Spawn of Hell (6 page)

“Yes. This is David Hammond again. I—”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Hammond. I’ve reached the Bartleys and they left a message for you in case you should call again.”

“I’ve been calling and calling all afternoon.” He wondered why she didn’t get in touch with him.

“They wish me to tell you that their son George is with them in Lancaster, and that they have no patience with practical jokers. And neither, I assure you, do I!” She hung up again, emphatically.

“But, but,” David stammered into the silent receiver. He had wanted to tell her who he was, to tell her that the Bartleys had known him for years, that he had grown up with George, that he ought to be able to recognize their son, that they couldn’t do this to him. That he would have no reason to make up such a story, no reason to play such an absurd and sick and pointless practical joke.

But all he could do was look over toward the figure sleeping in the bag over in the corner.

For if that wasn’t George Bartley . . .

Who—or what—was it?

Chapter Three

“Get up!”

The sleeping figure groaned, stirred, then turned over, pushing his face down sloppily into the pillow. A drop of spittle fell from his mouth.

“I said Get Up!”

Careful not to hurt him, David nudged George’s body with the tip of his shoe. He didn’t want to use his hands on him again, couldn’t bare to touch him after that one time last evening.

George only dug his head further into the pillow, shimmied his body deeper into the sleeping bag.

David crouched down beside him and peered into his face, trying to imagine what he would look like if the beard was gone, if the skin weren’t quite so mottled, the eyes open and clear. Last night he had been sure that this man before him was George Bartley, but now he had no choice but to assume that it was someone else. This person was in such sad shape that he probably wouldn’t recognize his real name anyway.

And yet? What if there were some other explanation for what the Bartleys’ maid had said, her denial of David’s allegations? Perhaps George
had
been running from some crime, perhaps his parents had disowned him, no longer concerned about his welfare. It wouldn’t be the first time that a mother and father felt that way about a child who disappointed or disobeyed them, and it wouldn’t be the last. Yet the maid had seemed to be telling the truth when she had said that she had thought George was with his parents.

And what about this man’s strange story about experiments, running away, the implications he’d been held against his will? Who in Hillsboro would do a thing like that to someone? Where was he being “experimented” on? Bellevue’s psycho ward, probably.

David looked closer at the man. That was George’s nose, George’s eyes, all right. But could he be positive? He searched his memory, straining to recall if he were remembering the features of someone other than George Bartley, some other friend or acquaintance. But no—if it wasn’t George, then it was nobody he had ever met.

He had called the Bartleys’ house back since the last brief conversation, but the woman wasn’t answering.

“Get up! I’ve got to talk to you, George. Or whoever you are.”

Finally the man woke up with a start, turning over to face David, rubbing his eyes to see more clearly. David had prepared a cup of instant coffee, and handed it to him when he seemed awake enough. “Drink this up. It’s time we had a little talk. I want some satisfactory answers, or I’m throwing you out right now.

“First,” David continued, squatting in front of the man, “what is your name?”

“George. George Bartley.”

“Really? Isn’t that interesting? According to the maid at your house in Hillsboro, George Bartley is on a trip with his parents at this very minute. George Bartley is several hundred miles away. How do you explain that?”

The man’s eyes widened with fear. “You didn’t—call them? Did you?”

“Yes I did.”

“No, no.” He was so startled that he spilled some of the coffee into his lap. “You mustn’t get in touch with them.”

“I can see why. You were afraid they’d give you away, weren’t you? Come on—tell me who the hell you really are.”

“I
am
George. I swear. They have their reasons for lying. They don’t want anyone to know about me.”

“You’re not making any sense. Why would they lie about something like that?”

“I can’t explain. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Look. George, or whatever your name is, you came here last night for help of some sort. What did you want? A free meal? A place to sleep? Is that all? I gave you that, but I can’t give you anymore. I think you should either go home—if you are George—or go back to wherever you came from. I have enough troubles right now without—”

“I AM GEORGE!” The violence of the man’s outburst was alarming, to say the least. “God, I won’t let them take away my identity!” He grabbed David by his shirt front with such force that David nearly toppled over onto the sleeping bag. “Listen to me! You must believe me!”

“Let me go!”

“Do you remember the swimming hole, near Patter’s apple orchard? We used to go there instead of the quarry sometimes. Remember Crazyman Patter, we used to call him Crazyman Patter. Do you remember? He had big ears that stuck out, and he was always blowing his nose. You’ve gotta remember. One night we took Sue—Sue Elliot and her friend, her friend Betty—we took them up there, and the deputy drove by and shined his light on the four of us, and you said, you said we were inspectors from the Johnny Appleseed Society. Do you remember? Tell me, you remember!

“You’ve got to remember!”

That was the way it had been, all right. The deputy had not found David’s wisecrack very amusing. He’d come after them with his flashlight, and they quickly took off. Sue Elliot screamed as she stepped into a load of dog shit, and David had tripped over a devilish piece of root. But they’d all gotten away. They laughed about it all the way home, running through fields and across rutted country lanes, glad to be out of Deputy Forster’s clutches.

“I remember.” He stared into the man’s face, wondering how someone could share George Bartley’s memories, wondering if it were a trick. But he saw the desperation in the eyes, the anguish in the voice. This
was
George Bartley. He didn’t know why anyone would want to lie to him about his identity, why the maid had done what she’d done. Why his parents had told her what they’d told her, assuming she had spoken to them at all.

“All right, George. I believe you. But I don’t understand any of this. Are you on the outs with your folks? Is that it?”

“Yeah. That’s it. You didn’t tell them where I was, did you?”

“Yes. I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t talking. You were just staring out the window, muttering. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m better now. My—my head is clearer.”

“Clear enough to tell me what this is about, I hope.”

George turned away, heaving with a sigh. “I’m not sure I should. I came here because I had no place else to go. Looked you up in the phone book. Thought I might be able to talk things over with you. But there’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do.” His eyes were fogging up again. David was losing him.

“Trust me,” he said. “If you had anyone else to turn to you would have done it by now. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.” David wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He did not feel like harboring a fugitive from justice. And he was much too poor to convince anyone that he hadn’t been aware of the situation.

“No. You’ll never believe me. You’ll just call them and they’ll come and get me. They’re probably on their way now.”

“Who? Your folks? I thought they weren’t even talking to you?”

“They’ll send somebody to get me. And they’ll take me back up there and put me away for good.” George was starting to cry now. God! He must have escaped from some kind of institution. This was getting worse and worse every minute.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” David said softly. “I can’t do anything for you here, George. You need help.”

George stared at David, a hopeless look on his face. “Nobody can help me now.”

“Let me try calling your parents again later, okay? Maybe they’ll reconsider.”

“No. No. I’ve got to get out of here. Before they get here.”

“They’re not coming, George. They would have said so.”

“You might be in danger. Don’t stay in the house tonight. Go out. Stay out. Until morning. Don’t come back until morning.” He said it with such conviction that it chilled David down to his bone marrow.

“What about you?”

“I’m going to leave.” He got up on his feet.

“Wait,” David protested. “You can’t walk off like this. Let me give you a little money. I don’t have much but—”

“Don’t want your money.”

“Please. Let me give you some clothes. At least wash up before you go.” David tried to keep him away from the door.

Suddenly George reached out and hit him across the head, knocking him across the room and onto the bed. David sat up stunned, his head still ringing. He resisted an urge to go after George, to hurt him in kind. “Goodbye to bad rubbish,” he muttered, as the sound of the man’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

He’d had more than enough of Crazy George Bartley.

David had a lump on his head just above the right eyebrow. Aside from that, there were no ill effects. Muttering under his breath the entire time, he made himself dessert, ate it quickly, and gulped down another cup of coffee. He kept watching the clock. How long would it take someone to drive down from Vermont? Five hours? What if they came by plane? In either case, they would already have arrived by now. It was seven o’clock. They could get his address out of the phonebook like George had done.

He tried to forget about what George had said, about how he should vacate the premises until morning. Surely he was in no danger. Bartley was only suffering from paranoid delusions, thinking the whole world was out to get him. David still couldn’t figure out why his parents could be so callous in regards to the welfare of their only son, but there was nothing he could do about that. He didn’t want to call George’s folks up again, only to have that old hag hang up on him. But what if it were all a misunderstanding? What if there had been some perfectly reasonable explanation for the maid’s reaction? Maybe there was a good reason for her not to believe David’s story; maybe they’d received other crank calls about George. It was all so confusing.

He dialed the Bartleys’ number again, but there was no answer. Along with the pain, his anger towards George’s last action before leaving the apartment had subsided. He had concluded long ago that George had only wanted to prevent him from following, that in his sick, troubled mind he was doing what he had to do. Surely had had not meant to injure David, or kill him— he could have done a lot worse than simply deliver a back-handed slap; there was still strength in those limbs. Whether it was true strength or just manic energy remained to be seen. David was in no hurry to find out.

David decided to forget all about it until morning. He would have to try to reach the Bartleys again. They should be made to accept the fact that their son needed help badly, and that they had to do something about him wandering the streets of Manhattan alone with no one to turn to. David thought of going out and looking for him, but George could have gone anywhere, and David was afraid to confront him again, the bump on his head testifying to the man’s deadly capabilities if pushed to the edge. Still, he was haunted by the image of the man out there alone, indistinguishable from all the rest of the pathetic tramps and bums and derelicts. It horrified David to think that a friend of his—even one from long ago—should be in such a position. As long as there was anything he could do about it, he wouldn’t rest. If the Bartleys refused to speak to him in the morning, he would call his own father, ask him what could be done.

It was creeping toward eight o’clock now. He’d sat and mulled the whole mess over for an hour. Didn’t realize how long it had been. He had an urge to get out of the apartment, to get out fast, and he felt frightened suddenly, wondering why the place seemed small and shadowy. Not a safe haven anymore, but a place of dread. He didn’t know why his apartment had taken on this new coloration, so dark and gray. Had it to do with George’s warning? David thought of himself as a rational man and dismissed the idea from his head. Yet he virtually ran from the apartment only a few minutes later, denying that his friend’s words had had anything whatsoever to do with it. All he knew was, he did not want to be in that apartment alone.

While he walked up the block, he told himself over and over again that he was simply lonely, as he had been the night before. Maybe he hadn’t been aware of how comforting George’s—another human being’s—presence had actually been. Wasn’t it natural for him to go out and seek company? But, he wondered, if anyone asked to come home with him, would he agree? Or would not even someone else’s being there with him erase the ominous feeling, that strange sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? He didn’t know.

He had been walking for about twenty minutes when he suddenly realized where he was. Subconsciously (or was it all that subconscious?) he had been heading towards Peg O’ Hearts. Come on, Davey, he thought. You’re overdoing it. How obvious can you get. The chances of her being there two nights in a row are not very good. Then again, for all he knew she might have decided to make the place her regular watering hole. Everybody had a favorite spot, one they went to a few nights a week. Why would she be different? He had not seen her in there before, true, but he hadn’t been in there for quite a while, since before the accident. She might have only recently relocated to the neighborhood.

But she wasn’t there.

The place was not as empty as it had been the night before because it was the middle of the late supper hour, and most of the tables were taken. The bar was full of people waiting for a table, or neighborhood residents having an early drink. David found an empty chair, luckily enough, and looked about to see if
she
were present. From what he could tell from his vantage point, she was not.