at 160 on the Stanford-Binet Test, the subject was immediately aware of the proper response. He voiced compassion for the victims, even while his brain registered none…
… Commentary: The subject was also found to have very low levels of noradrenaline. Lack of noradrenaline causes under-arousal and is associated with predatory violence. It is also possible that some of this patient's behavior may have been shaped by trauma in his late infancy and by his nanny during childhood.
The subject claims that his earliest memory is that of watching his father choking his mother. Since the mother died from a self-inflicted gun wound when the subject was three, this incident may well be apocryphal.
Between the ages of three and fifteen, the subject was raised by a Colombian female who, the subject says, practiced shamanry or witchcraft. The subject is very resentful of his father's apparent sexual relationship with the woman. The subject does not admit it, but it seems likely that he also had sexual encounters with the woman.
This woman apparently shaped the subject's religious beliefs which have manifested themselves in a series of fixations. Fixation is often associated with religious fervor. The strangest of these, though, is that the subject maintains his 'power' through certain objects, and that it would 'strengthen his own soul' if he ate the eyes of certain animals, although he maintains he would never do this…
At the bottom of the final page, Dieter had written: 'Dr. Ford, The human brain is especially vulnerable to such defects. During the last 1.5 million years, it has tripled in size. Any organ that changes that rapidly is increasingly prone to genetic error. There will be more and more of these people, yet society allows their defecdve genes to be passed on through conjugal visits in prison!'
Now I put a small bag over my shoulder. 'Keep trying to call. I'm going to load the boat.'
'It's going to be rough out there.'
'I'll run backcountry, cut up through Whitewater Bay and the islands, hug the beach and stay in the lee. It won't be bad at all. The hurricane's still five or six hundred miles away.'
Tomlinson had already agreed to take my truck, drive up to Sanibel and board my windows. The Florida Keys were no longer in danger. I'd asked him to release my sharks just in case.
'Can you do me one more favor? Go down to the bar, ask around, see if you can borrow or buy some goggles. The kind the motorcycle guys wear.'
'Goggles?'
I went toward the door. 'Yeah, for the first time, I think I'll open the throtde. See what my boat can do.'
I idled beneath the bridge off Largo Sound, my Yamaha burbling like an alcohol dragster, then jumped to plane and was doing a spooky seventy miles an hour within seconds. By the time I hit The Boggies and crossed into Florida Bay, I was doing seventy-five; I could feel the squirrely, dancing feeling of air beneath the hull. The wind was gusting fifteen to twenty out of the southeast, piling water deep on the flats, so I ran a rhumb line course to Flamingo, not worried about bars or channels. I had to back off quite a bit because of the chop, especially in the open stretches, but I pushed it as hard as I could.
To the west and south were tentacles of rain suspended from thunderheads; a veil of squall to the north. I seemed to be at the very center of watery solitude, cloaked by the silence of my boat's velocity.
Hurricane Charles was pushing weather out ahead of it, flattening pressure obstacles, causing sea birds to cauldron over land. As a hurricane grows, it gathers momentum, sucking in smaller storms as it rotates, feeding on a sea vaporized by tropic heat. The increasing disparity between pressure inside and outside the eye causes it to rotate ever faster, discharging rain, lightning, tornado appendages, spinning like a dust devil in the wake of a delivery truck.
As I steered, I tried to still my fears for Delia and Nora by doing some mathematical calculations. It is an old trick. Our brains are segmented into halves. Primitive characteristics, such as emotion, are stored in the right hemisphere. Math is on the left. It is impossible to do math and be frightened at the same time.
Okay, so calculate the fastest estimated time of arrival for a storm traveling at thirteen knots that has to cover five to six hundred miles. A knot is 1.2 miles per hour, so convert thirteen knots and you've got… a little over fifteen miles per hour. Therefore, in a very worst case and unlikely scenario, Charles could travel one hundred fifty miles in ten hours, five hundred miles in a little over thirty hours.
But storms rarely travel straight lines. They slow down, they stall, they regather their strength over water, lose strength over land. This one would probably do what most do: bang back and forth between pressure ridges and plow ashore somewhere between Pensacola and New Orleans.
When I slowed at Flamingo, the rain finally caught me: a silver torrent with droplets that stung like pellets from an air rifle. In such a storm, you wear a foul weather jacket not to stay dry, but to avoid contusions. Even with goggles down, I couldn't see. So I pulled into temporary dockage at the National Park Marina, used the bathroom, dropped coins into the pay phone and heard, 'The Cellular-One customer you have called is unavailable or has traveled outside the coverage area…'
'Damn it!'
Dropped in more coins and heard, 'Gary Parrish speaking. Calling me at home, on my day off, this better be good.'
Detective Parrish said, 'You got a tape of who saying what?'
I repeated myself.
'Holy shit, man, you serious. Teddy Bauerstock, I thought he was one of the good ones. You sure about this, Ford? Goddamn it, you better be sure 'cause it'll be your head and my job if you're not. How you know Rossi wasn't lying, making up all that shit?'
'Take my word for it. Rossi was in no position to lie.'
'Oh goddamn, that's just great. You beat another confession outta someone. That ain't gonna stand up in no court.'
'I never expected it to. You're the cavalry, I'm just the messenger. Have the right people listen to the tape, you'll come up with the evidence. All I care about now is making sure Nora and Delia are safe. You got Nora's message, right?'
'Yeah, man. Couldn't figure out why she was laying all the information on, now I see. I don't care how crazy Teddy is, he knows she's got the cops involved, he's bound to be a good boy.'
'Oh, he's crazy. Wait till you hear the tape.'
Parrish began to chuckle, 'I hope to hell you made more'n one copy. Something happen to you, man, I'm gonna miss out on a lot of fun. Arrest Teddy Bauerstock for a fifteen-year-old murder, hot damn!'
'Don't worry, I made several.' I had, too. Tomlinson had one copy, and I'd addressed two to myself at Dinkin's Bay, askingjack at the Mandalay to mail the envelope. 'You want, I'll meet you at Port of the Islands; we can get into Bauer-stock's ranch by boat. Go the back way.'
'The back way? That back-way, back-a-the-bus shit went out with Kennedy, man. I'll meet you at Port of the Islands, but we'll take my squad car. Go in with the blue lights flashing, you want. One more thing, Ford-where's Rossi? He's okay, isn't he? You didn't kill him. I don't want to have to arrest you, too. But I would. Don't doubt it.'
'Last time I saw Frank Rossi, he was a couple miles from Key Largo, walking. He looked fine. But I think the smart thing to do would be drive into the Bauerstock ranch, make sure the women are okay, then back way off. Way off. Use the tape to build a case, take your time, depose the right people, then nail him.'
'You think even a cop can drive onto their estate without reason? That man, he's famous for being a hermit. Nobody goes onto his property 'less he wants 'em.'
'I want to do things right, that's all.'
'Bullshit, man. You just gave me probable cause. We need to march in there, catch the rich man when his guard's down. Make Teddy listen to the tape, look in his eyes before his daddy's attorneys get involved. That's what really screws things up, a killer who hides behind his attorney. 'Member my brother O. J.? Both of us hear what Teddy has to say, we got two witnesses ready to testify in court. You and me. Rattle the rich boy's cage, see what hits the floor.
The rain had slowed; storm clouds had created a corridor of light to the west. I said, 'Know what, Gary? You may be right.'
I stopped only once before I ran the channel past Panther Key into the Ten Thousand Islands and Faka Union Canal. It was off Lostman's River, a confluence of oyster reefs, mangroves, dark water. I sat there idling in the white storm light, watching a spiral of frigate birds circling the deserted ranger station. A frigate bird is prehistoric in design; it has the reptilian aerodynamics of a pterodactyl, and the long rubbery wings of a bat. There were
