Abel Baker Charley by John R. Maxim

they got there? It was a rule. Baker nodded again. Detective Gurdik began reading something from a white card, about remaining silent. But why should I remain silent, Baker wondered, after I said I'd talk to you in your office? Kinney told Gurdik to put away the card.
    Baker thought he remembered other men in the corridor. He thought he remembered flash ing cameras and questions. But he wasn't sure. He did remember that his hand had stopped hurting.

3

    There was another dream. Baker dreamt he was in jail and the devil was standing outside the bars, watching him. There was hatred on the devil's face and he wore a black suit. A devil with white hair and eyes that burned. The devil hissed some words at him that Baker couldn't hear but that made his eye hurt, and Baker felt himself moving closer to the bars. That seemed to frighten the devil, but it didn't stop the hating. The devil spat at him and then walked away.
    “Mr. Baker?” The guard called his name for the third time, tapping now against the bars with his club.
    The man in the cell did not look up. He was unshaven and his shirt was torn. He sat on a cot, staring down at a news paper spread at his feet. Baker saw himself there, much as he looked now except somebody had washed the black soot from his face. Maybe he'd done it himself. He didn't know. The last two days were lost to him. Baker saw his house in the paper. There was a scar of black and blistered paint that rose up from one bay window and mushroomed out beneath the roof l ine. Even the house looked dead. Like Sarah.
    Near the picture of his house was the face of the young man who threw the gasoline. He barely recognized the face. It was a high school picture, more than four years old, and the name under it was Andrew Bellafonte. Baker studied the photograph more closely. It was there. The same mocking cruelty and arrogance must always have been there. But not anymore. The paper said he no longer had a face. It said that Baker had done it. It said that Baker had impaled him. Im paled him? And it said that Baker was insane.
    “Mr. Baker.”
    More on page 5, it said. Baker turned the pages and he s aw the devil looking back at him. The same devil. But this one had a name: it was Lawrence Bellafonte and the devil was a judge.
    Baker heard the cell door opening and looked up. The guard seemed reluctant to step closer.
    “I'm sorry,” he said, ”I didn't know a lot of this.” Baker waved his hands toward the open paper.
    “You had a tough time,” the guard answered. ‘Tough break, Mr. Baker. Anyway, your lawyer's here to see you.”
    “What lawyer?”
    “Name's Meister. You have to see him here in your cell. I'm going to bring him in, okay?”
    ”I didn't call a lawyer.”
    “Somebody did. Talk to him, Mr. Baker. You're going to see a judge soon.”
    Baker picked up the paper at his feet and held it up for the guard to see. “This man.” Baker pointed. “Has he been here?”
    The guard made a face. “He came by. It's the kid's fa ther.” The guard looked around him and leaned closer to Baker. “Listen,” he said softly, “that kid was a shit and he ran up a pretty good bill before he finally got his. The old man ain't much better. I'm not saying everything you did was good, but you better start protecting yourself. See this guy Meister. If you don't, the court's going to appoint some one else anyway.”
    Baker thanked him with a nod.

    The lawyer was a fat man who seemed to be about fifty. It was hard to tell. He wore a youngish gray poplin suit and his shoes were by Gucci. His hair was light brown, probably dyed, with a few wisps of gray at the sideburns. The eyes were at once sharp and mirthful. It seemed to Baker that they should have been baggy, but they were not. The lawyer car ried a briefcase in one hand and a canvas garment bag in the other.
    “Benjamin Meister, attorney,” the man said. He jiggled the garment bag. ”I brought you some clothes for court.”
    “Court?” Baker rose to