Spawn of Hell (28 page)

He chuckled and went out into the hall. Anna looked out the window and stared down into the weeds and the forest beyond them. Perhaps it was just the day, she thought, that made it seem so ominous. The sun wasn’t shining, and the grayness of the sky permeated everything beneath it. Perhaps that was it. Maybe she’d get used to the outside of the house as she had the inside, given time.

David’s car pulled into the parking lot of the Hillsboro Rest Home and he drove into a space at the back. A few moments later, David was in front of the receptionist’s desk, asking for the green visitor’s card that would gain him admittance into the building. He was looking forward to seeing his father, although not anxious to see how much his condition had worsened. The little woman who handed him the large square card offered no clue.

He followed her directions and walked down a corridor painted pale gray, as if they were determined to make the place look as stereotypically grim as possible. Through open doors David saw old people crippled far worse than he, lying in bed, struggling about with those special “walkers,” sitting up playing solitaire with gnarled and bent fingers. David steeled himself; his father’s room was just ahead. He stepped in the open doorway quickly and heard the sound of television. The room smelled of antiseptic—didn’t they always—and David felt momentarily ill, remembering his long recent stay in a sickbed, how he’d wondered if he would ever walk properly again, would live or die, how he’d survive once he was out. Well, he had survived. And so, it seemed, had his father.

He was sitting up in bed watching the TV, which had been placed on a stand at the foot of the bed, its long, thin antennae reaching towards the ceiling. The place was sparkling clean and new—David recalled that the home had not been built until a few years ago—with no visible signs of decay. The same could not be said of his father. It was not so much that he looked older than his sixty-odd years, but that those sixty-odd years did not look good on him. His jowls were more pronounced, his face redder, his nose bulbous, with inflamed pores, as if he were a drinker, which he had never been, and certainly could not have been in here. He had lost weight, and looked strangely naked without one of the ever-present cigars he had puffed on for most of his life.

He was very glad to see David. He brushed his white crewcut with his left hand, a nervous habit he’d always had, and held out his right one to his son. Shaking hands—it seemed peculiar, but they were not the hugging, affectionate sort, neither one of them. David spoke first. “How ya doin’, Dad?”

“I’m okay,” John Hammond replied, lowering the volume on the set with a twist of a knob on the black gadget lying by his arm. “Is the house all right?”

“Fine. I spent the last couple of days cleaning it up.”

“Maybe you’ll find time to do something about the lawn. Must be a mess.”

“Worse than that.” David sat on a stool near the window and looked outside the wide pane glass for a second. All he could see was dark forest. The sky was getting gray again, too. “I’ll have to hack my way through the weeds with a machete.”

John laughed, and David was reminded of how warm and funny he could be. “Maybe we oughta just burn it all out,” his father suggested.

“The house will go with it if I’m in charge.” David smiled. “I’ll see what I can do about it.” The room was quite different from the one he’d been in back in New York. Smaller. Brighter. But it had the usual night table, and the bathroom in a corner, and the radiators under the window, not in use now, of course. The room had an air-conditioner, but it was turned off. It was not that hot today and his father had never liked air-conditioning anyway.

They talked for a while about the nursing home, David’s new job, and his new girlfriend. John had seen Anna on TV and David said he might bring her for a visit later in the week. His father seemed pleased she was staying with him, almost excited.

“Did you go see George’s folks?” John asked suddenly.

David had told his father about George Bartley and the mystery surrounding his appearance over the phone not long ago. “I will,” he said. “Probably this afternoon. I hope they have some news of him.”

“Strange business,” John said. “But there’s a lot of strange business going on around here lately.” David remembered that his father had said something along those lines during their first phone conversation after his release from the hospital. “Things are going kinda funny,” he had said. David remembered he had never received a full explanation from his father. For a second time he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, stuck here in this bed I only hear things indirectly,” he explained. “Don’t see any of these things myself. But I hear stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Well, earlier this year, while you were in the hospital, I heard there was a big shakeup out at the plant. Lots of heads rolled.”

“Housecleaning at Porter Pharmaceuticals?” David said, referring to the company his father had worked for. “I thought that was strictly a family outfit.” The plant had been there since before his birth, and had provided the small town with many employment opportunities. Some said Hillsboro would have gone and died had it never been built. It was on the outskirts of town, not too far from the abandoned quarry.

“The ‘family’ sold out,” his father said. “And there were a lot of hard feelings about it. A whole new power structure moved in. New supervisors were appointed, and a lot of men got fired. I’m glad I was gone before it all started; they might have given me the axe, too.”

“Why did it happen?”

“The firm was bought out by another one, that’s all. Or the pharmaceutical company was incorporated into something else. The whole thing was real mysterious, which is what ticked everyone off. No one seems to have the right story. Anyway, a bunch of guys were so angry at being fired or demoted that they got drunk and raised hell in town one night, tore Joe’s place apart. Bartley didn’t help matters.” He spoke his former friend’s name with disdain. “He was promoted. Real bigshot now. Couldn’t pass the time of day with his old friends. Naturally some of them kissed his ass, hopin’ he’d take their part, do them favors. It turned friend against friend—those kissin’ up to Bartley on one hand, those who hated his guts on the other. A lot of families aren’t speakin’ to each other anymore. Of course, everyone who came to see me expected me to choose sides. It sounded like Bartley was getting too big for his britches, but how did I know? Man gets a promotion, what is he supposed to do—turn it down? Give up an opportunity like that because some other fellows got laid off? I don’t know. I just told everyone I wasn’t
around
to see all the fireworks so I didn’t know who was wrong or who was right, and was too old and tired to care anyhow. So, everybody got mad at me ‘cause I wouldn’t take their part. It’s a cold place, this town, now. Real cold. Spend the summer and then get out, David. I’m glad you found work. If you’d tried to get it up here you could have used my connections before. Hell,
now
I’m not sure who’s with me or agin me anymore.”

“Sounds crazy to me,” David said. “Don’t let it get you down. When people come to their senses, they’ll still be your friends.”

“Don’t give a shit anymore,” he said. “It’s all beyond me. Behind me, too.”

“What else has been going on? “

“We have a new county sheriff, though I’ve yet to meet him. People say he’s okay. Watson is his name, I think.”

“What happened to Sheriff Oakes? He was around for years.”

“Too many years, I guess. They put him to pasture and folks say he’s mad as hell and runs around trashing the mayors and the councils of the county and everyone else he can think of. People say he was replaced by a man sympathetic to the new owners of the plant. Some corporation or other. I don’t remember right now and I don’t care.”

David fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. “Everything’s gotta change, I guess.”

“For the worse.” Almost dispassionately, he added: “And then there were the murders.”

David sat up straight on the stool, almost toppling off it. “The MURDERS?
Here?
What the hell happened?”

“A whole family was wiped out. The Harpers. Found dead in their beds. All four of them. Little kids, too. Two of ‘em. They said it was burglars. But a nurse here went to the funeral and said all the coffins were closed.”

“Did they catch the guys who did it?”

“Not that anyone knows of. Happened a few days ago. They lived up near Sumner Road, about a quarter mile from the quarry. Kept to themselves mostly. They were awfully isolated up there anyway. Killers just came in the night and murdered them while they slept. ‘In Cold Blood’ kind of thing. Shocked the hell out of everyone. Who would think something like that could happen in Hillsboro? “

Who would indeed?

In the Bartley residence on Old Steward Road, the maid pushed the cart into the center of the library and exited quickly. There were two men in the room. One was tall and lean, oozing confidence; he looked like the kind of rich, successful businessman who had kept his college figure due to a strict regimen of exercise and diet, and not because he couldn’t afford three meals a day. He was dressed in a stylish suit that was a perfect fit but seemed somewhat out of place on him, too youthful for a man in his late fifties. His hair was graying at the sides attractively, but was thick and black everywhere else. His head was round, with features that would have been handsome had the nose not been so broad, almost bulbous, had the lips not been so thick, the eyes so small.

The other man was even taller, over six feet, and he, too, was slim and powerfully built. One sensed his frame was composed of big strong bones, and only illness would ever make him look weak or undernourished. He did not need special diets or strenuous exercise. He looked like a practical man who could not be bothered with foolish luxuries like gourmet food and sumptuous repasts. Energy and intensity practically bristled, crackling, along his eyebrows. His calories were consumed from within. His eyes were big and brown— wide, wet pools of flaring passion—flaming now with anger. His nose was long and straight, with large nostrils. Perfect teeth could be seen when he opened his full lips, lifted his determined jaw. He had a high forehead and his hair was swept back, a mane of black. He had prominent cheekbones and muttonchops. He, too, wore a suit He was more traditional.

The men had been arguing, stopping briefly while the maid had brought in the coffee. The first man, the owner of the house, poured from an electric pot, filling two cups to the rim. The fresh aroma filled the room. Polished bookcases reflected the light from the fixture set high in the middle of the ceiling. The room was large, bookcases full of thousands of novels and scientific tomes on all four walls. There was a large desk, a table in one corner, several comfortable chairs, and no windows.

Both men stood up while they talked and sipped their coffee. The larger of the two, the guest, put his cup back down on the serving tray for a moment, and said: “As I was saying before the interruption, it seems unfair that I am blamed for matters which are beyond my control. Besides, it would appear to me that we should welcome the possibility of another testing site.”

“This is my hometown, damn it!” said the other vehemently. “I live here. My family lives here. This is entirely different from before, Anton, and you know it.”

Anton shrugged and picked up his cup again. He started pacing the room, deep in thought. He stopped abruptly, turned to his host and said, “You’re letting your personal feelings, your personal life, get in the way of your job, Bartley. Can’t you see that?”

Bartley took a beat to fully absorb what the man was saying. “If what you’re saying is true I’d be the first to recognize it and admit it. To myself, at least. But it isn’t. I just can’t see what purpose can be served—”

“The company found a purpose once before.”

“What choice did they have? After you played all your games and tricks on us? Fooling around until it was too late to take any kind of positive action.”

“They didn’t want ‘action.’ They wanted to see what would happen.”

“I don’t believe that. I can’t believe it. People . . . people
died
there. It could have been much worse . . .”

“We found their vulnerability, didn’t we? And I’m taking steps to correct it. We need another test site. Why not here? You can always get out, send your family away. If it comes to that.”

Bartley went over to his desk, stood before it, fiddling with paper clips in a glass bowl. “What if it gets out of hand, then what? What do we do then?”

“It won’t get out of hand.” ‘“Can you be absolutely certain of that? There may not be any heroes in this town.”

“We’ll step in. We’ll stop things from going too far.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll cover up like before. Only it will be easier this time. The company already owns anyone of power in this forsaken little burg. Including you.”

Bartley was getting more upset by the second. “Cover-ups, coverups, coverups. Where does it end? I still can’t believe they’re taking your side in all this—”

“On the contrary. I’m taking
their
side. It was all their idea. They suggested we sit back and do nothing. Both there, and in Hillsboro. They wanted to see the power of what I’d created. Only they didn’t get enough of a demonstration. This time, they will. That’s what they want, Ted. You might as well accept it. Go along with them. It will be so much easier.”

“It’s against . . . It’s—”

“—against everything you believe in? Is that what you were going to say? What a hypocrite. You sold out your own son. You wanted this position. The money, the power. You were moving upwards fast, but not fast enough. Your son knew the truth before you did. Your son could see it quite clearly. So you had to go and shut him up—”

“Stop it! STOP IT!” Bartley screamed. He almost lunged at the man. He crashed his cup down onto the desk, cracking it. Coffee spilled all over a stack of papers. Ted Bartley did not seem to notice. “You’re twisting the facts. I will not have you implying—”