Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  “Let's walk again. I'm beginning to feel healthy.”

  “Connor—”

  “Where were we?” Harrigan interrupted, guiding Peck away from the microphone. “Oh, yeah. You're saying that you want to go to school on this Sonnenberg guy. I thought your people were already the best around at burying people.”

  “Connor, have you been listening at all carefully?”

  “Yeah,” Harrigan answered quietly. “I'll even summarize it for you.” He walked with Peck for a few more yards as if gathering his thoughts. “Try this on. Berner goes down and Hershey comes up. But as a different person. Professional gook-shooter becomes Mr. Nice Guy and bookworm.

  “Coffey goes down and Twilley comes up. Angry black activist becomes friendly saloonkeeper beloved by honky rednecks, maybe even makes like the Shadow and clouds men's minds.”

  “Now Baker goes down and you want to see what comes up. But you already know that Baker has done something entirely uncharacteristic. And you tell me what you want to know is how. Not why, as in I’m a responsible federal official and I want to know if a law's being broken,’ but how. And you want to know so badly that you're willing to risk an obstruction of justice rap for not blowing the whistle on Baker and those other guys.

  “Here's what you didn't say. You want to know how so maybe you can do it yourself. But not just to hide people, because your job is bigger than that, isn't it, Duncan? You don't just hide people. You train people. You want to see if you can put people in the field who can do head tricks like turning guns into rats or becoming legitimate experts in archaeology overnight.

  “Next comes this Relocation Section that no one's supposed to know about. If it exists, which it does, it's expensive as hell. But it's not funded out of Treasury's budget, is it? Treasury has to account for what it spends. Which means you're funded by someone who doesn't have to account to the GAO. Which probably means the CIA, because you've been working with them anyway on most of the people you stash. If it is the CIA, you figure they'll pay up the ass if you can train spooks who can go into the field doing what Berner and Coffey can do.”

  Peck walked in silence for another hundred feet. “Harrigan,” he said at last, “you did well not to seek a career in the diplomatic service.”

  “No disrespect, Duncan. I wanted you to know I'm not stupid.”

  “You've been showing me that for years. You're certainly not a stupid man.”

  “Neither are you, Duncan,” he responded. “Neither are you.”

  ”I detect a certain pregnancy in that compliment.”

  “You told me what I had to know.” Harrigan looked directly into Duncan Peck's eyes. “You didn't tell me all of it. I want you to know I know that.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I'll play straight with you until or unless I find out that you're suckering me. From then on, it's hardball.”

  Duncan Peck stared back, appraising Harrigan. His eyes didn't waver.

  “What I hoped for, Connor,” he said at last, “was your friendship, your trust, and your loyalty. Perhaps we should drop the matter here.”

  Harrigan appeared to be considering it. Backing off. But it was more that he was considering how great a distance to keep between himself and Duncan Peck. He knew that Peck trusted him. Respected him, anyway. But only for what he could do. The friendship and loyalty part was almost true. Peck liked him. Peck would like him even while he was pulling the trigger if he happened to open the wrong door somewhere. Like finding out what's really between him and Sonnenberg. There was something. It was on his face.

  On the other hand, maybe life's too short for this kind of shit. What do you think, Connor? Do you go have a beer and forget it? If you do, do you then hope that nobody figures you're already smarter than they can afford? Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he thought, remembering some career advice he'd heard years before, I shall fear no evil... as long as I know where the bodies are buried. And as long as I know who's listening in the grass.

  It could be anyone. But why do I think it's Sonnenberg?

  “What you hoped for, Duncan,” Harrigan reminded him gently, “was to get me interested. I'm interested.”

  9

  Sonnenberg set the little blue spiral in motion and left it on the desk facing Baker. He said nothing about it. Sonnenberg simply talked on about an experience he'd had as a child in Switzerland. It had no apparent point. Just a nice story. And only mildly interesting.

  Soon, Baker felt his mind drifting. He thought of Tina, which was in no way unusual. But he thought of Sonnenberg being with her. Tina and Sonnenberg and this dumb blue toy. Better about her mother. Better about the trouble her father was in. Better . . . even glad, about him running away.

  Baker pushed aside the thought. Tina was not involved with Sonnenberg. He wouldn't be either. Except for the money Sonnenberg was providing for Tina. And to Jane Carey for taking care of Tina.

  “Relax, Jared,” Sonnenberg whispered. “Watch the hypnodisk and let your body and mind relax.”

  He could not.

  Letting it teach him to draw and paint was one thing. Letting the hypnodisk carry him backward into some dreamy past where he could think and feel like Eugene Delacroix. Where he could almost see the rooms in which Delacroix lived, smell the air that reeked of open sewers, feel the vitality and dramatic power of the man. That astonished Baker, but it did not frighten him. What astonished him was that Sonnenberg had been right. He could paint like Delacroix. Only a little, perhaps, but still far more than Baker would have dreamed possible. He did a portrait, upon waking, of Frederic Chopin. He had no idea why he chose that subject, but it was good. For Jared Baker. Better than Jared Baker. It captured the anguish of Chopin's genius, his rebelliousness, his strength. And then Sonnenberg showed him a plate of the original. Baker hadn't even remembered it. When had he seen it? In a museum, perhaps? In a textbook? He didn't know. But there it was and he had done it. Something close to it, anyway. Who, Sonnenberg asked, would you like to be tomorrow? An American this time? Winslow Homer, perhaps, who shared your love of small boats under sail. Or Caleb Bingham. Choose your teacher, Jared. They are all within you.

  “Relax, Jared. Please.”

  He could be those people, perhaps because they were dead and gone. And then he could be Jared Baker again. He could come back. But this new thing that Sonnenberg wanted to try...he couldn't relax. What if he's there? What if Sonnenberg is actually right?

  Sonnenberg switched off the hypnodisk. He had been saying something. Baker cleared his head to listen.

  ”. .. how insensitive of me. What if he really comes out, you say? How do you know you can stuff him back?”

  Baker sat straighter and answered Sonnenberg with a nod.

  “Of course you're concerned, Jared. You're concerned that this frightening entity in your photograph will pop loose like a genie from a bottle. You're afraid that some Frankenstein will leave you imprisoned in his place while he wreaks havoc among the villagers and strangles little girls for their daisies.”

  “Something like that crossed my mind, yes.”

  “Ah, but he can't,” enthused Sonnenberg. “You, Jared, are Abel. This procedure is simply designed to help you bring him to the surface. Suggestive response is essential because your conscious mind isn't even entirely sure that he's there. But once he's been brought up, once we get acquainted and we satisfy ourselves that he's housebroken, hypnosis will no longer be necessary. If I'm right, you'll be able to bring him out at will by using a response word and to send him back just as readily.”

  “Response word?”

  ”A verbal trigger,” Sonnenberg answered. “It's learned under hypnosis, and using it enables the subject to move readily from one state of consciousness to another. A hypnotist might tell his subject to awake on the count of three, for example, or to fall into a trance when he says goodnight.”

  “Or shoot a president when he sees the queen of hearts?”

  Sonnenberg smiled indu
lgently. “No Manchurian Candidates here, Baker. Only you and what is already within you. Hypnosis cannot alter a personality. Personalities are altered by chemical imbalances and sometimes by trauma. A physical cause in either event.

  “The normal brain is a sort of factory that produces those chemicals in the right combinations and in the right quantities to keep imbalances from happening. No amount of suggestion can turn those spigots on and off. What hypnosis does is enable you to pass through barriers that are learned or artificial and that needn't be there. For example, one of the classic clinical demonstrations involves asking an entranced subject to recite the alphabet backward just as rapidly as he does it forward. Obviously, the subject has all the required information for reciting the alphabet backward, but his conscious mind blocks him from efficiently rearranging that data. Theoretically, you're also capable of reciting every fact you've ever committed to memory long enough for that information to pass from your temporal lobe into permanent storage. Your Chopin portrait ought to be all the proof you need of that.” Sonnenberg waved his hands, signifying that they were getting off the track.

  “Enough pedantry.” He patted Baker's knee. “We were speaking of response words. In this case, it will be simplest to use names. If you want Abel, say his name. If you want him gone, say Baker's name. And so on. Could anything be simpler?” Sonnenberg watched Baker's face for a long moment, then rose stiffly and walked to a small wet bar concealed behind a panel near his desk.

  Baker was less than reassured. For all that Sonnenberg seemed to know his subject, for all the actor that Sonnenberg was, he could not seem to resist that last little locking of the eyes after a pronouncement to see if Baker was buying it.

  Baker didn't as yet. Not quite. But more and more, he found himself wanting to believe that what Sonnenberg proposed was possible. That he could be whomever and whatever he needed to be at his discretion. And that he could come back. That he could be stronger than Abel. There was the question. Baker had already seen what just a shadow of Abel, a leashed and fettered Abel, was capable of doing.

  “Here you are, Jared.” Unasked, Sonnenberg had mixed a rum and tonic and placed it in Baker's hand. Baker sipped it absently, then made a face. Sonnenberg had added bitters.

  And Sonnenberg's wrong, he thought, about not really believing he's there. He's there, all right. He's right down there in that little blue tunnel. He's as tough and as strong as you've ever wanted to be. And you know something else, don't you, Jared.

  “Jared? Excuse me, please.”

  You know that you want him. You want to be Abel. You can think of a dozen times in your life... when if you could have been Abel for just five minutes ... times when you despised yourself for being so damned civilized. No, not civilized. The word is scared, Jared. Times when you'd like to have busted someone's teeth but you didn't because you thought too much about the consequences. Or afraid of being humiliated. Or afraid, period.

  John Wayne wouldn't worry about consequences. He'd have just belted the guy. There's a thought. Maybe Abel could be tamed just a little into a John Wayne type. They're probably a lot alike. John Wayne never breaks a knuckle when he pops someone. Or spits out a tooth. John and Abel both seem to heal fast. There's that hand I hurt. And the burns ... On the other hand, John Wayne never sticks anyone's face in a fire, does he?

  “Baker.” Sonnenberg tapped Baker's arm with the end of his cane.

  “I'm sorry, Doctor . . ”

  “Jared, I must take a rather personal call. Might I ask that you excuse me for just a few minutes?”

  Baker looked at him blankly. No phone had rung. Only the...A desk lamp had turned on by itself. Gadgets! Baker smiled that he understood. He pushed to his feet, experiencing a flash of vertigo, and reached for the door latch when the dizziness passed. He wanted a few minutes to himself anyway. Baker closed the door behind him and wandered toward Mrs. Kreskie's kitchen.

  From the tap over the stainless steel sink, he ran a tumbler of water and sipped it slowly. There was an odd aftertaste to Sonnenberg's rum. But bitters or not, it did seem to be clearing his head. Wiping away a few troubles. A few worries. Helping him admit a thing or two to himself. Admitting, for openers, that he did want to be Abel. Sometimes. That there are times when it would be nice to stand outside your own body and watch someone else being afraid. Like that biker when he came back the second time.

  Funny. He'd never thought about that before. Outside his own body. But yes, Baker, that's right, isn't it. That's where you were. While you were watching from there, all the fear and hate and misery were gone. Strange. And looking back, it didn't seem that Abel especially hated that biker either. It doesn't seem that Abel was bothered by any emotion at all. He must be very basic. Elemental. Like an attack dog. Abel sees an enemy, Abel attacks. Abel sees a threat, Abel removes it. You have to wonder whether Abel would be capable of feeling loneliness, or of missing Sarah, or of feeling the hurt of not being able to see and hold Tina. Probably not. Not my attack dog.

  If Abel is like that, then what is Charley? Nice? Easygoing? Sonnenberg agrees he's probably bland. And Sonnenberg probably knows. He knows a hell of a lot more than he's willing to let on. On the other hand, almost everybody is bland or easygoing compared to Abel. Everybody, period, if you don't count Dracula.

  Wow! Getting giddy. Could have done without that dumb rum. Rum dumb. Rum, dum dum dumb.

  Abel? Are you down there? I'm afraid, old buddy, that you're going to have to wait a bit longer. Our friend Sonnenberg is dying to meet you, but he's going to have to wait too. This is your captain speaking. Able-bodied Abel is to remain below until further orders. We're going to break this act slowly. What we're going to do. Sonnenberg or no Son-nenberg, is start with good old Charley. And to tell you the God's honest truth, Abel, I'm so relieved I just might kiss him when I see him. Nothing personal. It's just that Charley seems a tiny bit more likely to remember who's the skipper.

  That's right, isn't it, Charley? Charley? Where are you? Probably in a hammock somewhere. You're wearing a grubby old hat with fishing lures stuck through it and you're asleep with a six-pack lying across your little potbelly. Or you're in some dark corner wearing an eyeshade and working on your stamp collection. No ... bugs. I bet you collect bugs. Boring little crawlies that no one else cares diddly-squat about.

  How'm I doing? Am I getting warm? If only ... if only I could get a look at you first. I think I know where you are. You're right on the other side of that little blue tunnel, aren't you. If I turned on Dr. Marcus Sonnenberg's magic whirling hypnosis machine and I watched it really closely and I followed the swirl right into the tunnel, I bet I'd find you right on the other side. I don't even need the machine, I bet. All I have to do...is turn on the cold water like this and watch it spinning and circling down the drain. Down where you are. Come on, Charley. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  “Come on, Charley.”

  “Jared?”

  Sonnenberg stood framed in the kitchen doorway. His expression was thoughtful and distant.

  “Coriolis,” Baker answered.

  ”I beg your . . .“Sonnenberg shook off the distraction. “Jared, something pressing has come up. We'll have to end our session early.”

  “That's the Coriolis effect” Baker was staring at the clockwise motion of the water as it raced into the drainpipe of the sink.

  “Coriolis . . . Oh, the water. Yes. Jared, I'm afraid I must—”

  “It's not the same in the southern hemisphere. I know that from someplace. Down there the water swirls the other way. Pitchers should know about that.”

  “Pitchers?”

  “Baseball pitchers. A curve ball won't break the same way when you go way south.”

  Sonnenberg had to strain to hear him. Baker's voice was curiously soft and his back remained turned to the doctor. The running tap muffled it further.

  “Jared, why don't you make yourself at home with some of my texts or relax perhaps with a television program. I'm afraid I’m going
to have to leave.”

  “Teach him a lesson.”

  “What did you say, Jared?” Sonnenberg took a step forward.

  “Snoopy Dunny. Teach him a lesson. Ben Coffey. Stanley. Ben Meister snooped on snoopy Dunny. Teach him a lesson.”

  “Jared, how did you— Were you eavesdropping at my door?”

  “No.” Baker turned to face him. ”I heard you now.”

  Sonnenberg recoiled as if he'd been struck. His cane clattered to the tile floor and he had to grip the doorway for support. Baker's face had changed. It was a more innocent face. Like that of a child. The natural lines had softened and the eyes were ... more than innocent. They were almost blank. Somehow a paler green than before. Even his skin seemed to have less color. But most stunning of all, and impossibly, Baker's lips were closed against each other. When he spoke the words ”I heard you now,” the words were as muted as those spoken against the running water. But they did not come from Baker's throat. Baker's lips had never moved.

  “Charley?” Sonnenberg gasped. “Are you Charley?”

  “Charley.” Baker nodded.

  “Charley, are you able to talk? To form words?”

  “I don’t know.” Charley's voice was childlike. And he answered with an air of utter unconcern. Sonnenberg was enthralled.

  “Where . .. where is Jared?”

  “Baker.”

  “Very well, where is Baker?”

  “On the other side of the drain.”

  “The drain? Do you mean in the sink?”

  “Down the tunnel. The blue tunnel. Except it's not blue here.”

  Sonnenberg began to understand. The Coriolis effect. The effect of the earth's motion on draining water. Swirling water. Swirling hypnodisks. Whether accidentally or by design, Baker had created his own hypnodisk and gone looking for Charley. Sonnenberg's brain was flying. It raced through all the relevant volumes he'd ever read like a random access computer, searching out those bits and pieces of data that seemed to match what was happening here. There were so few. The Russians. The Russians had found something like this. Bor . . . Borodin. Mikhail Borodin. The Borodin arc. Where the telepathic voice seems to be coming not from within the brain but from a point in space someplace between observer and subject. But the Russians reported no accompanying physical change. But of course they wouldn't report it. Not if they thought they had a Chimera.