Power, The (8 page)
Authors: Frank M. Robinson
“Was he a good student?”
“One of the best. Just as reliable in his studies as he was on the basketball court.” A smile flickered across his face. “Maybe he was more reliable. Johnny made a monkey out of me one night—he was really off. I couldn’t figure it out, he couldn’t even make a simple lay-up shot.”
“When was that?”
“Don’t remember exactly, sometime during the winter of his junior year—it was the same night the gypsies threw one of their big parties.”
An alarm rang in Tanner’s mind. “Did a fellow named Adam Hart ever go to school here?”
Freudenthal looked surprised. “Hart? Hell, none of the gypsy boys ever went to school. And just between you and me, I don’t think they needed to. The closest Adam Hart ever came to going was when he used to come to watch Johnny play ball.” He went over to the washbasin in the corner and doused his hair. “He was a pretty good friend of Johnny’s, always on the sidelines cheering him on.”
Except for one night when he couldn’t make it
, Tanner thought.
The night when Olson played such a miserable game.
, Tanner thought.
The night when Olson played such a miserable game.
“Did John ever strike you as being the moody sort?”
“Not to start with. He was sort of a happy-go-lucky kid. You know how the pudgy type are—nothing ever worries them. He started to sober up towards the end of his junior year, got pretty gloomy. I remember I used to talk to him, try to snap him out of it. It didn’t do much good. Something was eating him but I never had any idea of what it was.”
“His folks say he didn’t turn sour until he went off to college.”
“You know how parents are, Professor. They’re the last to know when something goes wrong with their kids.”
Tanner got up to leave. “You wouldn’t know if there are any pictures of Adam Hart around, would you? Any shots of the bleachers where he might have been in the background?”
“Try the
Eagle
. They’d have photographs if anybody would.”
Eagle
. They’d have photographs if anybody would.”
“Coach …” He hesitated. “What kind of a guy would you say he was?”
Freudenthal edged forward in his chair, his face glowing. “Do you know, I had another Thorpe or Mathias right at my fingertips, Professor. Honest, I mean it. Right at my fingertips. You should have met this Hart. He was a young sprout but he was one of those few people you meet and know that someday they’re really going to be great. He could have been a great athlete. Hell, he could have been great in anything!”
“What’d he look like?”
“Late teens, give or take a year—right at the peak. Kind of a short fellow, dark hair, fairly bulky build. The perfect athletic type. Quiet. He usually didn’t have much to say but when he did, it was worth listening to. Never put on airs, never dressed too sharp. One of the few young fellows you could relax with and talk to. Good head. Mighty good head.”
The coach had described a third man, Tanner thought. Different from the girl in the cafeteria or Olson’s father. The girl in the restaurant had seen the type of man that young girls always wanted to see in their dreams. Smiling, polite, a sharp dresser, a little on the thin and hungry side. Mark Olson had seen an unblemished Son of the Soil. Coach Freudenthal had seen the perfect athlete.
And everybody else in town had probably seen Hart in a slightly different light. Hart had been like a mirror, reflecting back what they had
wanted
to see.
wanted
to see.
Which meant that one member of his committee had left seven different impressions on the others. One member looked vastly different to each of the other seven. All he had to do …
Who am I kidding? Hart wouldn’t leave such an obvious opening. He’s masquerading and he’ll do a good job of it, he’s no amateur. I can bet my bottom dollar he looks the same to all of us.
But it would be interesting to see what Hart actually looked like. And the only way to find out would be to get hold of a photograph.
There weren’t any.
The
Brockton Eagle
had no cut of Adam Hart, though the editor remembered him well enough and went on to describe a man who might have made the perfect country editor. Tanner went through the yellowing files of the newspaper and ran across a photograph or two where the caption listed Adam Hart in the background. But the photos were indistinct and blurry, as if the photographer’s hand had jiggled at the precise moment he had taken the picture.
Brockton Eagle
had no cut of Adam Hart, though the editor remembered him well enough and went on to describe a man who might have made the perfect country editor. Tanner went through the yellowing files of the newspaper and ran across a photograph or two where the caption listed Adam Hart in the background. But the photos were indistinct and blurry, as if the photographer’s hand had jiggled at the precise moment he had taken the picture.
Adam Hart, apparently the best-known and the best-liked person in town, had been a nonentity as far as pictures went.
Tanner ate lunch back at the hotel and found out from the waitress that the Hart family home had burned to the ground years ago. Later in the afternoon he walked out to the west side of town to take a look at where it had been.
There was nothing there now but an empty lot, grown wild with prairie grass and ragweed and straggling bushes. There were a few cherry trees on the back of the lot and some stunted crab apple trees along one side.
He walked across the street and collared a neighbor who was repairing his front porch.
“The Hart home burned down eight years ago, mister. Just a few weeks after Adam left. Lucky he did, too, or he would have been burned to death with the rest of his family. Worst tragedy we ever had in this town. Old man Hart and his wife and all their kids and relations. Must’ve been close to fifteen—used every coffin we had.”
The man drove another nail into a porch step. “Damned shame. Finest family I ever knew. Some say the bear got loose and knocked the connections off the gas tanks outside the kitchen. They shot the bear the same night; it was pretty badly burned, too.”
“What time did it happen?”
“Late at night, a little after the evening train went through. People in the house panicked and couldn’t unlock the front door, which didn’t make sense because they weren’t the type to lock up anything to begin with. But we found a lot of the bodies piled up behind it. They didn’t have a chance. You know, one of those big wooden houses. Went up like a deck of celluloid cards—regular torch.”
He straightened up and felt in his pockets for more nails. “It was a mighty big funeral. Everybody in town was there and Adam even got wind of it somehow and came back. Never saw a man so cut up, it really hit him.” He tugged at his ear. “Guess it would have hit me, too, if I had lost my family like that. Never felt so sorry for a man in all my life. Believe me, Adam didn’t deserve it. Never a straighter or more generous soul walked the face of the earth, let me tell you …”
Tanner cut him off with a curt “thanks” and headed back towards the hotel. It was near dusk, the sun sinking slowly behind the flat horizon of the endless prairies.
Brockton, he thought. A quiet little town with not too many houses and not too many people.
A little town that didn’t realize it had spawned a monster.
He had supper and read for a while, then turned in. There wasn’t too much more he could find out, he thought. He knew almost all there was to know about Adam Hart, even if he didn’t know who Adam Hart was.
He stretched out and tucked his hands behind his head. He had come to Brockton to find out about John Olson but he had ended up finding out a lot more about Adam. And what really mattered, of course, was not the education of John Olson but the education of Adam Hart.
He could guess how it had all started. Adam Hart, a personable gypsy boy. Living in a house with a dozen other children, part of a family that kept a trained bear in the back yard and had cherry trees on the lot. Trees that could be climbed and had cherries to be eaten and there was nobody who would chase you away.
A mecca for every kid in town. And John Olson had been no exception. A pudgy little boy, happy-go-lucky and spirited, who hung around with the Hart children and ended up hero-worshipping Adam Hart. Hart’s reaction? He had probably been flattered and somewhat amused. And maybe one day when Adam and John had wandered off fishing together, Adam made his big discovery. Maybe there had been vines overlooking the stream … .
Hart, athletic and with superhuman reflexes, might have swung across or climbed them and dared his younger companion to do the same. John, by himself, couldn’t have done it. He didn’t have the ability, he didn’t have the sheer muscular strength. There had probably been a period of kidding and then John had tried, with Adam Hart, perhaps unconsciously, concentrating on the boy, unintentionally willing him to swing across.
John had done it. Maybe the next time, overconfident and with Hart not concentrating, he hadn’t succeeded and had fallen into the stream. It must have set Hart to thinking.
And maybe Hart had suddenly realized that John
hadn’t
made it across the river the first time. That it had been
he,
Adam Hart, who had made it. It had been John’s body, but it had been Adam Hart’s mind and nervous system. He had taken over John’s mind and had pulled the strings that jerked the muscles and reflexes of his youthful puppet.
hadn’t
made it across the river the first time. That it had been
he,
Adam Hart, who had made it. It had been John’s body, but it had been Adam Hart’s mind and nervous system. He had taken over John’s mind and had pulled the strings that jerked the muscles and reflexes of his youthful puppet.
It must have been a wonderful feeling of power, Tanner thought. Adam Hart must have realized what he was then. That he was a superman.
It had probably been a lot of fun at first. Even John had probably gotten a kick out of it. He could play on the high-school teams and astound everybody with his ability. And Adam Hart must have enjoyed sitting on the sidelines, guiding John’s mind so he could make intricate plays on the floor and shots that would make the spectators gasp.
Bu then there must have been a day when there was a split. When John Olson realized that he wasn’t the master of his own soul, that he wasn’t living his own life. He must have grown tired of it, must have wanted out.
But Adam Hart hadn’t grown tired. John Olson was his creation, his puppet—the pet dog who had learned a hatful of tricks. And when his master wanted him to perform, John would perform, like it or not.
It must have been that which had crushed Olson. The knowledge that his life was not his own. That he had nothing to say about what he did. That Hart was master and he was something lower than a slave.
He felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Olson. It must have been killing knowledge … .
But Olson had finally gotten away. Eventually Hart had permitted him to flee away to college. And then, years later, Hart had shown up on the scene again. Olson had been terrified, knowing what might happen. That any moment Hart would pull the strings and once more he would be living the life of a marionette.
Tanner sat up in bed and took his pipe off the dresser. Olson had been added to the Project three months before his death. Had his nervousness actually dated from then? Probably. And if he had recognized Hart, why couldn’t he simply have left? But maybe Hart had decided that Olson knew too much and he couldn’t afford to have him leave.
Olson had tried to finger Hart, to point out that the Enemy existed and that something should be done. He hadn’t been able to talk outright so he had …
Filled out the questionnaire himself. Deliberately phonied it to arouse the suspicions of the committee. And when that had failed he had seen his one chance start sliding down the drain and had desperately tried to argue it out. He had dared Hart. And Hart had taken him up on it.
But it doesn’t fit,
Tanner thought.
It was a stupid thing to do. And Hart is not a stupid man.
Tanner thought.
It was a stupid thing to do. And Hart is not a stupid man.
Hart had known then that Olson would require constant watching and constant control. He had probably been standing outside the Van Zandt home, waiting in the dark, watching Olson move about his room, knowing that Olson had to die. John had come home at midnight and fought for three hours and finally broken the compulsion that had prevented him from talking or writing about Hart directly. He had sat down to write a letter and Hart had guessed what he was doing and killed him.
It couldn’t have been difficult. Hart had known Olson’s nervous system as well as his own. It would have been an easy thing to clamp down on it, to strangle the autonomic nervous system so that Olson’s heart had simply ceased to beat.
And Olson hadn’t been the only victim. Years before Hart had killed the people who had known him the best, who had probably guessed what he was.
His own family.
So one night he had come back. On the evening train. It had been a simple thing to let loose the trained bear and then stand behind a tree across the street and direct the animal towards the tanks of bottled gas outside the kitchen window.
Adam Hart, Tanner thought coldly.
The Enemy.
Adam Hart.
Monster!
It was a subtle awareness of other life in the room besides himself. An awareness of warmth, of movement …
Tanner jerked and rolled off one side of the bed. A moment later a figure was bending over the bed, pulling at something that it had jabbed through sheets and mattress to tangle in the springs. There was a brief moment of tense struggle and then the figure had the knife in his hands and was crouched, waiting for him.
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