Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [92]
“No and no.”
“And your parents? What happened to them?”
“They both died of consumption.”
Felder was suddenly encouraged. This would be easy to check, as tuberculosis deaths in New York City were meticulously documented. “In which hospital did they die?”
“None. I don’t know where my father died. I know my mother died on the street and her body was buried in the potter’s field on Hart Island.”
She remained seated, hands folded in her lap. Felder felt a sense of increasing frustration. “Getting back to your birth: you don’t even remember what year you were born?”
“No.”
Felder sighed. “I’d like to ask you some questions about your baby.”
She remained still.
“You say you threw your baby off the ship because it was evil. How did you know it was evil?”
“His father was evil.”
“Are you ready to tell me who he was?”
No answer.
“Do you believe that evil is inheritable, then?”
“There are suites, aggregates, of genes in the human genome that clearly contribute to criminal behavior, and those aggregates are inheritable. Surely you have read about recent research on the Dark Triad of human behavior traits?”
Felder was familiar with the research and very surprised at the lucidity and erudition of the response.
“And so you felt it necessary to remove his genes from the gene pool by throwing your baby into the Atlantic Ocean?”
“That’s correct.”
“And the father? Is he still alive?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“He was precipitated into a pyroclastic flow.”
“He was… excuse me?”
“It’s a geological term. He fell into a volcano.”
It took him a moment to absorb this statement. “Was he a geologist?”
No answer. It was maddening, going around and around like this and getting nowhere.
“You say ‘precipitated.’ Are you implying he was pushed?”
Again, no answer. This was clearly a wild fantasy, not worth encouraging or pursuing.
Felder switched topics. “Constance, when you threw your baby off the boat, did you know you were committing a crime?”
“Naturally.”
“Did you consider the consequences?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew it was wrong to kill your baby.”
“On the contrary. It was not only the right thing to do, it was the only thing to do.”
“Why was it the only thing to do?”
The question was followed by silence. With a sigh, feeling once again like he’d been casting a net into the darkness, Dr. John Felder picked up his notebook and rose. “Thank you, Constance. Our time is up.”
“You’re most welcome, Dr. Felder.”
He pressed the button. Immediately the door opened and the cop came in.
“I’m done here,” he said. Then he turned to Constance Greene and heard himself say, almost against his will: “We’ll have another session in a few days.”
“It shall be my pleasure.”
As Felder walked down the long corridor of the secure ward, he wondered if his initial conclusion was correct. She was mentally ill, of course, but was she truly insane—legally insane? If you removed from her all that was sane, all that was predictable, all that was normal in a person—what did it leave? Nothing.
Just like her identity. Nothing.
43
Baton Rouge
LAURA HAYWARD STRODE ALONG THE SECOND-FLOOR corridor of Baton Rouge General, consciously keeping a measured pace. She had everything under control, her breathing, her facial expression, her body language. Everything. Before leaving New York, she had dressed carefully in jeans and a shirt, her hair loose, leaving her uniform behind. She was here as a private citizen: no more, and no less.
Doctors, nurses, and staff passed in a blur as she walked steadily on, toward the pair of double doors leading into surgery. She pushed through them, taking care to keep her pace slow and deliberate. The admissions kiosk was to her right but she passed by, ignoring the polite “May I help you?” from the nurse. She headed straight into the waiting room—and there saw a lone figure sitting at the far end, rising from his seat now and taking a step toward her, face grim, arm extended.
She walked up to him and in one smooth motion raised her right arm, drew it back, and cold-cocked