Skull Session (46 page)

"Ah," Paul said.

"Now, even the
normal
HPA axis is in many ways an independent, almost enclosed, mechanism. Its parts are closely linked, have dedicated blood supply, and so on. In the hyperdynamic individual—in my opinion—the hypothalamus and crew act even more as an independent entity. It's like a separate, very primitive but very vital being that lives within us. For some period of time, however long it remains aroused, it's in total control."

Paul felt vaguely sickened by this.

Stropes stood up and paced to the window, where he stared out at the courtyard briefly. "Of course, the fight-or-flight aspect of it is only one angle. As complex as it is, in some ways it's the easiest aspect of the phenomenon to deal with. In my letter, did I mention the US Army Intelligence research on HHK/HHD?"

"You said you'd tried to look into it but got nowhere. Concerns for secrecy."

Stropes nodded again, a mild frown on his brow, and returned to his chair. "Actually, it's not quite that simple. I don't know much about their science, but I know they're doing something, and that they keep their antennae up for data on the subject."

"How do you know?"

"I was very discreetly asked to come work for them. I declined. Made it clear my priorities didn't include helping to create invincible killers." Stropes's brown eyes met Paul's, apparently saw the agreement there. "The little I know I got when I met a biochemist who was connected with the project, at a convention in LA. This was in the hotel bar. Even drunk, he was pretty close-mouthed, but he told me a little. It was typical military stuff, very heavy-handed: all chemically induced fight-or- flight, designed to induce mortal fear. Some interesting physiological results, apparently, but the drug couldn't be used as a tactical tool because the soldiers they tested the drug on indiscriminately attacked any source of fear or anxiety. Including each other."

"Sounds grisly."

"Oh, they ripped each other to shreds—literally
disemboweled
each other with their bare hands. You can see why I say screw the AI and CIA. Also, compared to the incidents I catalog and Wilkes talked about, the HHK/HHD their subjects displayed was fairly low-level. I believe that the army didn't know that specific neuroanatomical characteristics give some individuals greater potentials than others. You can't turn just anybody into a human juggernaut. Plus, I'm convinced there are other factors too, more difficult to explain."

"Like the range of triggering phenomena," Paul suggested. "Most of the examples you've cited seem to have an almost, I guess you'd have to call it
altruistic
emotional trigger. People acting out of concern for the well-being of others—their kids or spouses."

"Exactly!" Stropes's face came alive again, and he looked at Paul piercingly. "You've put your finger on one of the most important points I've been dealing with—what I call the altruistic paradigm. The most powerful examples of HHK/HHD stem from an altruistic or protective impulse. That, or a related emotion, the
frustration
of the protective impulse—the grief or anger resultant from deep loss."

"So competitive impulses or rage aren't adequate triggers?"

"Oh, sure. You can get extremely violent behaviors from those. But the real thing? Sustained, let's face it,
superpowers?
No. Not just from an aggressive or hostile impulse."

"Why would that be?"

"This gave me a hard time at first too. It may be that the ultimate HHK/HHD response is triggered not only in the old 'reptile' brain, but also needs the boost of powerful, 'mammalian' emotional responses—parental protectiveness, sibling or spousal bonding, and so on. I believe it may
require
the involvement of those parts of the brain relating to social or familial instincts—the more of the central nervous system that's 'on line,' the more powerful the response. This might explain why women are seized with HHK/HHD more often than men, at least according to the reports in my files. I have to admit to a bias in favor of the altruistic hypothesis, perhaps because it affirms my hope that, at bottom, humans are
good.
That our good instincts are ultimately more powerful than our—I was going to say 'evil,' but that's hardly a scientific term, is it?—than our more selfish or aggressive ones."

Paul was thinking about Highwood. The damage would have required many hours, longer than any mortal panic could be sustained. Nor was it believable that ripping up the house could have come from an altruistic impulse. So that left catharsis. Maybe. But for what emotion? None of it quite fit.

A thought occurred to him: "But what about the examples you gave of the berserkers? Weren't they aggressors? How did they achieve states of HHK/HHD?"

Stropes glanced with irritation at his desk telephone, which had begun to flash demandingly. "Good point. The deliberate arousal of HK/HD poses problems for the altruistic paradigm. It may be that berserkers can best be described as deliberately putting themselves in a situation where mortal desperation is likely to occur. Fear of the enemy, or grief over the death of friends and relatives in the battle. Conceivably the response could be cultivated. Also, it may be that the level achieved by the berserker was only a small percentage of real capacity. For all their ferocity, their displays of strength can't compare with, say, a 107-pound housewife picking up and throwing a burning gas range through the wall ofa house to save her kids."

Paul digested this briefly. "Another question: injury. You don't mention wounds to the person demonstrating HHK/HHD. You've sold me that people can have the strength to run through a wall, bend steel, lift a burning stove. But wouldn't they be hurt? No cuts, bruises, burns, bone injury?"

Stropes sighed. "This is the area that's given me the hardest time with my colleagues. Damage to skin, flesh, or bone doesn't seem to happen to a person in the HHK/HHD state. Frankly, I can't explain it." He scowled and went on in a quiet, urgent voice, as if afraid he'd be overheard.
"Why? How?
There's precedent for the idea of invulnerability—fire walking, yogis sitting on nails, people eating glass, enduring incredible voltages of electricity. But I'm having a hard enough time convincing the skeptics as it is. I've got a tidy theory that gently stretches our sense of what's real, playing by all the biochemical and anatomical rules. These areas—we'd have to change our fundamental ideas about the laws of nature. I'm not up for that fight."

Stropes checked his watch. "I have one other thought that might bear upon the berserker riddle. It may be a conditioned response—that is, maybe going hyperdynamic and hyperkineticjeek
good.
Maybe it could become a 'high.' Literally, an addiction."

"A
high?
I'd think that the trauma required for the trigger would constitute a form of negative conditioning!"

"Aha! But I can give you three arguments for the idea of positive conditioning, of HK/HD conditioning. One, there's the satisfaction of catharsis—for those incidents where cathartic release of grief or anger is the trigger. Two, assuming that a form of seizure, an intense electrical burst within the brain, is part of the trigger, some individuals find seizures 'ecstatic' Dostoyevsky wrote volumes about the joy, the ecstasy of his seizures—doesn't sound too bad, right? Third, you've got the huge release of endorphins that
must
accompany the HHK/HHD state.

Normal exertion, like jogging, fills your body with endorphins, the natural painkillers your body manufactures whenever it exerts itself or is injured—the runner's high. If you're amplifying your exertion by 300 percent, you're going to get a 300 percent increase of endorphins. You're not going to feel any pain at all while in the state, and you're going to be a very, very happy camper afterward, when you slow down enough to notice. They're chemically very similar to morphine. And just as addictive."

"So someone could become positively conditioned to enter the HK state. Could someone
choose
to enter it?"

"With practice, yes. It would help explain the berserker phenomenon, certainly." Stropes stood up and began to sort through some papers.

Paul stood too. "Doctor, I know you have to go, but I'd hke to ask you one more question, if I may."

"As long as I can get upstairs in exactly four minutes, sure."

"In your reading, in your case studies, have you ever encountered evidence of periodicity of HHK/HHD episodes? Cycles?"

Stropes laid his perfect hands on his desk and looked at Paul with a new interest in his eyes. "Either you've been doing research, or you know some things you aren't telling me."

"I don't know anything."

Stropes looked skeptical. "Wilkes documented several cases of periodic HHK/HHD. Some of the most extreme cases too."

"But it seems incongruous with the idea of triggering phenomena—the cases you've mentioned to me all seem the result of an unanticipated, shocking event. A sudden emergency."

"Right. The idea of periodicity bothered me at first, for the same reason. But it's really not so hard to explain. First of all, all seizure activity has cycles of 'kindling' and 'quenching.' So do other neurological disorders, like bipolar disorder. Some HHK/HHD results from profound, long-held emotions, or from trauma that is relived when 'retriggered' by some event. It may also be that, if your body is producing the huge quantity of excitor chemicals needed, the pressure builds until release is inevitable. Whatever the mechanism, there's no question that it can be a periodic phenomenon."

Stropes gave Paul another penetrating glance, then began stuffing manila folders into a large briefcase. "I know I can't make you tell me," he said quietly. "But I wish you would."

Paul shook his head. "Sorry. There's nothing to tell."

"Okay. But if you ever
do
—" Stropes let it hang, snapped his briefcase shut.

They went to the door together, then out into the hall, where they stood side by side at the elevator.

"I hope you won't mind if I don't see you out," Stropes said. "I've got to see Dr. Assad on the fifth floor. Good-bye—and seriously, please keep in touch."

Stropes waved and started down the hall. He'd only taken a few steps when he snapped his fingers and spun on his heel to face Paul again. "I just remembered something else I meant to mention. You're from upper Westchester, right?"

"Born there, but I live in Vermont. As it happens, I've got a job near Golden's Bridge now."

"That's right—the return address you gave me was in Golden's Bridge. That's what brought it to mind."

"What's that?" The elevator chimed and its doors slid open, waiting.

Paul put his hand on the rubber buffer.

"There's another aficionado up that way. In Lewisboro. Haven't heard from her in a while, but I corresponded with her for several years. Very smart woman, seemed very knowledgeable. I thought maybe you'd like to meet her—a Mrs. Hoffmann. Lewisboro address. Probably in the phone book."

"Okay," Paul said. "Thanks." He stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut noiselessly. "Thanks a lot," he repeated to the empty elevator. He clapped his hands, relieved to let them play the kinetic tune they'd been itching to. "Thanks so very much," he said. He was surprised at how unsurprising Stropes's news was.

63

O
N THE BRIGHT SIDE, Mo thought cynically, after embarrassing himself with Lia, after closing off the little dream he'd been hving in, he was better focused than he'd been in years. Nothing hke a nice slap in the face to wake you up. He attacked his work with a vengeance, mad at himself and at everything that stood in his way, ripping and bullying and bluffing his way through. Time to wrap this fucker up.

It was also Thursday, December 15th: If there was a cyclical pattern to the violence, something could happen at any time. An aspect of the situation he had neglected to mention to Lia and Paul.

He sat at his desk and opened a series of file folders, went down the checklist he'd assembled for each lead.

Rizal. It made sense that Rizal might help out his old buddy Royce by smashing up Highwood in the aunt's absence, and by trying to discourage Paul from finishing the job so that she'd stay out and lose possession. But was he the killer?
Was
there really a killer? Rizal had the means and the opportunity, but what was the motive? Something to do with the Philippine connection? Some kind of psychotic revenge on healthy teenagers because his own kid was crippled? It didn't sit right. Anyway, looking into a State Police trooper was a sensitive task. You could make enemies even feeling it out. If you had a history with the organization like Mo's, you couldn't count on a lot of favors from your fellow cops or your superiors. Maybe go straight to Inspection in Albany. But there again, Mo's own dubious reputation would precede him. And all he had was a case so tenuous it hadn't even gotten local approval for a homicide investigation.

Falcone. Mo called the gym in Danbury, asked for Salvatore Falcone.

Just a moment, please, I'll get him. Mo hung up. So Falcone hadn't bolted.

Then he called Sam Lombardino at his North Salem dry cleaning business.

"This is Mo Ford. Sorry to bother you again, but I've got one more question about Salli Falcone. He's got two assaults on record. You told me about one, where you picked him up. Know anything about the other?"

"Ah shit," Lombardino said, as if he wished he didn't have to talk about it. "I know a httle. It's bullshit. He beat up on somebody in a store in Manhattan."

"Yeah? What was he doing down there?"

"Bullshit, like I said. The D.A. there tried to make out it was part of something else, not just Salli's temper. Falcone broke this guy's arms, Falcone's Italian, so the D.A. down there wants to say it's organized crime. Says there's evidence Salli's been hired to hurt people by a large Italian family wholesale grocery business. Maybe it's just because I'm a Guinea myself, but I couldn't see it that way. Anyway, the D.A. never got anywhere with that angle—rail Salli got was simple assault, no conspiracy. No weapons involved."

"Pretend I'm a Guinea too," Mo said flatly. "What do you really think?"

"Hey, court said it was simple assault, that's what it was." Lombardino paused. "Of course, it could also be Salli was looking for work, tried it once, was too stupid to avoid getting caught. So afterward he's not a good candidate for full-time permanent work. He's been a pretty good boy ever since."

Mo thanked Lombardino and got off. So maybe Falcone had some connection with organized crime in Manhattan. Terrific. There were a thousand possibilities there. Just what kind of "groceries" did this family business wholesale? Might Royce, with his import/export business, tie in—some Far East commodities needing a distribution network in Manhattan? A Royce-Falcone connection. Why not?

Mo set the file aside. He'd stew on that one for a while too.

Which brought him to Royce. Grisbach had called back late Tuesday night while Mo was tossing and turning in bed, reliving his conversation with Lia in excruciating clarity.

"I've got some shit for you," Grisbach wheezed.

"Terrific. I need all the shit I can get."

"The companies look legit and more or less in the black. Nothing jumps out—your guy makes lots of bucks, owns big percentages of his companies, has a big portfolio in other firms, very diverse. He has high-roller spending habits that haven't changed in the last two years. Doesn't mean he doesn't need money, but he doesn't act hke he's hurting."

"Real estate?"

Grisbach coughed right into the phone, a wet, rich, bubbling cough.

"Residential property in Westchester County, apartments in Manhattan and Amsterdam. Nothing overtly suspicious."

"Debts?"

"Some. More than he should have, probably. In other words, just another rich guy, not that different from a hundred others I've looked at. Which means he's about eighty-five percent legit, fifteen percent bent. Guy like this is always hungry for more, Ford. Don't waste your time looking for a specific reason he might be hungrier than usual. He wouldn't need one."

"Okay. What about travel?"

"He gets around. Flies Lufthansa and SwissAir once in a while, or goes on company planes. He's been in and out of the US twice this year that I can track. Came over from Amsterdam, commercial flight, July twentieth, spent the night in New York, then went on to San Diego.

Spent early August in New York again, left to Amsterdam on August tenth."

"Great." Mo jotted notes.

"Left the country, New York to London to Amsterdam, on December fourth. He's still over there. Lufthansa has Royce Hoffmann listed as a passenger, Amsterdam to New York, on December sixteenth, evening arrival. Tomorrow night."

Royce had told Paul he'd be out of the country for longer. A deliberate lie or just a change of plans? How convenient that he was returning just at the end of Vivien Hoffmann's absence from High wood, just about when the continuous occupancy clause would be triggered if she didn't move back in. Just when another cycle was due. And how interesting that one of Royce's prior visits coincided with the destruction of Richard Mason and the disappearance of Essie Howrigan. Too many coincidences.

But why would Royce need to be on hand for the fun? Rizal, or another hired man, could go up to the lodge whether Royce was in the US or in Timbuktu. Unless, as Lia had said, there was something in the house that Royce wanted to find—something only he could recognize, or something he didn't want Rizal to know about. With friends like Rizal, you didn't need enemies.

He was getting close, but not close enough. He'd stew over Royce a little longer too.

On Friday morning, Mo sat in his car, smoothing the real estate map of Briar Estates on the seat beside him. The winding road of the development began about a mile and a half from Highwood, at the western end of the reservoir. It was one of the neighborhoods recently carved out of the thick woods, with large new houses in a Tudor style, straining at ostentation but showing signs of budget-consciousness. Faux upscale. At the far end of the development he came to several incomplete houses, big balloons of plywood in mud lots, with grading equipment parked here and there. Innumerable smaller roads branched off the main artery and disappeared into the woods, driveways for houses not yet started. At the farthest uphill point, the road made a loop back on itself. Mo parked and looked at the woods. If he guessed correctly, this would be the closest point to the lodge, about a mile.

Mo found what looked like a path at the bottom ofa dry ravine and began walking up. It had turned cold, with a buffeting, erratic wind that drove down the collar of his coat. The dead leaves on the old oaks shivered, making a noise like rattlesnakes.

Several times he chose forks that petered out, but after a while he caught a glimpse of shingled siding above him, and soon the lodge materialized among the trees. It was a longer walk than going up the driveway, but not as steep. A good route for anyone who had business up there they'd rather nobody knew about.

He lifted the knocker, dropped it several times. Paul opened the door.

"I'm sorry you had to walk up," Paul said. "It just occurred to me that I should go down and open the gate for you."

"Actually, I came up through the woods," Mo said. "I wanted to see how someone could get up here unnoticed. Anyway, I needed the exercise."

Paul did look different, Mo decided. Older, leaner. Stripped down, as if he'd been up late a lot recently, looking straight at some tough stuff. And yet he also seemed more alert, sharper. There was an intensity about him now, almost like Lia's.

"On the phone you sounded like you had something urgent to discuss," Paul said. "I take it you've had good hunting." Without asking, he handed Mo a cup of black coffee.

Mo sat in one of the wingback chairs, glad for the heat in the room, the scalding cup in his hands. "I had good hunting, yeah, although I don't know if I got answers or just came up with more questions. But yes, I think it could be urgent."

"How so?"

"I've got a feeling maybe this is coming to a head in the next couple of days."

Paul nodded thoughtfully. "Why do you think so?"

"Number one, I was able to track your cousin. He went to Europe, all right, not long after you saw him. But he's not staying over there—he's due back from Amsterdam tonight. He was lying to you. How safe do you think your aunt is? She should be warned."

Mo got up to pace. "Number two, something I don't know if I've mentioned to you, I think there's a cycle with the missing kids thing. Every forty-four days. Periodicity is a typical feature of serial violence. So I charted the intervals. If I did it right, we're due for another round sometime very soon—as soon as, well, today, tomorrow. I wasn't sure, but just in the last few days there's been some, uh, other corroboration ofa cycle."

Paul smiled, a sour sort of grin. "What kind of corroboration?"

He told Paul about the dismemberment of Priscilla Zeichner on the railroad tracks, only a few miles away, which nailed down the third cycle, November 2nd. Again Paul took it in stride, nodding thoughtfully.

"Most people would get a little nervous hearing something like that," Mo said. "Let me ask you something, Paul. What's your stake in this? Why do you care what happened here? Why do you stick it out?"

Paul drew a slow breath, a guy with a lot on his mind. "This'll sound old-fashioned, but I guess it's that I need to
understand.
I'd have preferred not to get involved, but I did, so.. . . Anyway, you can't spend your life running from everything that looks scary." He chuckled unhappily. "Christ, I'm sounding like my father. The other thing here is, this is my family. I'd like to know about who my people are, why they . . . did the things they did. Maybe it'll help me figure out who I am. A long story."

Mo nodded, letting him go on as needed. After another moment Paul looked at him sharply. "And why are
you
so involved in this, Mo?"

"Me? It's my job. I get paid for it."

"The hell it is. You've been basically told hands off by your supervisor. Not that I disagree with anything you've said, but your whole theory is based on very little hard evidence, some pretty tenuous theories. I get the feeling it's more than a job for you."

"It shows, huh?" Mo had to laugh. "Maybe so. I'm pissed off. I think whoever did this, whoever offed the kids, should get paid back. I hate the thought of that prick Rizal getting away with anything. But mainly—like you said, this is old-fashioned too—mainly I guess I want to 'do good.' Not that I always know what 'good' is. But at the very least it has something to do with preventing other people from getting hurt."

"I guess we've got several things in common, then," Paul said. "Besides falling for the same woman. We both want to understand. And to do good." The way he said the two words put quotation marks around them, as if to point out how fickle and subjective such ideas were. Paul looked at Mo with a disarming directness, and Mo felt that they'd each confided something important to each other. Mo liked him a great deal.

Mo found the skull earring in his hands again, and for the first time looked at it closely. It was dirty with the skin-oil residue of an often-worn piece, but was well sculpted, probably expensive. "Where'd you get this?" he asked.

"Out in the rubble. The big room. I don't know why I brought it in here. Just a curiosity, I guess."

"Unusual, don't you think?"

Paul shrugged. "My aunt is a person of peculiar tastes. Why?"

It was Mo's turn to shrug. No real reason. He made himself put it back down, focus on business. "So I did some work on the whereabouts of Erik Hoffmann III." He told Paul what he'd learned from Dr. Gunderson. "After he disappeared, the State Police did a missing persons investigation, considering him an adult at risk, but he never showed up. This was five, six years ago."

Paul just grunted, almost as if he'd been expecting to hear it. "So how do you think he ties in?" Paul asked. It was interesting, Mo thought, that Paul was doing the interviewing here. It was as if he had some overview, were fitting pieces into his own construction.

"I don't think he does," Mo said. "Not directly."

"Why not?"

"Because I went to look up the trust. You were right—the Hoffmann Trust consisted of Royce and Erik III. But it reverted to Royce because Erik was declared legally dead earlier this year. On June twentieth, to be exact."

"Legally dead?"

"Happens fairly often. Husband disappears while out sailing, wife wants to collect life insurance, company won't pay unless they see a corpse, wife files for legal declaration of death. There's a time factor. In New York State you have to wait five years before the court will declare a missing person dead."