The Web (16 page)

One way to find out: talk to the author.

Sanjay had worked for the government forty years ago,
then as a school principal, meaning he was Moreland’s age or close
to it.

Still alive? Still on Saipan?

Robin rolled over. “Umm, this sun is great.”

“Sure is,” I said. “Hot, too, and the drinks are all
gone. I’ll bop over to the Trading Post and get us some
more.”

Chapter

21

I jogged this time, veering from the beach to the docks
where Skip and Haygood sat dangling fishing poles. Haygood
watched me. Skip kept his eyes on the water. He had his trunks
on and a T-shirt, the most clothes I’d seen him in.

Inside the Trading Post, Betty Aguilar was watching a
game show and munching a Mars bar.

“Hi. Back so soon?”

“Couple of beers, two more Cokes.”

“You’re
definitely
my best customer—hold on, I’ll get
them for you.”

“Does the pay phone work?”

“Usually, but if you want to call Dr. Bill’s place, I
can let you use the one in back for free.”

“No, this is long distance.”

“Oh—do you need change?”

“I thought I’d use my calling card.”

“I think that’ll work.” She went in back and I lifted
the receiver. Another rotary. It took a while to get a dial
tone, a lot longer to work my way through several operators
and finally obtain permission to use the card. Each
successive connection was worse than the previous one, and by
the time I reached Saipan Information, I was speaking through
a hail of static and the echo of my own voice on one-second
delay.

But Micah Sanjay was listed, and when I called his number
an older-sounding man with a mild voice said, “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Sanjay, but I’m a free-lance
writer named Thomas Creedman, on temporary stopover in Aruk.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just happened to come across your article in
Island
World
on the nuclear testing in the Marshalls.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Unsure if he meant the disaster or the magazine piece, I
pressed on. “I thought it was very interesting and extremely
well done.”

“Are you writing about Bikini, too?”

“I’m thinking about it, if I can get a fresh slant.”

“I tried to sell that article to some mainland magazines,
but no one was interested.”

“Really?”

“People don’t want to know, and those that do know want
to forget.”

“Easier on the conscience.”

“You bet.” His voice had hardened.

“I think some of the most powerful scenes were your
descriptions of the compensation process. Those nighttime
boat rides.”

“Yes, that was tough. Sneaking around.”

“Were you and the six other men the entire compensation
staff?”

“There were bosses who ordered it from behind a desk,
but we did all the actual paying.”

“Do you remember the bosses’ names?”

“Admiral Haupt, Captain Ravenswood. Above them were
people from Washington, I guess.”

“Are you still in touch with the other men on the team?
If it would be possible for me to talk to
them   .   .   .”

“I’m not in touch but I know where they are. George
Avuelas died a few years ago. Cancer, but I can’t say for
sure if it was related. The others are gone, too, except Bob
Taratoa, and he lives in Seattle, has a boy there. But he had
a stroke last year, so I’m not sure how much he could tell
you.”

“So there’s no one else still in the Marianas?”

“Nope, just me. Where’d you say you were from?”

“Aruk.”

“What is that, one of those small islands up north a bit
from here?”

“That’s it.”

“Anything to do there?”

“Sun and write.”

“Well, good luck.”

“There’s a doctor who lives here named Moreland, says
he was in the Navy when the tests went off. Says he treated
some of the people who’d been exposed.”

“Moreland?”

“Woodrow Wilson Moreland.”

“Don’t know him, but there were lots of doctors,
some of them pretty good.
But they couldn’t do anything for the people even if they
wanted to. Those bombs poisoned the air and the water,
radioactivity got into the soil. No matter what they say,
I’m convinced they’ll never get the stuff out.”

As I left the post, I saw Jacqui Laurent and Dennis
standing in front of the Chop Suey Palace. The mother was
talking and the son was listening.

Scolding him. Being subtle about it—no hand gestures
or raised voice—but her eyes flashed and the displeasure on
her face was evident.

Dennis stood there and took it, his giant frame slightly
bowed. She looked so young a casual observer might have
thought it a lovers’ spat.

She folded her hands over her chest and waited.

Dennis scuffed the ground. Nodded.

Similar look to the one Pam had worn after Moreland had
reprimanded her.

Same issue?

Lord of the manor dropping in on one of his tenants this
morning? Letting her know his displeasure about Dennis and
Pam?

Dennis looked from side to side, saw me, and said
something. Jacqui put a hand around his thick forearm and
propelled him quickly inside.

Back at the estate, I sat through a lunch of broiled
halibut and fresh vegetables, walked Robin and Spike down to
the orchard, and headed for my office.

Moreland had left another folded card on my desk.

Alex:

Cannot locate catwoman file.

Spirits overwrought
Were making night do penance for a day
Spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

Wordsworth

A fitting quote for that case, don’t you think?

Bill

I sat at my desk.
Night do
penance .   .   . strenuous idleness.

The philandering husband?

Always riddles.

As if he were playing with me.

Why had he lied to me about the payoff?

Time to talk.

The door to his office was unlocked, but he wasn’t in
there, and the lab door was closed. I went over to knock and,
passing his desk, noticed the reprints of my journal articles
fanned like playing cards. Next to some newspaper clippings.

Clippings about me.

My involvement in a mass child-abuse case years ago.

My consultation to a grade school terrorized by a
sniper.

Accounts of court testimony in several murder cases.

My name highlighted in yellow.

Milo’s, too.

I remembered the message he’d written about Milo’s call:
Detective Sturgis.
Off the job Milo generally didn’t
identify himself by title.

Researching him, too?

Thick pile of clippings. On the bottom, a homicide
trial. My testimony for the prosecution, debunking the phony
insanity plea of a man who’d savaged a dozen women.

Moreland’s notation in the margin:
Perfect!

So I’d been selected for something other than “a fine
combination of scholarliness and commonsense thinking.”

Moreland, definitely worried about the cannibal killer.

Had he lured me here under false premises in order to pick my
brain?

Dr. Detective. What did I have to offer?

Did he have reason to believe the murderer was still on
Aruk?

A crash from inside the lab made me jump, and my hand
brushed the clippings to the floor. I picked them up quickly
and ran to the inner door.

Locked.

I knocked hard.

A groan from inside.

“Bill?”

Another groan.

“It’s Alex. Are you all right?”

A few seconds later, the knob turned and Moreland stood
there rubbing his forehead with one hand. The other was
palm down, dripping blood. He looked stunned.

“Fell asleep,” he said. Behind him, on the
lab table, were brightly colored boxes, plastic cartons. Test tubes
on the floor, reduced to jagged glass.

“Your hand, Bill.”

He turned his hand palm up. Blood had pooled and was
trickling down his wrist and narrowing to a single red line
that wiggled the length of his scrawny forearm.

I led him to the sink and washed the wound. Clean gash,
not deep enough to require stitching but still oozing
steadily.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?”

“Underneath.” Pointing drowsily to a cabinet.

I applied antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

“Fell asleep,” he repeated, shaking his head. The colored
boxes contained dehydrated potatoes and wheat pilaf, precooked
peas, lentils, rice mix.

“Nutritional research,” said Moreland, as if he owed me
an explanation.

His attention shifted to the broken glass and he bent.

I reached out to restrain him. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Working late,” he said, weakly. He glanced at the
bandaged hand, rubbed his mouth, licked his lips. “Usually I
do some of my best work after dark. Got a late start, making
sure those locks got installed correctly. I’m still mortified
about what happened.”

“Forget it.”

“I must have left the lid off and the door unlocked.
Inexcusable. Must remember to check every detail.”

He began massaging his temples very rapidly.

“Headache?”

“Sleep deprivation,” he said. “I should know better, at
my age. .   .   . Are you aware that most so-called
civilizations are
chronically
sleep deprived?
Before electricity, people lit
a candle or two, then went to bed. The sun was their alarm
clock; they were tuned to a natural cadence. Nine, ten hours
of sleep a day. It’s a rare civilized man who gets eight.”

“Do the villagers sleep well?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s not much technology on the island. Lousy TV
reception, less to keep them up.”

“TV,” he said, “is multiple-choice rubbish. However,
if you miss it, I can arrange something.”

“No, thanks, but I wouldn’t mind a newspaper now and
then. Just to stay in touch with the world.”

“I’m sorry, son, can’t help you there. We used to get
papers more often when the Navy let us ship things on their
supply planes, but now we depend upon the boats. Don’t you
find the radio news sufficient?”

“I noticed some American papers on your desk.”

He blinked. “Those are old.”

“Research?”

Our eyes locked. His were clear and alert now.

“Yes, I use a clipping service in Guam. If you’d like I
can have them bulk-order some periodicals for you. And if
you’d like to watch TV, I can get you a portable set.”

“No, it’s not necessary.”

“You’re sure?”

“Hundred percent.”

“Please tell me if there’s anything more you need by way
of creature comforts. I want your stay to be enjoyable.”

He ran his tongue under his right cheek and frowned.
“Has it been—enjoyable? Excepting last night, of course.”

“We’re having a fine time.”

“I hope so. One tries .   .   . to be a good
host.” He smiled and shrugged. “My apologies again about the
hissers—”

“Let’s really forget it, Bill.”

“You’re very gracious. .   .   . I suppose I’ve been
living here by myself so long that the niceties of social discourse
elude me.”

Staring at the floor again. Holding his bandaged hand
with the other and getting that absent look in his eyes.

Then he snapped out of it, stood suddenly, and surveyed
the lab. “Back to work.”

“Don’t you think you should rest?”

“No, no, I’m tip-top. By the way, what was it you came
here for?”

What I’d
come
for were piercing questions about
Samuel H. and radiation poisoning. Payoffs, half-truths, and
subterfuge. What, if anything, his role had been forty years
ago.

Now something else: why was my involvement in crime
cases “perfect”?

I said, “Just wanted to know if there were any specific
cases you wanted me to look over.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t presume. As I told you at the
outset, you have total freedom.”

“I wouldn’t mind reviewing any other nuclear
fallout cases you might have.
Neuropsychological sequelae of radiation poisoning. I don’t
think anyone’s studied it. It could be a great opportunity
for us to produce a unique theoretical base.”

His head retracted an inch and he put a hand on the
counter. “Yes, it could.”

He began arranging boxes of dried food, peering at
ingredients, straightening a test tube rack. “Unfortunately,
Samuel’s is the only radiation chart I took with me. Til I
came across it, I didn’t know it was there.
Or perhaps I left it there unconsciously.
Wanting a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“The terrible, terrible things people do under the guise
of authority.”

“Yes,” I said, “authority can be horribly corrupting.”

Short, hard nod. Another burdened look.

He stared at me, then turned away and held a test tube of
brown liquid up to the light. His arm trembled.

“It would have been an interesting paper, Alex. Sorry I
haven’t any more data.”

“Speaking of authority,” I said, “I was at the Trading
Post this morning and happened to catch the tail end of
Hoffman’s press conference in Guam.”

“Really?” He inspected another tube.

“He was talking about his plan to develop Micronesia.”

“He made his fortune building shopping
centers, so I’m not surprised. That and so-called “managed
forestry.’ His father was a lumberjack, but he’s responsible
for more timber clearing than his father could have ever
imagined.”

“He has a reputation for being ecologically minded.”

“There are ways.”

“Of what?”

“Of getting one’s way without fouling one’s own nest.
He chopped down rain forest in South America but supported
national parks in Oregon and Idaho. So the ecology groups
gave him an excellent rating. A fact he reminded me of last
night. As if that excused it.”

“Excused what?”

“What he’s doing here.”

“Letting Aruk die?”

He put down the test tube and glared at me. “A loss of
vigor doesn’t imply the terminal state.”

“So you have hope for the island?”

His hands dropped to his sides again, skinny and rigid
as ski poles. Blood had seeped under the bandage and crusted.

“I always have hope,” he said, barely moving his lips.
“Without hope, there’s nothing.”