“I didn’t fire you. I brought the letter. That’s all. Period. Will you believe that?”
“I suppose.”
He smiled and put his hand on hers. “Maybe there’s method behind my madness.”
“Like what?”
“If you run the house in Horton and I live near the training school … how can we get together for more than a weekend a month?”
“By firing me and having me move in with you?”
“Exactly. Sort of.”
“I’ll probably be drunk all day.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“You’ve got a goddamn salvation complex, do you know that?”
He smiled again. “Why do you think I’m a psychologist?”
“Lord help me.” She turned to stare out the window. “I’ve been framed, you know.” He didn’t answer. “Martin is missing, or dead, and they wanted me out of there.”
“Who’s they?”
“If I knew that, I would have turned them in to the cops.”
“Maybe we have lost Martin,” he said. “That’s one of the risks in group homes. A few of them wander off, get in trouble, or have difficulty adjusting. Most of them stay and that’s why it works.”
“What happens to the ones that wander off?”
He shrugged. “Different things. Oddly enough, occasionally we find them later working on a farm and making it. Almost all come back eventually.”
“Martin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you want me to move in with you?”
“Because there was nothing personal about your dismissal, and because I have faith in you, and because I like you, and because you don’t have any place better to go.”
“I’ll stay with you a couple of days until I learn what happened to Martin.”
He gave her a quick sidelong glance. “All right. A couple of days.”
It was a dark and musty place, but it was safe. The large, bulky shapes of the machinery stored around him loomed huge and foreboding, but he knew that he was safe from those who attacked him.
The double doors at the front of the building creaked on rusty hinges as they opened part way and sent a shaft of bright light darting across the interior. He gave a start, his muscles tensed, and he gripped the two-by-four with both hands. “Who is it?” Martin whispered hoarsely.
“Mickey.” The door shut behind the slight figure who now stood in the shadows.
“Come here, Mick.”
The figure shuffled forward and stood trembling before Martin Fowler. Low whimpering sounds issued from him. Martin ran his hand over Mickey’s arm and head.
“It’s all right. You’re a good boy and did right to help me.”
“Did right?”
“Yes. Did you get any food?”
The head shook violently in affirmation, and after a struggle with his shirt front the small figure produced half a loaf of bread. He handed it to Martin as if it were a gift of great importance.
“You did fine, Mick. I’m proud of you.”
The boy smiled.
Martin stuffed a slice of bread into his mouth, chewed it hurriedly and swallowed. “Now, you’re not going to tell anyone I’m here, are you?”
Again the violent shaking of the head.
“No, of course you’re not. For you know how it is, don’t you, Mick?” They looked at each other with wide eyes in the dim light. “You won’t tell your mom or dad, or your teacher?”
“No, I won’t tell.” The words were poorly articulated.
“Thanks.” Martin gave him a hug.
The boy left and Martin secured the door shut with a small piece of wire he had discovered on the floor. He ate two more slices of bread and then secreted the remainder of the package underneath a tractor seat in a corner of the shed. There was a water spigot located part way up the rear wall and he turned it on and let it trickle into his palm so that he could drink.
He had found an old army blanket in a corner, and he spread it under a shelf and pulled it around himself. He was safe from view here, and unless someone were specifically looking for him, he would be undetectable.
He lay back with his head cradled on his arms and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, for sleep he must, to move the long hours forward.
Sleep meant dreams, and he dreaded those. He could only hope he would not cry out. They came nearly every night now … the man on the motorcycle with the chain that whirred through the air and crashed over his shoulder and arms, the van forced off the road and rocking dangerously down the steep incline … the boat and the lake, and then the most dreaded, the woman stalking him with the knife clenched in her hand.
He stared into the darkness afraid to sleep.
In the White House Oval Office, Senator Baxter grinned across the desk at the president of the United States. Rutledge Baxter was operating on two levels, as he always did, conversing on the subject at hand while simultaneously plumbing the depths of his adversary’s weakness.
President William Harkins was a massive man with a bull neck and a weathered complexion that came from thousands of hours in the out-of-doors. His abundant hair was white, and his stature and booming voice usually allowed him to dominate any gathering by the pure magnetism of his bearing and personality. He was a rancher, the owner of thousands of acres, who should have been conservative by nature, but who astonished his followers by the breadth of his private reading and insight.
“I need your support, Rutledge,” the president said.
“I’m very flattered, sir. However, there are other men in the Senate who carry far more weight.”
The president smiled. “Now, son, that reminds me of the day I was out riding herd and came across a mess of rattlers. This little snake turns to the big one and says, ‘You’re bigger, you take the first bite.’ The big snake says, ‘It don’t make no never mind—after the first mouthful they all taste the same.’”
Rutledge forced himself to laugh. “I don’t know that I like being compared to a rattler, sir,” he said good-naturedly.
“Then you’re missing an important political point, son. In my place, all you folks up on the Hill are rattlers that have to be stroked, petted, cajoled, gotten rid of, or run away from.”
“What category am I?”
“That remains to be seen.” The president’s mood and manner instantaneously shifted. The “country boy” mantle fell aside to be replaced by the speech patterns and vocabulary of a thoughtful man. “We’re in trouble in South America. I am sure you realize that.”
“It’s obvious to everyone, Mr. President.”
“Then it should be apparent that a dramatic change of policy must be implemented if we are to establish any sort of relationship with the emerging powers.”
“That would require accommodations with forces unacceptable to many in the Senate.”
“I am aware of that, which is why I invited you here this morning.”
“I’m not sure how I can help you.” Rutledge knew exactly what the president was driving at, but he was damned if he would help this cowboy come to the point.
“Well, let’s put it this way. That was quite an article they had about you in this week’s Time. I was curious as to how many of those quotes you really subscribe to.”
Rutledge flashed his most ingenuous boyish smile, but noticed that the president’s expression did not flicker. “I think that some of the quotes were taken out of context, Mr. President. I’m not nearly as hawkish as they make me out to be.”
“At Wild Wind Ranch we have a saying about hawks, but I’m going to force myself to avoid it at this time.”
Rutledge laughed appreciatively. “I’m sure it’s to the point, sir.”
The president leaned forward. “I want you to lay back in the grass, Senator Baxter. I want you to sun yourself on a warm rock, and take a long vacation away from the floor of the Senate when I present the Harkins Manifesto.”
“There’ve been rumors about that.”
“I’m sure there have been. I’ve counted my votes carefully. If you and the loyal bloc who follow you do not oppose me, I will prevail.”
“You might be asking me to do something against my own conscience.”
“The Harkins Manifesto has been in the works for years. The groundwork was laid by my predecessor. If the Senate accepts the plan, it will revolutionize our dealings with South America and, I might add, maintain a secure peace in this hemisphere.”
Again Rutledge laughed appreciatively. “That’s a tall order, Mr. President. Some of us might think that a stronger and more active defense posture would achieve the same end.”
“And some are saying we should intervene militarily in certain countries south of the border.”
“True, sir. But with the specter of Viet Nam still with us, I don’t think that would have support without some active aggression against our country or its forces.”
“That will not happen as long as I am commander in chief. I have notified the Joint Chiefs to be doubly alert so as to avoid any untoward incidents.”
“I have been out of the service for several years, Mr. President. I am hardly in a position to lead troops in an aggressive situation.”
“Of course. What I want from you, Senator, is your commitment that you will not oppose me. I do not ask that you support me—only that we do not clash.”
“You make that sound like a patriotic call to duty.”
“Consider it such.”
“Then you have my complete support, sir, I am sure the Harkins Manifesto will be a landmark in this country’s history of diplomacy.”
William Harkins stood and came around the side of the desk to offer his hand to Rutledge. They shook hands firmly. “You are a man of honor, sir,” the president said.
The squatting floor manager pointed his finger at Rutledge as the red light blinked on at camera one. The show’s host, clipboard on his lap, turned to face the camera to give his lead-in to the show. Rutledge’s face automatically tensed into its grin as camera two, its red light signifying a live sequence, dollied in for a close shot.
“Last night at his press conference, President Harkins announced that you have given your support for his new Southern Hemisphere foreign policy. What made you give that commitment, Senator Baxter?”
The close-up of Senator Baxter’s face revealed an ingenuous look of amazement. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words. It was a well-orchestrated and stunning effect.
“I am sure the president was in error to include my name.”
“After the conference, our sources double-checked it with his closest aids. They assured us that you gave a personal commitment to the president.”
Rutledge hesitated for the briefest of moments, but in that time he had a sense of the panorama of history, of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, of Napoleon’s march on Paris. The battle had begun and would continue until Barbados and the Baxter Amendment were in full operation.
“The president is mistaken,” he said quietly and sincerely. “Let me explain my position.”
“You were nothing less than terrific on TV this morning,” Althea said over the phone.
“It was well thought out,” he answered abruptly. “What about the woman?”
“She has been taken care of and poses no further threat.”
“The man—Martin Fowler. Do you have him?”
“No, but I think we’re close.”
Rutledge balled a hand into a tight fist. He tried to keep his voice under control, but deep anger was still apparent. “Goddamn it, Althea, it couldn’t have been simpler and you’ve blown it.”
She caught the anger and answered with a twinge of peevishness. “You obviously have things under control in Washington. Why in the world are you afraid of a man … who’s retarded? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ll decide What makes sense,” he snapped back. “All you need to know is that he knows certain things that are so specific; if they were released prematurely, they would spell our ruin. Our ruin, Althea. Do you read that?”
“I’ll take your word for it, of course.” Her professional mantle returned. “I took the precaution of photographing him with a telephoto lens while he was at the service station. We’re making copies of the prints now. We’ll have him in forty-eight hours.”
“See that you do.” He slammed the telephone receiver back on its cradle.
The sheet fell from her bare breasts as Sara turned to face him. “Tell me about Martin.”
“Good Christ, Sara! Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s poor etiquette to talk about another man when you’re in bed with someone else?”
“I’m worried about him.”
“I can sum up my feelings in one word.”
“You’re supposed to be dedicated to your charges.”
“Not so dedicated that I think about them in bed.”
She ran the top of her finger over Ray’s bare chest. “Please. A little information.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know that much about him. I can’t know everything about everyone at the school. I’m trying, but I’ve only been here nine months.”
“What do you know about Martin?”
“That he’s been here … or was here … for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Since he was six.”
Sara sat up against the headboard in horror. “My God, he’s twenty-eight now … twenty-two years in this place!”
“It’s not that bad. We do our best.”
“But still.”
Ray shrugged. “I wasn’t even aware of him until late spring when we were making up our list for the Mohawk Club workers.”
“Observant for a psychologist.”
“No snide remarks.”
“What brought him to your attention?”
“I don’t know really—a vague feeling and then a question to the super. For a long time I thought he was a member of the maintenance crew. He rode the lawn mower and did such a damn good job, I just assumed he worked for Mack Pierce of maintenance. Then one night when I was on duty I noticed him in the dining room and realized he was an inmate.”
“Thank God you have a doctorate.”
He ruffled her hair. “Okay, so I wasn’t aware, but I made up for it. I realized that if he could work maintenance and run machinery like he was doing, he was certainly educable no matter what the tests showed.”
“What did they show?” she asked.
“Fifty.”
“IQ?”
“That’s what was on his record, but you know I have an interest in testing errors and I took a gamble on him. He went off to work at the club.”
“That’s sort of a yearly event around here, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, we use it as a training ground to see if the men are ready for a halfway house.”
Sara lay back and stared at the ceiling. She reviewed the events of the past days: the beating Martin had received, the car accidents, her forced intoxication and firing.… Someone was trying to destroy Martin and to neutralize her.
Why?
Martin was the clue and the answer and now he was missing. She turned to Ray again. “You awake?”
“Am now.”
“Martin says his mother was the first person that tried to kill him.”
“We’re off and running again.”
“He said the only place he ever felt safe was at the training school.”
“A lot of them feel like that. Often it’s difficult to convince them they’re ready for a halfway house.”
“Why is that?”
“When you’ve been someplace for more than twenty years, it’s your home, it’s everything you know … the outside world appears threatening.”
“It certainly does,” she said and reflected again on the things that happened to both her and Martin.
“Go to sleep, hon. I have to get up in the morning.”
“And I don’t,” she whispered with a slight bitterness, but too i
naudibly for him to hear. She lay back in bed with her hands laced behind her head.
Half an hour later she knew where Martin was.
Chapter Eight
Ray was gone when she awoke.
Sara donned a terry cloth robe and padded around the small house. Ray was still in the process of accumulating furniture and the rooms were sparsely equipped. A king-sized bed and dresser comprised the bedroom’s complete decor, while in the living room one wall was covered with bookcases constructed of cement blocks and stained boards. The remainder of the room held a couch, large leather chair, and throw cushions on the floor.
Of the two remaining bedrooms, one held an army cot for use by old friends that needed a temporary place to crash, and the third bedroom contained Ray’s large desk, a typist’s chair, and a battered file cabinet.
The structure had once been a farmhouse and was still heated primarily by wood stoves. The surrounding farmland had been absorbed by the State of New York into the large Adirondack State Park, which now abutted the remaining few acres.
She stood at the kitchen sink and filled the coffee pot. She could look out the double windows over the counter and see the hills and farmland that seemed to creep toward the house. She had once asked Ray why he had bought the property when he had free housing available at the school.
He had laughed and replied, “It’s a steal, and if I ever leave this job, I’ll still have a summer place.”
She plugged in the electric percolator and roamed the near-empty rooms. It was time to order priorities. She needed a job, and the fall semester was rapidly approaching. Tomorrow, at the latest, she would have to start sending out resumes. Then there was the question of Martin. She thought she knew where he was, and information somewhere in this house would help verify her conjecture.
The coffee finished perking. She poured a cup, black, and sat at the Formica-topped table in the large kitchen. As she drank the coffee she thought about Ray.
She had never really come to terms with her feelings about him. She liked him, they were compatible, and certainly enjoyed each other’s company both mentally and physically; but something was missing.
The Man Who Heard Too Much Page 7