“Everyone has a triune brain, Harrigan, which means everyone has an Abel. Everyone also has a hemispheric cerebral cortex, which means everyone has a Charley as well. And everyone who's ever had an extrasensory experience, even feeling that a telephone is about to ring, has had at least a nodding acquaintance with his own Charley. Where extrasensory messages are received, they have obviously been sent. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that Charley is quite capable of communicating with other Charleys. What has not been understood before now is the mechanism. A formed and developed Charley communicates with latent or incipient Charleys by literally calling their parts together. One potentially unhappy result is that the residue amounts to an unassembled Abel.”
“That's what happened with Tina?”
“That's my guess, Harrigan. Underline guess.”
“So Tina's not a Chimera?”
Sonnenberg straightened. “You're not paying attention, Mr. Harrigan. Everybody is a Chimera. Baker was simply a better subject than most and Tina was simply closer to the source. As, incidentally, was Tanner Burke. What Tanner Burke is is an unusually perceptive woman whom you've begun to imagine has psychic abilities. She has nothing of the sort. What she has is a Charley and an emotional affinity toward the prototypical Charley. There is a danger, Harrigan. The danger is not what Tanner Burke is or what Tina Baker is. The danger is what Jared Baker's now irreversible Charley can now call into existence. This, Harrigan, is what I had to see for myself. And this, sir, is why I've sought to keep those three apart.”
Roger Hershey lifted Stanley in his arms and carried him toward Sonnenberg's car.
“We'll be leaving shortly,” Sonnenberg told Harrigan. “May I assume you've no objection?”
Harrigan let out a breath. He cocked a thumb toward Baker and his daughter and Tanner Burke, who would not look at him. “I've got all I can handle, Doc. Maybe we'll have a talk some other time.”
“Perhaps.” Sonnenberg backed away from Harrigan. His hands came from behind his back, one of them holding a stray pistol he'd picked up unseen. “At the moment, however, I'm going to solve at least one of your problems. What's left of Duncan Peck will be coming with me.”
“Peck is mine.” Harrigan stepped toward him.
“Prior claim, Mr. Harrigan.” He raised the pistol level with Harrigan's belly. “Justice will be done, however. I promise that.” Sonnenberg reached a beckoning hand toward the revolver in Harrigan's belt.
Harrigan placed his hand across the butt and held it there. “See you later, Doc.”
Sonnenberg took him at his word. ”A favor, Mr. Harrigan? Duncan has clearly taken the assistant curator of this museum. Philip Poindexter. I suspect he's been abused and is under guard someplace. He's really a very good curator, Mr. Harrigan. Knows his pre-Columbian.”
“I'll take care of it.” Harrigan nodded. “But Peck likes his packages neat and tidy. If I was you, I'd look in that van on the way out.”
“I'm obliged, sir.”
“Good,” Harrigan replied. “You can settle it now. How does Baker keep the beastie from rattling the bars every time some drunk spills a drink on him?”
“You flatter me that you think I know.”
“Then who the hell do I ask? Dear Abby? Guess, Doc. If you don't know, then give me the way to bet.”
“Tranquilizers,” Sonnenberg answered. Perhaps.
Harrigan spat. He kicked at a dark gun that lay on the floor near his foot. “Now who's not paying attention?”
“There's a drug called Reserpine. Once before it seemed to affect Abel much more than Charley. Used lightly, it should also help to subdue any normal hostilities that this overall experience may leave with him. Reserpine is common enough. In fact, it's been used in the Far East for centuries in the treatment of the mentally ill. Its properties are—”
“I'll look it up.” Harrigan stopped him. “Here comes Roger.”
Sonnenberg limped to where Tanner Burke sat with Jared and Tina in her arms.
“Goodbye, miss,” he said.
She ignored him.
“You're all quite remarkable, you know. You as well. I shall miss you.”
“You make me sick.” She looked up at him. “You all make me sick. My God, doesn't the damage you've done bother you at all?”
Sonnenberg only sighed in response and surveyed the scene around him. His eye fell upon the Karl Bitter pulpit, now scarred from Biaggi's bullets but at least wiped free of gore. He regretted that, to be sure. And he would weep for Melanie Laver. And for Ben Coffey. But what else could she mean? Surely not the fate befalling Duncan's people. Could she mean Jared? What else should he have been? A convict? How much time would have passed before the other prisoners ventured a homosexual gang rape or any other violence against his person and then watched their arms being torn from their sockets? Baker would still have been what he is while understanding none of it. At his best, even avoiding jail and retreating back into his world of lawns and white houses, he would have been like a billion others puzzled by their occasional rages and ashamed of them, hearing inner voices but denying them, sometimes clearly knowing the thoughts of others but finding a curious comfort in the local psychiatrist's quack verdict of a treatable neurosis brought on by the pressures of modern living. Damage indeed. Let us hope that the passage of time may bring with it a less hysterical view of events.
“And what of your life, Miss Burke?” he asked as Roger Hershey hoisted the unconscious form of Duncan Peck upon his shoulder. “Mr. Peck, depend on it, can hope for a long and useful existence after an appropriate period of penance. But what will you do with yours? Mouth inane dialogue for the cultural enrichment of the nation's bowlers and waitresses? Smile prettily at cameras for the betterment of the hair coloring industry?”
She watched him limp away behind Roger Hershey. By the time he reached the cut in the glass wall, Marcus Sonnenberg wasn't limping anymore. Harrigan saw it too. He had a further sense that once Sonnenberg passed through it, he wasn't Marcus Sonnenberg anymore either.
18
Most of a winter had passed.
A northern California winter. The snow, when it came, fell gently on earth that crusted but never quite froze. The ground here, unlike Connecticut's soil, did not yield to winter and then timidly send up its hardiest buds, like scouts, to report back on winter's retreat. Rather, the soil here rested placidly between growing seasons. And when the day came that the rest was ended it would burst into life as if on signal, a carpet of yellow poppies leading the way by hours.
The place was Clear Lake, a hundred miles north of San Francisco and fifty miles inland. The home was made of pine logs cut from a forest not a mile up the road. The balcony, or raised deck, Baker had built himself. From it he could see the full expanse of deep blue water and the peak of Snow Mountain against the far horizon past softly rolling hills. That view, done in oils, already hung over the massive stone fireplace that Baker and Tina had built together.
Baker stepped away from the window and picked up his palette. He stood for a moment, admiring the half-finished canvas in the crisp afternoon light. Tina's face. A portrait. Smiling at him. Not bad, he thought. Not Delacroix. But not bad. It was the best thing Sonnenberg had given him. The phone rang.
“I'll get it, Daddy,” Tina called. He heard her footsteps skipping down from the loft bedroom she'd chosen. It was the third call that day. Two from a young man named David, whose family was taking a ski vacation at Lake Tahoe, except he wouldn't have a bit of fun unless Tina came with them. David's father, a small local vintner, had already asked Baker's permission and gotten it, but Baker would say nothing until Tina herself asked. A part of him hoped she would not. They had not been apart since Harrigan had half-carried them across Fifth Avenue, where he stole another unlocked car. But the less selfish part wanted her to go. The leg was strong. Strong enough. It was time to test it and use it beyond her daily, mile-long walks to school, forsaking the school bus in favor of the exercise, or her weekend hikes int
o Lucerne with Sam, the stray dog she claimed to have found.
The other call was a hangup. It troubled him as all such calls did. But Charley said he felt nothing. Not to worry. But while he thought of it, would Baker mind some cherry sauce for a change on the duck he was planning to roast for dinner? Next time, Baker promised. Connor Harrigan would be stopping by in an hour or two, and he didn't have time to run down to the Safeway in Lucerne.
Charley or not, the hangup stayed on Baker's mind. He couldn't shake the thought that it might have been Tanner. It wasn't, though. She didn't have his number. She didn't even know they were in the same state. For all Baker knew, she'd blocked those two days out of her mind by now. Five days, counting the next three in a motel near Kennedy airport waiting for him to be able to stand up. And when he could, when he could look into her eyes to see if she saw Abel when she looked into his, he remembered almost grinning with relief when he saw that she did not. But then he caught her staring at Tina. Tanner didn't see Abel there. No one could. Not in that face. That was what made it so terrible for Tanner. That there could be an Abel there. That a sweet, happy child could tear the throats out of two grown men and crush the skull of another. That's when Baker left her. For all their sakes. Tanner couldn't get away from Harrigan fast enough anyway.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Vickie.” Victoria. Tina's middle name. They kept Baker. It was common enough. And Tina understood. Baker knew that she'd have preferred Liz if she had to have another name, but she'd seen the sadness in her father's face when she brought it up.
“David Torrence asked if I could go skiing next weekend with his family. Or do you already know that?”
“Fathers know everything.” He smiled. “Do you want to go, honey?”
”I think.”
Baker shrugged. “You like David. You like skiing. What's to think about? Personally, I'd enjoy the peace and quiet.”
“He wants to go tomorrow. It's a whole week.”
”A whole week of peace and quiet is even better.” But Baker saw she was doubtful. It was something more than leaving him alone that long. “Babe, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?”
Vickie waved her hands to show it was nothing. Then, “Do you ever get feelings?”
“I've been known. Yes.”
“I've got a feeling that I should be here tomorrow. That I'll really want to. Sounds dumb, doesn't it?”
“It'll sound a lot dumber tomorrow when you're here cleaning your loft instead of cutting slalom gates.”
Vickie nodded. She knew he was right. Probably. All the same, though. “I'm going to say thanks, but maybe next time.” She heard a crunch outside and stepped to the window. “Anyway, here comes Mr. Harrigan.”
Vickie excused herself once Connor Harrigan settled next to the fire and took his first long sip from the Scotch Baker offered him. Sam followed her onto the terrace, where she slipped on a pair of Walkman earphones and began dancing with the half-Husky mongrel.
Baker returned to his easel and pretended indifference while he waited to hear whether Harrigan brought news this trip or whether he'd finally ask the favor that Baker knew would be coming one day. He would refuse, no question. But he'd listen. He owed Harrigan that much.
“Are you going to tell me?” Baker asked. “Or do I. . .” Do I have to ask Charley? he almost said.
“Good Scotch, Jared.” Harrigan had something on his mind, all right.
“The name's Paul. Try to get used to it.”
“Yeah.” Harrigan stood up and walked to the counter, where he poured another two inches. “Well, that's the first piece of news. You're Jared Baker again. The Connecticut charges are all quashed.”
Baker had expected that. The charges had no real substance anyway. Wiping them off was easy for Harrigan, especially with a phone call from Duncan Peck's replacement, who owed his appointment to Connor Harrigan as much as anyone. Still, Baker thought, he'd leave things as they were for a while. Things were good, mostly. And if it isn't broken, don't fix it.
“Anything on Sonnenberg?” Baker tried to sound as though his interest was casual. He hoped it would be someday.
“Not a thing,” Harrigan answered. “Not him, not Levy, not Peck. Levy and Peck figure to be dead. Levy for sure. He didn't have enough gut left to string a banjo. No word on Roger Hershey either. You want my own opinion, I think the guy deep-sixed himself. You can't be Mr. Nice Guy Who Kills People without something cracking sooner or later.”
Baker knew better, although he wasn't sure how. Roger was alive. His name was Barrett now and he ran a bookstore up north someplace. Probably the bookstore Melanie had mentioned. Barrett's of Wimpole Street. Melanie had never said all that but he knew. Maybe Charley heard her talking about it once. Whatever. Why don't we all just leave Roger alone as long as he's quiet and happy. Baker hoped he was both.
“Selling any paintings?”
”A couple.” Baker nodded. ”I have a gallery in San Francisco that said they'd like to do a show this summer. Tina... Vickie also talked the high school into setting up an exhibit and getting me in to teach adult education classes.”
“Sounds like a nice life.”
“Your exact thoughts”—Baker smiled—“were ‘Boring as shit' and ‘When is this turkey going to start looking for some action.’ ”
“Charley's a pain in the ass.”
“That was strictly Baker, Harrigan.”
Harrigan stood up and strolled to the window facing the lake and the road that wound past it. “You know,” he said, “if I ever did ask you to do something, it would be strictly a Charley deal. No beasties.”
“Nice of you to drop in.” Baker's good humor faded.
“Just so you know.” Harrigan reached into his pocket and pulled free a thick envelope, which he handed to Baker. “Here's a present.”
“What is it? My arrest record?” Baker held up his fingers to show he had paint on them. Harrigan slipped the envelope into Baker's pants pocket.
“Paper,” he answered. “Good paper. It says you're really Paul Baker, San Diego birth certificate, matching records down there. Also job history, education, military, the works.” Harrigan saw his face darken. “Relax. No one knows but me. A friend of mine at the Bureau of Engraving does this for me once in a while if I get him tickets to Redskins games. This makes it easier for you to move around, like when you go to your show in San Francisco. Who knows, you might want to drive all the way to Hollywood someday.”
“You've seen her, haven't you?”
“I've seen her.”
Baker put down his brush and wiped his hands on a stained towel. “How is she, Harrigan?”
“She still hates my guts pretty good, in case that news brightens your day. Aside from that, she's not working too much. Spends a lot of time sailing her little boat by herself. Long walks on the beach. That's where I caught up with her. Beats the shit out of me why, but that lady cares about you, Baker. Taking off like you did busted her up some. For which I think you were an asshole, by the way. I mean, it's not like you had a whole hell of a lot left to hide from her.”
“It's a different world, Harrigan. It wouldn't have worked.”
“If you're in hiding,” Harrigan agreed. “But I keep telling you you don't have to hide. Or is it me being an asshole?”
Baker didn't answer.
“It's the kid, right? Tina.”
Baker nodded. “And Abel.” It was possible, just possible, that over time Tanner could have forgotten what she'd seen Abel do. It was terrible to see, but sometimes the violence of a plain man who's out of his head with anger can be just as awful. Almost. But it would never work that way with Tina. Like Sonnenberg said, Tina didn't remember a bit of what happened in the museum, but Tanner surely did. And someday, if she were around Tina, someday she might slip. She might overreact to a normal display of anger on Tina's part. Or to a nightmare Tina might be having. Or to a distant and dreamy look. Or to Tina knowing through ordinary intuition what was on Tanner's m
ind. It was better the way it was.
“Why didn't you tell her the truth about what you did at the museum?” Baker asked.
Harrigan knew what he meant. He meant the bullets fired into the heads of Peterson and Biaggi. The coats dropped over their faces so bits of brain would not spray over the woman and the girl sitting near them. Dead brains. The life torn out of them by the hands of Tina Baker. Bullets fired for the record. So that the record would show it was Connor Harrigan who killed them, whatever ridiculous story might be told one day about a little girl ripping them apart.
“Leave well enough alone.” He shrugged. Besides, Baker—and you can hear this if you want—that's one hell of a favor you owe me.
Harrigan dug into his pocket again and pulled out two plastic pill bottles. “Here's your refill,” he said, offering them to Baker. “Reserpine. Down to a quarter grain, like you asked. How's it doing?”
“It works fine.” Baker nodded. “Of course, I haven't really been exposed to anything out here that might make me angry. And I'm not about to risk calling Abel. But I think he's slipped pretty far back down. Not much from Charley either. Even Charley's become more of a thought than a voice. More of a well-developed intuition than a separate person.”
“That's great,” Harrigan said, not meaning it. “You're almost Joe Normal again.” He looked at his watch. Let's just see, he thought. We'll see how good that intuition is working.
Harrìgan settled back and watched as Baker painted, drinking in the feel of Baker's new surroundings. A nice life, he thought. A little boring, yes, but for Connor Harrigan and probably not for Baker. Technically, of course, it sucked as a relocation identity. I mean, the guy keeps his own last name, he has a blond daughter with him even if she doesn't limp anymore, he keeps all his hobbies, which include painting, skiing, and putzing around in boats on that lake out there, and he doesn't even wear those tinted aviator glasses now. Me, I'd find him in a week if I didn't already know where he was. Of course, no one's really looking for him as far as either of us knows. Except possibly Sonnenberg, who could also find him in a week. Baker's no dummy, so he has to know that. Which means he has something going for him that makes him not worry about it too much. Which means, if I was a betting man, which I damn well am, I'd lay very nice odds that old Charley is just as sharp as ever.
Abel Baker Charley Page 45