I said, "I've got a boat."
"I know. But they moved it so no one would become suspicious. The black man moved it there."
She gestured toward the river.
I said, "You're certain there's not a gun around? The old man's a hunter. If he keeps the guns locked, I could break in. Just show me where he keeps them."
She was shaking her head. Her expression said, Impossible. "He locks them in a steel safe. The safe is one whole wall of his study. It has a knob that clicks. Only he knows the way in."
What was I going to do? Finding them wouldn't be enough. I'd have to stop them. There was one other possibility. I said, "What about chemicals? Do you have a gardener's shed? A maintenance shed? The sort of place they would store gasoline, poisons, that sort of thing."
"If you want to poison them, why not use the drunken potion?"
"That's not exactly what I have in mind. Can you show me?"
I followed her across the lawn to a concrete building the size of a garage. I had to use a brick to smash the lock off. I flipped the light switch and stepped into stale air that smelled of fertilizer and paint. I began to lift cans and jars from the shelves, looking at labels. It is no longer true that it is easy to make a bomb from common household products. However, it is very easy to make a lethal variety of explosives from chemicals and propellants purchased legally from a garden supply store. On the shelves, I found a particular mix of nitrate fertilizer, a bottle of ammonia, plus a very common kind of acid used for cleaning metals. I found a large thermometer, the mercury still in it. I found a botde of ethyl alcohol, a box of coarse salt and a squirt bottle full of soap. There was a five-gallon can of gasoline, a couple of kerosene railroad lamps and several Mason jars that probably once held paint thinner.
It was no longer a question of, could I mix together an effective explosive? The question was, what kind of explosive did I choose to make? And which would take the least amount of time? Explosives come in three basic forms: high-order explosives which detonate, low-order explosives which burn, and primers, which may do both. Nearly all combust so rapidly that large volumes of air are displaced faster than the speed of sound, and so a sonic boom occurs.
I wanted the boom. Hopefully enough to shatter the windows on a fast-moving yacht. Maybe even a little fire. And it had to be an impact explosive because I didn't want to have to mess with lighting a wick in the wind, on a moving boat.
To the woman, I said, "Go to the house and bring me a botde of iodine and a box of baking soda. Hurry! And a bucket of ice. Don't forget the ice." I'd already placed three Mason jars by the bag of fertilizer on a bench next to the acid.
"Have you cut yourself? I'll bring a first-aid kit."
I touched my ear. I was still bleeding a little, but that's not why I needed the iodine. I said, "A first-aid kit might come in handy, too."
I flew through a blur of mangrove switchbacks; twisting hedges of green that created ponds and creeks, one linked to another through a hundred miles of wilderness. The words of the old woman kept echoing in my head: He likes to use his women before he eats their souls.
In his note, Dieter Rasmussen had warned of human anomalies. Bad genes, flawed brains. Remorseless liars, strengthened by their own pathology, who were destined for success.
Teddy Bauerstock would do very well in Tallahassee. Tomlinson had said it and believed it-all his instincts, his intuition demonstrably wrong. So had Delia, one of the women Bauerstock had killed. So had everyone else the man had ever met, probably.
But he had not fooled me.
I found strange comfort in that. Inexplicably, that small triumph brought the face of Dorothy Copeland once again to memory. A lovely face with a mild, wistful smile, silken hair hanging down.
Then she was gone, a momentary nexus left in my wake.
The Hinckley had about a half-hour headstart on me. I had to catch them before they got near civilization. I had to get their yacht stopped in a place where no one could see what I was going to do. My boat was more than twice as fast, true, but, once I got into the Gulf, the growing waves would neutralize that advantage.
So I would stay in the backcountry just as long as I could. I'd gain a lot of time on them because Ted or Ivan-whoever was running the boat-had almost certainly taken the much longer route, out the channel past Panther Key, into open water. No one is going to run a half-million dollar vessel through the unmarked backcountry of the Ten Thousand Islands, even if it doesn't draw much water. The region is too remote; has too many reefs of oyster and rock. Make the wrong turn, run aground hard enough, and you could be stranded for days before another vessel happened by. Even with a cell phone or a VHF radio, help is hours away.
No, Bauerstock wouldn't risk that. Particularly with a hurricane bearing down. That's what I told myself, anyway.
As I drove, I turned the VHF radio volume full on and switched to Weather Channel 3. Heard that Hurricane Charles had already slipped through the Yucatan Channel, and was being levered toward the Florida coast by an Arctic high-pressure ridge. The ridge was steering the storm like rails beneath a freight train. Predicted landfall was somewhere between Naples and Marco.
The computerized voice told me, "… two hundred and ten miles off Marco Island, the air temperature is seventy-six degrees, water temperature eighty-two degrees, wave heights unavailable. National Hurricane Center at Miami places the eye of Hurricane Charles… slighdy north of the Tropic of Cancer, moving northeasterly at fifteen knots… expected to make landfall at approximately noon tomorrow. Voluntary evacuation is urged for residents of all barrier islands, Siesta Key to Marco Island, Goodland and neighboring areas. A mandatory evacuation notice may be issued for Marco Island, Everglades City and Chokoloskee. Winds have been measured at one-hundred-thirty knots and gusting stronger, barometric pressure at 27.50 and falling. Charles may be upgraded to a Category Five hurricane in the next advisory…"
I punched off the radio, feeling an irrational anger toward whoever the fool was who decided to replace a human weatherman with a digitized voice. The phonation was so badly coded that it sounded like a drunken polka king who'd been filching tranquilizers.
No, it had been a group decision, more likely. Individuals are rarely so misguided. Because the voice was difficult to understand, I hadn't been able to decipher the exact location of Charles, nor how many miles the storm still had to cover before it reached the coast. Computer profiteers like Ivan Bauerstock would've applauded the transition to something that was programmable. Maybe that's why it made me so mad…
I swung in close to Dismal Key: a ridge of black trees rimmed with swamp. Said a silent greeting to the old hermit who once lived in a shack on the high Indian mounds there, A1 Seeley.
A1 lived without phone, power or running water, just him and his little dog. He painted, he read books. He had a sharp intellect and an appreciation for the ironic. He loved to tell the story of a hermit colleague who came to Dismal Key determined to build a bomb shelter. He spent hours in the heat and mosquitoes digging through shell until he said, screw it, let global warfare do its worst. He was tired and in need of a beer.
Heading out to sea only hours in advance of a Category Five hurricane, A1 would have found that ironic, too. There was no place safer than the high mounds of his island.
I busted out of the mangrove gloom at Turtle Key and went pounding through whitecaps, steering toward a sunset horizon that was a firestorm of smoldering clouds and tangerine sky. Big, big seas and lots of wind. I banged my way toward Coon Key Light: an offshore tower built of metal and wood that marked the back entrance to Marco and then Naples.