Abel Baker Charley

by John R. Maxim

  No, Marcus, never mind the Russians. You have your own physical change. Charley seems absolutely slack. And why should he be telepathic at all. Could the personality be hemispheric? Is it possible that he doesn't speak because there's no speech center where he lives? Of course, it's possible. Mrs. Kreskie doesn't speak either, and now we know why, don't we. Oh, Baker. Baker, are you watching this? Are you understanding it?

  “This blue tunnel. It leads inside you to Baker, doesn't it, Charley?”

  “No.”

  “But you said he was on the other side.”

  Charley stared.

  “Charley, is Baker far away?”

  “Baker is behind me. Touching.”

  “Touching? Can Baker hear me now?”

  ”l don't know.”

  “Do you know what Baker is doing?”

  “Baker's drunk.”

  “Drunk? From a single rum and tonic?”

  “From the rum and what you put in the rum. You put reserpine in the rum.” Charley's tone was that of a disinterested child idly playing with his toes. There was no accusation in it.

  Even so, Sonnenberg felt his chin begin to quiver. Whether it was from fear or excitement, he didn't know. Whatever the emotion, he knew it was clouding his mind and interfering with ... so many questions ... so much to learn, to observe. His thoughts were vaulting and crisscrossing, leaping across doctrine and conventional knowledge. Leaping across the continent. To Cal Tech. Could the people at Cal Tech have come this far? Or were they still creeping cautiously along for fear of losing their precious grants? Simulated genetic regression would still be little more than theory had not Marcus Sonnenberg plunged full tilt through the crack in the door that they opened. And Captain William Berner wouldn't have known an archaeological dig from a foxhole or a shard from a grenade fragment, let alone have become a cultured and respected anthropologist. An infusion of live brain tissue didn't hurt either. Another Cal Tech baby step. Hillman would never have dared try it with human subjects. Not with all those people watching. Even if the watchdogs slept, disposing of the leftovers would have been much too delicate a problem for them. As it was, our own leftovers played absolute hob with the acid level of the rhododendrons outside.

  Don't be derailed, Marcus. Concentrate. Could Cal Tech have found a Charley? Surely they must have tried. Even illicitly. They know that the independent consciousness exists. It's there in everyone. Could they have found it? No. Hillman would have told me. Or does it require a stupid accident such as this. A reserpine-tranquilized subject happening to look into a draining sink that resembles a hypnodisk. The happy combination of slightly diminished capacity, a recent hypnodisk experience, and a desire to find out what's at the other end of Charley's blue tunnel.

  “Charley,” he asked slowly, “does Baker know about the reserpine?”

  “Baker is drunk.”

  “Yes, but will he know when he's sober? When he comes back?”

  ”l don't know,” Charley answered in a singsong.

  “Would you be able to tell him? If you wanted to?”

  ”I don't know.”

  “If you wanted to tell him something ... If, for example, he was in danger, how would you tell him?”

  ”I don't know. Baker knows. Baker knows what I know if he thinks about it.”

  Sonnenberg wasn't sure he understood. Did that mean that Charley had no independent consciousness when he was back inside or no independent memory?

  “That was not very clear, Charley. Can you explain that part?”

  “No.”

  “Charley ... By the way, is your name Charley, actually?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that's your name?”

  “You said so. Baker said so.”

  “Did you hear us saying it?”

  “No. Baker knows it.”

  “And you, just now, thought about what Baker knows? About your name, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charley, who is Dunny?”

  “Bad man. Hits golf balls. Found Sonnenberg.”

  “And yet he's holding back. Do you know why, Charley?”

  “No.”

  “No.” Sonnenberg waggled his hands distractedly. “Of course you don't.” Charley didn't know Duncan Peck. Nor did Baker. So Charley would have no way of knowing what was on Duncan Peck's mind. But Baker knew Ben Meister. What, therefore, would Charley know of him?

  “Charley, who is Ben Meister?”

  “That.” Charley pointed a limp finger toward Sonnenberg's arm.

  Sonnenberg understood. “My right arm?”

  “Yes!’

  “What does my right arm do?”

  “He goes places for you and does things. He fixed Baker to be not in jail.”

  “And Stanley. You mentioned someone named Stanley.”

  “Stanley fixed the judge to be dead so that Baker . . .” Charley's voice trailed off. His eyes narrowed briefly and then, as if further concentration were not worth the effort, they relaxed again and went blank.

  Sonnenberg had, in his head, visualized the slamming of a great iron gate. He imagined carpenters there, nailing boards over the gates, and plasterers with trowels of wet cement. Sonnenberg focused hard upon that confusion and through it conjured up new pictures of the men who were Ben Coffey and Benjamin Meister and of the man he knew as Stanley Levy. Very new pictures. Pictures as different from the real men as his imagination could concoct.

  “Charley, besides being my right arm, who is Ben Meister? And who is Ben Coffey?”

  “Santa's little helper and the tooth fairy.”

  Sonnenberg's mouth fell open. There it was. Without any doubt. That was the nonsense he was thinking. Clearly, Baker or Charley had not been listening when Meister told him of the meeting between Peck and this Connor Harrigan. They were not listening at his door. They were listening to his mind. At least Charley was. Just as he was listening now to Charley's mind.

  “Tooth fairy.” Charley seemed to brighten as Sonnenberg lost his concentration. “Black tooth fairy. George Twilley fairy. Muzzles and leashes and Sonnenberg don't let tooth fairy go and shoot shoot shoot—”

  “That's enough, Charley!” barked Sonnenberg.

  Charley snapped his head to one side and held it there. The knuckle of one fist rose slowly to his open mouth. Astonishing, thought Sonnenberg. He's acting like a scolded dog. Or a small child. One who's been shouted at but who doesn't understand what he did wrong.

  “Charley.” Sonnenberg felt the beginnings of a hunch. “What you said about the black tooth fairy, what does that mean?”

  ”I don't know”

  Sonnenberg raised the iron gate and in front of it began to create new facts. His brain darted from detail to irrelevant detail, trying to avoid concentrating overlong on a single truth. He was painting a mental portrait for Charley.

  “Are you sure you don't know?” he asked finally.

  ”I know. Stanley was bad because he ate too much porridge. He turned into butter so I can't think of him anymore. Meister and Coffey are sad because the cupboard is bare and they don't have any Rye Thins or Camembert for Goldilocks, so the bear drank Coffey and I can 't think about him anymore either.”

  Sonnenberg smiled. Let's see Baker make any sense out of that mess. “Say the alphabet backward, Charley.”

  ”Z, Y, X, W, V, U, T, S, R—”

  “That's enough.” Sonnenberg raised a hand. “How about every second letter going backward from Q?”

  “Q, O, M, K, I G-”

  “That's enough.” Sonnenberg picked up a box of crackers that had been left on the counter and handed it to Charley. He pointed to a section of the package.

  “Read that, Charley,'' he ordered. He counted off fifteen seconds and then took back the box. “Did you read it, Charley?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Ingredients enriched flour niacin iron thiamine mono-nitrate riboflavin lard and or coconut oil and partially hydrogenated
soybean oil rye flour sugar—”

  “That will do. Thank you, Charley.” Sonnenberg was beaming. He'd been right. Charley was almost pure concentration. Effortless concentration. And undiscriminating, left to himself. The man, if this marshmallow could be called a man, was indeed a living sponge. As for Charley's inability to speak, this entity was clearly a creature of the left hemisphere of Baker's brain, or some passive droning segment of it. As for the telepathic ability, Sonnenberg was mystified. How did it work? Would it work with anyone else? And wasn't it just as remarkable that Sonnenberg could receive as it was that Charley could send? But most remarkable of all was the revelation that Charley could be controlled. Managed. That he would accept false information and very likely act on it. Or would he? That business about Goldilocks and Stanley Butter didn't suggest much in the way of a functional intellect.

  “Charley, are you able to . . .” Sonnenberg paused, looking up at the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts.

  “He's Abel.”

  “No. Are you able to understand . . .” Sonnenberg's eyes fell back upon Charley, and once again what he saw hit him like a blow to the stomach. There was no Charley. Charley was gone. And in his place was the man Sonnenberg knew from the airbrushed photograph he'd shown Baker. It was not supposed to happen.

  “How . . . how do you do, Abel?” he stammered, struggling to regain his composure. This should not be happening this way. Not from Charley to Abel. “I'm very pleased to—”

  “Shut up, Sonnenberg.” The man who was Abel was not looking at him. He was staring into space as if trying to focus. His body rocked backward, and he grabbed the countertop with both hands to steady himself. Now he turned his face toward Sonnenberg. The doctor took a step away.

  “But how did . . .” Sonnenberg felt a trembling in his knees. It was a cruel face. And powerful. The whole body seemed a coil of animal strength, but the animal could not seem to get his bearings. He was drugged, Sonnenberg realized. Or drunk. He looked like every mean but ineffectual drunk Sonnenberg had ever seen. But Charley wasn't drunk. And Baker could have been no more than mellowed. A few milligrams of tranquilizer and perhaps two ounces of spirits. Baker! Where was Baker! “Where is Jared Baker?” he asked the reeling man who gripped Mrs. Kreskie's counter.

  “I'm a message from him.” Abel's lips drew back over his teeth and his hooded eyes pinioned Sonnenberg. “No drugs, Sonnenberg. That's his message. The message from me is, if you do it again, I’m going to break both your legs.”

  10

  Kate Mulgrew was the first to die.

  She died on Sixth Avenue, at night, when the first light was still more than two hours to the east. Janet's voice quivered over the radiophone of the blue Oldsmobile.

  “Mr. Harrigan?” The pain was evident even in those two words.

  “What happened, Janet?” he asked softly.

  “Katy ... Katy's dead. Your man Mr. Dugan at the Warwick ... He found her in a car ... Oh, Mr. Harrigan.”

  Harrigan chewed his lip. “Finish your report, Janet.”

  “She was sitting in the back of a parked car with her face against the window. Like she was watching people walk by. Just staring. At first Mr. Dugan thought she was ...”

  ”I know, Janet. I know, darlin'. ” Harrigan kept his voice even. “Janet, you must tell me what Mr. Dugan said and what he did.”

  “He said he opened the door and she almost fell out, but he caught her and he laid her down on the back seat, but he knew she was dead. He said to tell you there was a little puncture wound under her chin. And there was a pen stuck in her mouth like the way you hold your pipe.”

  “What sort of pen?”

  “Mr. Dugan said to tell you it was an ordinary ballpoint pen. Why would anyone . . ” Janet's voice made a hiccupping sound and she swallowed hard to regain control. Harrigan reminded himself that she was new. Less than a year. She had not seen death before. Not this kind of death. In addition to the puncture wound that had popped through Katy's palate and into her brain, Stanley Levy had left a message. Katy had almost surely taken a pen gun when she went out. Levy was announcing that he had it now, along with at least one unspent cartridge of cyanide crystals. But why? Who was the message for? What could Stanley Levy know of Connor Harrigan?

  “Go on, Janet,” he hushed. “What about Mr. Dugan?”

  “He asked if he could leave his post to bring her in.” Good girl, thought Harrigan. She was managing to hold a level. “He said he could boost the car she's in.”

  “Yes, Janet. Tell him to do that before it gets light. Then tell him to join me here. Do you have anything else for me, darlin’?”

  “No sir ... Yes. A woman from the Celebrity Register called. I had to give her a Washington number so she could verify. Then she called again and said there were three women who answered your description. Mario Dunne, an opera singer, she's staying at the Regency. Tanner Burke is at the Plaza until Sunday. Then there's an English actress named Gwen Leamas who's staying down at the Helmsley Palace.”

  “Thank you, Janet. You've done very well.” Harrigan could have kicked himself for not anticipating the verification call. If Katy had been there, she would have given a Washington number that routed back to her own call director. She would have answered the call herself in a southern accent or some such. Well, spilt milk. But the call was now logged. And coming in the dead of night, it might just arouse Duncan Peck's curiosity before Harrigan wanted it aroused.

  As for the names, thought Harrigan, assuming Baker's new friend was one of them, Tanner Burke is the way to bet. Gwen Leamas's hotel is just too far from the park. The Regency was closer, but Mario Dunne probably wouldn't be familiar to Biaggi. Biaggi wouldn't know opera from root canal. Tanner Burke, however, was all over the magazine racks and on the TV screen. You're elected, Tanner Burke. At least you're worth a peek. But first, one or two changes in the lineup might be useful. And Janet needs to be succored if she is to keep a clear head for the next few hours.

  “Janet,” he said at last into the mike, his voice bereaved, “Katy would be proud of you for holding up so well. I know that. She and I were quite close.”

  ”I know, Mr. Harrigan. I mean ... I heard.”

  “Yes Janet” he whispered, “very close indeed. But she would expect us both to put aside our grief until we can honor her memory in a proper way. Are you able to do that, Janet?”

  “Yes sir.” Janet made an effort to sound strong.

  “After you call Mr. Dugan, please contact Michael Biaggi. He is now somewhere on Fifty-eighth Street, watching the back entrance of the St. Moritz. Tell him about Tanner Burke and ask him to move down the street a bit so that he can watch the rear entrance of the Plaza.”

  “The Plaza. Yes sir.”

  “Now Janet.” Harrigan dropped his voice even further, “Be sure you mention Tanner Burke and the Plaza to absolutely no one but Mr. Biaggi. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good girl, Janet.”

  Harrigan closed his eyes after cradling his microphone and sat very still for several minutes. Oh, Michael, he thought. A thousand Hail Marys. A thousand Hail Marys is what I'll say if I have grievously wronged you in my heart. But if I have not, and if another living soul now shows an interest in Tanner Burke, then Mary herself and all the blessed saints will not save you.

  He blinked to clear a hotness that he felt inside his eyelids and looked out into the fading night. And you, Stanley Levy, he thought. Truth be told, Stanley, I did send Katy to do you in. Truth be told, you had an equal right. But life isn't fair, is it, Stanley. You're going to answer, Stanley, for the death of Katherine Mulgrew because someone must if I am to find peace. And when you do answer, you'll wish to God that your life was all I took.

  Baker had given up trying to sleep. It would not come. Twice, he'd felt his body become heavy and warm to the point of drifting off, but each time his thoughts would fall upon the softly breathing body next to him. He thought of what it might be like to wake up with her each
day. To linger in bed on a chill winter morning. To feel the joy and the fire and the thrill of— Damn! He felt himself begin to stiffen.

  Annoyed, and. fearful that she might reach to touch him in her sleep and discover his condition, he rose quietly from the bed.

  There was a hot plate in the bathroom for making tea and instant coffee. As silently as he could manage, Baker produced a steaming cup and walked with it to the window fifteen floors above the expanse of Central Park. He stood watching and thinking. And listening.

  Just west of the zoo he could see the strobing blue lights of police cars. Three of them. And the red and amber of a single ambulance. There was something about the blue strobes of a police car at night. They're like a scream, he thought. He remembered the way those lights lashed across his house the last time he saw it. Baker shook away the image.

  The red lights moved. They were dipping through the trees as they crossed from left to right. The ambulance was leaving the park by the Sixty-fifth Street exit. Right through the zoo. In his mind Baker could almost see the animals sniffing after the blood scent that the ambulance trailed behind it.

  Blood.

  Baker didn't remember much about the one called Jace. Only the snap of bones. And those puncture marks. Absently, he touched the pocket that held the felt-tipped pen Abel had used. It struck him that Abel had never toyed with anyone like that before. He'd never gone out of his way to mark anyone. Usually, it was the way it had been with Sumo. Baker winced. He saw in dim memory the way Sumo had jerked and danced as the knife pushed through his organs. The way his body had arched into an obscenely stiff and prolonged tremor as if it had touched a third rail. The way he shook even after he fainted. That one would almost certainly die. And Abel killed him. Why? Why these two?