7
“Tell me what you see there.”
Sonnenberg rapped on the thick manila folder that he'd just placed on the butler's table in front of Baker, then re
turned stiffly to his couch.
Baker looked up. He saw without interest that a photo
graph of himself was clipped to the cover. It was a confident
face. At least not a beaten face. He was sure he didn't look
like that today. He hadn't even bothered to shave.
‘Tell me what you see,” Sonnenberg repeated.
Sonnenberg's manner, in contrast to Baker's, was almost
gleeful. Like a grandfather on Christmas morning presenting
a gift that was certain to be prized.
The folder itself was three inches thick. Baker looked
away from the photograph. “That's all me?” he asked, incu
rious.
“More than you can imagine.” Sonnenberg smiled. He
didn't want to rush this part. He reached for a carved silver
samovar and gestured with it toward Baker's cup. Baker waved it off. He'd almost rather have had a drink. Sonnen
berg shrugged. Too slowly, he filled his own cup, then care
fully stirred in some heated cream and, from an enamel box,
a few grains of chicory. This he tasted, then took from an
other bowl containing honey. Only when Baker began to fidget did he reach into the folder and slide out a second
photograph of Baker's face.
“Now tell me what you see,” Sonnenberg waggled one
finger toward the twin black and white prints as he sipped
from a Lenox cup.
“Stills.” Baker shrugged. ”Head-and-shoulder shots of
me.” He recognized the second one as a picture cropped
from a larger one with Sarah and Tina in it. He had planned
to do a portrait. It annoyed him that their bodies had been
airbrushed away.
“Are they identical?” Sonnenberg cocked his head.
“They're copies.” Baker shrugged again.
“Look more carefully.”
Baker touched the prints with his fingertips and slid them
up and down against each other as if comparing the ballistic
markings of two bullets.
“They're identical,” he said finally, “except that the one
on the right is reversed.”
“Correct. A mirror image. And incidentally, it's conve
nient that you've had very few taken. It's even more con
venient that you winced as your police photograph was
taken. You'll be recognizable only to dentists and proctolo
gists. You're sure you wouldn't like some of Mrs. Kreskie's
Turkish coffee?”
“Yes. Yes.” Sonnenberg clapped his hands lightly. “Get
on with it, you say. In fact, it does become more interesting
about now.”
He drew out a third version of the same photograph. It
was identical to those already on the table except that it was
cut neatly in half. A curving line had been precisely scis
sored down the middle of Baker's face. He placed the two
halves before Baker but left them several inches apart.
“Now tell me what you see.”
”I see that you're playing games. Why don't you just tell me what—”
“Indulge me, Jared. Please.”
“It's a picture of me cut in half.” Baker sat back, waiting.
“Ah, but it isn't. Not exactly.” Sonnenberg reached across
and pushed the two halves together. “Compare that to the other copies of the same photograph.”
Baker leaned forward and stared, more than a bit startled,
at the face glaring back at him. It was a hard face. The lines
of the mouth were tight and cruel. The eyes were
slightly
hooded and they seemed to lock on his, holding his, like the
eyes of a puff adder would paralyze a bird. The face and
head seemed larger than the others, although Baker knew the
dimensions had to be the same. And the face was ... intim
idating. Baker had always thought of himself as a nice man.
Perhaps even nice-looking. There was nothing nice about
the man in front of him.
“How did you do this?” he asked, his eyes still fixed upon
the face.
“Simplicity itself,” replied Sonnenberg. “But first a ques
tion. If you didn't know that man, what would be your im
pression of him?”
“He's tough. A mean son of a bitch. I'd stay away from
him.”
“Not the sort you'd have over for Sunday brunch. More
than that, you're saying you'd hate to have that man as an
enemy.”
“Yes.” Baker nodded thoughtfully. ”I know you're pump-priming, but you're right. And I know that this is only a doc
tored photograph, but it's
…”
“Frightening? No
...
I'm sure that's not the right word.”
“It's a terrific word.” Baker looked up. “That face even
scares me. And it is me.”
“But what if that man were your very good friend?”
“He doesn't look like anybody's friend.”
“You're quite wrong.” Sonnenberg smiled. “He's very much your friend. Absolutely reliable. Unequivocally on
your side. He would defend you to the death. Moreover, he's
a friend who would be perfectly comfortable in any situation
that you might find alarming. Or unpleasant. Or menacing. A perfectly compatible friend. He shares your values, your
standards, your sense of what is right. He probably even
shares your fears and inhibitions, but his threshold for those
emotions is much higher than yours. He is largely unen
cumbered by them. On the flip side, his threshold for love
and compassion, even mercy, is probably much lower.”
Baker picked up the right half of the photograph, fingered
it, and held it up to the light.
”I think I see what you've done,” he said, returning that
half to its mate. “You took the right half of my face, made a mirror image of it, then put two right halves together to form
one whole face.”
“Exactly. Don't you think the result is rather remark
able?”
“If it means anything. I'm sure you can do this with any
one's face.”
“Indeed I could. Behavioral researchers use this trick to
demonstrate the hemispheric dominance of the brain. Ex
cept it's more than a trick in your case.” Sonnenberg patted
the folder. “Before we go on, aren't you at all curious about
the left side of your personality?”
“Personality?”
“Your face, then.”
“Let me guess. The left side will go to the opposite ex
treme. Timid as opposed to aggressive. Weak instead of
strong. Am I getting warm?”
“Only tepid.” Sonnenberg gathered up the photographs
and slid two new likenesses in front of Baker. On his right
was a retouched version of the two right halves, artfully air-brushed into an unmarred portrait. On his left, Sonnenberg
had done the same thing with the two left halves of Baker's
face.
“My God!” Baker whispered.
“Go ahead. Say it.”
“It's like night and day, isn't it?”
“Rats!” Sonnenberg pursed his lips. ”I bet myself that
you'd say it's like Jekyll and Hyde. You would have been
very much mistaken.”
“There's a difference?”
“Like night and day.” Sonnenberg smiled. “What you're
looking at has nothing to do with good and evil. They are
simply the opposite poles of your personality.”
“There's that word again. The face on the left doesn't
look like it has any personality at all.”
Baker studied the likeness. He knew he'd guessed wrong. It was not a weak face, he decided, nor was it strong. Bland,
perhaps. Or blank. Yes, blank would be much more correct.
Like the face of a cow. Yet the other one had the
face of a
wolf, a feral quality. The eyes and the set of the mouth
showed a ferocity that was barely under control. It was a
face that seemed to lean forward whereas the other face
seemed to pull back. That was an illusion, Baker knew, be
cause the camera's depth of field was the same for each.
“Don't take Charley too lightly, Jared. He might surprise
you.”
“Charley?”
“It's the name I've given him. An easygoing sort of name.
Very apt, don't you think . . . Baker?” Sonnenberg smiled
expectantly.
“I'm to conclude that the animal on the right is called Abel?”
Sonnenberg threw back his head and laughed. “Excellent,
Mr. Baker. You have yet to disappoint me
...
although our
friend Abel may have cause to sulk over your characteriza
tion of him.” The doctor drew out a copy of Baker's legiti
mate full-face photograph and placed it on the table between the others.
“Tell me now,” he said, rubbing his hands. “With your
newly acquired insights, what is your impression of our
friend Baker here?”
Baker's mind had wandered. It was that laugh of Son
nenberg's. It had seemed familiar before this, but he
couldn't place it until now. It was Franklin Roosevelt. That was the way Roosevelt laughed. There were other Roosevelt
mannerisms too, even to the accent, which lately seemed
more Brahmin than European. Baker dismissed it as an af
fectation that had no significance. He found himself won
dering, though, what might lie beneath if he peeled away the
outer skin of Marcus Sonnenberg. Would he find anything at
all?
”I beg your pardon?”
“You are now the centerpiece of an alliance called Abel
Baker Charley. You are a living man. You, Baker, are the
midpoint of two distinct personalities.”
“Is that supposed to be a revelation?”
”I would expect so.” Sonnenberg was disappointed.
“You're saying my personality is the sum total of its ele
ments. Whose isn't?”
“Yours, perhaps. The assumption that you alone have
substance and Abel and Charley have none may border upon
arrogance. What if the entity called Jared Baker turned out
to be little more than a muddled conglomerate whereas each
of these is, in his own way, singularly talented?”
Baker studied Sonnenberg. He knew by now that the doc
tor was not a man given to pointless theoretical exercises.
Baker was more than a bit uncomfortable.
“You're saying you can isolate them, Doctor?”
'Tm saying that I believe I can teach you to isolate them.
I believe you can learn to employ either Abel or Charley at
will.”
“Hypnosis?”
“Suggestion will play a role, yes.”
“That's been the reason for all the hypnosis sessions?
You've been probing for these two characters while I've
been under?”
“Not at all. I've simply been testing your responsiveness
to suggestion. You can listen to the tapes if you have any
doubts.”
Baker hesitated for a few moments before brushing the
offer aside. Sonnenberg had, in fact, expressed delight sev
eral times at his ability to concentrate his way into deep hyp
nosis in ever-shorter periods of time. Still, to Baker's mind, the purpose of these sessions had nothing to do with Abels
and Charleys.
”I don't mistrust you, Doctor,” he said evenly. “But this
isn't why I agreed to come with you. I certainly didn't come
to be a guinea pig.”
Sonnenberg's genial manner faded. He lifted his crippled
leg past the butler's table and swung it toward Baker so that
his entire body faced the other man.
“You came to me, Jared, because you were a frightened
man.”
“Not frightened, Doctor. Just a man who wanted peace and freedom. A new start. Your offer was very attractive
under the circumstances.”
“Let's not play semantic Ping-Pong, Jared. I
offered you
a new life and a new identity and you required very little persuasion. Only frightened people leap at such an offer.
Some seek to outrun failure and disappointment, some to es
cape their sins, and some, like you, are hunted men. All of
you are frightened.”