Escape the Night (28 page)

“How can you?”

“May I sit?”

The squat form stared at him. Then, with a silent motion of authority, Barth waved him to his desk.

“Thank you,” Englehardt said politely.

Slipping into a chair, he saw that the frog-eyes seemed unnaturally white. “You'd better start explaining,” Barth snapped. “How do you know what I want? How can
you
give me what I want?”

Englehardt kept his tone self-deprecating. “You're a man of trade, Mr. Barth. Trade secrets are what we technicians live by. Let us say that I'm somewhat of an expert on the Careys.”

Barth frowned his disbelief. “Based on what?”

“It began thirty years ago, when I was sitting as close to John Peter Carey as I am to you now.”

“John Carey?” Abruptly, involuntarily, Barth's voice lost its edge; his next question sounded close to childlike.

“What was he like? You see, I never actually met him.”

Englehardt sat back, astonished.

His mental portrait of Barth's motives shattered like a kaleidoscopic image; the new mosaic that began forming was awesome in its pathology. Tentatively, he ventured, “Quite impressive, I'm afraid.”

“How did you come to meet him?”

“I was doing security work for HUAC. We had a problem with the authors he was publishing. I was forced to call on the Careys.”

“Then you also met his sons?”

Beneath the question, Englehardt heard a strange anxiety. “Yes,” he replied with more assurance, “but the sons were never worthy of him.” He paused. “Especially Charles …”

A dreamy, answering softness flickered through Barth's eyes.

The last piece of the mosaic fell abruptly into place.

Swiftly, Englehardt saw what he must do.

He could reveal to Barth that John Carey had helped finance his education. But one man could also manipulate another by withholding knowledge; he would not risk slaking the thirst for a connection to John Carey through which he could make Barth his own. “Let me explain,” he broke in softly, “how I can help you own John Carey's firm …”

“
Peter
Carey's the one who's blocking me.” With frightening speed, Barth became himself again. “What you may once have learned about his family is worthless to me.”

Englehardt's smile was ironic. “Even if you believe that, the techniques I used for learning it are not. Without getting into detail, my background is intelligence—the CIA, to be precise. There are
ways—
costly, but achievable—and if we reach an agreement, I'll begin by having young Peter watched. After a time, I'll know so much about him that he'll no longer be a problem: given sufficient information, the resourceful operative can destroy anyone, mentally or physically. Destroying Peter Carey should be child's play.” Softly, for his own amusement, he quoted Charles Carey: “‘All you have to do, is ask.'”

“Why should I trust a man I don't know?”

Englehardt shrugged. “You shouldn't—until I bring results.”

Barth considered this. “At what price?”

“Expenses.” Englehardt smiled. “Expenses, and a position. I wish to be chief of security for Barth Industries.”

Barth's voice resumed its hostile edge. “There
is
no such position …”

“There should be. Yours is a multinational corporation: its needs in political intelligence, personnel protection and, shall we say, extra-legal advancement of its interests, are legion. You're moving into oil, I believe?”

“Let's start more humbly,” Barth cut in. “You claim you should watch Peter for me. Before I let you do that—before I even consider your proposal—I need something more than boasting to establish your credentials.”

Englehardt adopted a reflective pose; almost teasingly, he touched one finger to his lips. “Would you settle for Phillip Carey?”

“Phillip?” Barth could not hide his amazement. “He can't be pried loose from Peter.”

“Phillip Carey is as good as yours.”

He could almost see the thoughts running in swift succession through Barth's mind: that Phillip refused eight million dollars, that Phillip was afraid …

“And if I wish it,” he coolly interrupted, “Phillip will sell you Peter's firm. My question is, Mr. Barth: do you still want it?”

Barth stared at him. Slowly, almost involuntarily, he nodded.

Englehardt rose to leave. “Then you shall have it,” he concluded. Suddenly Barth's voice stopped him.

“How?”

Turning, Englehardt looked down at the squat, suspicious figure. But it was another man he saw, slender and alone, waiting in the darkness.

“Phillip Carey,” he said softly, “is my closest friend.”

“
Daddy
…”

Noelle pulled Peter close. “It's all right, Peter—it's okay.” She crooned gently over his shoulder, still drowsy. “That was twenty years ago, and it's only me here with you. Nothing's going to happen.”

She felt him shudder.

CHAPTER 8

“It was half memory,” Carey mused from the couch, “and half dream. I'm not sure which.”

He could sense Levy turning this over in his mind. “But afterwards you went into the nightmare, then awoke?”

“Except that there's something else.” Carey exhaled. “Yesterday I went to the library and read about my parents' death, trying to remember.”

“And did you?”

“
It's too dark down there for elephants, Daddy
…”

“No—nothing about the accident. But the
Daily News
said I was found still holding a toy elephant.” Carey's voice was low. “If what I dreamed last night really happened, why would Phillip tell me that Dewey had been lost?”

There was silence. “Let's put this in perspective,” Levy answered carefully. “After that first nightmare, Peter, what was your relationship to Phillip?”

Carey closed his eyes; Phillip had dark hair then …

“Phil hired a nurse—I think we spent less time together. I remember him staring at me.”

“And the dreams?”

“They just kept on.”

“Did Phillip take you to a psychiatrist?”

“
It's nice here, Prince Charming. Not so many memories
…”

“No—he sent me to a boarding school in Boston, when I was eight. I hated it—word got around, and they'd laugh because I'd start crying in my sleep. Finally, I sneaked to a telephone booth and called Phil to take me home. He didn't, but after that he paid for me to sleep alone. The next year I changed schools; Phillip told them I had insomnia, and so no one heard me screaming.”

“How did you feel?”

“Alone.” Carey could still feel Noelle's face against his neck. “After a while, you get used to that, like anything else.”

“Did Phillip visit?”

“Not often. Sometimes he'd call, and I'd see him on vacations. As I got older he'd send money so I could go on trips, so mainly it was at Christmas.”

It was late. Phillip had not stayed up to greet him. Retrieving his key from the milk-chute, Peter climbed the dark stairway to his room
…

“How was that?”

“Awkward.” Carey shrugged. “Sad, I suppose.”

“Charles …” Quickly, Levy caught himself. “Your father—you still missed him?”

“I really couldn't remember much. But the dreams of him kept coming, more so when I went to college. It's funny; I've never really told anyone, but it was the nightmare that brought me back to New York. I'd been thinking about law school—just scrapping the whole publishing thing. Phil had offered to buy me out. My senior year, I'd come back from a weekend in Vermont, and a letter of acceptance from Harvard Law was waiting in my mailbox.” Carey watched the dangling spider. “I sat on my bed, reading the letter. All at once I felt sick. What I saw was not the letter but my grandfather, a split second before the stroke, turning back and calling out to me …”

“Yes?”

Carey shifted. “Only it wasn't
me
he was calling.”

“I understand.”

“I tried to sleep.” Carey's throat felt dry. “That night I had the dream again—my father's face burning, the faceless man laughing in the tunnel. I got out of bed, packed my stuff in the middle of the night, and drove to Manhattan.”

“To Van Dreelen and Carey?”

“Yes.” Carey's voice was low. “I hadn't been there since my father …”

“Since he
what
, Peter?”

“Had the accident.” Carey paused. “When I asked Phillip for a job he wouldn't even look at me.”

He twisted on the couch. Softly, Levy asked, “Looking back now, Peter, why did you return? Because you hated him?”

“My father hated him.” Carey felt a surge of panic. “I didn't say
I
…”

“Or was it because he'd stolen Dewey?”

“I'm not that infantile,” Carey snapped, and then his hour was up.

“I'd better run,” Noelle told Carey.

They stood in a crowded corridor at Kennedy International; passengers jostled them, rushing for afternoon flights. He did not wish to let her go.

“It's best, Peter. Really.”

Helpless, he murmured, “Be careful.”

Her eyes had fixed on something past his shoulder.

“What is it?”

Noelle kept staring; Carey grasped her wrists. “Dammit, what's wrong?”

She looked at his hands. “That night in SoHo,” she said evenly, “there was a man who brushed against our table, with strange eyes and a kind of hanging underlip. For just a second, I thought I saw him.”

Carey wheeled; a shoulder dipped.

“Peter—there's no time.”

He turned back. “Noelle …”

“I'll miss the plane.” Her lips brushed his. “See you in three weeks.” She turned, camera slung over one hip, and was gone.

Carey watched her go.

Hunched in a line of Rio-bound passengers, Martin watched with him.

Once more, he thought, the woman might have seen him. He felt her on his skin …

In his hand, in the camera shaped like a ballpoint pen, was the first picture he had taken of her.

He would start to keep an album.

But there was much to do before night fell. The tapes would still be spinning, and the small man would be needing them.

Slipping from the line, Martin slid the ballpoint into his pocket.

In a barren SoHo loft, John Joseph Englehardt waited.

He steeled himself: this moment, so crucial and so carefully planned, was too like that other moment, summoned from his past.

As subtly as Iago, he turned Barth's needs into fear of Peter Carey, concealing his own: with the Careys as his entrée, he might now control a multinational corporation.

The “Asian Gallery” two floors beneath him would be his cover, justifying a collection of the Chinese statuary that had first interested him at Yale, while studying the more Byzantine perplexities of the Manchu dynasty. The new treasures on the second floor, once secured from Barth, would be even more inscrutable: computers programmed so that the most sophisticated intruder could retrieve only the lists of inventory and available art, none bearing his true name, designed to conceal the secrets he would begin burying within. As for the third floor where he now sat, living bare of clues to his identity, SoHo was again the perfect choice. Were he to succeed, the barren sweep of warehouse floor—the cot, cardboard wardrobe and battered desk, the primitive bathroom in one corner—would be replaced by the loft of his imagination. In the middle he would place a platform and a walnut desk; the computer terminal hidden within would become his reference book of other people's secrets, an encyclopedia to be riffled through with care. All that he required was the resources of Barth Industries.

He might still have it, depending on Peter Carey: as he had learned so many years before, information was power. But the danger lurking in this equation had never struck him with more force than now; the
effect
of any specific piece of information could be altered by the random chemistry of human beings, acting one upon the other in a chain of fate and passion.

After so many years, fate made Charles Carey's son the last link in his chain.

For two months after the death of Charles Carey, Englehardt had wished the child Peter dead.

But Phillip Carey had saved his body; it was his memory that died.

For two months longer, Englehardt listened, to make certain. Then, without advising his superiors, he flew in secret to New York.

It was his final meeting with Phillip Carey.

The two men faced each other. “You're on top now,” he told Phillip softly. “You can do anything you wish.”

Slumped in his chair, Phillip Carey looked as lifeless as the marionette he had become. “On top?”

Englehardt reached out to touch his shoulder, and then stopped himself. “You're right, Phillip. There
is
Peter.”

“You wouldn't …”

Englehardt laughed aloud. “
I
wouldn't?”

Phillip turned from his smile. “Oh, my God …”

“It would be a kindness for you to help him forget. A kindness,” Englehardt repeated softly, “worthy of the uncle who saved his life.”

Phillip stared up at him with misery and loathing. “And how much kindness do
you
require?”

Englehardt was stung by the harshness of his tone. “You're to abandon Charles's leftish writers,” he answered crisply, “so that the books
I
tell you to publish—treatises on defense spending or Soviet expansion—confirm your natural preference. As for book assignments to serve as cover for our agents abroad, they will be spaced so as to avoid suspicion. In return, your new-won eminence will be exactly as you wished it, and the surveillance of your personal life will cease. Your orders will be strictly verbal.” Englehardt's tone slid through hurt to irony. “You won't even have to look at me, Phillip. And if your luck holds, young Peter won't upset our new arrangement, at least until he's thirty.”