The Web (22 page)

“Anything?” said Dennis.

“Uh-uh.” Ed manipulated the pick with his tongue and
watched me.

“No action from the jokers at Slim’s?”

“Nah, just big talk.” The sibilant voice. He touched the
revolver in his belt with his left hand. I thought of
something and filed it away.

“Why don’t you take a walk up and down Front. Check
things out.”

Ed shrugged and rose to a slumping five four. Pocketing
more toothpicks, he ambled out the door.

Dennis said, “You can sit in his chair.”

I took my place under Miss Redi-Lathe, and he settled
half a buttock atop the other desk and folded his arms across
his chest.

“Ed may not look like much to you, but he’s reliable.
Ex-Marine. In Vietnam he won enough medals to start a
jewelry store.”

“Southpaw, too.”

He took off the mirrored glasses. His light eyes were
clear and hard as bottle glass. “So?”

“It reminded me that Ben’s left-handed. I know because I
saw him vaccinating the kids at the school. I read AnneMarie
Valdos’s file. Moreland said the killer was probably
right-handed.”

“To me, “probably’ means not for sure.”

I didn’t answer.

Laurent’s arms tightened and his biceps jumped.
“Moreland’s no forensic pathologist.”

“He was good enough for the Valdos case.”

He chewed his cheek again and shot me a close-mouthed
smile. “Are you his rent-a-sherlock,
supposed to raise doubts about my investigation?”

“The only thing he asked me to do was give Ben moral
support. If my being here’s a problem, take me back and I’ll
catch up on my sunbathing.”

Another bicep flex. Then the smile widened, flashing
white. “Look at that, I pissed you off. Thought shrinks
didn’t lose their tempers.”

“I came to Aruk to do some interesting work and get away
from city life. Since I got here it’s been nothing but
weirdness, and now you’re treating me like some kind of
sleazeball. I’m not Moreland’s surrogate and I don’t enjoy
being placed under house arrest. When those boats pull up, I
plan to be on one.”

I stood.

He said, “Take it easy, sit down. I’ll make coffee.”
Switching on the hotplate, he pulled packets of instant and
creamer and styrofoam cups out of his desk.

“It ain’t Beverly Hills café au lait. That
okay?”

“Depends on what kind of conversation goes with it.”

Grinning, he went through a battered rear door. I heard
water run and he returned with a metal coffeepot that he
placed on the hotplate.

“You want to stand, suit yourself.”

I waited until the pot bubbled before sitting.

“Black or cream?”

“Black.”

“Tough guy.” Deep chuckle. “No offense, just trying to
take the tension off. Sorry if I rubbed you wrong before.”

“Let’s just get through this.”

He fixed two cups, handed me one. Terrible, but the
bitterness was what I needed.

“I know damn well Ben’s a lefty,” he said. “But
all Moreland said in AnneMarie’s case was
that the killer was right-handed
if
she was grabbed from
behind and done like this.” Tilting his head back, he exposed his
Adam’s apple and ran a hand along his throat. “If she was
cut from the front, it could have been a lefty.”

He shifted his weight.

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. We dropped it
before it was finished. But it’s not like some big city,
tons of money to follow every lead.”

“Hey,” I said, “big-city cops don’t always follow
through. I watched thugs burn L.A. down while the police sat
around waiting for instructions from brain-dead superiors.”

“You don’t like cops?”

“My best friend is one—seriously.”

He stirred creamer into his cup and sipped with
surprising delicacy. “I’ve got a pathologist flying in.
Looking at AnneMarie’s file as well as Betty’s. I don’t know
if she’ll be able to make any determination about how Betty
got cut, because her head was taken clean off. Maybe,
though. I’m no expert.”

Shifting again, he got up and sat behind the other desk,
propping his feet up.

“Does your gut tell you Ben’s guilty?” I said.

“My gut? What the hell’s that worth?”

“My friend’s a homicide detective. His hunches have led
him to some good places.”

“Well,” he said, “good for him. I’m just one third of
a dinky-shit three-man police force on a dinky-shit
island. Ed’s my main backup and my other deputy’s older
than
him.”

“You probably never needed more.”

“Till now I didn’t. .   .   . Do I think Ben’s guilty?
It sure as hell looks like it, and he’s not bothering to deny it.
Only one who thinks otherwise is Dr. Bill, with his
usual   .   .   .”

He shook his head.

“His usual single-mindedness?” I said.

He forced a smile. “My word was “fanaticism.’ Don’t get
me wrong, I think he probably could have won a Nobel Prize
for something if he’d put his mind to it. He’s helped my
mother and me plenty, giving her a free lease on the
restaurant till things get better, paying for my schooling.
I felt like a
shithead,
mouthing off to him last night. But
you’ve got to understand, he’s like a moray eel—gets hold
of something and won’t let go. What the hell does he
want me to do? Let Ben walk on his say-so and watch the whole damn
island explode?”

“Is the island near exploding?”

“Hotter than I’ve ever seen it—a lot worse than when
AnneMarie got killed, and we had grumblings then.”

“The march up South Road?”

“No march, just a few kids shouting and waving
sticks—but look where it led. Now some people think they were
fooled into believing a sailor did AnneMarie, and they’re
doubly pissed.”

“Fooled by Ben?”

“And Dr. Bill. ’Cause Ben’s seen as Dr. Bill’s boy. And
even though people admire Dr. Bill, they’re
also .   .   . nervous
about him. You hear stories.”

“About what?”

“Mad scientist shit. Growing all this fruit and
vegetables, bringing some into town, but rumor is he hoards
it.”

“Is that true?”

“Who the hell knows? Guys who work the estate say he
fools around with dehydration, nutritional research. But who
cares? What’s to stop anyone from growing their own
stuff? My mother does. Dr. Bill set her up years ago with
soil and seeds, and she grows her own Chinese vegetables for
the restaurant. But people get dependent, they like to piss and
moan. Doesn’t take much to get their tongues flapping.
AnneMarie was a newcomer, no roots here, but everyone liked
Betty.”

“Including the sailors.”

He turned toward me very slowly. “Meaning?”

“Moreland said she’d socialized with them. As had
AnneMarie.”

“Socialized .   .   . yeah, Betty liked to party
before she got engaged, but for your own safety I wouldn’t repeat
that.”

“Any chance Betty and Ben had an affair?”

“Not that I heard, but who knows?
But whatever Betty did, she was a nice kid.
Didn’t deserve to be ripped up like
that.”

“I know. I spoke to her the morning before she died.”

He put his cup down. “Where?”

“At the Trading Post. I bought drinks and magazines.
She told me about her baby.”

He arced his feet off the desk and they hit the floor
hard.

“Yeah, her mom said she loved the idea of having a
baby.” Real pain clouded his eyes. “Anyone who’d do that
should have his nuts cut off and stuffed down his throat.”

The phone rang. He grabbed it. “Yeah? No, not yet.
No, not before his lawyer—I don’t know.”

He slammed the phone down. “That was Mr. Creedman.
Wants to do a story for the wire services.”

“Opportunity knocks,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“He’s a writer. Now he’s got a story.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Not much.”

“Me, neither. First day he got here, he hit on my
mother. She straightened him out soon enough.”

He trained his eyes on me. He was a handsome man
but I thought of a rhino, ready to charge.

“So tell me, doc, is Ben one of those guys, when you
hear about his killing someone you say, “No way, couldn’t be’?”

“I don’t know him well enough to answer that.”

He laughed. “Got my answer. Not that I’ve got any
grudge against him. I’ve always admired him for the way he
pulled himself up. I grew up without a father, but my
mother’s good enough for ten parents. Ben’s mom was a dirty
drunk and his dad was a real asshole, beat the hell out of
him just for laughs. According to you guys, isn’t that
exactly the kind of thing that grows killers?”

“It helps,” I said. “But there are plenty of abused
kids who don’t end up violent, and people from good homes who
turn bad.”

“Sure,” he said, “anything’s possible. But we’re
talking odds. I took psychology, learned about early
influences. Someone like Ben, I guess it’s no surprise he
cracked. I guess the big surprise is the time he had in
between, acting normal.”

“In between what?”

Instead of answering, he finished his coffee. I’d
barely touched mine and he noticed.

“Yeah, it’s lousy—want some tea instead?”

“No, thanks.”

“The situation’s really bad,” he said into his empty
cup. “Betty’s family, Mauricio. Claire, her kids. Everyone
thrown together, people can’t escape each other.”

The phone rang again. He got rid of the caller with a
couple of barks.

“Everyone wants to know everything.” He looked above
me, at the bikini girl. “I should take that down. Ed and
Elijah like it, but it’s disrespectful.”

He got up and came toward me. “I’ve seen plenty,
doctor, but never anything like what happened to those two
women.”

“One thing you might want to know,” I said. “After I
read the Valdos file I called my detective friend. He ran a
search for similar murders and came up with one, ten years
old, in Maryland.”

“Why’d you ask him to look?”

“I didn’t. He did it on his own.”

“Why?”

“He’s a curious guy.”

“Checking out the island savages, huh? Yeah, I know
about that one. Two satanists ate a working girl.” He shot
out some details. “My computer rarely works right, but I
phone stuff in to the MPs on Guam and they hook into NCIC.”

“What do you think of the similarities?”

“I think satanic psychos have some sort of script.”

“Any evidence Ben was into satanism?”

“Nope.”

“Have you ever seen evidence of satanism on Aruk?”

“Not a trace, everyone’s Catholic. But Ben was in
Hawaii ten years ago—who knows what kind of shit he picked
up?”

“Did he take any side trips to the mainland?”

“Like to Maryland? Good question. I’ll look into it.
For all I know, he killed girls in
Hawaii
and never got
caught. For all I know, he was lucky the only thing they got
him for was indecent exposure.”

The look on my face made him smile.

“That’s what I meant by acting normal in between.”

“When?” I said.

“Ten years ago. He peeped in some lady’s window with
his pants down and his dick out. He was in the Guard and
they handled it. Ninety days in the brig. That’s how a lot
of sex killers get started, isn’t it? Watching and beating
off, then moving on to the heavy stuff?”

“Sometimes.”

“
This
time.” He looked disgusted. “Okay, have your
hour with him. Give him his moral support.”

Chapter

27

Behind the battered door was a warren of small, dim rooms
and narrow corridors. At the back was a dented sheet-metal
door bolted by a stout iron bar.

Laurent removed my watch and emptied my pockets, placed
my belongings on a table along with his gun, then unlocked
the bar, raised it, and pocketed the key. Pushing the door
open, he let me pass, and I came up against grimy gray bars
and the sulfur-stink of excreta.

A two-cell jail, a pair of three-pace cages, each with
a cement floor, a grated, translucent window, a double bunk
chained to the wall, a crusted hole with heel-rests for a
toilet.

The ceilings were six and a half feet high. Black mold
grew in cracks and corners. The plaster had been scored by
decades of fingernail calligraphy.

Laurent saw the revulsion on my face.

“Welcome to Istanbul West,” he said, with no
satisfaction. “Usually guys don’t stay here for more than a
few hours, sleeping off a drunk.”

The nearer cell was empty. Ben sat on the lower bunk of
the other, chin in hand.

“Well, well, looks like we’ve had some movement,” said
Laurent, loudly.

Ben didn’t budge.

The keys jangled again and soon I was in the cell,
locked in, and Laurent was outside saying, “Trust me with
your wallet and your watch, doc?”

I smiled. “Do I have a choice?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. One hour.” Tapping
his own watch. “I’ll leave the door open so you can shout.”

He left. Inside the cell, the stink was stronger, the
heat almost unbearable.

I tried to find a place to stand that allowed me some
distance from Ben, but the cramped space prevented it—so I
contented myself with keeping maximum distance from the floor
latrine as I scanned the graffiti. Names, dates, none of
them recent. A large depiction of exaggerated female
genitalia above the bunk. Sgraffito message:
Get me out of
this hole!

Ben didn’t move. His eyes were unfocused.

“Hello,” I said softly. Though my five-ten height
missed the ceiling by a few inches, I found myself hunching.

Silence. As complete as at the estate but not at all
peaceful. After only seconds in here, my nerves screamed for
some noise.

“Dr. Bill sent me to see if there’s anything I can do
for you, Ben.”

He kept perfectly still, not even a blink, hair greasy,
face streaked with sweat tracks. My armpits were already
sodden.

“Ben?”

I took hold of his right arm and moved it from under his
chin. Stiff and unyielding, as he resisted me.

No catatonia.

I let go. Repeated my greeting.

He continued to tune me out.

Three more attempts.

Five minutes passed.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re a political prisoner, giving
the world the silent treatment as a protest against
injustice.”

Still no response.

I waited some more. His cheeks were sunken—almost as
hollow as Moreland’s—and his eyes looked remote.

No eyeglasses. They’d been taken from him. Along with
his shoelaces and belt and watch and anything else hard-edged.
An angry boil had broken out on the back of his neck.

I kept staring at him, hoping my scrutiny would cause
him to react. His nails were gnawed almost to the quick, one
thumb bloody. Had he always been a biter? I’d never
noticed. Or had Betty Aguilar resisted and snapped off some
keratin? A clue he’d tried to conceal by chewing his other
fingers?

I looked for nail bits on the floor. Nothing but inlaid
dirt and scuffmarks, but they could have been tossed down the
toilet hole. Big black ants single-filed under the bunk. After Moreland’s zoo, they
were laughable.

No scratches on his face and hands.

His color was bad, but he was unmarked.

“How well do you see without your glasses?”

Silence.

Slow count to one thousand.

“This isn’t exactly the behavior of an innocent man,
Ben.”

Nothing.

“What about your family?” I said. “Claire and the
kids.”

No response.

“I know this has been a nightmare for you, but you’re
not helping yourself.”

Nothing.

“You’re being a fool,” I said, loud as I could without
attracting Dennis’s attention. “Pigheaded like Moreland, but
sometimes it pays to think independently.”

Involuntary flinch.

Then back to stone-face.

“Sins of the father,” I went on. “People are already
making that connection.”

His lower lip twitched.

“Guilt by association,” I went on. “That’s why I had to
come down here. Moreland’s confined to the estate because
Dennis is afraid of what people might do to him. We’re all
confined. It’s gotten ugly.”

Silence.

“People are angry, Ben. It’s only a matter of time
before they start wondering about his being Dr. Frankenstein, what
he does in that lab. If maybe AnneMarie and
Betty were
his
idea as well as yours.”

The lip dropped, then snapped shut.

I gave him a few more minutes, then came closer and spoke
to his left ear.

“If you’re really as loyal as you make out, tell me what
happened. If you butchered Betty on your own, just admit it
and let them know Moreland had nothing to do with it. If you
have another story, tell it, too. You’re not helping
yourself or anyone else this way.”

Nothing.

“Unless Moreland
did
have something to do with it,”
I said.

No movement.

“Maybe he did. All those late-night walks. God knows
what he was up to. I saw him one night, two
A.M.
, carrying
his doctor’s bag. Treating who? And those surgical tools were
his.”

Another flinch. Stronger.

Flick of his head.

“What?” I said.

He clamped his mouth shut.

“He studies predators. Maybe his interest isn’t limited
to bugs.”

He blinked hard and fast.
Exactly
the way Moreland
did when he was nervous.

“Is he in on it with you, Ben? Did he teach you—Aruk’s
own Dr. Mengele?”

Half a headshake turned into a full one.

“Okay,” I said. “So why clam up like this?”

Back to immobility.

“You want me to believe you did do it, alone. Okay,
I’ll buy it, for the moment. No surprise, I guess, given
your family history.”

Silence.

“Your criminal history, too,” I added. “Some sex killers
start off as peepers. Some of them search for new ways to
deal with their impotence. AnneMarie wasn’t penetrated sexually,
and I bet Betty wasn’t, either.”

More blinking, as if to make up for lost time.

“Dennis told me about the Hawaii arrest. Soon everyone
will know about it, including Claire and the kids. And Dr.
Bill. If he doesn’t already.”

He let out hot, sour breath.

I forced myself to remain close.

“What else were you up to, back then? Ever travel to
the mainland when you were in the Guard? See the sights—maybe
Washington, D.C.?”

Blank look.

“Peeping Tom,” I said. “Vivaldi on the terrace doesn’t
cancel it out. Whatever else you did over there will come out
too, once they really start checking.”

No reaction.

“The reason I mentioned D.C. is it’s not far from a
place called Wiggsburg, Maryland.”

His eyes angled downward. Puzzled? Distressed? Then
they were staring straight ahead, again, as unmoving as when
I’d entered.

I was coated with sweat. Had become
accustomed to the sulfur stench.

“The funny thing is, Ben, it’s still hard for me to
think of you that way. Despite the evidence. Do you
actually like to
eat
people? Odd for someone raised by a
vegetarian. Unless that’s the
point.
”

He began breathing hard and fast.

“Is it your way of slapping Moreland in the face?”

He inhaled deeply, held his breath. His hands began
curling and tightening, the knuckles almost glassy. I
stepped back but kept talking:

“The brain, the liver. The bone marrow? How does
something like that start? When did it start?”

He struggled to stay calm.

“Moreland taught you a lot about medicine. Did it
include dissection?”

His chest swelled and his skin turned as gray as the
cell floor.

Then he stopped.

Stilling his eyes.

Composing himself.

Another slow count. To two thousand.

I stood there watching him.

He pressed one hand against his breastbone.

His eyes, suddenly clear.

Not with insight.

Washed by tears.

He began shaking, flung his arms wide, as if welcoming
crucifixion.

Staring at me.

I moved back further, my spine at the wall. Had I
pushed it too far?

His arms fell.

Turning away, he whispered: “Sorry.”

“For what, Ben?”

Long silence. “Getting into this.”

“Getting into this?”

Slo-mo nod.

“Stupid,” he said, barely audible.

“What was?”

“Getting into this.”

“Killing Betty?”

“No,” he said, with sudden strength. He bent so low his
brow touched his knees. The back of his neck was exposed, as
if for the executioner’s ax. The boil seemed to stare at me,
a fiery cyclops eye.

“You didn’t kill her?”

He shook his head and mumbled.

“What’s that, Ben?”

“But   .   .   .”

“But what?”

Silence.

“But what?”

Silence.

“But what, Ben?”

“No one will believe me.”

“Why?”

“You don’t.”

“All I know are the facts that Dennis gave me. Unless
you tell me different, why should I believe otherwise?”

“Dennis doesn’t.”

“Why
should
he?”

He looked up, still bowed, face angled awkwardly. “He
knows me.”

“Then if you’ve got an alibi, give it to him.”

He straightened and returned his eyes to the wall.

Shaking his head.

“What is it?” I said.

“No alibi.”

“Then what’s your story?”

More headshaking, then silence.

“What’s your last memory before they found you with
Betty?”

No answer.

“When did you start drinking last night?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you were drunk when they found you.”

“They say.”

“You didn’t drink but you were drunk?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Since when?”

“A long time.”

“Since you cleaned up in high school?”

Hesitation. Nod.

“Were you drunk in Hawaii? The Peeping Tom bust?”

He started to cry again. Growled and stiffened and
managed to hold it in check.

“What happened in Hawaii, Ben?”

“Nothing—it was a
big .   .   . mistake.”

“You weren’t peeping?”

Suddenly he laughed so heartily, it caused him to rock,
rattling the bunk.

Taking hold of his cheeks, he tugged down and created a
sad-clown face, horribly at odds with the laughter.

“Big mistake. Big, big,
big
mistake.”

After that, he stopped talking, fluctuating between long
bouts of silence and incongruous laughter.

Some kind of breakdown?

Or faking it?

“I just don’t understand it, Ben. You claim you didn’t
kill Betty, but you seem awfully comfortable being a suspect.
Maybe it is something to do with Moreland. I’m going back to the
estate to talk to
him.
”

I moved toward the cell door.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

“Try me.”

He shook his head.

“What’s so damned profound that you can’t part with it?”
I said. “The fact that you grew up low status and now you’re
being thought of as the scum of the earth again? Sure, it’s
a cruel irony, but what happened to those girls was a hell of
a lot crueler, so forgive me if I don’t shed tears.”

“I—” Shaking his head again.

“Everything comes round, Ben. Big insight. I’m a
psychologist, I’ve heard it before.”

“You—you’re wasting your time. Dr. Bill is. Best to
cut me loose.”

“Why?”

“I—don’t stand a chance. Because of who I
am—what you just said. Scum family, scum child. Before Dr.
Bill took me in, they wanted to send me to reform school.
I .   .   . used to do bad things.”

“Bad things?”

“That’s why this makes sense to everyone. Dennis knows
me, and
he
thinks I did it. When they brought me in, their
faces—everyone’s.”

He looked back at the wall. Put a finger to his mouth
and tried to get a purchase on what remained of the cuticle.

“What about their faces?” I said.

The finger flew out. “No! You’re wasting your time!
They
found
me there.
With
her. I know I
wouldn’t—couldn’t
have done it, but they
found
me. What can I say? I’m
starting to think I   .   .   .”

This time he let the tears come.

When his sobs subsided, I said, “Have you ever done
anything like this before?”

“No!”

“Did you kill AnneMarie Valdos?”

“No!”

“What about the Peeping Tom thing?”

“That was
stupid
! A bunch of us from the Guard were
on weekend leave; we went to a club in Waikiki. Everyone was
drinking and partying. Usually I had ginger ale, this time I
thought I could .   .   . handle it. Had a beer. Stupid.
Stupid.
Then another .   .   . I’m a stupid
asshole, okay? We tried to pick
up some girls, couldn’t, went to walk it off in some
residential neighborhood. I had to take
a .   .   . needed to
urinate. Found a garage wall, behind some house. The window
to the house was open. She heard. We got caught—I did.
The others ran.”

He looked at me.

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” I said. “If that’s
really the way it happened.”