The Web (2 page)

Chapter

3

A rasping noise woke me. Scratching at one of the
screens.

I sat up fast, saw it.

A small lizard, rubbing its foreclaws against the mesh.

I got out of bed and had a closer look.

It stayed there. Light brown body speckled with black.
Skinny head and unmoving eyes.

It stared at me. I waved. Unimpressed, it scraped some
more, finally scampered away.

Five
P.M.
I’d been out for two hours. Robin was still
curled under the sheets.

Slipping into my pants, I tiptoed to the sitting room.
Spike greeted me by panting and rolling over. I massaged his
gut, refilled his water bowl, poured myself a tonic water on
ice, and sat by the largest window. The sun was a big, red
cherry, the ocean starting to silver.

I felt lucky to be alive, but disconnected—so far from
everything familiar.

Rummaging in my briefcase I found Moreland’s letter.
Heavy white paper with a regal watermark. At the top in
embossed black:

Aruk House, Aruk Island.

Dear Dr. Delaware,

I am a physician who lives on the island of Aruk in the
northern region of Micronesia. Nicknamed “Knife Island”
because of its oblong shape, Aruk is officially part of the
Mariana Commonwealth and a self-governing U.S. territory, but
relatively obscure and not listed in any guidebooks. I have
lived here since 1961 and have found it a wonderful and
fascinating place.

I chanced to come across an article you published in
The
Journal of Child Development and Clinical Practice
on
group trauma. Progressing
to all your other published works, I found that you display a
fine combination of scholarliness and common-sense thinking.

I say all this by way of making an interesting
proposition.

Over the last three decades, in addition to conducting
research in natural history and nutrition, I have accumulated
an enormous amount of clinical data from my practice, some of
it unique. Because the bulk of my time has been spent
treating patients, I have not taken the time to properly
organize this information.

As I grow older and closer to retirement, I realize that
unless these data are brought to publication, a wealth of
knowledge may be lost. Initially, my thought was to obtain
the help of an anthropologist, but I decided that someone
with clinical experience, preferably in a mental health
field, would be better suited to the task. Your writing
skills and orientation make me feel that you might be a
compatible collaborator.

I’m sure, Dr. Delaware, that this will seem odd, coming
out of the blue, but I have given much thought to my offer.
Though the pace of life on Aruk is probably a good deal
slower than what you are used to, that in and of itself may
have appeal for you. Would you be interested in helping
me? By my estimate, the preliminary organization
should take two, perhaps three months, at which point we
could sit down and figure out if we’ve got a book, a
monograph, or several journal articles. I would concentrate
on the biological aspects, and I’d rely upon you for the
psychological input. What I envision is a fifty-fifty
collaboration with joint authorship.

I’m prepared to offer compensation of six thousand
dollars per month, for four months, in addition to business-class
transportation from the mainland and full room and
board. There are no hotels on Aruk, but my own home is quite
commodious and I’m sure you would find it pleasant. If you
are married, I could accommodate your wife’s transportation,
though I could not offer her any paid work. If you have
children, they could enroll in the local Catholic school,
which is small but good, or I could arrange for private
tutoring at a reasonable cost.

If this interests you, please write me or call collect
at (607) 555-3334. There is no formal schedule, but I would
like to get to work on this as soon as possible.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Woodrow Wilson Moreland, M.D.

Slow pace of life; nothing in the letter indicated
professional challenges, and any other time, I might have written
back a polite refusal. I hadn’t done long-term therapy for
years, but forensic consultations kept me busy, and Robin’s
work as a builder of custom stringed instruments left her
little free time for vacations, let alone a four-month idyll.

But we’d been talking, half jokingly, about escaping to
a desert island.

A year ago a psychopath had burned down our home and
tried to murder us. Eventually, we’d taken on the task of
rebuilding, finding temporary lodgings at a beach rental on
the far western end of Malibu.

After our general contractor flaked out on us, Robin
began overseeing the project. Things went well before
bogging down the way construction projects inevitably do.
Our new home was still months from completion, and the double
load finally proved too much for her. She hired a fellow
luthier who’d developed a severe allergy to wood dust to
oversee the final stages, and returned to her carving.

Then her right wrist gave out—severe tendinitis. The
doctors said nothing would help unless she
gave the joint a long hiatus. She grew depressed and did
little but sit on the beach all day, insisting she was
adjusting just fine.

To my surprise, she soon
was,
hurrying to the sand
each morning, even when autumn brought biting winds and iron
skies. Taking long, solitary walks to the tide pools,
watching the pelicans hunt from a vantage point atop the
rocky cove.

“I know, I know,” she finally said. “I’m surprised,
myself. But now I’m thinking I was silly for waiting this
long.”

In November, the lease on our beach house expired and
the owner informed us he was giving it to his failed-screenwriter
son as an incentive to write.

Thirty-day notice to vacate.

Moreland’s letter came soon after. I showed it to Robin,
expecting her to laugh it off.

She said, “Call me Robin Crusoe.”

Chapter

4

Something human woke her.

People arguing next door. A man and a woman, their
words blunted by thick walls, but the tone unmistakable.
Going at each other with that grinding relentlessness that
said they’d had long practice.

Robin sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and
squinted.

The voices subsided, then resumed.

“What time is it, Alex?”

“Five-forty.”

She took a long breath. I sat down on the bed and held
her. Her body was moist.

“Dinner in twenty minutes,” she said. “The bath must be
cold.”

“I’ll run another.”

“When did you get up?”

“Five.” I told her about the lizard. “So don’t be
alarmed if it happens again.”

“Was he cute?”

“Who says it was a he?”

“Girls don’t peep through other people’s windows.”

“Now that I think about it, he did seem to be ogling
you.” I narrowed my eyes and flicked my tongue. “Probably a
lounge lizard.”

She laughed and got out of bed. Putting on a robe, she
walked around, flexing her wrist.

“How does it feel?”

“Better, actually. All the warm air.”

“And doing nothing.”

“Yes,” she said. “The power of positive nothing.”

She slipped into a sleeveless white dress that showed
off her olive skin. As we headed for the stairs, someone
said, “
Hello
there.”

A couple had emerged from next door. The woman was
locking up. The man repeated his greeting.

Both were tall, in their forties, with short-sleeved,
epauletted khaki ensembles. His looked well worn, but hers
was right out of the box.

He had a red, peeling nose under thick-rimmed glasses
and a long, graying beard that reached his breastbone. The
hair on top was darker, thin, combed over. His vest pockets
bulged. She was big busted and broad beamed, with brown hair
pulled back from a round face.

They lumbered toward us, holding hands. Half an hour ago
they’d been assaulting each other with words.

“Dr. and Mrs. Delaware, I presume?” His voice was low
and grainy. Cocktail breath. Up close, his skin was
freckled pemmican, the red nose due to shattered vessels, not
sunburn.

“Robin Castagna and Alex Delaware,” I said.

“Jo Picker, Lyman Picker.
Dr.
Jo Picker and Lyman
Picker.”

The woman said, “Actually, it’s
Dr.
Lyman Picker,
too, but who cares about that nonsense.” She had a sub-alto
voice. If the two of them had kids, they probably sounded
like tugboat horns.

She gave Robin a wide, appraising smile. Light brown
eyes, an even nose, lips just a little too thin. Her tan was
as new as her getup, still pink around the edges.

“I’ve heard you’re a craftswoman,” she said. “Sounds
fascinating.”

“We’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” said Picker.
“Round out the dinner table—make up for the host’s
absence.”

“Is the host absent often?” I said.

“All work, no play. When the man sleeps, I don’t know.
Are you vegetarians like him? We’re not. My line of work,
you eat what you can get or you starve to death.”

Knowing it was expected of me, I said, “What line is
that?”

“Epiphytology. Botany. Tropical spores.”

“Are you doing research with Dr. Moreland?”

He gave a wet laugh. “No, I rarely venture far from the
equator. This is a cold weather jaunt for me.” He threw an
arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Keeping the distaff side
company. Dr. Jo here is an esteemed meteorologist.
Fluctuations in aerial currents. Uncle Sam’s quite enamored,
ergo grant money.”

Jo gave an uneasy smile. “I study the wind. How was
your trip?”

“Long but peaceful,” said Robin.

“Come over on the supply boat?” said Picker.

“Yes.”

“Out of Saipan or Rota?”

“Saipan.”

“Us, too. Damned tedious, give me a plane any day.
Even the biggest ocean liner’s a thumbnail in a swimming pool.
Ridiculous, isn’t it, big airfield over on Stanton and the
Navy won’t let anyone use it.”

“Dr. Moreland wrote that the airport there was closed,”
I said.

“Not when the Navy needs it. Damn boats.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad, Ly,” said Jo. “Remember the
flying fish? It was lovely, actually.”

The four of us started toward the stairs.

“Typical government stupidity,” said Picker. “All that land,
no one using it—probably the result of some subcommittee.
Wouldn’t you say, dear? You understand the ways of the
government.”

Jo’s smile was tense. “Wish I did.”

“Spend any time in Guam?” asked her husband. “Read any
of those tourist pamphlets they have everywhere? Developing
the Pacific, making use of the native talent pool. So what
does the military do to a place like this? Blocks off the
one link between the base and the rest of the island.”

“What link is that?” I said.

“Southern coastal road. The leeward side is
unapproachable from the north, sheer rock walls from the tip
of North Beach up to those dead volcanoes, so the only other
ways to get through are the southern beach road and through the
banyan forest. Navy blockaded the road last year.
Meaning no military contact with the village, no commerce.
What little local economy there was got choked off.”

“What about through the forest?”

“The Japanese salted it with
land mines.”

His wife moved out from under his arm. “What kinds of
things do you craft, Robin?”

“Musical instruments.”

“Ah .   .   . drums and such?”

“Guitars and mandolins.”

“Lyman plays the guitar.”

Picker scratched his beard. “Took a guitar into the
hoyos
of central Ecuador—now
that
was a
place—ocelots, tapir, kinkajou. Only indigenous thingies
around here lack spines, and my bride despises spineless things,
don’t you?”

“He plays quite well,” said Jo.

“Regular Segovia.” Picker mimed a strum. “Sitting
around the campfire with the Auca Indians, trying to charm
them so they’d lead me to a juicy trove of
Cordyceps
militaris—
fungal parasite, grows on insect pupae, they eat
it like popcorn. Humidity loosened the glue on the thing,
woke up the next morning to a stack of soggy boards.” He
laughed. “Used the strings to strangle my supper that night,
the rest for toothpicks.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs.
Ben Romero was in the front room, KiKo on his shoulder.
Picker eyed the animal. “I’ve eaten them, too. Gamy. Can’t
housebreak them, did you know?”

“Evening, Ben,” said Jo. “Alfresco, as usual?”

Ben nodded. “Dr. Bill will be a little late.”

“Surprise, surprise,” said Picker.

We walked through the right-hand hallway. Raw silk walls
were hung with yet more pale watercolors. Nature scenes,
well executed. The same signature on all of them:
“B. Moreland.” Another of the doctor’s talents?

Ben led us through a big, yellow living room with a
limestone fireplace, brocade couches, chinoiserie tables,
Imari porcelain lamps with parchment shades. An oil portrait
of a black-haired woman took up the space over the mantel.
Her haughty beauty evoked Sargent.

The room opened to a wraparound terrace
where a banquet table was covered with bright
blue cloth. Bone china set for seven. Nascent light from
hanging iron lanterns was swallowed by the still-bright
evening.

The sun nudged the horizon,
spilling crimson onto the skin of the water, a lovely wound.
Down in the village tin roofs glinted through the treetops
like tiny coins. The road leading up to the estate was a
sleeping gray snake, its head resting at the big front gates.
I thought of the slaves storming up from the barracks. Some
Japanese general watching, helpless, knowing how it would
end.

Lyman Picker touched his throat and winked at Ben.

“Bourbon,” Ben said in a tight voice. “Straight up.”

“Excellent memory, friend.”

“And for you, Mrs. Picker?”

“Just a soda, if it’s no bother.”

“No bother at all.” Ben’s jaw flexed. “Ms. Castagna?
Dr. Delaware?”

“Nothing, thanks,” I said.

Robin looked at me. “Me, neither.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

He left.

“Conscientious one, that,” said Picker.

Jo began examining the flatware. Robin and I walked to
the pine railing. Picker followed us and leaned against the wood,
elbows resting on the cap.

“So you’re here to work with the old man. Sun and fun,
maybe a publication or two. He’s lucky to
get you. You wouldn’t find a serious scientist here.”

I laughed.

“No offense, man,” he said, as if offended. “When I say
serious, I mean us theoretical and oh-so-irrelevant types.
Panhandlers with Ph.D.’s, rattling our beakers and praying
stipends will drop in. This part of the globe, you want
funding, you don’t study a place like this, you go for
Melanesia, Polynesia. Big, fat, fertile islands, plenty of
flora, fauna, agreeably colorful indigenous tribes, serious
mythology for the folklore crowd.”

“Aruk doesn’t have any of that?”

He coughed without covering his mouth. “Micronesia, my
friend, is two thousand dirt specks in three million square miles of
water, most of them uninhabited bumps of coral.
This
bump’s
one of the most obscure. Did you know there were no people
till the Spanish brought them over to grow sugar? The crop
failed and the Spanish sailed away, leaving the workers to
starve. Then came the Germans, who, for all their
authoritarianism, hadn’t a clue about colonizing. Sat around
reading Goethe all day. Then the
Japanese trying the same damn sugar thing, slave labor.”

He laughed. “So what was the payoff? MacArthur bombs
them to hell and the slaves say payback time. Night of the
long knives.” He drew a finger across his beard.

Jo came over. “Is he regaling you with tales of his
far-flung adventures?”

“No,” said Picker, grumpily. “Reviewing local
history.” He coughed again. “Where’s that drink?”

“Soon, Ly. So what led you to become a craftswoman,
Robin?”

“I love music and working with my hands. Tell us about
your
research, Jo.”

“Nothing very exciting. I was sent to do a wind survey
of several islands in the Mariana complex and Aruk’s my last
stop. We were renting a teeny place in town till Bill was
kind enough to invite us up here. We’re leaving in a week.”

“Don’t make it sound like the weather service, girl,”
said Picker.
“Defense
Department pays her bills. She’s an
important national asset. Marry an asset, get an all-expense-paid
vacation.”

He slapped his wife on the back, none too gently. She
stiffened but smiled.

“Do you live in Washington?” said Robin.

“We have a town house in Georgetown,” said Jo, “but most
of the time we’re both gone.”

She recoiled. A lizard, just like the one I’d seen at
the window, raced along the top of the railing. Her husband
flicked a finger at it, laughing as it disappeared over the
side.

“Still jittery?” he reproached her. “I told you it’s
harmless.
Hemidactylus frenatus.
House gecko,
semidomesticated. People feed them near the house, so they’ll
stick around and eat all the
buggies.
”

He wiggled his fingers in his wife’s face. In grade
school, he’d probably been a pigtail yanker.

She tried to smile. “Well, I just can’t get used to
them doing push-ups on my screen.”

“Squeamish,” Picker told us. “Meaning I can’t bring
my
work home.”

Jo colored beneath her tan.

The young housekeeper, Cheryl, came out with a tray. On
it were the drinks the Pickers had ordered and mineral waters
with lime for Robin and me.

“Retarded, that,” Picker said when she was gone.
Tapping his temple. He raised his glass. “To spineless
things.”

Red light bounced off the ocean and bloodied his beard.

His wife looked the other way and sipped.

Robin drew me away to the opposite corner.

“Charming, huh?” I said.

“Alex, why were you so adamant about not ordering
drinks?”

“Because Ben’s teeth were clenched when Picker ordered
his. He’s a nurse, doesn’t want to be thought of as a
butler. Notice he sent Cheryl with the tray.”

“Oh,” she said. “My psychologist.” She slipped her
hand around my waist and lowered her head to my shoulder.

“Lovers’ secrets?” Picker called out. His glass was
empty.

“Let them
be,
Ly,” said Jo.

“Looks like they’re
being
just fine.”

“Welcome to paradise,” I muttered.

Robin quelled a laugh. It came out sounding like a
hiccup.

“Hitting the sauce, girl?” I whispered. “Tsk, tsk.
Damned self-indulgent.”

“Stop,” she said, biting her lip.

I leaned close. “Great
fun
ahead, wench. Cooked flesh
and spirits, and after dinner he’ll
regale
us with tales of
the giant-penised Matahuaxl tribe. Human tripods, they are.
Very virile.”

She licked her lips and whispered back: “Very, indeed.
As they trip their way over the roots of the variegated
crotchweed. ’Cause let’s face it, when it comes to tribes,
bigger
is
better.”

“Ah, love   .   .   .   ,” Picker called from across
the terrace. “Need another drinkie, I do.”

But he made no move to get one and neither did his wife.
Welcome silence, then
light footsteps sounded from behind. I turned and saw a lovely-looking
blond woman walk toward us.

Late twenties or early thirties, she
had a nipped waist, boyish hips,
small breasts, long legs. She wore an apricot silk blouse
and black crepe slacks. Blunt-cut hair ended at her
shoulders, held in place by a black band. The honey tint
looked real and her sculpted face had a scrubbed-clean look.
Her features were fine and perfectly placed: soft, wide
mouth, clean jaw, delicate ears. Blue eyes with a downward
slant that made them look sad.