Spawn of Hell by William Schoell Read Free Book Online Page B

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