the rail, held on, and curled their bodies, as sleek and black as bull seals. Without a word they went over, piercing the skin of the water and disappearing.
'Pacific Division rookies,' said Milo. 'Macho surfers.' We were standing on the bow of Radovic's boat, a fifteen-year-old Chris Craft labelled Sweet Vengeance in chipped gilt script, its fibreglass dull and scarred, its sloping deck caked with fish scales, grime, and black algae and badly in need of repair. The deck fixtures had been dismantled. Some hadn't been replaced. A fisherman's chair lay on its side. Several bolts had rolled into a comer. A rotting ribbon of kelp floated in a deepening pool of muddy water.
The door to the cabin had been left open, revealing a cramped interior made claustrophobic by jumbled clots of clothing and stacks of cartons. The boat had been taken apart.
'Looks as if the Braille people were thorough,' I said.
'Oh, yeah,' said Milo. 'Dogs and all.' He pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, and looked down at the water. Suddenly a face slap of wind whipped up the waves, and the boat lurched. Both of us grabbed the rail for support. The deck was slimy-slick, and I had to struggle to keep standing. Milo's feet slid out from under him, and his knees gave way. A fall looked inevitable, but he stiffened, put his weight on his heels, and fought to remain upright. When the wind died down, he was swearing and his face had started to turn green.
'Terra firma,' he said weakly. 'Before I heave my chowder.'
We walked off the boat gingerly and waited on the dock, wet but stable. Milo breathed deeply and stared out at the angry harbour. Forty-foot craft bobbled like bathtub toys. His complexion remained pallid, tinted with olive.
'You okay?'
He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, and shook his head.
'Motion sickness. Had it since I was a kid. Lost my sea legs the moment we climbed aboard. That last roll was the final straw.'
'What about Dramamine?'
'Dramamine makes it worse.'
'There are patches you can stick behind your ear. Laced with scopolamine.'
'Very funny.'
'No, I'm serious. Anticholinergics are great gastric relaxants. It's one of their legitimate uses.'
'I'll pass.'
A moment later:
'Are those patches prescription or over-the-counter?'
'Prescription. But you can get anticholinergics over the counter, if that's what you're asking - sleep remedies and decongestants.'
'Could you hoard enough over-the-counter stuff to poison someone?'
'I doubt it. There are other ingredients in the pills, many of them in much higher concentrations. Like adrenaline in decongestants. Too much of it, and the heart gives out. A hoard with enough anticholinergic to cause psychosis would be so loaded with adrenaline it would kill the victim first. And even if you knew enough chemistry to extract what you wanted, it wouldn't give you the desired effect. Jamey showed a progression of symptoms that varied over time: He was drowsy when that was called for, agitated on cue. We're talking about a manufactured psychosis, Milo. Custom-tailored to fit the needs of the poisoner. Unadulterated atropine or scopolamine couldn't be counted on to give you that much control. If he was poisoned, it was with weird stuff. In combinations.'
' Designer drugs.'
'Exactly.'
He turned up his collar and began rocking on his heels. I noticed that his colour had returned: the power of intellectual distraction. After several silent minutes he said:
'I'm going back to the car, try County again. The resident I spoke to sounded sharp, but I want to connect with the head guy.'
He walked away with long, purposeful strides, leaving me alone on the wharf. A hundred feet away was a marine filling station with a minimarket just beyond the pumps. I bought bad coffee and a glazed doughnut, stepped under an awning, and sipped and ate as I watched a big sparkling yacht fill its tanks. Twenty minutes later Milo returned, notepad in hand. He looked at Sweet Vengeance.
'Nothing.'
'Not yet. How's Jamey doing?'
'Still stuporous. It was a serious concussion. There doesn't seem to be any major brain damage, but it's too early to tell. Vis-a-vis poisoning, the Woodwork's still at the lab, should be back in a couple of hours. I asked them to rush it, but apparently it takes time for technical reasons. The guy in charge - neurologist named Platt, sounds very on top of things - was pretty sceptical about the whole idea of atropine psychosis. Said the few cases he'd seen were Parkinson's patients, and even those were rare because they use different drugs now. He'd never heard of its being done deliberately. But he also said that if the tests do come out positive, they've got something that can pull him out of it relatively quickly.'
He raised the notepad, shielded it from the rain, and read:
'Antilirium. It unblocks the damage done by atropine and cleans up the nerve endings. But it's strong stuff in its own right, and the kid's pretty beat-up to risk it without chemical confirmation. For now, they're putting him on unofficial detox. The only visitors have been Souza and the aunt and uncle; Mainwaring hasn't been there for four or five days. They're trying to keep an eye out without letting on and haven't seen anything fishy, but if the stuffs that absorbable, Platt admitted it could be slipping in anyway. He said the best they can do in the meantime is log meticulously and keep taking blood. He's handling all the kid's medication personally.'
He looked at his watch. 'What's it been, forty minutes?'
'Closer to half an hour.'
'Ugly out there. They say sharks like this kind of weather. Gets the predatory juices flowing.'
'They had enough air for at least an hour. More, if they're as experienced as they seemed.'
'Oh, they're experienced all right. Hansen - the one with the big chin - moonlights as a scuba instructor. Steve Pepper was an all-Hawaii surfing champion. I'm glad they did it, but they're still nuts to go out there.' He pushed a shock of hair out of his face. 'The impetuousness of youth, huh? I think I had it once but can't remember that far back. Speaking of which, can your little friend Jennifer be counted on to keep quiet about all this?'
'Absolutely. It started out for her as an intellectual lark combined with real compassion for Jamey, but when reality sank in, she was pretty scared.'
'Hope she stays that way. Because if it turns out to be poisoning, we are dealing with heavy-duty evil.'
'I impressed that on her.'
The surface of the water broke with a splash. One head, then another, appeared. Masks were pushed back; mouths, thrown open.
'Yo! Sarge!'
'We got it, sir!'
The divers hoisted themselves on deck, pulled off their flippers, and leaped nimbly off the boat. Hansen handed something to Milo.
'The hull hatch was soldered shut,' he said, 'so we had to pry it off, which took awhile 'cause one of the screwdrivers snapped. But once we did, it was a piece of cake. Steve stuck his hand in, and bingo. It was wedged about six inches up, positioned so the strainer was still open. Looks like the plastic kept it dry.'
Milo inspected the package in his hands. The book appeared intact, swaddled in layers of clear Teflon bags that had been heatsealed. The word Diary, scrawled in lavender, was visible through the plastic.
'Excellent work, gentlemen. I'm going to notify your watch commander. In writing.'
Both men grinned.
'Anytime, Sarge,' said Pepper, teeth chattering. Hansen slapped him on the back.
'Now go get warmed up.'
'Yes, sir.'
They jogged off.
'Come on,' said Milo. 'I want the lab to look at this. Then we'll find a quiet place to read.'
A BORED-looking desk sergeant opened the door of the interrogation room and told Milo he had a call. He left to take it, and I picked up the black book and started to read.
