“And perhaps the most interesting anomaly, here Harod generates a theta rhythm. It is unmistakable. Here your hippocampus responded with an identical theta rhythm while the neocortical EEG flattened. Natalie, this theta rhythm phenomenon is well documented in rabbits, rats, and so forth during species-specific activities— such as aggression and dominance displays— but never in a primate!”
“Are you saying I had the brain of a rat?” said Natalie. It was a weak joke and did not stop her from wanting to cry.
“Somehow Harod . . . and presumably the others . . . generates this exceptional theta rhythm activity in both his own hippocampus and that of his victim,” Saul said half to himself. He had not noticed Natalie’s attempt at humor. “The sympathetic effect on your brain was to flatten neocortical activity while generating an artificial REM state. You received sensory input but could not act on it. Harod could. Incredible. This . . .” He pointed to a sudden flattening of the squiggles on her chart “. . . is precisely where the nerve toxins in the tranquilizer dart take effect. Notice the lack of reciprocity on his chart. What ever he willed evidently could be transmitted to neurochemical commands in your body, but what you experienced was only vicariously transmitted to Harod. He felt no more of your pain or paralysis than one would feel in a dream. Here, forty-eight seconds later, is when I injected him with the Amatyl-Pentothal mixture.” Saul showed her where the various lines of brain wave functions fell out of their frenzied state. “God, what I would give to have him somewhere for a month with CAT-scan equipment.”
“Saul, what if I . . . what if he does reestablish control over me?”
Saul adjusted his glasses. “I’ll know it at once, even if I’m not watching the readouts. I’ve reprogrammed the computer alarm to go off at first sign of that erratic activity of his hippocampus, the sudden drop in either of your alpha wave patterns, or at the appearance of the theta rhythm.”
“Yes,” said Natalie and took a breath, “but what will you do then?”
“We’ll run the time-distance studies as planned,” said Saul. “All of the data channels should be clear at twenty-five miles if we use the transmitter Jack bought.”
“But what if he can do it at a hundred miles, a thousand?” Natalie strained to keep her voice calm. She wanted to scream, what if he never lets me go? She felt as if he had agreed to a medical experiment where some loathsome parasite had been allowed to grow inside her body.
Saul took her hand. “Twenty-five miles is all we need to know at this time. If it comes to that, we’ll just return and I’ll put him under again. We know that he cannot control you when he is unconscious.”
“He never could again if he was dead,” said Natalie.
Saul nodded and squeezed her hand. “He’s awake now. We’ll wait forty-five minutes and if he makes no attempt at seizing you, you can get up. I personally do not believe our Mr. Harod can do it. What ever the source of our monsters’ powers, all preliminary indications suggest that Anthony Harod is a very minor monster indeed.” He went to the sink, brought back a cup of water, and held Natalie’s head up while she drank it.
“Saul . . . after you release me, you’re still going to have the computer alarm hooked up and you’ll keep the dart gun, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Saul. “As long as we have this viper in the house, we will keep him in his cage.”
“Second interrogation of Anthony Harod. Friday, April twenty-fourth, 1981 . . . seven twenty-three P.M. Subject currently injected with Sodium Pentothal and Meliritin-C. Data also available on videotape, EEG readout, polygraph, and bio-sensor channels.
“Tony, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel?”
“OK Funny.”
“Tony, when were you born?”
“Huh?”
“When were you born?”
“October seventeenth.”
“What year, Tony?”
“Uh . . . 1944.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Where did you grow up, Tony?”
“Chicago.”
“When was the first time you knew you had the power, Tony?”
“What power?”
“Your ability to control people’s actions.”
“Oh.”
“When was the first time, Tony?”
“Uh . . . when my aunt told me I had to go to bed. I didn’t want to. I made her say it was all right for me to stay up.”
“How old were you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old do you think you were, Tony?”
“Six.”
“Where were your parents?”
“My daddy was dead. He killed himself when I was four.”
“Where was your mother?”
“She didn’t want me. She was mad at me. She gave me to Auntie.”
“Why didn’t she want you?”
“She said it was my fault.”
“What was your fault?”
“Daddy dying.”
“Why did she think that?”
“Because Daddy hit me . . . he hurt me . . . he hurt me right before he jumped.”
“Jumped? From a window?”
“Yeah. We lived way high up on the third floor. Daddy hit one of those fences with the spikes on it.”
“Did your father hit you often, Tony?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Now I do.”
“Do you remember why he hit you on the night he killed himself?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about it, Tony.”
“I got scared. I was sleeping in the front room where the big closet was and the closet was dark. I woke up and I was scared. I went into Mommy’s room like I always did, only Daddy was there. He wasn’t usually there because he sold things and had to be gone all the time. Only he was there this time and he was hurting Mommy.”
“How was he hurting her?”
“He was on top of her and he didn’t have any clothes on and he was hurting her.”
“And what did you do, Tony?”
“I cried and yelled at him to stop.”
“Did you do anything else?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What happened next, Tony?”
“Daddy . . . stopped. He looked funny. He took me in the living room and hit me with his belt. He hit me real hard. Mommy told him to stop but he kept hitting me. It hurt bad.”
“And did you make him stop?”
“No!”
“What happened next, Tony?”
“Daddy quit hitting me all of a sudden. He held his head and sort of walked funny. He looked at Mommy. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was wearing Daddy’s flannel robe. She used to wear that when he was gone because it was warmer than hers. Then Daddy went to the window and fell through it.”
“The window was closed?”
“Yeah. It was real cold out. The fence was new. The landlord had just put it up right before Thanksgiving.”
“And how soon after that did you go to live with your aunt, Tony?”
“Two weeks.”
“And why did you think your mother was angry at you?”
“She told me.”
“That she was angry?”
“That I’d hurt Daddy.”
“By making him jump?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you make him jump, Tony?”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Then how did your mother know you could make people do things?”
“I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do, Tony. Think back. Are you sure the time you made your aunt let you stay up late was the first time you ever controlled someone?”
“Yes!”
“Are you certain, Tony?”
“Yes!”
“Then why did your mother think you could do such a thing, Tony?”
> “Because she could!”
“Your mother could control people?”
“Mommy did. She always did. She made me sit on the potty when I was too little. She made me not cry when I wanted to. She made Daddy do things for her when he was there so he kept going away. She did it!”
“She made him jump that night?”
“No. She made me make him jump.”
“Third interrogation of Anthony Harod. Eight-oh-seven P.M., Friday, April twenty-fourth. Tony, who killed Aaron Eshkol and his family?”
“Who?”
“The Israeli.”
“Israeli?”
“Mr. Colben must have told you about it.”
“Colben? Oh, no, Kepler told me about it. That’s right. The kid from the embassy.”
“Yes, the kid from the embassy. Who killed him?”
“Haines had a team go talk to him.”
“Richard Haines?”
“Yeah.”
“The FBI agent Haines?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did Haines personally kill the Eshkol family?”
“I guess so. Kepler said he led the team.”
“Who authorized this operation?”
“Uh . . . Colben . . . Barent.”
“Which one, Tony?”
“Doesn’t matter. Colben was just Barent’s finger puppet. Can I close my eyes? I’m very tired.”
“Yes, Tony. Close your eyes. Sleep until we talk again.”
“Fourth interrogation of Anthony Harod. Friday, April twenty-fourth, 1981. Ten-sixteen P.M. Sodium Pentothal intravenously administered. Amo-barbital sodium reintroduced at ten-oh-four P.M. Data available on videotape, polygraph, EEG, and bio-sensor.
“Tony?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the Oberst is?”
“Who?”
“William Borden.”
“Oh, Willi.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“Is there any way you can find out where he is?”
“Uh-uh. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? Is there someone else who knows where he is?”
“Kepler. Maybe.”
“Joseph Kepler?”
“Yeah.”
“Kepler knows where Willi Borden is?”
“Kepler says he’s gotten letters from Willi.”
“How recent were these letters?”
“I don’t know. Last few weeks.”
“Do you believe Kepler?”
“Yeah.”
“Where do the letters come from?”
“France. New York. Kepler didn’t tell me everything.”
“Did Willi initiate the correspondence?”
“I don’t get what you mean.”
“Who wrote first— Willi or Kepler?”
“Kepler did.”
“How did he get in touch with Willi?”
“Mailed it to the guys who guard his house in Germany.”
“Waldheim?”
“Yeah.”
“Kepler sent a letter to Willi care of the caretakers at Waldheim and Willi has written back?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Kepler write him and what did Willi say in return?”
“Kepler’s playing both ends against the middle. He wants to get on Willi’s good side if Willi steps into the Island Club.”
“The Island Club.”
“Yeah. What’s left of it. Trask is dead. Colben’s dead. I guess Kepler figures Barent’ll have to negotiate if Willi keeps the pressure on.”
“Tell me about the Island Club, Tony . . .”
It was after two A.M. when Saul joined Natalie in the kitchen. The psychiatrist looked tired and very pale. Natalie poured a fresh cup of coffee for him and they sat looking at a large road atlas. “This is the best I could do,” said Natalie. “I found it at an all-night truck stop on 1-5.”
“We need a real atlas or some sort of satellite data. Perhaps Jack Cohen can help us.” Saul ran his finger down the South Carolina coast. “It’s not even on here.”
“No,” said Natalie, “but if it’s twenty-three miles off the coast the way Harod says, it probably wouldn’t be on this map. I figure it to be here, east of Cedar and Murphy Islands . . . no farther south than Cape Romain.”
Saul removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t some low tide key or sandbar,” he said. “According to Harod, Dolmann Island is almost seven miles long and three miles across at its widest. You lived in Charleston most of your life, wouldn’t you have heard of it?”
“I didn’t,” said Natalie. “Are you sure he’s asleep?”
“Oh yes,” said Saul. “I couldn’t wake him for another six hours if I tried.” Saul took out the map he had drawn from Harod’s instructions and compared it to the map from Cohen’s dossier on Barent. “You awake enough to review this?”
“Try me,” said Natalie. “All right. Barent and his group . . . the surviving members . . . will be meeting for their Dolmann Island Summer Camp during the week of June seventh. That’s the public part. The people Harod said will be there match the caliber of notables that Jack Cohen told us about. All men. No women allowed. Even Margaret Thatcher couldn’t get in if she wanted to. All the support personnel are male. According to Jack, there will be scores of security men. The public fun ends Saturday, June thirteenth. On Sunday, June fourteenth, according to Harod, the Oberst will arrive and join the four Island Club members— including Harod— for five days of sport.”
“Sport!” breathed Natalie. “I would hardly call it that.”
“Blood sport,” amended Sau1. “It does make sense. These people possess the same power that the Oberst, Melanie Fuller, and the Drayton woman have. The taste of violence is as addictive to them, but they are public figures. It is more difficult for them to be even tangentially involved in the types of vicarious street violence our three old people appeared to have begun in Vienna.”
“So they save it up for one terrible week a year,” said Natalie. “Yes. And it also serves as a painless way . . . painless for them . . . to reestablish their pecking order each year. The island is incredibly private. Technically it is not even under U.S. jurisdiction. When Barent is there, he and his guests stay in this area . . . the southern tip. His estate is there as well as the so-called summer camp facilities. The other three miles of jungle trails and mangrove swamps are separated by security zones, fences, and mine fields. It is there that they play their own version of the Oberst’s old game.”
“No wonder he’s gone to such great lengths to be invited,” said Natalie. “How many innocent people are sacrificed during this week of madness?”
“Harod says that each Island Club member receives five surrogates,” said Saul. “That would be one a day for each of the five days.”
“Where on earth would they find these people?”
“According to Harod, Charles Colben used to provide the bulk of them,” said Saul. “The idea is that they draw their . . . what would you call them? Their playing pieces. They draw them at random each morning for the day’s fun. The evening’s fun, actually. Harod says the play does not begin until almost nightfall. The idea is for them to test their Ability with some element of chance involved. They did not want to lose . . . pieces . . . that they had conditioned over long periods.”
“Where are they getting their victims this year?” asked Natalie. She went to the cupboard and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels. She added a healthy share to her coffee.
Saul smiled at her. “Exactly. As junior partner or apprentice vampire or what ever our Mr. Harod is, he was charged with the task of providing fifteen of the surrogates. They have to be people in reasonably good physical condition but people who will not be missed.”
“That’s absurd,” said Natalie. “Almost anyone would be missed.”
“Not really,” sig
hed Saul. “There are tens of thousands of teenage runaways in this country each year. Most never return home. Every major city has mental wings of hospitals half filled with people with no backgrounds, no family searching them out. Police are besieged with reports of missing husbands and wayward wives.”
“So they just grab a couple of dozen people, ship them out to this god-damn island, and make them kill each other?” Natalie’s voice was thick with fatigue.
“Yes.”
“You believe Harod?”
“He may have been relaying faulty information, but the drugs left him in no condition to construct lies.”
“You’re going to let him stay alive, aren’t you, Saul?”
“Yes. Our best chance to find the Oberst is if this group goes ahead with their island madness. Eliminating Harod . . . or even keeping him in captivity much longer . . . would probably spoil the entire thing.”
“You think that it won’t be spoiled when this . . . this pig runs to Barent and the others and tells them all about us?”
“I think it is probable that he will not do that.”
“Dear Christ, Saul, how can you be sure?”
“I am not, but I am sure that Harod is very confused. One minute he is convinced that you and I are agents of the Oberst. The next he believes that we were sent by Kepler or Barent. He simply cannot believe that we are in de pen dent actors in this melodrama . . .”
“Melodrama is right,” said Natalie. “Dad used to let me stay up to watch this kind of crap on the Friday night Creature Feature. The Most Dangerous Game. This is bullshit, Saul.”
Saul Laski slammed the kitchen table with his palm so hard that the noise echoed in the tiled kitchen like a rifle shot. Natalie’s coffee cup jumped and spilled its contents on the wooden tabletop. “Don’t tell me it’s bullshit!” shouted Saul. It was the first time in five months that Natalie had heard him raise his voice. “Don’t tell me that this is all bad melodrama. Tell your father and Rob Gentry with their throats cut! Tell my nephew Aaron and his wife and children! Tell all of them . . . tell the thousands that the Oberst led to the ovens! Tell my father and brother Josef . . .”