The Web (23 page)

“It is. That’s the only filthy thing I’ve ever done
since   .   .   . I reformed.”

“What was your relationship with Betty?”

“I knew her. Knew her family.”

“Did she have a reputation for fooling around?”

“I guess.”

“Did you fool around with her?”

“No!”

“No affair?”

“
No!
I
love
my wife—my life is
clean
!”

“Her baby wasn’t yours?”

“I love my wife! My life is clean!”

“Repeating it won’t make it so.”

He started to come toward me, stopped himself. “It’s
true.”

“Did you know she had the clap?”

Surprise on his face. Genuine?

“I don’t know about that. My life is clean.”

“So how’d you end up in the park with your head on
Betty’s entrails?”

“I—it’s a .   .   . it’s a crazy story,
you’ll never believe
it.” Closing his eyes. “Just go. Tell Dr. Bill to forget
about me. He’s got important things to do.”

“You’re pretty important to him.”

He shook his head violently.

“Tell me the story, Ben.”

The head kept shaking.

“Why not?”

He stopped. Another smile. Enigmatic. “Too stupid. I
couldn’t even tell Claire—wouldn’t believe it myself.”

“Try me. I’m used to strange stories.”

Silence.

“Keeping quiet just makes you look guilty, Ben.”

“Everything makes me look guilty,” he said. “If you
keep your mouth shut, you can’t swallow flies.”

“Did Moreland tell you that? His quotations are usually
a little more elegant.”

“No,” he said sharply.
“My .   .   . father.”

“What other words of wisdom did your father give you?”

Keeping his eyes closed, he tightened the lids.

Lying down on the bunk, face to the skimpy straw
mattress.

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you should save it for your
lawyer, anyway. Dennis has called for a public defender from
Saipan. It’ll take at least two days, maybe longer.
Anything you want me to tell Moreland other than to abandon
you?”

No movement.

I called out Dennis’s name.

Deputy Ed Ruiz shuffled in and produced a key.
“Say anything?”

I didn’t answer.

The toothless mouth creased in contempt. “Figures. His
old man never said anything either when we used to throw his
ass in here. Just lie there, like he’s doing. Like some
damn piece of wood. Then, soon as the lights went out, he’d
start having those drunk-dreams, screaming about things
eating him alive.”

He put the key in the lock.

“When it got so loud we couldn’t stand it, we’d hose him off
and that would work for a while. Then he’d sleep again and
go right back into those DTs. All night like that. Next
morning, he’d be denying he did anything. Few days later,
he’d be sauced up again, insult some woman or grab her, take a poke
at some guy, and be back in here, the same damn thing all
over.”

He came forward, pointing at Ben. “Only difference is,
Daddy used to sleep on the top bunk. We’d put him on the
bottom, but he’d always find a way to get up there, no matter
how drunk. Then, of course, he’d roll off in the middle of
the night, fall on his ass, crack his head. But climb right
back on top, the stupid shithead.
Stubborn-
stupid. Some
people don’t learn.”

He snickered and turned the key.

Behind me, Ben said, “Hold on.”

Chapter

28

Ruiz looked at him with disgust.

“Hey, killer.” Bracing one bony hand against the edge
of the cell door. USMC tattoo across the top.

“How much time do I have left?” said Ben.

“The doctor here is ready to go.”

“I can wait,” I said. “If he’s got something to tell
me.”

Ruiz mashed his lips and peered at his watch. “Suit
yourself. Eighteen minutes.”

He lingered near the door.

“We’ll take all eighteen,” I said. He walked away, very
slowly.

When I turned back to Ben, he was on his feet, next to
the toilet hole, squeezing himself into a corner.

“This is the story,” he said in a dead voice. “I don’t
care what you think of it, the only reason I’m telling you is
so you’ll pass it along to Dr. Bill.”

“Okay.”

“Though you probably won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t be trusted.”

“Why’s that?”

“The way you talked about
him before. He’s a great man—you have no idea.”

“Hey,” I said. “If you don’t trust me to deliver the
message, save it for your lawyer.”

“Lawyers can’t be trusted, either.”

“The one in Hawaii didn’t do well by you?”

“There was no trial in Hawaii,” he said. “I pled guilty
and the Guard gave me some brig time. They said it wouldn’t
go on my record. Obviously, they can’t be trusted either.”

“Life’s rough,” I said. “I’m sure Betty’s family thinks
so too.”

He stared into the filthy pit.

I said, “Sixteen minutes left.”

Without shifting position, he said, “When we got home
from dinner, Claire was upset with me. For pressuring her to
play. She didn’t show it, but that’s the way she is. I
shouldn’t have done it.”

Wringing his hands.

“We had .   .   . a tiff. Mostly, she talked and I
listened, then she went to bed and I stayed up, trying to read. To get
rid of my anger. Sometimes that works for me .   .   . not
that I’m angry a lot. And we don’t have many tiffs. We get along
great. I love her.”

Tears.

“What did you read?”

“Medical journals. Dr. Bill gives me his when he’s
through. I like to educate myself.”

“Which journals?”

“New England Journal, Archives of Internal Medicine,
Tropical Medicine Quarterly.”

“Do you remember any specific articles?”

“One on pyloric stenosis. Another on gallbladder
disease.”

He rattled off more medical terminology, suddenly
looking at ease.

“How long did you read?”

“Maybe an hour or two.”

“One hour or two? There’s a big difference.”

“I—we got home around nine-forty.
The .   .   . tiff took maybe another ten
minutes—mostly, it was cold silence. Then
Claire was in bed by ten—so I guess a little over an hour.
Maybe an hour and a half. Then the phone rang, some guy
saying there was a medical emergency.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know—when I’m not working I don’t watch the
clock. Bill taught me time was valuable, but when I’m home,
not paying attention to time is my freedom.”

He looked at me in a new way. Childlike. Craving
approval.

“I understand,” I said, thinking of the Auden poem
Moreland had just left me.

O let not Time deceive you .   .   . burrows
of the Nightmare .   .   . naked Justice.

He scratched his cheek, then his chest. Gazed into the
latrine as if he wanted to crawl in.

“It was probably eleven-thirty,” he said. “Or around
then.”

“Who called?”

“Some guy.”

“You don’t know who?”

He shook his head.

“Small island like this,” I said, “I’d think you’d know
everyone.”

“At first I thought it was one of the gardeners at the
estate, but it wasn’t.”

“Which gardener?”

“Carl Sleet. But it wasn’t. When I said “Carl’ he
didn’t acknowledge, and this guy’s voice was lower.”

“When you said “Carl’ he didn’t identify himself?”

“He was talking fast—very upset. And the connection
was bad.”

“Like a long distance call?”

That surprised him. “Why would anyone call me long
distance? No, the worst calls are the local ones. The long
distance ones if you get a satellite linkup, you’re fine.
But most of the island lines are old and corroded.”

“All right,” I said. “Some guy you didn’t recognize
calls you sounding upset—”

“I’ve been wracking my brain to see if I could figure
out who it was, but I can’t.”

“Why was he upset?”

“He said there was an emergency, a heart attack on
Campion Way, near the park, and they needed help.”

“He didn’t say who had the heart attack?”

“No. It all happened very fast—as if he was
panicked.”

“Why’d he call you instead of Moreland?”

“He said he had called Dr. Bill and Dr. Bill was on his
way and told him to get me because I was closer to Campion.
So I grabbed my stuff and went.”

“What stuff?”

“Crisis kit—paddles, epinephrine, other heart
stimulants. I figured I’d start CPR till Dr. Bill got there,
then the two of us   .   .   .”

“Then what happened?”

“I left the house—”

“Did Claire see you go?”

“No. I snu—left as quietly as possible. I didn’t want
to wake her or the kids.”

“Did she hear the phone ring?”

“I don’t know .   .   . usually she doesn’t. The
phone’s in the kitchen and there’s no extension in the bedroom. We
keep the ringer on low at night.”

“With no bedroom extension, how do you hear emergency
calls?”

“I’m a light sleeper and we usually leave the bedroom
door open. Tonight it was shut—Claire shut it ’cause she was
mad. When it rang, I ran over and picked up on the first
ring.”

Meaning no one could verify the call or the time frame.

“So you left with your medical kit,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Did you walk or drive?”

“Drove. I got to the park maybe five minutes after the
call.”

“Close to midnight.”

“Must have been. It was really dark, there are no
streetlights on the island except for Front Street. At first
I couldn’t see anything, was worried I’d run over the
patient, so I parked and walked. As I got closer I saw
someone lying by the side of the road.”

“Just one person? What about the caller?”

“No one else. I assumed whoever had called it in had
chickened out. And I figured it would take another few
minutes for Dr. Bill to get there, so I went over, opening my
kit, ready to start, and someone grabbed me.”

“Grabbed you how?”

“Like this.” Hooking his left arm around his neck, he
did a rough imitation of a police choke hold.

“A left arm?”

“Uh—no, it came from this side.” Reversing the hold.
“I guess it was the right—I can’t be sure. It was so
sudden and I blacked out. Next thing I remember is Dennis’s
face staring down at me, looking really weird.
Angry.
Other
people, all of them staring down at me, my head feels as if
it’s about to explode and my neck’s stiff and I think
something happened to me and they’re there to rescue
me.
But
their faces—their eyes are hard. Then someone I can’t see
calls me “killer.’ And they’re all looking at me the way they
used to look at me when I was—the way they did—before I
changed.”

I waited a while before saying, “Anything else?”

“That’s it .   .   . great story, huh?”

“The one thing you can say for it is, if you killed her,
it sure wasn’t premeditated. If it had been, you’d have prepared
something useful.”

His smile was rueful. “Yeah, great planner. So what do
I do?”

“Tell your lawyer the story and see what he says.”

“You’ll tell Dr. Bill? It’s important to me—his
knowing I’m innocent.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.”

I heard footsteps.

“Anything else I can do for you, Ben?”

He bit his lip. “Have Dr. Bill tell Claire I’m sorry.
For pressuring her to play .   .   . for everything.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“No. Not like this—ask her to tell the kids
something. That I’m away on a trip.” Once more, tears
welled.

Ed Ruiz opened the metal door. “Time’s up.”

On the way back to the office he said, “Have fun?”

“A real blast,” I said. “Next time, I bring streamers
and funny hats.”

He let me in. Dennis was at his desk. He put the phone
down, looking annoyed.

“Time well spent?” he asked me.

I shrugged.

“Well, the screws are already turning. Dr. Bill doing
his thing.”

“What thing is that?”

“I just got a call from Oahu. Landau, Kawasaki and
Bolt. High-powered law firm, senior partner’s some motormouth named Alfred
Landau. Flying over in a couple of days—scratch the public
defender.”

“Flying into Stanton?”

“Nope, into Saipan by chartered jet, then a private
yacht’s taking him the rest of the way. If it can’t fit into
the keyhole harbor, I’m sure they’ll find a way of getting
him to shore.” He drummed the phone receiver. “Must be nice
to be rich. Let me take you back.”

As we stepped outside, Tom Creedman intercepted us. He
was wearing a white polo shirt, white shorts, and tennis
shoes. All that was missing was a racquet. Instead, he
carried a thin black attaché case in one hand, a pocket tape
recorder in the other. The crowd on the waterfront had
dispersed somewhat. A few stragglers remained on the south
end. Among them were Skip Amalfi and Anders Haygood. Skip
pointing to the spot where AnneMarie Valdos had been found.

“Going to Wimbledon, Tom?” said Laurent.

“Yeah, me and the queen—got a minute, Dennis?”

“Not even half of one—come on, doctor.”

Creedman blocked me. “See the suspect, Dr. Delaware?”

“Let’s go,” said Dennis, moving to his car.

Creedman didn’t budge. “Care for some coffee, Dr.
Delaware?”

“Sure,” I said.

Surprising both of them.

“Great,” said Creedman. “Let’s boogie.”

“I’m taking him back,” said Dennis. “For his safety.”

“I’ll take him back, Dennis.”

“No way—”

“I’ll take the risk,” I said.

“It’s not your risk to assume,” said Dennis.

“No?” I said. “What law are you invoking to restrict my
movement?”

He hesitated for a beat. “Material witness.”

“To what?”

“You spoke to him.”

“With your permission. Let’s call Mr. Landau and see
what he has to say about it.”

Dennis’s huge shoulders spread even wider. He touched
his belt, looked up and down Front Street.

“Fine,” he said savagely. “You’re on your own.”

Creedman and I walked past Campion Way to the next
unmarked road. Past angry stares and mutters.

“Ooh,” he said. “The natives are restless.”

“You’re pretty relaxed about it.”

“Why not? I have nothing to do with good ol’ Dr. Bill.
On the contrary, the fact that he evicted me works in my
favor.”

He grinned, then continued, “You, on the other hand, need to
watch your back. But I’m here to stand up for you, buddy.” Unzipping
the attaché, he peeled back a flap and revealed a chunky
chrome automatic.

“Sixteen shots,” he said gaily. “I’m sure that’ll do
the trick in the event of civil unrest. Very few of the
natives own arms. Safe place and all that.”

“Do you usually carry?”

“Only during periods of stress.”

“Bring it over with you?”

“Bought it in Guam, bargain price. Owned by an Army
lieutenant who ran up some debts. Took beautiful care of it.”

He zipped the case. “I’m just up the hill.”

“Pretty close to the murder scene.”

“Not close enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“By the time I got there the crowd was thick—no chance
to get close. I would have liked a close look at Mr. Romero’s
face right after they caught him. Editors like that kind of
immediacy. The emptiness in a psychopath’s eyes.”

“I’m sure you can make something up.”

His smile died. “That’s not very kind, Alex.”

I winked.

His round face stayed angry, even after he restored the
smile. “But I understand. The cognitive dissonance must be
painful for you. Coming here expecting Pleasure Island and getting
Auschwitz. Did Ben have anything exculpatory to say?”

“Nothing an editor would be interested in.”

“What a sicko,” he continued. “Cutting them up,
then
eating
them.”

“Ever see that kind of thing before?”

The road had taken on a steeper slant, and though he kept
up an athletic pace his breathing got louder. “See what?”

“Cannibalism.”

“On other islands? No.”

“I meant back in the States, when you were on the crime
beat.”

“Did I say I was ever on the crime beat?”

“I think you did. The first time we met.”

“I think I didn’t. Not my meat—pardon the joke. No,
Alex, I did politics. Dog eat
dog.
” He laughed. “Have
you
seen it before?”

I shook my head.

“First time for everything,” he said.

We progressed up the hill, passing small houses,
children, dogs, cats. Women with frightened eyes drew the
children closer as we neared. Window shades lowered suddenly.

“Tsk, tsk,” he said. “Paradise lost.”