Tomlinson said, "Just because Ted had some emotional problems when he was younger, it doesn't mean he's crazy now. I myself spent a year or so in, well, let's just say a confined, safe environment."
I looked at him sharply. "You ever murder anyone?"
In his expression, I could see the question jolt him; could see that it hurt. He said softly, "I think you know the answer to that. I think you've known for a while."
We were in the upstairs apartment, and I was packing. I was also hitting the redial button on the phone, trying to contact Detective Parrish, trying to warn Nora.
It was a little after eight a.m.
Parrish didn't answer. I got an infuriating recording when I dialed Nora: "The Cellular-One customer you have called is unavailable or has traveled outside the coverage area…"
I said, "Once again, I don't know what you're talking about."
He ignored the evasion, looking at me. "There are things I've done in my life that I will regret for eternity. There is no absolution. None. Not from outside or from within. Some things make me wince, others make me want to cry. I try to make up for those sins as best I can."
"Ted Bauerstock doesn't strike me as the crying type. Delia and Nora need to get the hell out of there. If I can't get Parrish in the next twenty minutes or so, I'm leaving. I'll have to go by boat."
"You already spoke to the Sheriff's Department?"
"The woman on the desk treated me like a crank. Mr. Bauerstock is dangerous? She laughed at me."
The apartment's dining table was made of glass and chrome. On it was a fax I'd found tacked to my door when I came up the steps from the fueling dock. It was from Dieter Rasmussen. At the top of the first page he used precise block letters to note: This is consistent with the man in question.
There were four pages. Some parts were more telling than others:
Date: (Confidential) Place: St. Elizabeth's Hospital Fargo, ND
This is a report of a psychiatric observation requested by the sole parent of padent 05715 and approved by Circuit Court Judge Amos Johnsleur. The examiner is the head of a team of psychiatrists that has examined the patient over a four-week period. All procedures were videotaped.
The patient is an adolescent male who is 17 years old. He is 75 inches tall and weighs 185 pounds…
… The patient also underwent several batteries of psychological examinations including Rorschach and Meyers-Briggs tests. An abnormality was found in the EEG, the PET scans and the CAT scans.
Tests confirmed a distinct abnormality in the right amygdala portion of the subject's brain. Studies showed that the patient's amygdala did not respond to a series of actual news photographs of individuals who were about to be shot or burned or who were falling. Victims included children and women. This battery of photographs produces marked electric activity in the amygdala of normal subjects. Perhaps because his intellect was measured 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 hundreds of birds, black scissor shapes ascending and turning, creating their own slow tornado.
For some reason, an unexpected voice came into my mind: I told you about her eyes, too, Dad! They're amber, the color of a cat's eyes.
Ted Bauerstock speaking of Nora.
I touched the boat into gear, and shoved the throtde forward…
Twenty-three
You tell Mr. Bauerstock or Ted, either one. You tell them Detective Parrish is here with Doctor Ford for the second time, and we ain't waitin' no longer. I think they'll invite us right on in."
We were sitting in Parrish's unmarked squad car, a white Ford, a shotgun racked in a standup clip between us. I'd met Parrish at Port of the Islands, then tied my skiff at a public access dock a quarter mile or so from the guardhouse where we now sat. The first time we'd pulled up, the guard had told us that Mr. Bauerstock was in an important meeting, no way he could see us, but if we came back at three, that'd be fine.
I found the hour delay maddening, but Parrish was right when he said, "What you want me to do, bust in there without a warrant, get us arrested for trespassing?"
Now we were at the gate for a second time.
The guard shelter was a single roofed room, common to most gated communities. The only difference was, this narrow road could be sealed off by an electronic, steel-mesh gate, surveillance cameras positioned on galvanized posts high above.
The guard, in his gray uniform, went into the room, picked up the phone, then came back out carrying a handheld metal detector. "You can go in, but you got to leave your weapons here. It's an insurance thing, liability."
Parrish chuckled, said, "Liability? I'm a sworn officer of the law. You think I'm handing over my weapons, you can kiss my black ass." He was wearing rumpled brown slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He didn't look like a cop.
The guard didn't seem to know what to do for a moment. "Then I need to see some identification." When he'd handed Parrish's billfold back, he said, "What about the other gende-man? Is he a police officer, too?"
Parrish slapped the steering wheel. 'Jee-sus Christ!" Looked at me. "Ford, you ain't carrying a weapon are you?"
Actually, I was-the little Colt I'd taken from Rossi. I had it in the briefcase with the totem. Both were too valuable to leave on a boat. But I said, "Why would I need a weapon when I'm hanging out with a cop?" hoping the guard wouldn't ask to search me.
He didn't.
We drove a quarter mile through sawgrass and sabal palms, the road snaking back and forth. Then there was high pasture land, Brahma cattle grazing, everything industrially fenced. Then much higher fencing, where I was surprised to see exotic animals, mostly African. There were ostriches, several water buffalo dozing in the mud, some kind of delicate horned animal, kudus, maybe. Off by themselves, a pack of hyenas sat beneath a banyan tree, staring at us with their telescopic eyes, testing our odor with their noses. No state is infested with more dangerous exotic feral species, plant and animal, than Florida. Bauerstock, apparently, was trying to contribute his share.
Parrish said, "This is what I heard about the man. He like to go big game hunting, but he does it on his own property. Never invites guests over, just does it all by himself. That's probably why they got the thing about guns back at the gate. Delivery people come in here and take potshots at his lions and shit."
Now I could see the house, though at first I thought it was some kind of manufacturing plant. It had the size and geometric harshness; a massive square building of stucco so gray that I wondered if the psilocybin mushrooms were still affecting my color perception.
Truth was, they probably were.
"No one ever gonna call the big man tasteful. That fucking thing looks like a shopping mall."
Except for the red tile roof, the porch, the black Humvee sitting outside the five-car garage, it did, too. A shopping mall is exactly what the Bauerstock home resembled. Some careful landscaping; the same sanidzed open space, lots of galvanized light poles and a concrete blockhouse down by the river where there was a dock. The main house sat atop a massive mound that had been cleared and sodded; several acres of Bermuda grass bolted down with a sprinkler system.
We rounded a final curve and Parrish said, "Well, looky, looky there. All our eggs in one basket. Two white ones, one great big brown one. Man, am I looking forward to this!"
There was a pavilion of tile and wood on the shore of a small lake. The lake was as round as a moon crater, the water inside a stunning purple rimmed with green: a cenote, fed by an underground river. Sitting at a table beneath the pavilion w
ere three men: Ivan Bauerstock, Ted Bauerstock and B. J. Buster. They were wearing swimsuits and robes, except for Buster, who was letting his muscles show.
By the time Parrish parked and we were getting out, Ted was already at the car, a big smile on his face, hand outstretched. I heard him say, "You just missed the girls. Nora and Delia, they headed back to the Keys not half an hour ago!"
I stared at him until he took his hand away. I said to him, "We need to have a little chat, Teddy."
I noticed that Buster was shepherding my movements. He always kept himself between me and his two employers. He did it quiedy, trying not to draw attention, but there was no doubt what he was doing. I hadn't realized how huge the man was until I was next to him. Not tall, but double-wide from his hands to his head, trapezius muscles pyramiding up to his tiny ears.
Now he sat between Ted and myself at a glass-topped table beneath the pavilion, Ivan Bauerstock and Parrish across from us. Bauerstock in his white robe, silver hair darker because it was wet; his metallic eyes stoic, showing nothing as Parrish lighted the cigar he'd been offered. Parrish, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself.
In the center of the table was the little tape recorder, everyone staring at it but Ted, who seemed bored. He kept looking out toward the line of trees, which marked the river bank where the Hinckley was moored. He did a lot of heavy sighing, too, showing his impatience.
We all listened to the voice of Frank Rossi say:
Then I realized the girl was tied to a rope. It was tied around her neck, and Bauerstock was holding her arms down, using his weight. What he was doing was killing her. And he did. He murdered the teenage girl, then he started to play with her a little bit. Reminded me of a cat. But then his old man come along and stopped him.
Ivan reached, punched off the recorder with a long finger as Ted began to laugh.
I heard the first warning sounds of anger roaring deep within me as I said, "You think that's funny?"
"Dr. Ford, Detective Parrish, let's be serious. You really believe that old drunk's story? My father and I, we tried to save Dorothy. I liked her. You know what it is, fellas? It's like a few years back, that housewife accused my father's political friend, you know who I'm talking about; she accused this very great man of rape. People can say anything. We're easy targets, for God's sake." He began to laugh again. "We all know he didn't do it, and now I'm in the same situation."
Ten thousand isles df-7 Page 20
