Spawn of Hell (29 page)

“It’s not an implication,” Anton said softly, calmly. “It’s a fact. I will not be made to pay for your mistakes, your reticence. Your lack of foresight. I will not be blamed for the death of that family, or for the others. I am only doing what I have been told.”

“Poor Ted. A hard-working family man. Only wants what’s best, what every man wants. Only you had to pay a price, and it’s much too steep. You can’t accept that the firm you’ve worked for all these years, the company you’ve given your life to, can be as crass and commercial and as cold-blooded as every other one is. No, not your employer. Not them. But they are, Ted, just as bad. At least, in your eyes. I wouldn’t use a word like ‘bad’ to describe them. Only competitive. Aggressive. Or more to the point:
realistic.”

He went over to the desk and put his hand down gently on Bartley’s shoulder. He held it there a second, then took it away. The touch of his fingers had been far less comforting than intended. “You’ve got to face it, Ted. Life is changing. New things are being developed, hence being exploited. That’s the way it is. You can’t change it. Science has an obligation to fulfill. And industry will use the products of that fulfillment just as they always have. You think this is the first time some new creation has been tested on human beings, unaware that they were being tested? You think towns and villages, and whole cities for that matter, haven’t been used as testing grounds before? This isn’t new, what we’re doing. Not new at all.”

“What’s next?” Bartley asked, his voice too tired to sound bitter anymore. “Are you going to tell me how it’s for the good of the country, how it will benefit the many by using a few? How it’s just another example of progress and that you either go along with it or get ground under? How I have to be open-minded and modern?”

Anton answered with his silence.

“Well, I’m not buying,” Bartley continued. “As far as I’m concerned, murder is still murder.”

“How pious and self-righteous you sound,” Anton replied.
“Now.”

Bartley ignored him but the remark had hit home. His voice was more feeble as he said, “I’m calling the others this afternoon. I have to know the truth about this. I still can’t believe we would be a party to what you’re suggesting.”

“You already know what the truth is,” Anton snapped. “Open your eyes, man!”

Bartley went behind his desk and sat there, assuming a posture he obviously hoped would indicate dismissal. Anton showed no signs of leaving. He walked up to the desk and said: “Call for all the meetings you want. The only result will be your eventual resignation. It’s only a matter of time.” Anton’s mouth pulled upwards in a nasty grimace. “And how far do you think they’d let you get with what
you
know? I’m warning you, Bartley. Give it up. Just sit back and let matters take their course. It will be much healthier that way.”

Bartley’s hand flew towards the phone as his face registered disgust. “Who are you to threaten me, Anton? I’m sick of your questionable morals, your lousy ethics, and your—your Frankenstein sadism. You just want to sit back and see what your monsters will do. Well, I say if we must engage in such projects at all there are better ways to test the capabilities of your products than the ways we’ve apparently used so far.” He finished dialing. “And I think I’ll let everyone know that I feel this way.”

Anton bristled. “You’re a fool, Bartley. A contemptible idiot.”

‘Whatever. Just get out of here, Frederick. I’ve had enough of you for one day.”

They both heard the busy signal. Anton looked victorious for the moment. Still surprisingly calm, Bartley put the phone down and began dialing another number. “They say there’s a thin line between genius and insanity, Anton, and you must cross that line twenty times a day.”

At that Anton rushed out of the library in a huff. Bartley couldn’t help but chuckle. His mood changed, however, at the second busy signal. And the third. Maybe they were all on the phone together, having their own secret meeting without him, hooked up to that special conference line. Why was he left out? Anton couldn’t be right, he couldn’t be. Stop being paranoid, he told himself. But his meeting with Anton had cast a pall over the whole afternoon that nothing would dissipate.

His mood became even worse when the maid knocked on the door and came in upon his request. He could tell from the harried look on her small, hawk-like face that something was wrong. “What is it, Mimi?”

The old woman stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. “There is a man here. He insists on speaking to you. He says his name is David Hammond.”

Ted Bartley’s eyes glittered with recognition, then dulled with worry.

“He is here about George,” she said with finality. “I did not know what to tell him. You instructed me to say nothing, but he was so insistent. He was the one who called a few weeks ago, I believe, while you and Mrs. Bartley were away. What would you have me do?”

Bartley steeled himself and stood up. If he didn’t see the boy—boy? He must be in his thirties now—it would seem suspicious. He got up from behind the desk. “Let me talk to him. Bring him into the living room.”

He walked down the outside hall behind her until they reached another corridor running perpendicular to the first. There they parted company. Mimi went back to the front door and Bartley turned right and walked towards the living room, a large square chamber situated in the northwest corner of the house.

He was over at the bar fixing himself a drink when David came in. He turned to look at the young man. He hadn’t changed that much, not fat or bald or anything like that. Instantly recognizable. He wondered if that was true in his case as far as David was concerned.

“Hello,” David said, his hand outthrust in greeting as he walked across the room. Bartley took his hand, and shook it warmly, smiling. “It’s good to see you again, David,” he said.

They talked for a moment or two about the usual things. How times had flown, how David had grown, Mr. Bartley grown older, and so on. Small talk. Finally, Bartley offered David a drink. David took a dry martini and sat down on the luxurious white sofa near the picture windows. They afforded a view of the whole outlying area behind the house. It was on top of a small hill, overlooking the woods and a picturesque garden that seemed very carefully tended and rather expensive to keep up.

The room itself was very attractive and large, decorated in light, subdued shades of white and tan and blue. The rug was thick and slightly off-white; the furniture literally glowed with the light from the chandelier above. Yes, Ted Bartley had come up in the world. David took a seat across from him, a blue-cushioned chair, and fixed his gaze upon the older man.

“Well, you said there was something specific you wanted to see me about?” Bartley asked, leaning back comfortably in his seat. He looked very calm, almost cunning, ready for anything David might say. David, too, looked in control, considering he was the intruder. He complimented Bartley on the drink, then told him about his son’s sudden appearance at his apartment in New York, as well as his abrupt departure. He also mentioned the phone conversations with the maid, George’s story about being experimented on somewhere, held against his will. At that point Bartley started to look a little uncomfortable. He recovered nicely, and launched into a pre-arranged explanation even before David was through.

“So it
was
you, wasn’t it?” Bartley said, slapping his knee with joviality, looking suddenly humble with apology. “I’m so sorry, David. Mimi told me about your call, but we assumed it had to be a prank. You were always a responsible lad; I couldn’t imagine you actually calling up with such a preposterous stray when George was right with us in Lancaster all the time. Why, he was right there in my hotel room waiting for his mother to get ready to go out for lunch when Mimi phoned and told us about the call. Now, David, I know you’re not the type to play practical jokes. Your father and I go way back. So, obviously, the person you thought was George had to be somebody else, playing a joke on you. Experiments. Breakouts.
Really
, David.” The young man did not look convinced. He was going to be more trouble than he had imagined.

David looked down at his drink, his expression disappointed, maybe even a trifle angry. “I don’t know. If you say George was with you, then of course, he must have been with you. It’s just that the man who came to my apartment not only looked like George—I could tell that despite the clothes and the hair—he sounded like George, he had George’s memories. He—”

Again Bartley interrupted. “George had a stint in the army, you know. He met a lot of wild characters. Real crazy guys. Probably one of them got it in his mind to pretend he was George. Who knows? Some of his friends were real wackos.”

“But
why
would they do that?”

“Who knows when you’re dealing with lunatics? It has me stumped. George probably mentioned you to some nut he served with, and when the nut was on his last legs in New York, he decided to give you some grief, maybe get some money. All I know is, I know my own son, and George was with us in Lancaster all that time. One full week.”

David looked as if he were about to say something, but stopped. A second later he asked: “Do you have any idea who this amazing impersonator was?”

“Not the slightest. And I don’t care. I’m sorry if he caused you any trouble. But if I were to worry about every Tom, Dick and Harry who tries to fatten off the good Bartley name, I’d never get any sleep at all. No, David. It was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Where is George now? I’d like to see him.” Probably noticing the look in Bartley’s eyes, he quickly added, “Not to check up on you, Mr. Bartley. Just to say hello.”

“Of course. I’m sure George would like to see you. He’ll be sorry he missed you, but he’s out of town now. Running a little errand for me. Won’t be back for a couple of weeks probably.”

Had he heard right? Had David just muttered
how convenient
under his breath? The younger man shrugged and drank down the last sip in the martini glass, then popped the olive in his mouth. “Well, I’ll be here all summer probably. So, when he gets back, I’d appreciate it if you asked him to call on me. I’m staying at the house.”

“Ah, good. Always liked that place. Too bad about your father. I hope he’ll be coming home one of these days.”

“Me, too.” He got up and again shook hands with Bartley. Bartley gave him another warm smile, but one that was forced, tension nipping away at the corners of his mouth. “Well, thanks for talking to me,” David said. “Say hello to Mrs. Bartley. And I hope I’ll soon be seeing George one of these days.”

“Certainly,” Bartley said, releasing his hand. “I’ll have Mimi show you to the door.”

“I can find my way out,” David said pleasantly. The atmosphere was getting more precious every second.

But Mimi was there, anyway, just outside the door, as if she had been hovering all the while, waiting for her cue. As she walked down the corridor with David following, Bartley realized how ridiculous it looked. It would have been rather difficult for someone to make a wrong turn unless they wanted to. Obviously, that’s what he was afraid of. He chuckled. He had a vision of Mimi wrestling David to the floor to keep him from going in the wrong direction. Somehow he couldn’t see her in that role.

Bartley went back to the bar and made himself a double. It hurt at times like this, it really hurt. Every time he saw an old friend of George’s, every time he had to lie and manipulate and cover up the truth, every time he had to face the fact that his son would never be normal like them again. David was strong and handsome. He’d noticed the limp and had almost asked about it, but it seemed minor when stacked against young Hammond’s assets. David was everything George could never be. Not now. Damn! He put down the glass and lifted his hands to his eyes, which were already tearing. Just one mistake. Just one lousy miscalculation, and your whole world crumbled. Had he really sacrificed his own son on the altar of ambition? There had been no love lost between the two of them, true, but whose fault had that been? Had he even
tried
to understand the boy, tried to love him? He would have to live with the results of his anger, his actions, for the rest of his life.

Which might not be too long if Anton had his way. Was Anton correct in his assessment of the situation? Were things that bad, was life really that rotten, people that miserable? Ha, he should know the answer to that.

Look at you, he thought bitterly, and ask yourself that question. Are people miserable? They sure are.

He threw the glass across the room where it shattered against the opposite wall, spattering liquid and ice over the painted surface and onto the rug. He shook violently, then wiped his face free of all traces of remorse. Mimi came in to investigate the noise. He could only stammer, his eyes looking away from her direction. “P—Please clean up. It was an accident.” He pointed to the corner where the glass still lay.

Then he turned on his heel and dashed out of the room.

Chapter Eleven

Randall Thorp woke up suddenly, smelling smoke. The children. The children were up to something. “Martin? Gladys?” He pulled himself out of bed, surprised that he was fully dressed in evening clothes instead of pajamas. Then he remembered: the party at the Evanses’ the night before. Ah yes. He’d come home quite late, paid off the babysitter—little bitch—and gone straight to bed, too tired to undress.

Or to brush his teeth. His mouth tasted dreadful. He called out again—”Theodore!”—but there was no answer. Time enough for the children; he would brush his teeth, wash his face first. Take a couple of aspirins, too. His headache was killing him. Where
were
the children? He saw the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray on the night table, and knew where the smoke smell was earning from. Good thing he hadn’t fallen asleep with one in his hand.

Randall Thorp blundered into the bathroom sleepily, the way he blundered from day to day hoping his life would change, afraid it would get worse—as if it could get any worse. Forty-four years old and he felt ninety. An old divorced man out of work struggling to retain a little dignity, taking care of three brats for almost as many weeks while their mother got some rest. Why did they call it visiting
privileges?
The whole thing was absurd, a scenario for a Hollywood screenwriter, something Cary Grant could have pulled laughs from. But in reality, his situation was about as funny as a tubercular baby.