The Web (17 page)

He lit a Bunsen burner and I returned to my office. Why
hadn’t I been more forthright?

The fall? His seeming fragility?

Falling. Forgetfulness. Tremors.

Sleep deprivation as he claimed, or was he just an old man
in decline?

Declining along with his island.

His reaction to my suggestion that Aruk was dying had
been sharp. The same type of frosty anger he’d shown Pam
last night. I wondered if he’d once been a harder, colder
man.

Without hope, there’s nothing.

Hope was fine, but what was he
doing
about it? The
same question: why not take heroic measures to revive things,
rather than put his energy into the nutritional needs of bugs?

Because he was running
out
of energy?

Needed a universe he could
control
?

Lord of the Roaches   .   .   .

Where did I fit in?

Chapter

22

I left to find Robin but she found me first, coming up
the path with Spike, looking troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go inside.”

We returned to the office and sat on the couch.

“Oh, boy.”

“What is it?”

“I took another walk. To the northeast corner of the
estate where it curves away from the banyan forest.
Actually, I followed Spike. He kept pulling me there.”

She pushed curls away from her eyes and rested her head
on the back of the sofa.

“The stone walls continue all around, but as the road
curves there’s a very thick planting of avocado and mango
that blocks the border. Hundreds of mature trees,
you have to really squeeze to get through. Spike
kept huffing, really yanking me. After a hundred feet or
so I figured out why: someone was crying.
I ran to see.”

She took my hand and squeezed it.

“It was Pam, Alex. Lying on a blanket between the
trees. Picnic stuff with her, a thermos, sandwiches. Lying
on her back, wearing a sundress .   .   . oh, boy.”

“What?”

“The straps were down and one hand was here.” She
cupped her own left breast. “Her eyes were closed; the other
hand was up her dress. We just burst in on her—”

“Crying from pleasure?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. More like emotional pain.
She’d been .   .   . touching herself, and for some
reason it had made her
miserable.
Tears were running down
her cheeks. I tried to leave before she saw us, but Spike started
barking and she opened her eyes.
I was
mortified.
She sat up and adjusted her clothes, and
meanwhile Spike’s running straight to her, licking her face.”

“Our little protector.”

“Lord, lord.”

“Poor you.”

“Can you imagine, Alex? The size of this place, you’d
figure you could find a private spot without Sherlock Bones
sniffing you out.”

“Rotten luck,” I agreed. “Though I guess a really
private spot would have been in her room with the door
closed. How’d she react?”

“A split second of shock, then calm, ladylike, as if I
was a neighbor dropping by to borrow sugar. She invited me
to sit down. I wanted to be anywhere
but
there, but what
could I say? No, thanks, I’ll just leave you to whatever dark
and depressing sexual fantasies you were having, ta ta?
Meanwhile, Spike’s sniffing the sandwiches and drooling.”

“The boy knows his priorities.”

“Oh, yeah, the world stops for ham and cheese.
Actually, having him there was a good distraction. She
played with him for a while, fed him, and we were doing a
pretty good job of pretending it never happened. Then all of
a sudden she burst into tears and stuff just started
pouring
out—how rotten her marriage had been, what
an ugly divorce.   .   .   . I felt like a sponge, soaking up
her pain—I don’t know how you’ve done it all these years. I
didn’t say a thing, but she just kept going. It was almost as if she
was glad I’d found her.”

“Maybe she was.”

“Or being discovered lowered her defenses.”

“What was so rotten about her marriage?”

“Her husband was also a doctor, a vascular surgeon, couple
of years younger.
Very brilliant, very good-looking, the med center’s most
eligible bachelor. Love at first sight, whirlwind courtship,
but sex with him was—she couldn’t respond, so she faked
it. It had never been a problem for her before; she figured
it would work itself out. But it didn’t and eventually he
realized it. At first he didn’t care, as long as he got his.
Soon, though, it began to bother him. Affront to his
manhood, he started pressuring her. Interrogating her.
Then it became an obsession: if she didn’t come, it wasn’t
real lovemaking. Eventually, they started avoiding each other
and he started having affairs. Lots of affairs, not even
trying to hide it. With both of them working in the same
place, she felt she was a laughingstock.”

“She just sat there and told you all this?”

“It was more as if she was talking to herself, Alex.
She asked him to go into counseling. He
refused, saying it was her problem. So she went into therapy
by herself, and eventually things just broke down between
them completely and she filed for divorce. At first he was
really rotten—humiliating her with cracks about her being
frigid, telling her about all the girls he was going out
with. But then he had a change of heart and wanted to
reconcile. She turned him down; he kept calling her, begging
for another chance. She said no and pressed on with the
divorce. A month later he died in a freak accident. Working
out in his home gym, bench-pressing. The barbell fell on his
chest and crushed him to death.”

“And she feels guilty.”

“Extremely guilty. Even though she knows it’s not
rational. Because she feels he really did still love her.
She can’t get rid of
the idea that he was overdoing the weight lifting because he
was stressed out over her. And to think the first time I saw her I
thought she was the girl with everything.”

“The girl with nothing left,” I said. “So she packs up
and returns here. And finds another younger man. Did the
flap over Dennis come up?”

“No. But it sure looks like you were right about her
having man problems, so maybe that’s what Bill
was
reacting to.
He doesn’t want her hurt again so soon.”

“Maybe. C’mere.” She climbed onto my lap and I held her close.
“Looks like you missed your true calling.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about. It’s
not
my
calling. You always talk about patients saying too much, too quickly,
then growing hostile.”

“Honey,” I said, “you weren’t probing, you just
listened. And you have no professional
responsibility—”

“I know, Alex, but I like her—basically she seems to
be a sweet woman who’s experienced some horrible
things. She was only three when her mother died and Bill
sent her away—farming her out to relatives and then
boarding schools. She says she doesn’t blame Bill, he was
doing his best. But it’s got to hurt. Is there anything more I
should be doing for her?”

“If she seeks you out, listen, as long as it doesn’t make you
feel uncomfortable.”

“I don’t want
her
to feel uncomfortable. We’re all
living together in close quarters.”

“This place,” I said, “is starting to feel like Eden
after
the fall from grace.”

“No,” she said, smiling. “No serpents, just bugs.”

“Maybe we
should
think about cutting our stay short,
Rob—no, wait, hear me out. There are things
bothering me that I haven’t told you.”

She shifted position and stared up at me. “Like what?”

“Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I can’t get rid of the
idea that someone planted those roaches.” I told her my
suspicions.

“But what would be the motive, Alex?”

“The only thing I can think of is that someone wants us
out of here.”

“Who and why?”

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure Bill hasn’t
been totally straight about his reasons for bringing me over,
so there may be something going on that we’re totally unaware
of.”

I told her about Moreland’s fall in the lab,
the crime clippings on his desk, his knowledge of my
friendship with Milo.

“You think he wants help with a crime?” she said. “The
murder on South Beach?”

“He says it’s the only major crime they’ve had in a long time.”

“What could he want from you?”

“I don’t know, but he did show me the record of the autopsy,
and he claims no one else has seen it other than Dennis. Each time
I talk to him I get the feeling he’s holding back. Either
he’s building up his courage or making sure he can trust me.
The question is, will I ever be able to trust him? Because
he lied to me about something else.”

I recounted the case of Samuel H.’s radiation poisoning and my
conversation with Micah Sanjay.

“That is odd,” she said. “But maybe there’s an
explanation. Why don’t you just come out and ask him?”

“I was on my way to do just that. But after he fell and started
bleeding, I guess I felt sorry for him. I’ll
deal with it.”

“And then we leave?” She looked sad.

I said, “There are also things about the murder I
haven’t told you. It was more than just a gory killing.
There was organ theft. Evidence of cannibalism.”

She lost color. Got off my lap, walked to a teak wall,
and traced the wood’s grain with her finger. “You thought I
couldn’t handle it?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary to expose you to every
disgusting detail.”

She didn’t answer.

“I wasn’t patronizing you, Rob.
But this was supposed to be a vacation. Would hearing
about marrow being sucked out of leg bones have done you any
good?”

“You know,” she said, facing me, “when Pam started
unloading, it was tough at first, but then it felt good. The
fact that she trusted me.
Breaking my routine and finding out my
sympathies
have been awakened isn’t a bad thing. I’ve started to realize
how much I use work to escape people.”

“I’ve always considered you great with peop—”

“I’m talking about relating
in depth, Alex. Especially to other women. You know, I’ve never
done much of that, growing up so close to my dad, always
trying to please him by doing boy stuff. You always say
we’re an odd couple—the guy dealing with feelings, the girl
wielding power tools.”

I got up and stood next to her.

“Being here,” she said, “away from the grind, even for
these few days, has been a .   .   . learning experience.
Don’t worry,
I’m not going to give it all up to be a therapist. Two shrinks
in one house would be too much to bear. But helping people
gratifies me.”

She threw her arms around me and
pressed her face against my chest. “Welcome to Robin’s
epiphany—all that said, we can leave early if you’re
uncomfortable here.”

“No, there’s no emergency—I’m probably letting my
imagination get out of control, as usual.”

She kissed my chin. “I like your imagination.”

“So you’re okay with cannibals on the beach?”

“Hardly. But it happened half a year ago, and as you
said, sex killers don’t just stop. So I figure he is gone.”

“You’re a tough kid, Castagna.”

She laughed. “Not really. First thing I did this
afternoon was check my shoes for creepy-crawlies. And
if something else happens, you may just see me swimming for
Guam.”

“I’ll be right behind you. Okay, if you’re fine, I
am—hey, you calmed me down. You can be
my
therapist.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Ethical considerations. I want to keep sleeping with
you.”

Chapter

23

I went back to Moreland’s bungalow. Locked now, and
no one answered.

The next time I saw him was at the dinner table that
evening. The bandage on his hand was fresh, and he
acknowledged me with a smile. Pam stood in a corner of the
terrace, hands at her sides. She wore a blood-red
Chinese silk dress and red sandals. Her hair was pinned and
a yellow orchid rested above her left ear. Forced festivity?

She turned and gave us a wave. Robin looked at me
and when I nodded went over to her.

I sat down next to Moreland.

“How’s the hand?”

“Fine, thank you. Some juice? Mixed citrus,
quite delicious.”

I took some. “There’s a case I’d like to discuss with
you.”

“Oh?”

“A man named Joseph Cristobal, thirty-year-old file. He
complained of visual hallucinations—white worms, white worm
people—and then he died in his sleep. You found a blocked
coronary artery and gave the cause of death as heart failure.
But you also noted an organism called
A. Tutalo.
I looked
it up but couldn’t find any mention of it.”

He rubbed his crinkled chin. “Ah, yes, Joseph. He
worked here, gardening. Looked healthy enough, but his
arteries
were
a mess. Loved coconut, maybe that
contributed. He never complained of any cardiac symptoms, but
even if he had there wouldn’t have been much I could have done.
Today, of course, I’d refer him for an angiogram, possible bypass
surgery. It’s the humbling thing about medicine. Acceptable
practice inevitably resembles medieval barbering.”

“What about
A. Tutalo
?”

He smiled. “No, it’s not an organism.
It’s .   .   . a bit more complicated than that,
son—ah, one second.”

Jo had come out, Ben and Claire Romero right behind her.
Moreland sprang up, touched Jo’s hand briefly, then continued
on and gave Claire a hug. Looking over his shoulder, he
said, “Shall we continue our discussion after dinner, Alex?”

Jo seemed different—eyes less burdened, voice lighter,
almost giddy, praising the food every third bite,
informing the table that Lyman’s body had reached the States
and been picked up by his family. Then, waving off
condolences, she changed the subject to her research,
pronouncing that everything was “proceeding grandly.”

The sky
turned deep blue, then black. The rain clouds were gray
smudges. They hadn’t moved much since morning.

When Jo stopped talking, Moreland strode to the railing
where some geckos were racing. When he waved a piece
of fruit, they stopped and stared at him; dinnertime was
probably a cue. He hand-fed them, then returned to the table
and delivered a discourse on interspecies bonding. Avoiding
my eyes, I thought.

A bit of small talk followed before the conversation
settled upon Claire Romero, the way it often does with a
newcomer.

She was well-spoken,
but very quiet. The Honolulu-born daughter of two
high school teachers, she’d played violin in college and in
several chamber groups and had considered a professional
career in music.

“Why didn’t you?” said Jo, nibbling a croissant.

Claire smiled. “Not enough talent.”

“Sometimes we’re not our own best judges.”

“I am, Dr. Picker.”

“She’s the only one who feels that way,” said Ben.
“She was a child prodigy. I married her and took her
away from it.”

Claire looked at her plate. “Please, Ben—”

“You
are
immensely talented, dear,” said Moreland.
“And it’s been so long since you played for us—last year,
wasn’t it? On my birthday, in fact. What a lovely night that
was.”

“I’ve barely played since, Dr. Bill.” She turned to
Robin. “Have you ever built a violin?”

“No, but I’ve thought of it. I have some old Alpine
spruce and Tyrolean maple that would be perfect, but it’s a
little intimidating.”

“Why’s that?” said Jo.

“Small scale, subtle
gradations. I wouldn’t want to ruin old wood.”

“Claire’s got a terrific old fiddle,” said Ben.
“French—a Guersan. Over a hundred years old.” He winked.
“In
fact,
it just happens to be down in the car.”

Claire stared at him.

He smiled back with mock innocence.

She shook her head.

“Well, then,” said Moreland, clapping his hands. “You
must play for us.”

“I’m really rusty, Dr. Bi—”

“I’m willing to assume the risk, dear.”

Claire glared at Ben.

“Please, dear. Just a piece or two.”

“I’m warning you, get out the earplugs.”

“Warning duly noted. Would it be possible to play the
piece you did for us last year? The Vivaldi?”

Claire hesitated, glanced at Ben.

“I saw the case,” he said. “Just lying there in the
closet. It said, “Take me along.”’

“If you’re hearing voices, perhaps you should have a
long talk with Dr. Delaware.”

“Dear?” said Moreland, softly.

Claire shook her head. “Sure, Dr. Bill.”

She played wonderfully, but she looked tense. Mouth
set, shoulders hunched, swaying in time with the music as
she filled the terrace with a rich brocade of melody.
When she was through, we applauded and she said, “Thanks for
your tolerance. Now, I’ve really got to get going. Science
project’s due tomorrow.”

Moreland walked her and Ben out. Pam nibbled a slice of
passion fruit, distracted. Robin took my hand.

“She
is
good, Alex.”

“Fantastic,” I said. But I was thinking about
A.
Tutalo.
The other things I’d ask Moreland when he returned.

He didn’t.

When Robin said, “Let’s go upstairs,” I didn’t argue.

The moment we closed our suite door we were embracing,
and soon we were in bed, kissing deeply, merging hungrily.

Afterward, I sank into a
molasses vat of dreamless sleep, a welcome brain-death.

That made waking up in the middle of the night so
much more unsettling.

Sitting up, sweating.

Noises .   .   . my head was fogged and I
struggled to make sense of what I was hearing:

Rapid pounding—footsteps out in the
hall   .   .   .

Someone running?

A tattoo of footsteps; more than one person.

Fast.

Panic   .   .   .

Then shouts—angry, hurried—someone insisting,
“No!”

Spike barked.

Robin sat up, hair in her face. She grabbed my arm.

A door slammed.

“Alex—”

More shouts.

Too far away to make out words.

“No!”
again.

A man’s voice.

Moreland.

We got up, threw on robes, opened our door carefully.

The chandelier over the entry was on, whitening the
landing. My eyes ached, struggling to stay open.

Moreland wasn’t there, but Jo was, her broad back to us,
hands atop the banister. A door down the hall opened and
Pam came running out, wrapped in a silver kimono, her face paper-white.
The door stayed open and I had my first look at her room:
white satin bedding, peach-colored walls, cut
flowers. At the end of the landing, her father’s door remained closed.

But I heard him again. Down in the entry.

We hurried next to Jo. She didn’t turn, kept looking at
Moreland and Dennis Laurent. The police chief stood
just inside the front door, in full uniform, hands on his
hips. A holstered pistol on his belt.

Moreland faced him, hands clenched. He had on a long
white nightshirt, soft slippers. His legs were varicosed
stilts, his hands inches from the police chief’s impassive face.

“Impossible, Dennis! Insane!”

Dennis held out a palm. Moreland came closer anyway.

“Listen to me, Dennis—”

“I’m just telling you what we—”

“I don’t care
what
you found, it’s impossible! How
could
you
of all—”

“Take it easy. Let’s just go one step at a time and
I’ll do what I—”

“What you can do is
end
it! Right
now
!
Don’t even entertain the possibility, and don’t allow anyone
else
to. There’s simply no
choice,
son.”

The policeman’s eyes became black cuts. “So you want me
to—”

“You’re the law, son. It’s up to you to—”

“It’s up to me to enforce the law—”

“Enforce it, but—”

“But not fully?”

“You know what I’m saying, Dennis. This must
be—”

“Stop.” Dennis’s bass voice hit a note at the bottom of his
register. He stood even taller, bearing down on Moreland.
Forced to look up, Moreland said, “This is
psychotic.
After
all you and—”

“I go with what I have,” said Dennis, “and what I have
looks bad. And it could get lots worse. I called the base
and asked Ewing to keep his men under watch—”

“He took your call?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Congratulations,” said Moreland bitterly. “You’ve
finally arrived.”

“Doc, there’s no reas—”

“There’s no reason to continue this
insanity
!”

The police chief started to open the door.
Moreland took hold of his arm. Dennis stared at Moreland’s
bony fingers until the old man let go.

“I’ve got things to do, doc. Stay here. Don’t leave
the estate.”

“How can you—”

“Like I said, I go with what I have.”

“And
I
said—”

“Stop wasting your breath.” Dennis made
another attempt to leave, and once again Moreland reached for
his arm. This time the big man shook him off and Moreland
fell back.

Dennis caught him as Pam called out.

Dennis looked up at us.

“
Think,
son!” said Moreland. “Does it
make—”

“I’m not your damn
son.
And I don’t need you to tell
me what to think or how to do my job. Just stay up here till I
tell you different.”

“That’s house impris—”

“It’s good
sense.
You’re obviously not going to be of
much help, so I’m calling over to Saipan and have them send
me someone.”

“No,” said Moreland. “I’ll cooperate. I’m
perfectly—”

“Forget it.”

“I’m the—”

“Not anymore,” said Dennis. “Just stay here and don’t
cause problems.” Growling now. His enormous shoulders
bunched.

He looked up at us again. Focused on Pam, then scanned
the banister from end to end, eyes darting like the geckos.

“What’s going on?” I said.

He chewed his lip.

Moreland’s head was down and he was holding it as
if to keep it from falling off his neck.

Pam said, “What’s happened? What’s happened, Dennis?”

Dennis seemed to consider an answer, then he looked back
at Moreland, now leaning, face to the wall.

“A bad thing,” he said, putting one foot out the door.
“Daddy can tell you all about it.”

The door slammed and he was gone. Moreland remained in
the entry, not moving. The chandelier turned his bald head
metallic.

Pam rushed down to him and we followed.

“Dad?”

She put her arm around him. His color was bad. “What
is it, Dad?”

He mumbled something.

“What?”

Silence.

“Please, Daddy, tell me.”

He shook his head and muttered, “As Dennis said. A bad
thing.”

“What bad thing?”

More headshaking.

She guided him to an armchair in the front room. He sat
reluctantly, remaining on the edge, one hand scratching a
knobby knee, the other shielding most of his face. The visible
part was the color of spoiled milk and his lips looked like
slices of putty.

“What’s going on, Daddy? Why was Dennis so rude to
you?”

“Doing his job   .   .   .”

“A crime? There was a
crime,
Dad?”

Moreland dropped both hands in his lap. Defeat had
stripped his face of structure; each wrinkle was as black and deep
as freshly gouged sculptor’s clay.

“Yes, a crime .   .   . murder.”

“Who was murdered, Dad?”

No answer.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

I said, “Another—”

He cut me off with a hand-slash. “A terrible murder.”

“Who?” said Jo.

“A young woman.”

“Where, Dad?”

“Victory Park.”

“Who was the victim?” pressed Jo.

Long pause. “A girl named Betty Aguilar.”

Pam frowned. “Do we know her?”

“Ida Aguilar’s daughter. She works Ida’s stall at the
Trading Post. She came in for a checkup last week, I
introduced you to her when—”

“My God,” I said. “I just spoke to her today. She was
three months pregnant.”

Robin said, “Oh, no.” She was holding on to the sash of my robe,
eyes belladonna-bright.

“Well,
that’s
certainly dreadful,” said Jo. Not a
trace of slur. Off the sleeping pills?

“Yes, yes,” said Moreland. “Very dreadful, yes, yes,
yes   .   .   .” He grabbed for the chair’s arm. Pam braced
him.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. Were you close to her?”

“I—” He began to cry and Pam tried to hold him,
but he freed himself and looked over at the big dark windows. The
sky was still deep blue, the clouds larger, lower.

“I
delivered
her,” he said. “I was going to
deliver her baby. She was doing so well with prenatal
care—she used to smoke and   .   .   .” He touched his
mouth. “She resolved to take good care of herself and stuck to
it.”

“Any idea why she was killed?” said Jo.

Moreland stared at her. “Why would I know that?”

“You knew her.”

Moreland turned away from her.

“Why does Dennis want you to stay up here?” I said.

“Not just me, all of us. We’re all under house arrest.”

“Why, Daddy?” said Pam.

“Because .   .   .
they—it’s   .   .   .” He listed forward, then sat
back heavily, both hands glued to the chair’s arms. The
fabric was a rose damask, silk, once expensive. Now I
noticed the worn spots and the snags, a stitched-up tear,
stains that could never be cleaned.