Schwartz continued. “Neither did their parents. When Hart was younger he was precocious sexually and he experimented all over town—with everything and everybody. From the stories that went around, I can’t think of anything he left out. In a medical book he would have taken up a full page in Latin. Nobody ever thought it might be wrong. For him. ”
Adam Hart had flagrantly and openly violated the taboos of human society, Tanner thought. And the members of that society had cheerfully forgiven him.
“As far as this town is concerned,” Schwartz said in a low voice, “the only citizen it ever produced worth talking about is Adam Hart. Ever since he left, Brockton’s been in an in-between state. It isn’t living and it isn’t dead. It’s just waiting. There’s a couple of other towns around here that are the same way, incidentally. Hart got around.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“For Hart to come back, of course. And some day he will.” Schwartz paused. “I sometimes wonder if Hart’s been traveling around the country.”
So a lot of other towns could get to know him, Tanner thought. It was something he hadn’t thought of before. The whole country, waiting for Adam Hart to come back …
“You’d have your man on horseback then, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s right, you would.”
Tanner slipped on his coat and started for the door.
Schwartz said, “What are you going to do when you find Hart, Professor?”
Tanner smiled faintly and the pain ticked back in his cheek. “Kill him.”
At the door, Schwartz said, “Dr. Pierce—I bought his practice just before he retired—was always going to tell me about the Hart family.”
“He never did, did he?”
“No. Six months after he retired, he had an accident. He fell down the cellar steps one night and broke his neck.”
“You so sure it was an accident?”
Schwartz hesitated. “I guess not. But if I found out for sure that it wasn’t, my life wouldn’t be worth much, would it?”
Tanner nodded. “You’re right, Doctor. It wouldn’t.”
9
HE caught the train out of Brockton early Sunday morning. There was no sense in staying to push his case. The boy was a home-grown product, and he was a stranger. And the local judge, a man who had held the office for the last twenty years, could hardly be expected to favor him.
Adam Hart took care of his own, he thought.
The endless prairies and the low blur on the horizon that had been Brockton gradually disappeared and he felt some of the tenseness drain out of him. In many ways it had been a smart idea going to Brockton. He had learned a lot about Hart.
And it had also been the sheerest luck that he had gotten away alive.
It was an uncomfortable thought. So far he had made no move that Hart hadn’t anticipated. It was still cat-and-mouse, with himself cast in the role of the mouse. Sooner or later Hart would tire of the play, the claws would flash out, and that would be that.
The train felt hot and uncomfortable and he made a half-unconscious gesture towards his collar. In the end it would be either the pier, or life as a living-dead man, like Olson had been. A marionette.
Now he wondered if Hart was after anybody else on the committee and if not, why not? What was so special about himself?
“Nice day today, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his seat companion. A middle-aged woman, around forty-five or fifty, with graying hair and a face that wore its troubles like other women wore their lipstick. He grunted. She talked on in a sweet, determined voice.
“You get on at Brockton? That’s a real nice town. Jess does his banking there. We’ve got a little farm not too far away. Do right well, though since we’re country folks, we don’t need much.” She glanced sharply at him. “Were you in the service?”
“For a few years.”
She opened her purse and dug down among the wadded handkerchiefs and the keys and the compact that leaked powder. The photograph she came up with was
Adam Hart had flagrantly and openly violated the taboos of human society, Tanner thought. And the members of that society had cheerfully forgiven him.
“As far as this town is concerned,” Schwartz said in a low voice, “the only citizen it ever produced worth talking about is Adam Hart. Ever since he left, Brockton’s been in an in-between state. It isn’t living and it isn’t dead. It’s just waiting. There’s a couple of other towns around here that are the same way, incidentally. Hart got around.”
“What are they waiting for?”
“For Hart to come back, of course. And some day he will.” Schwartz paused. “I sometimes wonder if Hart’s been traveling around the country.”
So a lot of other towns could get to know him, Tanner thought. It was something he hadn’t thought of before. The whole country, waiting for Adam Hart to come back …
“You’d have your man on horseback then, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s right, you would.”
Tanner slipped on his coat and started for the door.
Schwartz said, “What are you going to do when you find Hart, Professor?”
Tanner smiled faintly and the pain ticked back in his cheek. “Kill him.”
At the door, Schwartz said, “Dr. Pierce—I bought his practice just before he retired—was always going to tell me about the Hart family.”
“He never did, did he?”
“No. Six months after he retired, he had an accident. He fell down the cellar steps one night and broke his neck.”
“You so sure it was an accident?”
Schwartz hesitated. “I guess not. But if I found out for sure that it wasn’t, my life wouldn’t be worth much, would it?”
Tanner nodded. “You’re right, Doctor. It wouldn’t.”
9
HE caught the train out of Brockton early Sunday morning. There was no sense in staying to push his case. The boy was a home-grown product, and he was a stranger. And the local judge, a man who had held the office for the last twenty years, could hardly be expected to favor him.
Adam Hart took care of his own, he thought.
The endless prairies and the low blur on the horizon that had been Brockton gradually disappeared and he felt some of the tenseness drain out of him. In many ways it had been a smart idea going to Brockton. He had learned a lot about Hart.
And it had also been the sheerest luck that he had gotten away alive.
It was an uncomfortable thought. So far he had made no move that Hart hadn’t anticipated. It was still cat-and-mouse, with himself cast in the role of the mouse. Sooner or later Hart would tire of the play, the claws would flash out, and that would be that.
The train felt hot and uncomfortable and he made a half-unconscious gesture towards his collar. In the end it would be either the pier, or life as a living-dead man, like Olson had been. A marionette.
Now he wondered if Hart was after anybody else on the committee and if not, why not? What was so special about himself?
“Nice day today, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his seat companion. A middle-aged woman, around forty-five or fifty, with graying hair and a face that wore its troubles like other women wore their lipstick. He grunted. She talked on in a sweet, determined voice.
“You get on at Brockton? That’s a real nice town. Jess does his banking there. We’ve got a little farm not too far away. Do right well, though since we’re country folks, we don’t need much.” She glanced sharply at him. “Were you in the service?”
“For a few years.”
She opened her purse and dug down among the wadded handkerchiefs and the keys and the compact that leaked powder. The photograph she came up with was
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