4
The car had stopped moving. It had stopped once before, it seemed, but this time was longer. It had come to rest and
rocked sideways once, and Baker thought he remembered
the sound of a door being closed gently. He didn't care. The sleep was good. It made his body feel heavy and warm, and
if he sank into it deeply enough, there would be no pain of
remembering. And he could still feel Tina's touch against his
cheek and around his neck. It made her seem close by.
A part of his mind seemed to detach itself from the rest. It
formed a thin and wispy ball and it floated among thoughts
of Tina while the rest was left to seethe and boil by itself. They were not troubled thoughts of Tina. He saw her in a Christmas play when she sang “Edelweiss” for all the par
ents, terrified that she might miss a note and only relaxing
when she did. He saw her the first time she watched kittens being born, and when she first sailed his small boat by her
self. He saw the letters from schoolteachers telling him how proud he ought to be. He saw her diving, which came easily
to her, and he saw her skiing, which came hard. But she
tried. Tina always tried. She even won that trophy. Baker had
an odd notion that Tina was remembering that too just then.
Another thought intruded. Another wisp from his brain
licked up and began lashing about. The ball of good
thoughts seemed to wilt and retreat. That annoyed Baker.
He tried to shake the new wisp away, but it began prodding
at him, probing, he felt, for a spot behind his right eye. He
felt no touch, but it seemed that someone was trying to
wake him. He resisted because now Tina was leaving, ex
cept that Tina didn't seem to mind. She called from far
away that Grandpa was coming. That was a dream. Tina
never knew her grandfather. Baker blinked, then opened
one eye.
He knew at once that he was alone, even before the left
eye followed and took in Meister's empty seat. The bright sky made him wince. It was a hot whitish blue and there were thin silver columns reaching into it. Dozens of them.
Baker rubbed his face and sat up straight.
It was a marina, he realized. A boatyard. He focused now
on the tall silver masts and the white decks at their feet.
Where was Meister? He scanned the parking area, but the
lawyer was not in sight. There was only a small boy strug
gling to launch a windsurfer, a fat woman sunning herself on
the stern of a Chris Craft, and an older man with a fishing
rod who limped down the dock in his direction. A steep gangplank blocked Baker's view of the fisherman's body,
but Baker knew by the rhythm of his shoulders that he
walked with a cane. Did he know the gray-haired man? He didn't think so. Yet a part of him thought he did.
He could not make out the face. It was framed in shadow
between the visor of a red baseball cap and a trimmed Ed
wardian beard. His body too had the thick and substantial
look of that period. And Baker liked him. He had no idea
why, nor did he dwell upon it. He simply liked the man and
wished they might talk.
The man in the red cap rested for a moment at the top of the gangplank. Baker saw the cane now. That, and an old
wicker creel that hung from his shoulder. The man smiled toward Baker before coming on.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Baker,” the bearded man said
pleasantly. There was a flicker of pain on his face as he
reached down to rub the leg that he favored. Baker stepped
from the car.
“Maybe you should sit down,” he offered.
“Walking is better.” The older man forced a smile. “At
my age, one cannot expect to dangle his legs from a pier
without some complaint from them. The body
complains
,
however, no matter what I do. So I go right on spiting it and
it goes right on getting even. An impasse, you see.”
He motioned for Baker to walk with him back toward the
dock and extended his free hand. “The name is Sonnen-
berg,” he said.
Baker took the hand and pumped it lightly. Sonnenberg held the grip just a moment overlong, glancing in that time at Baker's knuckles.
“I'm Jared Baker,” he answered unnecessarily, once more
scanning the parking area.
“If you're looking for Benjamin Meister, he'll be back
presently. He said something about a glass of beer and a
plate of fried oysters. Would you believe that he puts mus
tard and sugar on them? Disgusting.” He shivered.
“Meister works for you?”
“On
occasion.” Sonnenberg nodded. “And yes, it was I
who provided the wherewithal for your release.”
Baker hesitated, not sure of what to say.
“You are, no doubt, curious as to my motives,” Sonnenberg
acknowledged easily. “This is natural. We don't live in an age
when one can readily believe in fairy godfathers, do we.”
Baker waited. It struck him that the older man's voice had
a foreign cast to it. There was no accent, but his diction was
precise in the way of one who has learned the language.
Sonnenberg tried another opening.
”I am most sincerely sorry, Mr. Baker, about the loss you
have suffered. I'm assured, however, that young Tina can
hope for a full recovery, given correct treatment. Quite a
courageous young lady, isn't she?”
Baker stiffened inside, vaguely irritated at this stranger's
knowledge of his daughter. “She's holding up well,” he an
swered.
“And a perceptive child.” There was a sudden spark of ex
citement in Sonnenberg's eyes. “Do I understand correctly
that she sensed her mother's death while in conversation
with you?”
“Look, Sonnenberg . ..” Baker's own eyes flashed.
The older man seemed stricken, as if suddenly aware that
he had plunged too far and too fast. His body rocked. Baker
reached to steady him.
”I am so terribly sorry,” he said, mortified. “That was un
forgivably clumsy of me.” Sonnenberg jerked his head
toward a row of slips and eased Baker with him in that di
rection. His manner suggested that he needed a moment to
recover from his embarrassment. Baker could not know that
he was furious with himself. He had moved much too
quickly.
“In any event,” he said, keeping Baker's arm in his, “it's
Dr.
Sonnenberg.” He steered Baker to a finger where the
largest pleasure boats were berthed.
“Physicians develop a habit of asking intimate ques
tions,” he offered by way of apology. “We sometimes forget
that all the world is not a patient.”
He stopped Baker at the stern of a large motor sailer.
“Can I offer you some wine? Perhaps a spot of lunch? My
housekeeper is on board with me today.”
Baker could hear movement below. He looked across the cockpit and caught a glimpse of another gray head moving
inside the hatchway near what must have been the galley.
“This is yours?” he asked. One hand reached involuntarily to
touch a huge self-tailing winch of gleaming chrome. Two of
those, he knew, would buy a whole boat like the one he
owned.
Sonnenberg nodded. “Comfortable, isn't she?”
The boat distracted Baker, as Sonnenberg hoped it would.
Baker had not seen her before on the Sound. Nor one quite
like her. The boat's length, he guessed, was fifty-five feet.
Big, but not a giant. Not even especially pretty because of
lines that were squat and square and functional. But the boat
looked like she could reach any harbor in the world. She was
basically a traveler in design, made to maneuver and even
cruise under power, but fitted with a short mainmast and a
mizzen that would carry her even faster under sail when the
wind was right. Below, he imagined, the craft would be like
a small house. The galley would be of a size that some apart
ments would covet, and there would be a three-quarter bath
tub in the head. The captain's berth would hold a queen-size
bed, and the main cabin would pass for the living room of a
summer cottage. Baker knew that he was looking at a
million d
ollar indulgence. The amount of his bail
seemed not so great anymore. His eyes fell on the transom.
“Chimera?”
There was no port of registry lettered be
neath the name.
“Yes,
Chimera.
Do you know the word?”
“Greek mythology.” Baker nodded.
”A spectacular beast that was three creatures in one.”
Sonnenberg seemed pleased that he knew. “Came to grief,
you might recall, at the hands of Bellerophon and hasn't
been heard from since. An apt name, I think. This
Chimera
is part motor yacht, part sailboat, and part domicile. It's
more of a retreat, actually. Come aboard, Jared.” Sonnen
berg eased him forward.
Baker held back. ”I really would like to get home, Doc
tor.”
“Twenty minutes,” Sonnenberg assured him. “There's
some excellent wine on board. Already chilled.”
”A cup of coffee, maybe. I'm having trouble staying
awake.”
Sonnenberg's housekeeper, a middle-aged and gothic-
looking woman he identified as Mrs. Emma Kreskie, passed
a plastic coffee service from the hatchway. She followed
with a sardine sandwich that Baker had not heard Sonnen
berg request. He did not resist it. Baker could not remember
when last he ate.
“Mr. Baker.” Sonnenberg clapped his hands lightly in a small nervous gesture. ”I am going to explain my interest in
you as forthrightly as I can. I'm unable to answer every question you might ask, but assuredly I will not lie to you. Does that seem fair enough?”
Baker's mouth was full. He indicated that he was listen
ing.
“Might I ask first if you consider yourself a violent man?”
Baker shook his head as he swallowed. The question
chilled him. Sonnenberg had touched at once upon the sin
gle aspect of his behavior that most troubled him. What he
had done to the judge's son, what he had fought against
doing to the judge himself, was simply not like him. “No,”
he said finally. ”I don't think I've even spanked Tina since
she was four years old.”
“Have you ever before struck an adult of either sex?”
Baker felt a flash of resentment over the last part. He was
probably referring to Sarah. “Not since college. A fight over
a girl we were both dating.”
“Nothing more? What about violent impulses?”
“There are people I've wanted to belt.”
“Often?”
“Maybe once in two or three years.”
“Nothing more recent? No sudden flashes of anger? No
sense that you're not fully yourself, particularly in annoying or stressful situations?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “For the past several months, at least.
What kind of doctor are you, by the way?”
“Not a psychiatrist, Jared. My field, broadly speaking, is
behavioral modification. My interest, of course, is in your
behavior.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars' worth of interest?”
“Yes.” Sonnenberg raised a hand while he sipped from
his cup. “But we're getting ahead of ourselves and I've ex
hausted half your twenty minutes. Do you mind that I call
you Jared, incidentally?”
Baker shook his head.
“Jared,” he began, ”I wish to offer my assessment of your
situation, which I'm afraid will depress you. At the end, I
will offer a solution and then invite you to consider my
proposition at your leisure. As for the bail I've posted and
the services of Benjamin Meister, I consider that you've re
paid me by coming here today.”
“Well. . ” Baker did not dismiss two hundred thousand
dollars so readily. “Anyway, thank you. I'll make sure you
get it back.”
Sonnenberg smiled and made a gesture of dismissal. He cared nothing for the reassurance, but he was counting on
the expression of gratitude.
“Here, Jared, is the depressing part. Even beyond the
tragedy of your loss, your life has been shattered
beyond rea
sonable
hope of reclamation. Your home, as I know you've
considered, is lost to you. No amount of fresh paint will make
it a home again. You will discover that most of your friends
are also lost to you. Some will fear you. Most will drift away
because you no longer blend comfortably into their lives. Your
business career, the job to which you commute each day, will
also be put behind you. You'll have no stomach for it.
“The choice, however, is not yours entirely. You are fac
ing a serious criminal charge. Due to its
...
forgive me
...
barbarous nature, you should expect some period of incar
ceration. A prosecutor will present you to a jury as a man who has done a monstrous thing. Your firm, you may de
pend, will wash its hands of you as soon as is decently pos
sible and certainly upon a guilty verdict whether a jail term
is involved or not. If Benjamin Meister does his work art
fully, the jury may acquit you on the basis of temporary in
sanity. You might escape imprisonment. You might even escape consignment to a mental institution. But in the eyes of the world, Jared, and in the eyes of all prospective em
ployers, you will be a man to be feared and shunned. Young
Tina, I'm afraid, will bear that burden with you.
“Perhaps the worst part of your situation, Jared, is this.
Your... victim
...
is the son of a superior court justice. But
Judge Bellafonte is not just any judge. He is what used to be
called a power broker. He is venal, corrupt, a dealer in fa
vors, and, above all, vindictive.”
Baker shrugged and looked away. His movements indi
cated that he had stopped listening.
“Jared,” Sonnenberg asked, “do you question Judge Bel
lafonte's capacity for vengeance?”
”I question his capacity to do much about it, other than to
try to frighten a little girl.”
“On what basis, Jared? That this is America? That we live
in a nation of laws? That we live in a world where evil is
punished and virtue is rewarded and the innocent are pro
tected? I pray you, do not look to the legal process for pro
tection. Or your salvation. And certainly not for justice.”
“We're not talking about the world,” Baker answered.
“We're talking about one hack judge in one Connecticut
county who may or may not peddle his position. We're also
talking about a man who's flying on one wing because of
what happened to his son.”
“We're talking about power. He has it and you don't.
We're talking about ruthlessness, which you don't have ei
ther. This is not a man to cut his losses, Jared.”
Baker sighed wearily and rose to his feet. Sonnenberg
saw the disbelief on his face as well as scorn. Baker didn't
bother to reply. Instead, he looked out across the Sound and
the scattering of boats that coasted lazily in all directions. Now we're talking killers, he told himself disgustedly. An
other cup of coffee and we'll be talking Mafia. Christ! A
week ago, he thought, he was just like everybody else out there in those boats. Now he was in more trouble than he'd ever dreamed of and he had Meister and then Sonnenberg
telling him it was even worse. Damn, how he'd love to climb
on one of those boats and never stop until he hit Liverpool. Oh, lordy, would that be nice. Sell the damned house, buy a
boat, grab Tina, and go. The minute Tina can walk, I'll—
“You'd like to walk away from it all, wouldn't you, Jared?”
Baker turned and stared.
“No.” Sonnenberg smiled. “I'm not a mind reader.
Fl
ight
is an altogether human impulse. Particularly among friend
less felons who stand in boats gazing at the horizon.”
Baker didn't return the smile. “You're about to tell me why I need you. Is that right, Doctor?”
“I'm about to suggest a solution.”
Sonnenberg poured a second cup of coffee.
“What if you really could walk away from it, Jared? All
of it.”
Baker's face showed he did not understand.
“You read the papers,” Sonnenberg said offhandedly. “You
know that there are people who have left old lives behind and
started new ones. People with far less reason than Jared Baker
have cast off their old worlds the way a snake sheds its skin.
Surely you've heard of such things happening.”
Baker nodded slowly. “I've heard of it being done with
government witnesses. Mobsters, mostly, who've
agreed to
testify.”
”A drop in the bucket, Jared.” Sonnenberg brushed those
aside with what Baker took to be a look of contempt. “For
every private detective who specializes in finding missing persons,” he went on, “there's another who teaches people
how to be missing. Very often, they're the same private de
tective. Beyond those, think of the Vietnam draft evaders
and the network that delivered them to Canada and Amster
dam and later provided them with false papers that permit
ted their untroubled return. Add to these the many thousands
who obtain a poor man's divorce by running away, or the
women who vanish to escape abuse and neglect, or even sen
ior citizens who seek an escape from the humiliation of a de
pendent existence. The rankest amateur, Jared, can make an
adequate new life for himself and be rarely seen again. A
few, a very few, are able to create new lives that are satisfy
ing beyond their wildest dreams.”
Baker sat down slowly. “Is that what you do, Dr. Son-nenberg?” he asked. “You put people in new lives?”
“Among other things, but yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can, Jared.”
“That's not a reason.”
Sonnenberg met his eyes. “The truth is often simple.” The
doctor clasped his hands and leaned toward Baker. “Except
this, perhaps,” he said. ”I don't much like the world we live in, Jared. The power, including such power as Judge Bella-fonte's, is too much in the hands of a few. Most men exist to
serve them, to be exploited, and to be crushed if they be
come troublesome. If you doubt that, try refusing to pay
your annual tribute to the government. But until they are ei
ther needed or troublesome, they live under the happy illu
sion that they are free men. I could not have said this to you, Jared, even one week ago. You would have called me a cynic
at best and a lunatic at worst. But one week ago, you hadn't
yet become bothersome, had you, Jared?”
Baker stared at him in silence for several moments. It was
all preposterous. He knew that. The thought of leaving all
that was familiar, all evidence that he had made a life,
friends
...
yet people did it all the time. Ordinary people.
Career people who got uprooted every couple of years. Mil
itary families. But they didn't change their names and pretend to be somebody else. Except what if they did? They'd still be the same. They'd still be who they were. And they'd be left alone. Baker's right eye began to water.
“Imagine it, Jared.” Sonnenberg rubbed his hands.
“Imagine yourself running a ski lodge in Vermont, or a char
ter boat on St. Croix, or living in a lakeside cabin painting
landscapes and even selling them. Just you and your daugh
ter, Baker, in a world of your creation. A world of almost un
limited freedom and fulfillment.
.
.. and of peace.”
Baker didn't have to imagine. Sonnenberg had just
named the most persistent of his dreams. Except, perhaps, for the part about painting. That was more fantasy than
dream. Baker knew that he hadn't the talent. Still...
“You know a lot about me, Doctor.” Baker wanted to be angry at the intrusion but he could not manage it. He was
fascinated. And a part of him was thrilled. Eager. Baker
wiped away the moisture from his eye and tried to blink that
part away. There was no reason for that feeling. This was
stupid. Impossible. A stranger comes from nowhere and
says he'll help me walk away from all the sorrow and pain out of the goodness of his
...
“Why, Doctor? Why me?”