Baker snapped upright. His head jerked toward the south
bound lanes on his left. Tanner? A trailer truck roared up and
slowly passed him, blocking his sight. Tanner's face, a wor
ried face, had popped into his mind and then was just as sud
denly gone. Had she passed on the highway?
“Charley? Did she?”
”i don't know. I was listening for tina.”
“Well listen now, Charley.”
Baker waited.
”i don't know, i can't unless she's close.”
“What about any of the others, Charley? The ones we got
away from at the hotel.”
Burleson had also popped into his
head a short while earlier, when he was listening to the high
way's noise.
“no. it's the same with them.”
Baker was uneasy. Maybe someone had passed him but probably not, he decided. See? That was the other problem
with being so damned special. Random thoughts popped
into your head just like they popped into everyone else's
head, except that you had to start stewing over what they
might mean. Look at right now. You think the face of a per
son you care about and you start to get upset because the
face in your head looks worried. Of course she's worried. Then you think another face who's looking to kill someone
you care about and then lock you in a Washington basement
someplace, and you wonder why it makes you nervous. You
wonder why it makes you want to gun this car and head right
for Spruce Street.
Stick with the plan, Baker. Tina will be fine. Harrigan's
good at what he does and Tanner cares. Go to Sonnenberg's,
Baker. Get to Sonnenberg and end this once and for all.
Baker cleared his mind as he approached carefully. From the
exit ramp at Mamaroneck he drove slowly through the quiet
town, turning right at the Mobil station where he used to
sneak his calls to Tina. Tina? You are okay, aren't you? I'll
call you soon. I'm going to wait and use one of Sonnen
berg's magic telephones in case someone still has a wire on this one. Someone waiting for whoever is Sonnenberg's lat
est toy to have the same bright idea I had.
Now a left turn and another right onto a street whose
giant elms formed an archway. He was close now and began
listening. Nothing. Not Sonnenberg, not Mrs. Kreskie, no
body. Damn. Don't let them be out after all this.
Baker slowed to a crawl when he reached the mail box of Blair Palmer's house. He could see Sonnenberg's gate
from there. It was open. Funny. Sonnenberg's gate was
never open. Baker continued and stopped the car near the
Dickerson home, fifty yards beyond Sonnenberg's property
line. Damn again. He was sure now that the house was
empty.
Well, he thought, he couldn't just stand here in the street
waiting for the Dickersons to report a prowler. He wasn't
crazy about waltzing through that open gate either. Too little
cover.
“Charley?”
“nobody there, something's funny, but nobody's there”
“We'll go see, Charley.”
Leaving the car by the Dickersons’, he passed through the
electric gate, leaving it ajar, and walked directly across a
small island of lawn in the middle of the circular driveway.
Mounting the stone steps of the front entrance, Baker paused
under a large ivy-draped pediment, then tried the door. It was unlocked. There was no alarm. Baker stepped inside
and cursed.
Immediately he saw that although the furnishings were
largely in place, there were spaces that once held posses
sions especially valued by Sonnenberg. Crossing quickly to
the study, Baker confirmed that the house had been selec
tively stripped. Sonnenberg's precious obsidian bird and
lesser pieces of pre-Columbian art were gone. Yet the fading
photo of his army outfit was there and the picture of the boy
Sonnenberg identified as his grandson sat on the mantel.
Two mounted fish that the doctor presumably prized still
hung on the wall. Why, Doctor? Baker wondered. Why only
bits and pieces?
The basement! Baker hurried into the
kitchen and to the
door leading to the cellar stairs. He tried the light switch
without effect, then backed away and tried another. No
power. A look inside the refrigerator told him that the cur
rent had not been off long. A few hours, perhaps. Baker
found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer.
In the basement he saw that although most of Sonnen
berg's tools remained, a few were gone from their assigned
places. Baker swung his beam toward the white glass-
doored cabinet that concealed the entrance to Sonnenberg's
secret room. The uneven shadows cast by its corners told
him that this door too was slightly ajar. Baker swung it open
and followed his flashlight inside.
The room was cold. Too cold. Baker felt the chill draft
that came from the air conditioner at the far end. Why was it on? And where did its power come from? He scanned the
room, starting on his left, and now the beam illuminated
Sonnenberg's map and its small pushpins. Underneath was
a set of file cabinets. Baker began to walk past them, then
stopped and swung the beam back onto the map. It troubled
him that Sonnenberg would leave it behind. And something else bothered Baker. The pins, the display that Sonnenberg
had once showed him so proudly, seemed all in the wrong
places. And two had small crepe tags on them. One just
north of Denver, the other in Kansas City. Baker had no
idea what it might mean. He reached for a file drawer.
“Have a care, Jared.” Sonnenberg's voice made him
jump. Baker spun first toward the air conditioner, then
toward the darkened basement. The voice had seemed to come from both places.
“The speaker, Jared.” Sonnenberg's voice directed him.
“It's near the center light fixture.” During that sentence, the
voice from the air conditioner switched off, leaving only the
outside voice. A fluorescent light blinked on in the base
ment. Baker lowered his flashlight and squinted past the fix
ture. His eye found a dark circle, which he knew must be an
amplifier.
“Where are you?” he asked.
”A civil greeting would have been nice, Jared. I'm hardly
your enemy.”
Baker was in no mood for conventional niceties. “We
have to talk, Doctor,” he said.
“We certainly do, Jared. By the way, please step from that
room. There's a nasty surprise waiting there for some visi
tors I expect shortly. The same bunch who pestered you at the Plaza. Lovely place, by the way. Should be inviolate. Duncan Peck has no concept of sanctuary.”
Baker knew that he must be on camera. But he saw noth
ing unless it was out of sight behind the light fixture. He
looked down at his feet and rubbed the toe of one shoe
across the indoor-outdoor carpet on the basement floor.
“Yes, Jared,” Sonnenberg told him. “Pressure plates.
There are other cameras facing the exterior of the house and
one in the main hall. Also an abundance of hidden micro
phones and speakers. I saw you coming, and I hope to see
you leaving within a very few minutes. You're no longer safe
here, Jared. We'll have a long chat later.”
“We'll talk now, Doctor. I want to see you.”
“About your retirement plans, no doubt.” Sonnenberg's
voice had a tone of sadness to it, but the words irritated
Baker. He'd wondered often whether he ever had a single
thought or plan that was private. And that would include his
plan regarding Tina. Sonnenberg would know, of course,
that he was taking her. Perhaps even that Tanner and Harri
gan were going there. He began to feel uneasy.
“I'm going away, Doctor, and I'm taking my daughter.”
Baker kept his voice even. “I'd like to do that with your help
and blessing. But either way, I have to do it.”
“We'll discuss it, Jared. My blessing, certainly, goes
without saying because I am genuinely your friend. I'll ask only that you do not totally renounce that friendship. What
sort of help, by the way? I assume you've prepared some
safe harbor in the course of your travels and are adequately funded by the blackjack tables of Las Vegas.”
”I want to be the way I was,” Baker snapped. “Come on,
Doctor. Where the hell are you? Do I have to start kicking
down doors?”
“We'll talk, Jared.” Sonnenberg ignored the last. “We'll talk at length. I fully understand that your gifts are not an
unmixed blessing. You are not, I assure you, the only one of
my people who's had some difficulty adjusting.”
“I'm not one of your people,” he barked. “I'm Jared
Baker. And this not-unmixed blessing you talk about in
cludes Abel wanting to tear apart every young punk he sees
who even gives me a snotty look. It's happened more than the twice you know about, and last night he finally killed
someone. I think you know damn well who and I think you
know why.”
“Jared.” Sonnenberg cut him off. “We truly do not have
time to discuss this properly. But I'll tell you this. You ap
pear to have decided that I am some Orwellian manipulator
who influences your every thought and deed. I'm nothing of the sort. What I am is a human behaviorist and you are a
human. Much of your behavior is entirely predictable. Abel's even more so. He's as simple as a reptile, which in
his essence he is. As for putting him back where you think he belongs, even if it were possible, what on earth good do
you think it would do? He'd still be there, you know. The difference would be that you'd no longer know as clearly
where he leaves off and you begin. For heaven's sake, Jared,
would you really want to sacrifice the clarity of a distinct
Abel, Baker, and Charley in favor of a muddled and fright
ened Jared Baker? Use them, Jared. Understand them. Dis
cipline them if you must, but do not reject them.”
“It won't work,” Baker answered stubbornly. He
stepped back into the hidden room and sat down on the sin
gle Morris chair so Sonnenberg could see he had no inten
tion of leaving. “All this time Charley has been picking and
choosing what he wants to tell me. Maybe he's started to
come around, but Abel hasn't. Abel's hardly been under control at all until I convinced him that I'd let us both die before I'd let him control me again. That goes for you too,
Doctor.”
“There, you see?” Sonnenberg replied. “You are learning
to control him.”
“Only while I'm willing to die, Doctor. And only while
he believes it. I might not be so willing tomorrow.”
He heard Sonnenberg take a breath that sounded impa
tient.
“You're being foolish, Jared.” The voice was almost
scolding. “Abel never controlled you. Abel simply survived
when his survival was threatened. He may be cunning, he
may be aggressive, he may have all the other predacious
qualities, but he's no more capable of scheming or deceit
than a lizard. Nor would he be capable of wanton killing un
less he needed to eat what he killed. Abel does no more or less than what is necessary for his survival and
he...Oh
dear.” Sonnenberg's voice became faint, as if he'd backed
away from the microphone. Baker could hear the sound of
switches being thrown. “Oh dear,” the voice repeated, still
distant, “here comes Connor Harrigan.”
Harrigan was well inside the main gate when Sonnenberg
noticed him. He stood partially hidden behind a small yew,
considering how best to cross the open expanse of real estate
to Sonnenberg's front door, which stood open. He stepped
away from the shrub, revealing a pistol held close against his
thigh. Baker was inside. Of that he was reasonably sure. The
Hertz car he parked behind was almost certainly Baker's.
Who else might be inside was another question entirely. And who indeed might be watching through the little scanner that
his trained eye saw mounted on a drainpipe under a spray of
ivy. As for the open door, he knew an invitation when he saw
one. He also knew that this was not a house that could be
furtively entered unless Sonnenberg wanted it entered. With
a small sigh, Harrigan mounted the stone steps and followed
his revolver through the doorway.