Sonnenberg watched him leave. He watched Baker walk
slowly through the maze of the dock like a man in deep
thought. He watched him climb a gangplank steepened by a
falling tide toward a waiting Benjamin Meister. He heard a
clatter of plastic behind him.
“What do you think?” he asked, not turning. The clatter
stopped and he heard Emma Kreskie's feet shuffle to his
side. They watched until they heard the growl of Meister's
engine. The woman turned toward him and nodded.
”I think so too,” Sonnenberg answered. ”I think it will
work this time.”
Look at him, Sonnenberg said to himself. A tormented
man trying desperately to make some sense out of what has
happened to him. Of what he's become. Of what he is. But
you'll know the answer soon, Jared. You'll know what I
know already. I have found my Chimera.
Who'd have thought it, Jared? Who would have looked
for a Chimera in this . . . suburbanite, this mower of lawns
and rider of trains. Who would have thought that you were
three totally different men? But you are, you know.
You are only the host, but the others are there. They are
there in everyone. The almost beings that float unformed
within every human brain. The shadow creatures kept un-whole by the brain's own division. The stunningly different
visages that are evident in the separate halves of every
human face.
But in you, they became incarnate, Jared. Somehow the
pieces stopped floating and like attracted like and the Chimera
was formed. The horror that shattered your gentle life seems
to have thrown an arc across the neuron soup inside your skull
and called forth at least one of them. The primal one.
“You know,” he said distantly, “this would all be so much
tidier if
t
here were no daughter.”
The woman's eyes blazed at him.
“No, no. Just an idle thought.” He raised a hand in ap
peasement. ”I would never harm the child. But she may very
well do violence to Baker's concentration. On the other
hand, her death might devastate him to the point of uselessness. No, Mrs. Kreskie. I'm quite convinced that the daugh
ter must be protected. And most immediately from any ex
travagant behavior on the part of the bereaved Bellafonte
person.”
The woman nodded.
“Bellafonte!” His expression was distant again. “Has it
struck you, Mrs. Kreskie, that the judge's surname sounds
remarkably like Bellerophon?”
She looked blankly at him.
“Bellerophon,” he repeated. ” ‘And Bellerophon rode Pe
gasus there to find the Chimera and there did slay the
beast.’ ” Sonnenberg chewed on that awhile. ”A troublesome
thought,” he said at last.
Mrs. Kreskie nodded.
Ben Meister signaled a right turn onto Baker's street. He
n
udged Baker who was lost in thought, when the white colo
nial house came into view.
“Looks like someone's been tidying up,” Meister said.
Baker sat up in his seat. The burn marks on the outside
wall, which he'd dreaded seeing again, were almost gone.
The charred paint had been scraped away and a coat of white
primer covered all but a grayish outline. Two boxwoods and
a tall juniper had been trimmed to remove all evidence of the
fire. The driveway had been coated with a layer of blacktop
sealer. The marks were gone where Macduff had died and
where he had destroyed the face of
...
Baker bit his lip.
Looking away, he saw Sam Willis's ladder lying on its side
against the foundation.
“You have nice neighbors,” Meister took in what must
have been a solid two days' work by more than one person.
“What’
ll
you bet there's a tuna casserole in the kitchen?”
Baker didn't answer immediately. His throat felt hot and he did not trust his voice. “Are you hungry?” he managed fi
nally.
“I'll grab a steak up the road. You said you
wanted to get
to the hospital.”
Meister stopped the car past two empty sealer cans that
blocked the driveway. Baker made no move to get out.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“We get ready for trial. You start soon on a round of psy
chiatric testing, first with their shrink and then with my
shrink. I start interviewing the witnesses to make sure they
remember it right.”
Baker nodded. “In court, you said their statements
wouldn't support the charges. What did that mean?”
“They're on your side.” Meister shrugged. “They tried to
put the best face on what happened. You won't look so good
under cross-examination, though, unless I drill them pretty
good.” Meister squirmed in his seat to fish an object from his
hip pocket. “Listen, I'll be in touch. In the meantime, Son
nenberg wants you to have these.” He held out a set of silver
keys.
“They're for Sonnenberg's boat. He says to tell you it's
stocked with provisions and it's yours to live on any time
you like. Go down there if being here gets to you or if any
one bothers you. There's a radiophone on the boat. If you
want to talk to Sonnenberg, just flip on the radio switch but
don't touch the dials. He'll know you're there.”
“Am I allowed to leave the state?” Baker asked doubt
fully.
“Don't worry about it.” Meister placed the keys in
Baker's hand.
Baker hesitated as if making up his mind, then dropped
them in his pocket. “Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“How long have you known Sonnenberg?”
“We go back a few years.”
“Is he straight?”
“Compared to what?”
“Come on, Ben.” Baker sighed. “You know what he
wants me to do. You were setting me up for it all day.”
”I was preparing you, Baker. Setting up isn't the same
thing.”
“What Sonnenberg was suggesting
...
Is it possible?”
“You mean about you and your daughter walking away
from all this and never being touched? Yeah, it's possible.
It's even easy.”
“Do you know people who've done it?”
”A few, yeah.”
“He said something about me making a living as an artist.
That part can't be possible.”
“Why not?”
“It's a hobby. I'm just ordinary at it.”
“You don't know Sonnenberg.”
Something in Ben Meister's voice made Baker turn his
head. It was in Meister's eyes too. The breeziness that was
part of the big man's manner was gone, only for a moment.
“I'll give you a hint,” Meister said, looking deeply into Baker.
“You could even make a living as a lawyer if you wanted.”
It was a few minutes past sunset. The streetlights had not yet
blinked on. A Ford sedan drifted silently down the dark
street by Baker's house. The driver could see without slow
ing that Baker's car was gone. The house was unlit. A single
bulb burned inside the open garage. He nodded, satisfied,
and the Ford coasted on before turning right at the end of
Baker's street.
“That was the guy's house?” the other man asked. He was
younger than the driver and half again as large. He spoke through thickened lips and his eyebrows had been torn and stitched a dozen times until the skin had a glassine shine to
it. His mouth was twisted in a street tough's sneer and it hung partly open even as he chewed noisily on a wad of gum. Stanley Levy despised being with him. He nodded
once but said nothing.
”I fought a guy named Baker once,” Vinnie Cuneo said,
squinting.
“Maybe you'll get to fight this one.” God should be so
good, Levy said to himself.
”I think his name was Ronnie.” Cuneo's brow wrinkled into tight folds. “No, Randy. Randy Baker. A southpaw.”
The homely little man wasn't listening. Ahead of him, his
lights picked up the edifice of a church. The
parking lot
would be around to the side. It didn't seem right, he thought,
doing this near a church.
“We were the featured undercard before a Joey Giardello
fight out in Sunnyside Gardens. That was only three fights
before Giardello took the title from Dick Tiger. I beat the shit out of him.” He poked an elbow at Stanley Levy.
“Giardello?” Levy asked absently.
“No, Randy Baker. We had an all-light heavy card that
night except for two spi
c
s fightin' bantam. I ruined him.
Closed up both his eyes with my laces before I really went
to work. In those days, the ref didn't jump in as fast as now.”
“I'm sure you were a credit to your race,” Levy droned.
Vinnie Cuneo turned his head toward the smaller man
and stared for a long moment through hooded eyes. “What was that? Was that some kind of crack?”
Levy did not reply. He guided the car into the deepest
shadows of the parking lot and shut off the motor. Vinnie reached toward Levy's arm and poked it.
“Why do you always treat me like I'm nothin'?”
Levy rolled his eyes. “Just an observation, Vinnie,” he
said. “No offense intended.” He looked away and tried to ig
nore the sounds of air being forced through the bigger man's
ruined nose. He wished he had a book to read.
“Don't talk to me no more like I'm nothin',” Vinnie
pressed. He swatted Stanley's shoulder with the back of his
fingers. Levy turned to the hoodlum and smiled. Perhaps
Vinnie would touch him again, he thought. Perhaps Vinnie
would make a fist and draw it back. Then no one could
blame Stanley Levy. Tortora would have to understand that
Stanley Levy had had no choice.
A pair of headlights washed halfway across the church
and then went out. Stanley put his hand over his own lips as
if to dismiss the matter as he pointed. “Please step into the
back seat, Vinnie.”
Vinnie hesitated. “I'm gonna talk about this some more,”
he said.
“To business first, you thug. This is a judge coming. Be
respectful.”
Stanley wondered for the dozenth time about the up
bringing Vinnie must have had. His mother must have died
in childbirth. If God was merciful, she never lived to have
her heart broken. Vinnie wheezed sullenly as he slid from
the car and climbed into the back seat. He did not acknowl
edge Judge Lawrence Bellafonte or look at him.
The judge had been drinking. In the brief glow of the
dome light, Levy saw the damp and florid face and the look of sly yet stupid cunning that seems common to drunks who try to think. He knew at once that the judge would not re
spond to reason. Just as well, he thought.
Bellafonte barely glanced toward the shadow that
slouched behind him. “This is the muscle?” he asked, jerk
ing a thumb at Vinnie.
“My associate,” Stanley answered.
He smiled his satisfaction. “Please convey my respects to
Mr. Tortora and give him my thanks for his swift assistance
in this regard.” The old man said the words by rote and
slurred some of them.
“Mr. Tortora acknowledges your friendship,” Stanley in
toned, as if reciting a boring ritual, “and he expresses the
hope that you will be guided by his advice.”
Bellafonte began to nod and then stopped. What was this
about advice?
“Mr. Tortora,” Stanley continued, “deeply feels your grief.
He reminds you that your son Andrew has been a valued
friend of his own son, John. He understands your desire for
justice but regrets that he must ask you to be patient. In other
words, I think he has different plans for the guy, Baker.”