lesson we are going to teach the world,” said the judge. “We want mankind to realize that for its own salvation a pure law of right and truth must be established and enforced, and that all men, even the rich and powerful, must govern their lives by it.”

  “And Keyes, I gather, is your guinea pig in this noble experiment.”

  “Yes. We selected Mr. Keyes on the basis of his transgressions against his fellow man, and we have tried him according to the law of right and truth. He has been found guilty of Inhumanity.”

  “And what exactly do you plan to do with him now?”

  “Make an example of him for all the world to see,” the Chief Justice said evenly. “Make known to all mankind what he has done, how he has lived, how his evil has affected the lives of the weak and the innocent. We are going to post the fate of Keyes as a warning to the human race.”

  “And just what is that fate?” Devlin inquired coolly.

  “I won’t tell you that, Dev,” the Chief Justice said, “unless you first listen to all the evidence relating to what he has done. Unless you know all the facts, you would never be able to weigh the justice of the punishment. I will tell you, however, that we do not intend to kill him.”

  “That’s very generous of you, I’m sure,” Devlin said.

  “You might say that sincerely if you listened to the evidence.”

  “I listen to evidence in legal courts of law, Judge; nowhere else.”

  “I rather suspected that would be your position,” the judge admitted. “If it weren’t, you would have been asked to join us in the very beginning. A man with your respect for right and truth would be invaluable to our group. And it still isn’t too late, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you there,” Devlin said unequivocally. “As far as my being one of your group, it was too late the moment you illegally abducted Keyes.”

  “You won’t even consider listening to our evidence against him?”

  “No.”

  Judge Sundean sighed audibly; his shoulders seemed to droop slightly, as if he were again very tired. He glanced briefly at Ito, to his right near the door, and Todd, standing tensely beside him on the left.

  “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose it’s useless to discuss the matter any further.”

  “Completely useless,” Devlin agreed, “except to settle the present situation. If I forego a formal arrest of both you and Todd, will you release Keyes right now?”

  “I cannot do that,” Sundean said emphatically.

  “That leaves me no choice then, does it?” Devlin looked at the blue-uniformed chauffeur. “Ito, get the judge’s hat and coat; he’s leaving.”

  “Stay where you are, Ito,” Todd Holt said sharply, speaking for the first time.

  “Do I have to remind you that you are under arrest too?” Devlin asked Holt in a quietly dangerous voice.

  “You don’t have to remind me of that—or anything,” Todd replied in as hostile a tone as Devlin had ever heard him use. “Our talking was over when you walked out of my apartment the other night.” Todd turned to Sundean. “Shall I take him, Judge?”

  “No,” the Chief Justice said, “let Ito; it will be quicker and easier that way.” He glanced at his chauffeur. “I don’t want him seriously hurt, Ito.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ito took a cautious, exploratory step forward, both hands raising tentatively. Devlin backed up several steps, out of range of the wiry Oriental.

  “I won’t fight him, Judge,” Devlin warned Sundean. He quickly opened his coat, exposing the holstered gun on his belt. “You’d better call him off.”

  “No need,” the chauffeur smiled and moved forward another step. “You will not get your gun out fast enough, Mr. Devlin. I am much too quick for you.”

  Devlin’s right hand was half raised but he had not touched the gun butt. He backed up again, stopping when he felt his legs touch a circular reception table in the center of the foyer. Ito moved lithely into range, crouching slightly, hands up fully now and stiffened for the single karate chop which could darken Devlin’s consciousness in a split instant. Sundean and Todd Holt had not moved. Ito was still smiling as he took still another step and tightened his crouch.

  “You’ll die, Ito,” Devlin said in a hoarse whisper.

  The Oriental sprang forward, so swiftly that his body became a blur in Devlin’s eyes. Devlin bent backward over the table, pulling his head back as far as possible, turning slightly to one side as his fingers curled around the grip of his revolver—

  Ito’s blow smashed against Devlin’s shoulder, missing the vulnerable neck muscles by scarcely an inch, and Devlin shot him at pointblank range in the throat just under his chin. The force of the bullet threw the wiry little body up and back, ripping off the top of Ito’s head and sprawling him in a grotesque heap on the thick, rich carpet.

  Devlin, trying to regain his balance, fell heavily to the table as his left arm gave way under him and a gripping pain wrenched the nerves of his shoulder and neck. Collarbone broken, he thought hazily. His sight blurred for an instant and the room became cloudy around him. In the mist he saw Todd Holt reach under his coat and draw a gun. No, Todd, no, he thought—

  Devlin raised himself on his right elbow, trying with what seemed like agonizing slowness to steady the gun in his unbalanced right hand, all the while his mind revolting at the thought of what he was about to do. He saw Todd level the gun at him and instinctively his trigger finger curled tightly.

  “Stop—” the Chief Justice called out desperately, raising both hands pleadingly.

  Devlin and Todd fired simultaneously as Judge Sundean rushed between them in an effort to halt the slaughter. Both bullets slammed into the Cheif Justice, twisting him completely around and throwing him brutally to the floor. His arms flapped helplessly as stiffening, struggling legs pushed his torso bolting upward where it froze momentarily in shock, unable to stem the flow of life that had already begun draining from it.

  “My god—my god—” Todd Holt rushed to the fallen man, dropping to his knees beside him.

  Nightmare, Devlin thought, nightmare—

  He forced himself to his feet, searing pain ripping at his shoulder, the harsh smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils, eyes focusing on the unnaturally bloody scene on the floor before him.

  For what? his outraged conscience screamed at him. For what?

  For Keyes, his mind answered. For J. Walter Keyes—and justice.

  Devlin shook his head in slow agony.

  Ito, dead.

  Sundean, dead.

  And Todd? He would die too, Devlin thought, just seconds from now—

  Todd Holt was on his knees, crying, holding Noah Sundean’s wide-eyed, dead face in his lap, the judge’s thick blood soaking both his trouser legs. The young man’s mouth was widely grimaced in grief and he was all but blinded by his own tears.

  “You killed him,” he said thickly, looking up at Devlin. “Dead—you killed him—dead—”

  Todd tilted his revolver up and fired. The bullet slammed into the heavy wood of the circular reception table, splintering its top. Todd fired again. Devlin felt the velocity of the second bullet as it sped past his arm. Todd aimed again, blinking the burning tears from his eyes.

  Before he could squeeze the trigger a third time, Devlin raised his own gun and shot him in the chest.

  Nightmare, he thought again. Nightmare, nightmare.

  He stepped around the body of Ito and over the body of Sundean and knelt beside the dying Todd. With his handkerchief he gently wiped the tears from Todd’s eyes and the bloody spittle from his mouth.

  “Dev—” It was more a grunt than a spoken word.

  “Yes, Todd—”

  “Did—you—kill me—too?”

  “I think so—” Devlin almost choked on his words. A circle of heat grew he
avy in his chest.

  “Dev—” Todd clutched at Devlin’s coat. “There’s a—a boy that needs—needs someone—” Bloody saliva gushed from his lips and Devlin sponged it away with the handkerchief. “Downstairs—cellar—Blue Room—find briefcase, tape—tell you all about the—the boy—”

  “I’ll take care of it for you,” Devlin assured him.

  “Keyes—there too—cellar—”

  Devlin nodded. Blood was trickling from Todd’s nostrils now as the hemorrhaging reached the back of his throat.

  “Friends—again—Dev? ”

  “Not again, Todd. Still. We never stopped being friends, not inside.”

  Todd Holt smiled. And died.

  Devlin quietly descended the stairs that led to the cellar. Soundproof, he thought absently as his ears detected the pressure of an underground vacuum. He paused at the foot of the stairs, still carrying his gun in one hand and the wet, bloody handkerchief in the other, the left, which by now was numb.

  At the bottom of the stairs he stood in a small cubicle containing a desk and two chairs. Directly across from him were two doors, one open, one closed. Through the open door he could see what appeared to be an ordinary bedroom, apparently unoccupied.

  He stepped quietly over to the closed door. He listened for a moment, but could hear nothing in the void of sound around him. Slowly, with the hand in which he held the gun, he managed to turn the doorknob. He opened the door wide and stared in at a scene of horror.

  The Blue Room had been converted into an eerie operating room. A white-covered table commanded the center of attention, standing under a large auxiliary lamp which hung from the ceiling and cast a shadowless glare upon the stage beneath it. Two men and a woman, all in surgical gowns and masks, stood at the table working intently over a naked, startlingly pale body.

  Beyond the table, outside the shadowless light, all in a row, sat Dr. Price, Judge Wilke, and Reverend O’Hara. Their faces were rapt as they watched the gruesome activity at the table.

  Devlin stepped into the room and raised his gun. Slowly and deliberately he thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. The sharp metallic click sliced heavily and threateningly through the silence of the room. At once all eyes turned to where he stood.

  “Back away from that table,” Devlin said in a ragged voice forced around the pain in his body.

  No one moved. They all stared at him incongruously. At the table, where she stood next to Barry Chace, only Janet Sundean’s eyes registered a stronger emotion. Above the surgical mask, Devlin saw a look of fearful anxiety as Janet realized that for him to be here, he would had to have come past her father and her lover.

  “Move back,” Devlin ordered again. He leveled the gun at Barry Chace. “Now, Chace, or I’ll shoot you.”

  The statistician pulled the mask down around his neck and moved away from the table, gently drawing Janet with him. She allowed herself to be led several steps, then hesitated and turned to Devlin.

  “Dev—?”

  Her voice was strained and Devlin could see tears in her eyes.

  “Upstairs in the foyer, Jan,” he said softly. “I’m sorry—”

  She shook her head hysterically. “Oh, no—no—my god, no—” She ran across the room and Devlin stepped aside to let her pass.

  At the operating table, scalpel still in his hand, Dr. Fox peered over his mask with wide, shocked eyes.

  “Noah?” he said in disbelief. “Todd?”

  “And Ito,” Devlin verified. “And you, Doctor, if you don’t move away from that man on the table.”

  Fox looked down at the pale, naked form of J. Walter Keyes, who lay breathing quietly, heavily anaesthetized, apparently intact except for a blood-spotted surgical dressing over his face.

  “This isn’t a man,” Dr. Fox said dully. “This is an animal, some kind of vicious, sub-human predatory monster that thrives on the minds and souls of people—”

  Devlin noticed Fox’s rubber-gloved hand tighten around the gleaming steel surgical instrument.

  “Move away from him, Fox,” he ordered firmly.

  “A beast,” Dr. Fox said, “a creature born of evil, spawned from the semen of the devil—”

  The hand with the scalpel trembled.

  “Don’t do it,” Devlin warned.

  “But he must die,” Fox said. “Don’t you understand? He must die!”

  The gloved hand flashed upward and Devlin fired. The bullet struck Fox in the chest, moving him back far enough so that his plunging arm buried the scalpel in the sponge padding at the edge of the table, then sending him hurling across the room and crashing to the floor at the feet of the four stunned men who watched.

  The roar of the shot died quickly in the vacuum of the Blue Room, and Damon Fox died with it.

  In the quiet that followed, Devlin stepped up to the operating table and rested his numb left hand on the still arm of J. Walter Keyes. His cold, black eyes swept the men who faced him, glancing from Barry Chace to Judge Wilke to Dr. Price to the Reverend Abraham O’Hara. Carefully he laid his gun on the table beside Keyes. From his coat pocket he took Todd Holt’s gun and laid it beside his own.

  “Before I came down here,” he said heavily, “I telephoned for police cars, an ambulance, and a hearse. The only choice any of you now have left is which one of those takes you away from this house tonight. Do I make myself clear?”

  The four of them stared fixedly at Devlin. None of them answered. The room fell quiet.

  In that moment of stillness, there in the Blue Room where it had begun, the Eden Movement ended.

  Twenty Seven

  Devlin sat on a table in an examination room of a small suburban hospital near the Sundean home. An intern carefully buttoned his shirt over the mound of adhesive tape which bound his broken collarbone. The pain in his shoulder and arm, numbed now by morphine, was almost gone.

  “There,” the intern said, finishing the last button. “Feel better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He draped Devlin’s coat over his shoulders and slipped a loose sling around his neck.

  “Keep your arm in this for a few days,” he instructed. He handed him a small vial. “This is morphine in tablet form; take one when you feel your shoulder beginning to hurt.”

  Devlin nodded.

  The intern collected his scissors and tape and pushed through the swinging door to leave the examination room. As he departed, the Chief Prosecutor came in carrying a handful of scribbled notes.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “All right,” Devlin said.

  “Where are those tapes and the other evidence you picked up in Sundean’s cellar?”

  “Over there,” Devlin nodded toward a straight metal chair in the corner. “Leave that bottom file folder, will you? That belonged to Todd Holt; I’d like to read it tonight.”

  “You’d better forget about this and rest up for a couple of days, hadn’t you?”

  “I’ll rest,” Devlin said, “but I want to read the file too. I’ll get it back to you Monday morning.”

  The chief grunted assent as he stuffed the spools of tape into his coat pocket. He put the file folder on the table next to Devlin.

  “This,” he said incredulously, holding up the collection of notes he had brought into the room, “is the most fantastic sequence of events I have ever heard. Just look at these names, for God’s sake: Milton Price, Abraham O’Hara, Judge Wilke—Judge Harold Wilke! Can you imagine what the trial of these men will be like? Why, this will be the biggest thing to hit a courtroom in twenty years!”

  “Yes, it probably will,” Devlin agreed quietly.

  “And do you realize what the newspapers are going to look like tomorrow? Four men dead—”

  A uniformed officer leaned through the swinging door. “Excuse me, sir, the captain’s on the radio from downtown.”

  “Be right back, Dev,” the Chief Prosecutor said, hurrying out.

  Devlin drew a deep, weary breath and leaned back against the wa
ll behind the table.

  Four men dead.

  Four men.

  That brought his record to nine, he thought soberly. Nine men in seventeen years of police work. And two of them—two of them his best friends—

  Absently he picked up the file folder beside him and opened it. He began to read.

  Presently the Chief Prosecutor returned, his expression even more incredulous than it had been earlier.

  “Five men dead now,” he said. “Judge Wilke had a heart attack on the way to Central Jail. Happened just as the car was passing Justice Hall.”

  Devlin stared blankly at him, as if his words had no meaning. For a moment the chief was not certain Devlin had even heard him.

  “Did you hear what I said, Dev? Judge Wilke—”

  “I heard,” Devlin said. He continued to stare blankly for a moment. Just as the car was passing Justice Hall, he thought. The building in which Harold Wilke had sat as a judge for more than forty years. Justice, he decided, like God, moved in strange ways.

  “The others?” he asked the chief.

  “All booked,” the chief said crisply. “O’Hara, Price and Chace are in separate isolation cells. The Sundean girl is in the women’s section of the hospital ward; they had to give her a heavy sedative, she was hysterical.”

  “She lost a lot tonight,” Devlin said quietly. He pushed himself forward and stood up. Reaching across the sling holding his left arm, he took a revolver from his coat pocket. “This was Todd Holt’s,” he said, handing it to the chief. “Two of the bullets from it will be somewhere in the foyer where he died. The other one is in Judge Sundean, along with a bullet from my gun.”

  Devlin picked up Todd Holt’s file and the two men walked through the swinging door and down the quiet hospital corridor. When they came to the main nurse’s station, the chief paused to speak to the head nurse.

  “Any word yet on Mr. Keyes?” he asked.

  “Not yet, sir,” she answered. “The doctor is still with him in the trauma room. ”

  The chief nodded and followed Devlin into a deserted waiting room off the hospital lobby.

  “Nothing on Keyes yet,” he said, digging in his pocket to find change for a coffee machine. “Black?” he inquired.