Ten Thousand Islands (28 page)

“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 throttle forward….

Y
ou 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 gentleman? 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 likes 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 sanitized 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 were three men: Ivan Bauerstock, Ted Bauerstock and B. J. Buster. They were wearing swim-suits 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 Della, 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 quietly, 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:

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.”

Parrish blew a cloud of smoke Ted’s way. Said, “Do we?”

Ivan Bauerstock wasn’t laughing. He was still staring at the recorder. “How many copies of this tape are there, Dr. Ford?”

“Several. I took all the precautions. Let me guess, Mr. Bauerstock, next you’ll ask who else’s heard the tape, or maybe who was with me when Rossi confessed. It doesn’t matter. Frank Rossi’s talked once; he’ll talk again. There’s no statute of limitations on rape. You think he’s going down just to save you? He doesn’t strike me as the selfless type.”

Ted began to say something, but Ivan cut him off, saying, “Shut up, Teddy.” Then Bauerstock lifted his eyes; looked into mine and said, “You realize, of course, if this terrible lie gets out, my son’s political career will be ruined. That would be a tragedy, Dr. Ford. We have great plans for Teddy. Tallahassee, then Washington.”

“Dad, don’t worry about it! Talk to your friends at the network. All I’ve got to do is get on camera and tell people I didn’t do it. They’ll believe me. You
know
they’ll believe me. Set it up so we turn the tables. I’ve been falsely accused. Isn’t it about time that innocent people like me fought back? Make it work to our advantage. Why are you getting so upset about this bullshit?”

Bauerstock was still staring at me. He touched his hand to the recorder and said, “How much, Dr. Ford?”

“Pardon me?”

“How much money? Or maybe you want a job. Or maybe there’s a special project that you would like funded. How about your own fully computerized research vessel? We’ve
got
the technology. It’s a straightforward business proposition: How much to destroy this tape and to tell us where the other tapes are?”

I said to Parrish, “I’m trying to remember. When someone tries to pay off a private citizen, is it called bribery or extortion?” Which made Parrish grin through the cigar smoke.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Dr. Ford. We’re due at Naples Yacht Club by eight. We’re having our boat hauled, put on a flatbed and transported inland. There’s a hurricane coming, you know. How much do you want?”

I noticed a lean, dark woman walking down the mound toward us. She reminded me of the striking Indio women of South America, with her long black hair, though older.

She appeared to be feeling her way, hands balanced outward. I realized that she was blind, but very familiar with the route. As she drew nearer, I realized the woman had no eyes.

I slid away from the table and stood. “Bring back Dorothy Copeland, Bauerstock. That’s my price. Bring her back to life. I think you’re insane, and I think your son’s a freak. Let’s get the hell out of here, Gary.”

Looked to find my briefcase and saw that B. J. Buster was holding it to his chest, smiling at me. He had a surprisingly high, adolescent voice: “That ain’t a very nice thing to say, Doctor whoever you are.” I turned to Parrish, and saw the sudden tension in his face as I reached for the bag. When I did, Buster latched onto my wrist with fingers as blunt as hammers, twisted and catapulted me into a cement column. I hit spine-first; so hard that, for a moment, I teetered on the hazy, bright world of unconsciousness.

Trying to get up off the tile, I saw Buster coming at me, grinning. Saw Ted Bauerstock behind him, ripping at the briefcase, then hold up the totem. Heard him yell, “I’ve got it! I’ve finally got it!” as Buster grabbed me beneath the chin and lifted me off the ground.

With both of his hands clamped around my head and neck, I could hear vertebrae pop as he pulled my face toward his. “The man ask you a real simple question, you best answer. Now you go ’head an’ tell Mr. Bauerstock where them other tapes are. Hear?”

When I tried to pry his hands away, Buster threw me into a post again. I got up quickly, but when I tried to tackle him, he caught me by the head and shoulders, and slung me into another post. I caromed off the cement, down the hill toward the lake.

The man wasn’t just strong, he was discouragingly quick. Attacking him from the front wasn’t going to work.

He came walking toward me, in no hurry at all, already reaching for me, but, this time, I ducked under his hands, buried my fingers in his throat while I tried to lock his left arm behind me. He knocked my hand away without much effort, then turned and came at me again. “You can make it easy, you can make it hard. But you gonna tell Mr. Bauerstock where them tapes are.”

I glanced away for just a moment—what the hell had they done to Parrish?—and Buster was on me, heavy arms squeezing the wind out of me, his face so close to mine I could smell his sour breath. I head-butted him in an explosion of blood. Then head-butted him again. Felt his nose collapse beneath my heavy, frontal bone. He didn’t let go, but it loosened his grip enough for me to slide under his arms and lock my hands around his waist.

I spread my legs slightly, lowering my center of gravity, and began to drive him backwards toward the water. If I got him into the water, he wouldn’t have a prayer. He seemed to realize that. He used his big fists to pound at my head and neck, but I kept driving.

There was a stretch of man-made beach; very deep sand. I lost my footing there and went tumbling over him, glasses cockeyed on my head. Even so, at the edge of the beach, I could see a set of fins and a mask—Ivan or Ted were snorkelers, apparently. I grabbed the mask as Buster got to his feet, and fit my fist into the glass plate like a sort of glove. When he leaned toward me, I clubbed his face hard, then punched him twice more, once under the heart, then the side of the throat.