to fingerprint patterns to footprint similarities. Now stir in something negative.
“If you had the neural structure we're talking about with monozygotic twins, the chromosomes, the RNA, everything is dictating identical forensics, barring as I said birth accident, and the environmental influences, you have the perfect background for a telepathic potential to exist.'
“How does one manipulate over the other?'
“That's the part nobody can really define. Through charisma, strength, that quirk that makes one's desire to dominate more emphasized, through whatever channel of energy the one-half of the same-egg twin can quite literally influence the thought patterns of the other, weaker half. It's a forcing-through of information. Very rare and as I told you one of the spooky things we've learned about the identical criminally psychotic twins. But the interaction is there. It's fact, not fancy.'
“You said a birth accident. What would that do? Give me a scenario where the birth accident or the environmental situation might create a mass murderer.'
“There's a thousand ways. A very plausible one would be anoxia. If one of the single-ovum identicals had a very brief cutoff, not long enough for complete brain impairment, but for just that split second necessary to accomplish it, the one might be missing something that he or she would have had with the proper oxygen supply to the brain—and just that moment's damage wiped it out.'
“What would that something be?'
“A conscience,” he said quietly—the line perfect all the way from Switzerland to Dallas, not a whisper of noise.
“Would that also explain sexual anomaly such as one finds in an exhibitionist?'
“Not so likely. Perversion, inversion, whatever—it all comes from the pleasure thing. Learned pleasure. It felt good before this way let's do it again. Something learned in childhood. You tried on your mother's dress and loved it. The smell of the perfume. The feel of the silk as you wobbled about in her high heels. Remembered pleasure in tandem with guilt. An extremely intricate interweaving.'
“The anoxia thing, or whatever caused one of the two twins to want to dominate over the other, and the reverse ... How would that manifest itself in the individual? Are there signs? Is there a profile of the type of aggressive, strong, criminally psychotic type twin we've been talking about? What can I look for?'
“Obviously you know who he is, the question you've got to resolve is, What he is? Or what SHE is if you have twin sisters. In your case, the Hackabees, you look to the successful, influential brother. If he's a loner, if he was a hyper-type kid, or if you can still see some of those signals, if he's got some unusual pressure valves—'
“Like flying ultra-light planes, hang-gliding, things like that?'
“Sure. Real loner personality. Manipulative. You'll at least know that you're dealing with a very dangerous breed of cat.'
“I've gotta ask you one question. What about...” And Jack mentioned the name of an infamous mass killer whom he only knew from print and television.
The doctor laughed wildly and said, “He's exactly where he should be—death row.'
“That's what I heard.'
“Yeah. That's the most dangerous son of a bitch I've ever come anywhere near. They need to put him to sleep as soon as possible. Like your killer or killers there, not an ounce of conscience in him. Totally without even a flicker of remorse.'
Eichord apologized for taking up so much time and then as an afterthought he mentioned a drug and asked him, “Have you heard about this?'
“I guess so'—he chuckled again—'since I was on the team that tested it for the company.'
“Sorry. I didn't realize. But please, what's your off-the-record opinion of it insofar as a drug-induced or - supplemented hypnotic situation might be made use of? Any general feelings?'
“Not an easy question. The whole area of narcoanalysis for criminal interrogation is back in another Twilight Zone category. We started out back in the LSD-25, Mescaline years. My feeling is that...” And a tide of words and phrases like “diencephalic and cortical anesthetization” and “id and superego” and “scopolamine hydrobromide” rose, and it kept rising and Jack was dogpaddling for his canoe by the time the conversation drew to an end. And praying it didn't have a hole in the bottom.
The fields were barren now and this low he could enjoy them and savor their emptiness. Cattle ranches. Some farmland. Big, open pastures fenced by countless miles of barbed wire. It was cold and he pulled the face mask down at the top so only his eyes were visible. He wore insulated, long underwear tucked into his flying boots, two pairs of thermal socks on his feet. Black leather pants. Woolen turtleneck under his black leather jacket, which he'd had custom made for him without the requisite zillion zippers. Lined gloves. Ski mask. The icy cold still reached through and chilled him and he welcomed it. It kept him alert. Things were so easy for him always. He liked anything that would zing that a bit—challenge him—keep him on edge. He enjoyed the cold.
He always loved her but especially on days like this. She was his woman and he thought of it as feminine. And on days like this; cold, metallic, the white of the clouds so clean, the sky blue-gray like gunmetal, strapped close to her and touching her controls so gently, feeling the source of her power and movement between his legs, feet spread on her pedals, kissed by the unforgiving wind and frigidity, she was thoroughly his lady.
He understood how a city could be your woman. Or how you could love a sailboat. But landlocked “legs” had no idea what a full-blown, true, wild love affair was. They were incomplete. Up here in the arms of your lady—that's where the freedom was. This is what life was all about—up above the dirt and the mundane lives of the prosaic and pitiful pedestrian.
There was a beautiful hawk soaring to the west and he banked gently so he could watch its patterns, and she carried him majestically over the fields and ribbon of highway below, so far above the filth and ordinariness of the homes where people eked out their pathetic existences, and he thought of the two of them as enjoying the freedom of the hawk, an elitist thing, the soaring, unfettered, untouchable open kingdom of flight.
Cold and clean. The cars and houses but passing blights on the landscape. He didn't give his dwindling gas supply a second thought. Took his time enjoying the soaring, spread-winged hawk as it dived above the rodents so far below, thinking how much he had in common with the diurnal predator. He stayed far enough above the bird that it did not immediately seek to escape the larger black dacron thing that soared royally above it.
Soon the hawk's survival instincts kicked in and something, some sixth sense, told the creature that it should flee, pick a more propitious dinner-table field where human eyes were not observing, and it soared then cut back and slid gracefully out of sight and camouflaged itself in the dark stand of tall trees. He understood about camouflage. It was an art and a science to which he was, to understate it, an ardent and lifelong devotee. He admired the way nature had provided a protective escape route for the wonderfully graceful bird.
It was icy cold. Windy. Down below he saw a pond and a collection of ducks seeking shelter from the wind under a bridge, feeding calmly in the midst of a herd of black Angus. As he flew overhead, the ducks wisely waddled toward the bridge's center, instinctively warned of a sudden, approaching danger. He admired the lessons to be learned from hawk and ducks. He felt some affinity for birds, as he did for fish.
He let himself almost play her out of juice and then he headed for an open field near a place he'd seen a ways back. The field was beside a highway that adjoined a county road, and he'd seen the pumps out in front of a small service station. He found the field and it was long and open so he allowed himself the luxury of a gentle and hawklike landing approach, letting the ultra-light ease itself down closer and closer to the soil until finally, bump, the wheels gently touched and he eased her on down, taxiing perfectly across the fairly level ground.
He took a small container and unstrapped himself, extricating his six-feet-plus from the leather bucket seat and killing her engine. He glanced at his watch as he sprinted across the road to the gas station. Helped himself to one of the regular pumps. Exchanged a few faked amenities with some moron who came out to investigate the stranger helping himself to the full-service-aisle gas, paid for his fuel, and was back filling her tank, adding quicksilver, which she preferred to oil, and checking his autopilot.
He had devised the autopilot himself. Sometime, he was concerned, the feelings might hit him while he was aloft. The few times he'd felt anything he'd been able to control it and nothing had ever happened, but he knew how unpredictable and how sudden the feelings could hit. When they came over him he wanted to make sure he would not overcontrol his ultra-light and stall her before he could check himself, and he'd devised an autopilot by utilizing a
