The Web (21 page)

Psychic sculpting. I doubted I had the talent.

Chapter

26

By ten
A.M.
the reservations were booked: back to Saipan in five
days, LAX in a week. I’d try to find a good time to tell
Moreland. If I didn’t find one, I’d tell him anyway.

I phoned the Aruk police station. A man with a sibilant
voice told me the chief was busy.

“When will he be free?”

“Who’s this?”

“Dr. Delaware. I’m staying at—”

“Knife Castle, yeah, I know. I’ll give him your
message.”

Robin was still sleeping and I went down to breakfast.
Jo was there by herself, eating heartily.

“Morning,” she said. “Get any sleep?”

“Not much.”

“It’s something, isn’t it? You come to an out-of-the-way
place, think you’re escaping big-city crime, and it
runs after you like a mad dog.”

I buttered a piece of toast. “True. Life can be a prison.
Sometimes, out-of-the-way places make the best prisons.”

She wiped her lips. “I suppose that’s one way of
looking at it.”

“Sure,” I said. “The isolation and poverty. For all we know
there are all kinds of behavioral aberrations rampant.”

“Is that what you’re looking for in your research?”

“I haven’t gotten far enough to develop hypotheses.
Looks like I won’t; we’re booked on the next boat out.”

“That so?” She placed a dollop of marmalade on a scone.
The sun was behind her, crowning her with a rainbow aura.

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“Till I finish.”

“Wind research,” I said. “What exactly are you looking
at?”

“Currents. Patterns.”

“Ever hear of the Bikini atoll disaster? Atomic blast
over in the Marshall Islands. Shifting winds showered the
region with radioactive dust.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I study weather from a
theoretical standpoint.” She nibbled the scone and gazed at
the sky. “There are wet winds coming, as a matter of fact.
Lots of rain.
Look.”

I followed her finger. The clouds had moved inland and
I could see black patches behind the white fluff.

“When will the rain get here?”

“Next few days. It could delay your getting out. The
boats won’t sail if the winds are strong.”

“Are we talking winds or a storm?”

“Hard to say. The house probably won’t fly away.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It could be just rain, very little air movement. If
the winds kick up, stay inside. You’ll be fine.”

“The charter company didn’t mention anything about
delays.”

“They never do. They just cancel without warning.”

“Great.”

“It’s a different way of life,” she said. “People don’t
feel bound by the rules.”

“Sounds like Washington.”

She put the scone down and smiled, but held on to her
butter knife. “Washington has its own set of rules.”

“I’ll bet. How long have you been working for the
government?”

“Since I got out of grad school.” Her eyes returned to
the clouds. “As they get lower, they pick up moisture, then
they turn jet-black and burst all at once. It’s something to
see.”

“You’ve been to the region before?”

She examined the cutting edge of the knife. “No, but
I’ve been other places with comparable patterns.” Another
glance upward. “It could come down in sheets. Only
problem’ll be if the cisterns fill too high for the filters
to handle and the germ count rises.”

“I thought Bill had the water situation under control.”

“Not without access to the town he doesn’t. But you
heard Laurent. He’s stuck here. All of us are. Guilt by
association.”

“At least you’ve got your gun.”

She raised her eyebrows. Put the knife down and
laughed. Pointing her finger at the coffeepot, she pulled
an imaginary trigger.

“Crack shot?” I said.

“It was Ly’s.”

“How’d he get it through baggage control?”

“He didn’t. Bought it in Guam. He always traveled
armed.”

“Exploring dangerous places?”

Filling her juice glass, she drank and looked at me over
the rim. “As you said, it’s impossible to escape crime.”

“Actually, you said that. I said life could be a
prison.”

“Ah. I stand corrected.” She put the glass down,
snatched up the scone, bit off half, and chewed vigorously.
“It’s incredible, being that close to a psychopathic killer.
Ben seemed okay, maybe a little too
pukka sahib
with Bill,
but nothing scary.” She shook her head. “You never know
what’s inside someone’s head. Or maybe
you
do.”

“Wish I did,” I said.

Dipping her hand into the pastry basket, she scooped up
croissants, muffins, and rolls, and then broke off a cluster of
grapes.

“Working lunch,” she said, standing. “Good talking to
you. Sorry you didn’t have time to solve the mysteries of
the island psyche.”

She headed for the door to the house.
When she got there, I said, “Speaking of prisons, this place
would make an especially good one, don’t you think? U.S.
territory, so there’d be no diplomatic problems. Remote, with
no significant population to displace, and the ocean’s a
perfect security barrier.”

Her mouth got small. “Like Devil’s Island? Interesting
idea.”

“And politically expedient. Ship the bad guys halfway
around the world and forget about them. With the crime
situation back home, I bet it would play great in Peoria.”

Crumbs trickled from her hand, dusting the stone floor.
Squeezing the pastries. “Are you thinking of going into the
prison business?”

“No, just thinking out loud.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, you could take it one step
further. When you get back home, write your congressman.”

Yet another folded card on my desk:

O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow.   .   .   .

WH Auden

Below that:
A: Don’t you think Einstein would agree?
B.”

What was he getting at now? The ultimate power of
time .   .   . deceitful
time .   .   . Einstein—time’s relativity? The
nightmare—death? Impending mortality?

An old man losing hope?

Making a typically oblique cry for help?

If so, I was in no mood to oblige.

I read a few more charts but couldn’t concentrate.
Returning to the house, I encountered Gladys coming out the
front door.

“I’m glad I caught you, doctor. Dennis—Chief
Laurent’s on the phone.”

I picked it up in the front room. “Dr. Delaware.”

Dead air, then a click and background voices. The
loudest was Dennis, giving orders.

I said, “I’m here, Chief.”

“Oh—yeah. My man said you had something to tell
me.”

“I was wondering if I could come into town to talk to
Ben.”

Pause. “Why?”

“Moral support. Dr. Moreland asked me. I know it’s a
tall order—”

“No kidding.”

“Okay, I asked.”

“You don’t want to do it?”

“I don’t particularly want to mix in,” I said. “Any
idea when the rest of us will be allowed off the estate?”

“Soon as things quiet down.”

“Robin and I have reservations out in five days. Any
problems with that?”

“No promises. No one’s allowed off the island till we
settle this.”

“Does that include the sailors on the base?”

He was silent. The noise in the background hadn’t
subsided.

“Actually,” he said, “maybe you
should
come down
to talk to him. He’s acting nuts, and I don’t want to be accused of
not providing proper care, create any technicalities.”

“I’m not an M.D.”

“What are you?”

“Ph.D. psychologist.”

“Close enough. Check him over.”

“Pam’s an M.D.”

“She’s no head doctor. What, now that I want you, you’re not
interested?”

“Are you concerned about a suicide attempt?”

Another pause. “Let’s just say I don’t like to see
prisoners behave like this.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. Not moving or talking or
eating. Even with his wife there. He wouldn’t acknowledge
her. I guess you’d call it catatonic.”

“Are his limbs waxy?”

“You mean soft?”

“If you position him, does he stay that way?”

“Haven’t tried to move him—we don’t want anyone
claiming brutality. We just slide his food tray in and make
sure he’s got enough toilet paper. I’m bending over to
protect his rights until his lawyer shows up.”

“When’s that?”

“If Guam can free up a public defender and Stanton lets
him fly in, hopefully in a couple of days—hold on.”

He barked more orders and returned to the line. “Listen,
you coming or not? If so, I’ll send someone to pick you up
and drive you back. If not, that’s fine too.”

“Pick me up,” I said. “When?”

“Soon as I can get someone over.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m not doing it for your
sake. Or his.”

He came himself, an hour later, emotions hidden behind
mirrored shades, a shotgun clamped to the dash of the
little police car.

As I walked out, he looked up at the gargoyle roof tiles
and frowned, as if in imitation.
I got in the car and he took off, speeding around the fountain and
through the open gate, downshifting angrily and taking bumps
hard. His head nearly touched the roof and he looked
uncomfortable.

When we were out of sight of the estate, he said, “I’ll
give you an hour, which is probably more than you need ’cause
he’s still playing statue.”

“Think he’s faking?”

“You’re the expert.” He grabbed the gearshift as we went
around a sharp curve. His forearms were thick and brown,
corded and veined and hairless. White crust flecked the
corner of his mouth.

“He told me you two grew up together.”

Bitter smile. “He was a couple of years older but we
hung out. He was always small, I used to protect him.”

“Against who?”

“Kids making fun—his family was trash. He was
too, didn’t comb his hair, didn’t like to bathe. Later, he
changed so much you couldn’t believe it.” He whipped his
head toward the window, spat, returned his eyes to the road.

“After he moved in with Moreland?”

“Yeah. All of a sudden he got super-straight, studied all the
time, preppy mail-order clothes, and Dr. Bill bought him a
catamaran. We used to go out sailing. I’d have a beer; he never
touched it.”

“All that due to Moreland’s influence?”

“Probably the military, too. We did that at the same
time also. I was an MP in the Marines, he was Coast Guard.
Then he got married, kids, all that good stuff. Probably
decided it was a good idea to keep the straight life going.”

The next sentence came out a snarl: “I
liked
the
bastard.”

“Hard to reconcile that with what he did.”

He glanced at me and picked up speed. “What’re you
trying to do? Put me on the couch? Dr. Bill
tell
you to do
that?”

“No. Sometimes I lapse into shoptalk.”

He shook his head and put on more speed, turning the
final dip to the harbor into a roller-coaster swoop.

The water enlarged as if at the hands of some celestial
projectionist, blue, mottled platinum, where the clouds
hovered.

Laurent shoved the shift lever hard, yanked it back into
neutral, gunned the engine, stopped so short I had to brace
myself against the dash. My fingers landed inches from the
shotgun and I saw his head swivel sharply. I put my hands in
my lap and he chewed his cheek and stared out the windshield.

More people than usual on the waterfront,
mostly men, milling around the docks and
congregating in front of the Trading Post, which was closed.
The only open establishment, in fact, was Slim’s Bar, where a
few more drinkers than usual loitered, smoked, and swigged
from long-necks. I picked out Skip Amalfi’s fair hair among
the sea of black, then his father, hovering nervously at the
back of the crowd.

Skip was animated, talking and gesturing and brushing
hair out of his face. Some of the villagers nodded and
gesticulated with their arms, slicing the air choppily,
pointing up Front Street toward the road that led up to
Victory Park.

Laurent put the car into gear and rolled down so fast I
couldn’t focus on anyone’s face. Ignoring the stop sign on
Front Street, he made a sharp right and raced toward the
municipal center. The parking spaces facing the whitewashed
building were all taken. Nosing behind a crumbling Toyota,
he jerked the key out of the ignition, freed the shotgun, and
got out carrying the weapon against his thigh. His size made
it look like a toy.

Slamming the car door, he marched toward the center.
Onlookers moved aside and I rode his wake, managing to get
inside before the remarks to my back took form.

The front room was tiny, dingy, and hot, filled with
the salty-fatty smell of canned soup. Nicked walls were
covered with wanted posters, Interpol communiqués, lists of
the latest federal regulations. Two desks, messy, with
phones tilting on mounds of yet more paper. One held a
hotplate.

The only spot of color was a tool company calendar over
one of the workstations, starring a long-torsoed, pneumatic
brunette in a red spandex bikini that could have been used
for a handkerchief. A middle-aged deputy sat under sleek,
tan thighs, writing and moving a toothpick around in his
mouth. Skinny, he had a jutting stubbled chin and a sunken,
lipless mouth. Lots of missing teeth.
His hair was limp and graying, fringing unevenly
over his collar. His uniform needed pressing but his
engraved metal nameplate was shiny.
Ruiz.

“Ed,” said Dennis. “This is Dr. Delaware, the
psychologist from the castle.”

Ed pushed away from his desk and the legs of the folding
chair groaned against the linoleum floor. The skin under his
eyes was smudged. A pile of plastic-wrapped toothpicks was at
his left hand. He lowered his head to the wastebasket and
blew out the pick in his mouth, selected a new one, tore the
plastic, rested the splinter on a ridge of bare gum, and laced
his hands behind his head.