Abel Baker Charley
Page 7
“Pretty girl.” Meister nodded. “Smart for her age. The story she told those nurses might keep you out of jail yet.”
“Story?”
Meister shrugged. “That he was off the wall. Scaring her. Still, it's hard to believe that His Honor intended physical harm to a little kid.”
Baker cocked his head. His left eye had now begun to drift and he blinked it back into focus. “He came to see me too,” Baker said.
“He what?”
“At the jail. He was staring at me the same way when I was asleep in that jail.”
“When was this?” Meister slowed the car.
“Last night... this morning ... sometime. I woke up and walked toward him and he ... backed away. He almost ran away.” Baker squinted and rubbed a hand over his jaw as if trying to remember something distant.
“He's going to try to hurt her, Ben.” Baker's eyes narrowed. He did not quite know why he said that. But it was coming. Yes. It was what the old man said in the elevator. “He said he'd break me and he'd break anyone who helped me ... and ... you must have heard him.”
“What did I hear, Jared?”
“He said that he's going to hear Tina scream like his son screams.”
Meister took a very long breath. He had heard no such thing. But he believed upon his life that Baker had heard it.
“Where are we going?” Baker asked. Meister had turned onto the southbound entrance ramp instead of going north toward Baker's house.
“It's time you met another friend,” he answered.
“No.” Baker had been almost dozing. ”I have a lot I have to do. Nothing's been done about Sarah's funeral. And Tina needs some things from home. And my office. I never even called my office.”
“Father Lennon is making arrangements about your wife, Jared. As for Tina, I'll have you home in an hour.”
“Arrangements,” Baker repeated. A word he'd used all his life had a bad taste suddenly. You make arrangements to have your trash picked up or your car fixed. You don't just make arrangements for Sarah. Sarah had been alive and laughing for thirty-four years. Sarah made love and she cried and she made flowers grow. Sarah moved like a cat when she played tennis and she danced the same way. A hundred children can play the piano because Sarah taught them. Sarah was every nice thing that ever happened. Sarah gave him Tina. How much of this did Father Lennon know? He ought to be told. He ought to be told what should be said about her and who should hear it.
Meister's friend would have to wait.
Baker shut his eyes. He would tell Meister to turn around at the next exit. He would tell him in just a minute.
“The guy is a volcano waiting to blow.” Meister spoke softly into a pay phone at an Exxon station off the Mamaroneck exit of the turnpike. A lumpish teenager stood whistling as the hose pumped a few unneeded gallons into the Pinto. Meister silenced him with a wave of his hand, pointing to the sleeping man in the passenger seat. The teenager scowled but fell quiet.
“If you want to see him,” the lawyer continued, “it better be now. Bellafonte might still decide to put the dogs on him. The old guy's not playing with a full deck, by the way. If Baker catches him near the daughter again, he just might tear him apart.”
“But are you encouraged, Benjamin?” The voice on the other end was eager, excited. “Have you seen anything?”
“Are you kidding? By you, the guy's like Disneyland. I saw it almost happen twice. In the hospital, he looked like he could have twisted off that judge's neck like he'd open a bottle. Then, when they were taking pictures, I forced his head down and squeezed his neck good and hard. Baker's neck turned like a rock and his pulse must have tripled.”
“Pictures?”
“That's another problem. The wire services and two different networks had cameras outside the jail. I think I covered Baker, but they might have some clean shots of me. If any of Duncan Peck's people see one, you know he's going to be up here taking a look.”
The voice was silent for several beats. “What about Baker?”
”I cleaned out his house of all the snapshots I could find. Six photo albums, a yearbook, and a few framed pictures if he was in them.”
“No, no. I meant the man. Does he seem stable?”
“Wait.” The pump attendant approached Meister. The lawyer fished for his wallet and selected a credit card, which the teenager took with a grunt. Baker had not moved.
“Well, he's not your garden variety psychopath,” Meister said with a shrug. “Decent enough guy. No dummy either, by the way. But he hears things no one else hears, and I don't believe he's hallucinating. Have you seen that before?”
“Once.”
“Also, he seems to have a special thing with his daughter. They're tuned in, somehow. You want my opinion, I think you hit the mother lode.”
“Did young Tina speak of my visit this morning?”
Meister's eyebrows arched. “That was you? Grandpa?”
”I thought I'd better relax her if I could. Baker will need to know that she's at peace.”
“You get around, don't you, Marcus?”
“Don't we all, Benjamin,” the voice answered. “But come, let us have a look at your Jared Baker.”
4
The car had stopped moving. It had stopped once before, it seemed, but this time was longer. It had come to rest and rocked sideways once, and Baker thought he remembered the sound of a door being closed gently. He didn't care. The sleep was good. It made his body feel heavy and warm, and if he sank into it deeply enough, there would be no pain of remembering. And he could still feel Tina's touch against his cheek and around his neck. It made her seem close by.
A part of his mind seemed to detach itself from the rest. It formed a thin and wispy ball and it floated among thoughts of Tina while the rest was left to seethe and boil by itself. They were not troubled thoughts of Tina. He saw her in a Christmas play when she sang “Edelweiss” for all the parents, terrified that she might miss a note and only relaxing when she did. He saw her the first time she watched kittens being born, and when she first sailed his small boat by herself. He saw the letters from schoolteachers telling him how proud he ought to be. He saw her diving, which came easily to her, and he saw her skiing, which came hard. But she tried. Tina always tried. She even won that trophy. Baker had an odd notion that Tina was remembering that too just then.
Another thought intruded. Another wisp from his brain licked up and began lashing about. The ball of good thoughts seemed to wilt and retreat. That annoyed Baker. He tried to shake the new wisp away, but it began prodding at him, probing, he felt, for a spot behind his right eye. He felt no touch, but it seemed that someone was trying to wake him. He resisted because now Tina was leaving, except that Tina didn't seem to mind. She called from far away that Grandpa was coming. That was a dream. Tina never knew her grandfather. Baker blinked, then opened one eye.
He knew at once that he was alone, even before the left eye followed and took in Meister's empty seat. The bright sky made him wince. It was a hot whitish blue and there were thin silver columns reaching into it. Dozens of them. Baker rubbed his face and sat up straight.
It was a marina, he realized. A boatyard. He focused now on the tall silver masts and the white decks at their feet. Where was Meister? He scanned the parking area, but the lawyer was not in sight. There was only a small boy struggling to launch a windsurfer, a fat woman sunning herself on the stern of a Chris Craft, and an older man with a fishing rod who limped down the dock in his direction. A steep gangplank blocked Baker's view of the fisherman's body, but Baker knew by the rhythm of his shoulders that he walked with a cane. Did he know the gray-haired man? He didn't think so. Yet a part of him thought he did.
He could not make out the face. It was framed in shadow between the visor of a red baseball cap and a trimmed Edwardian beard. His body too had the thick and substantial look of that period. And Baker liked him. He had no idea why, nor did he dwell upon it. He simply liked the man and wished they might talk.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Baker,” the bearded man said pleasantly. There was a flicker of pain on his face as he reached down to rub the leg that he favored. Baker stepped from the car.
“Maybe you should sit down,” he offered.
“Walking is better.” The older man forced a smile. “At my age, one cannot expect to dangle his legs from a pier without some complaint from them. The body complains, however, no matter what I do. So I go right on spiting it and it goes right on getting even. An impasse, you see.”
He motioned for Baker to walk with him back toward the dock and extended his free hand. “The name is Sonnen-berg,” he said.
Baker took the hand and pumped it lightly. Sonnenberg held the grip just a moment overlong, glancing in that time at Baker's knuckles.
“I'm Jared Baker,” he answered unnecessarily, once more scanning the parking area.
“If you're looking for Benjamin Meister, he'll be back presently. He said something about a glass of beer and a plate of fried oysters. Would you believe that he puts mustard and sugar on them? Disgusting.” He shivered.
“Meister works for you?”
“On occasion.” Sonnenberg nodded. “And yes, it was I who provided the wherewithal for your release.”
Baker hesitated, not sure of what to say.
“You are, no doubt, curious as to my motives,” Sonnenberg acknowledged easily. “This is natural. We don't live in an age when one can readily believe in fairy godfathers, do we.”
Baker waited. It struck him that the older man's voice had a foreign cast to it. There was no accent, but his diction was precise in the way of one who has learned the language. Sonnenberg tried another opening.
”I am most sincerely sorry, Mr. Baker, about the loss you have suffered. I'm assured, however, that young Tina can hope for a full recovery, given correct treatment. Quite a courageous young lady, isn't she?”
Baker stiffened inside, vaguely irritated at this stranger's knowledge of his daughter. “She's holding up well,” he answered.
“And a perceptive child.” There was a sudden spark of excitement in Sonnenberg's eyes. “Do I understand correctly that she sensed her mother's death while in conversation with you?”
“Look, Sonnenberg . ..” Baker's own eyes flashed.
The older man seemed stricken, as if suddenly aware that he had plunged too far and too fast. His body rocked. Baker reached to steady him.
”I am so terribly sorry,” he said, mortified. “That was unforgivably clumsy of me.” Sonnenberg jerked his head toward a row of slips and eased Baker with him in that direction. His manner suggested that he needed a moment to recover from his embarrassment. Baker could not know that he was furious with himself. He had moved much too quickly.
“In any event,” he said, keeping Baker's arm in his, “it's Dr. Sonnenberg.” He steered Baker to a finger where the largest pleasure boats were berthed.
“Physicians develop a habit of asking intimate questions,” he offered by way of apology. “We sometimes forget that all the world is not a patient.”
He stopped Baker at the stern of a large motor sailer. “Can I offer you some wine? Perhaps a spot of lunch? My housekeeper is on board with me today.”
Baker could hear movement below. He looked across the cockpit and caught a glimpse of another gray head moving inside the hatchway near what must have been the galley. “This is yours?” he asked. One hand reached involuntarily to touch a huge self-tailing winch of gleaming chrome. Two of those, he knew, would buy a whole boat like the one he owned.
Sonnenberg nodded. “Comfortable, isn't she?”
The boat distracted Baker, as Sonnenberg hoped it would. Baker had not seen her before on the Sound. Nor one quite like her. The boat's length, he guessed, was fifty-five feet. Big, but not a giant. Not even especially pretty because of lines that were squat and square and functional. But the boat looked like she could reach any harbor in the world. She was basically a traveler in design, made to maneuver and even cruise under power, but fitted with a short mainmast and a mizzen that would carry her even faster under sail when the wind was right. Below, he imagined, the craft would be like a small house. The galley would be of a size that some apartments would covet, and there would be a three-quarter bathtub in the head. The captain's berth would hold a queen-size bed, and the main cabin would pass for the living room of a summer cottage. Baker knew that he was looking at a million dollar indulgence. The amount of his bail seemed not so great anymore. His eyes fell on the transom.
“Chimera?” There was no port of registry lettered beneath the name.
“Yes, Chimera. Do you know the word?”
“Greek mythology.” Baker nodded.
”A spectacular beast that was three creatures in one.” Sonnenberg seemed pleased that he knew. “Came to grief, you might recall, at the hands of Bellerophon and hasn't been heard from since. An apt name, I think. This Chimera is part motor yacht, part sailboat, and part domicile. It's more of a retreat, actually. Come aboard, Jared.” Sonnenberg eased him forward.
Baker held back. ”I really would like to get home, Doctor.”
“Twenty minutes,” Sonnenberg assured him. “There's some excellent wine on board. Already chilled.”
”A cup of coffee, maybe. I'm having trouble staying awake.”
Sonnenberg's housekeeper, a middle-aged and gothic-looking woman he identified as Mrs. Emma Kreskie, passed a plastic coffee service from the hatchway. She followed with a sardine sandwich that Baker had not heard Sonnenberg request. He did not resist it. Baker could not remember when last he ate.
“Mr. Baker.” Sonnenberg clapped his hands lightly in a small nervous gesture. ”I am going to explain my interest in you as forthrightly as I can. I'm unable to answer every question you might ask, but assuredly I will not lie to you. Does that seem fair enough?”
Baker's mouth was full. He indicated that he was listening.
“Might I ask first if you consider yourself a violent man?”
Baker shook his head as he swallowed. The question chilled him. Sonnenberg had touched at once upon the single aspect of his behavior that most troubled him. What he had done to the judge's son, what he had fought against doing to the judge himself, was simply not like him. “No,” he said finally. ”I don't think I've even spanked Tina since she was four years old.”
“Have you ever before struck an adult of either sex?”
Baker felt a flash of resentment over the last part. He was probably referring to Sarah. “Not since college. A fight over a girl we were both dating.”
“Nothing more? What about violent impulses?”
“There are people I've wanted to belt.”
“Often?”
“Maybe once in two or three years.”
“Nothing more recent? No sudden flashes of anger? No sense that you're not fully yourself, particularly in annoying or stressful situations?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “For the past several months, at least. What kind of doctor are you, by the way?”
“Not a psychiatrist, Jared. My field, broadly speaking, is behavioral modification. My interest, of course, is in your behavior.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars' worth of interest?”
“Yes.” Sonnenberg raised a hand while he sipped from his cup. “But we're getting ahead of ourselves and I've exhausted half your twenty minutes. Do you mind that I call you Jared, incidentally?”
Baker shook his head.
“Jared,” he began, ”I wish to offer my assessment of your situation, which I'm afraid will depress you. At the end, I will offer a solution and then invite you to consider my proposition at your leisure. As for the bail I've posted and the services of Benjamin Meister, I consider that you've repaid me by coming here today.”
“Well. . ” Baker did
not dismiss two hundred thousand dollars so readily. “Anyway, thank you. I'll make sure you get it back.”
Sonnenberg smiled and made a gesture of dismissal. He cared nothing for the reassurance, but he was counting on the expression of gratitude.
“Here, Jared, is the depressing part. Even beyond the tragedy of your loss, your life has been shattered beyond reasonable hope of reclamation. Your home, as I know you've considered, is lost to you. No amount of fresh paint will make it a home again. You will discover that most of your friends are also lost to you. Some will fear you. Most will drift away because you no longer blend comfortably into their lives. Your business career, the job to which you commute each day, will also be put behind you. You'll have no stomach for it.
“The choice, however, is not yours entirely. You are facing a serious criminal charge. Due to its ... forgive me ... barbarous nature, you should expect some period of incarceration. A prosecutor will present you to a jury as a man who has done a monstrous thing. Your firm, you may depend, will wash its hands of you as soon as is decently possible and certainly upon a guilty verdict whether a jail term is involved or not. If Benjamin Meister does his work artfully, the jury may acquit you on the basis of temporary insanity. You might escape imprisonment. You might even escape consignment to a mental institution. But in the eyes of the world, Jared, and in the eyes of all prospective employers, you will be a man to be feared and shunned. Young Tina, I'm afraid, will bear that burden with you.
“Perhaps the worst part of your situation, Jared, is this. Your... victim ... is the son of a superior court justice. But Judge Bellafonte is not just any judge. He is what used to be called a power broker. He is venal, corrupt, a dealer in favors, and, above all, vindictive.”
Baker shrugged and looked away. His movements indicated that he had stopped listening.
“Jared,” Sonnenberg asked, “do you question Judge Bellafonte's capacity for vengeance?”
”I question his capacity to do much about it, other than to try to frighten a little girl.”