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. Let
ting 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 vi
tality 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 text
book? 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 Franken
stein 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 hyp
notist might tell his subject to awake on the count of three,
for example, or to fall into a trance when he says good
night.”
“Or shoot a president when he sees the queen of hearts?”
Sonnenberg smiled indulgently. “No Manchurian Candi
dates 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 phys
ical cause in either event.
“The normal brain is a sort of factory that produces those
chemicals in the right combinations and in the right quanti
ties to keep imbalances from happening. No amount of sug
gestion 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 en
tranced subject to recite the alphabet backward just as rap
idly 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 mo
ment, then rose stiffly and walked to a small wet bar con
cealed 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 de
spised yourself for being so damned civilized. No, not civi
lized. 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 any
one'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, experienc
ing 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 tum
bler of water and sipped it slowly. There was an odd after
taste 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. Ad
mitting, 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 re
moves it. You have to wonder whether Abel would be capa
ble 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? Easygo
ing? Sonnenberg agrees he's probably bland. And Sonnen
berg 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 Son
nenberg is dying to meet you, but he's going to have to wait
too. This is your captain speaking. Able-bodied Abel is to re
main 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 Char
ley 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 work
ing 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 fol
lowed 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.