The Web (31 page)

“Why weren’t you eliminated?” said Robin.

He put his hands together and studied the table.

“I’ve thought about that many times. I suppose it was
because I bought myself some insurance. The day of the
crash, I invited Hoffman over for drinks in my quarters. No
wives, just us fellas in our snappy dress whites, veddy dry
martinis—back then I was still indulging. As he picked
pimiento out of his olive, I told him I knew exactly what
he’d done and had made a detailed written record that I’d
filed somewhere very safe with instructions to make it public
if anything happened to me or any member of my family. That
I was willing to forget the whole thing and move on if he
was.”

“He bought that?”

“It was a theatrical little stunt, I got the idea from
one of those stupid detective shows Barbara used to watch.
But apparently, it did the trick. He smiled and said, “Bill,
your imagination’s been working overtime. Pour me another
one.’ Then he drank up and left. For months I slept with a
gun under my pillow—dreadful thing, I still hate them. But
he never moved against me. The way I see it, he decided to
deal because he believed me and felt it was the easy way out.
Evil people have little trouble believing everyone else lacks
integrity. The next day, a sailor delivered a sealed
envelope to my quarters: discharge papers, three months
early, and the deed to the estate.
Excellent
price,
including all the furniture. The Navy moved us in, and we were
provided with a year of free electricity and water. The
pretense continued. Even our
bridge
games continued.”

“Along with his cheating,” I said.

“His cheating
and
my pretending not to know. That’s
as apt a metaphor for civilization as any, isn’t it?”

He gave an unsettling laugh.

“Meanwhile, my real life continued at night, and any other time
I could get away without attracting too much notice. I hadn’t
discovered the tunnel yet, and I hid a ladder so I could climb
the wall. The two babies who’d deteriorated passed away, as
did another. The first was a little girl named Emma—hers
was the only name I actually knew, because I’d treated her as
a newborn for herniated umbilicus. Her father had made jokes
about how she’d look in a bikini and I told him that should
be his biggest problem   .   .   .”

He looked ready to cry again, managed to blink it away.

“She died of malnutrition. I buried
her and conducted a funeral service as best I could. A month
later, a second little girl left me. Bone marrow disease.
Then a little boy, from pneumonia that wouldn’t respond to
antibiotics. The other six survived. You’ve just met them.”

“What’s their health status?” I said. “Physically and
mentally.”

“None of them have normal intelligence, and
they have no speech. I taught myself the rudiments of IQ
testing, administered the nonverbal components of the
Wechsler tests and the Leiter. They seem to fall in the
fifty-to-sixty range, though Jimmy and Eddie are a bit brighter. Their
nervous systems are grossly abnormal: seizures, motor
imbalance, sensory deficits, altered reflexes. Poor muscle
tone, even when I can get them to exercise. Then there’s the
photosensitivity—the slightest bit of UV exposure eats up
their skin. Even living down here hasn’t managed to protect
them completely. You saw their eyes, ears, fingers.
Extensive fibrosing, probably something autoimmune—the
actual process isn’t unlike leprosy. They’re not in danger
of imminent wasting, but the erosion continues steadily.
They’re sterile—a blessing, I
suppose. Not much libido, either.
That’s
made my life
easier.”

“I still don’t see how you’ve managed to keep them down
here all these years.”

“At first it was difficult, son. I had
to .   .   . confine them. Now it’s not a serious problem.
They may not be normal, but they’ve learned what the sun does to
them. Half an hour outside and they’re in pain for days. I’ve made
every effort to provide them with as rich a life as possible.
Here, let me show you.”

He took us to an adjoining room, slightly smaller than
the dining area. Beanbag chairs and homemade cases full of
toys and picture books. A phonograph connected to a battery
pack. Next to it, a stack of old 45s. The top one: Burl
Ives singing children’s songs. “Jimmy crack corn   .   .   .”
A model train set in disarray on the shag carpet. Some of the soft
people sat on the floor fooling with the tracks. Others reclined on
the chairs, fingering dolls.

They greeted him with smiles and raspy cries. He went
to each of them, whispered in their ears, hugged and patted
and tickled.

When he turned to leave, one of them—the larger
woman—took hold of his hand and tugged.

He pulled back. She resisted.

Giggles all around. A familiar game.

Finally, Moreland tickled her under the arm and she gave
a silent, wide-mouthed laugh and let go, tumbling backward.
Moreland caught her, kissed the top of her head, pulled a
Barbie doll out of the case and gave it to her.

“Look, Suzy:
Movie
Star Barbie. Look at this beautiful,
fancy
dress.
”

The woman turned the figurine, suddenly engrossed. Her
features were saurian but her eyes were warm.

“Be right back, kids,” said Moreland.

We left the room and walked down a narrow stone passage.

“How often do you come down here?” I asked.

“Optimally, two to five times a day. Less frequent than
that and things get out of hand.” His thin shoulders sagged.

“It sounds impossible,” said Robin.

“It’s .   .   . a challenge. But I keep my other
obligations to a minimum.”

Virtually no sleep.

No wife.

Sending his own daughter away as a toddler.

Allowing the island to decay .   .   . his one
recreation the insects. A small world he could control.

Studying predators in order to forget about victims.

We came to a third room: six portable chemical toilets
and two sinks attached to large water tanks outfitted with
sterilization kits. A cloth partition halved the space.
Three latrines and one basin on each side. Cutouts of men
pasted on the stalls to the left, women to the right.

A strong wave of disinfectant.

Moreland said, “I’ve toilet trained each of them. It
took some time, but they’re quite dependable now.”

Next were the sleeping quarters—three smaller caves,
each with two beds. More books and toys. Piles of dirty
clothes on the floor.

“We still have a ways to go on neatness.”

“Who does their laundry?” said Robin.

“We handwash, everything’s cotton. They enjoy laundry
time, I’ve turned it into a game. The clothes are old but
good. Brooks Brothers and similar quality, brought in years
ago in several boatloads. I couldn’t order too much at a
time, didn’t want to attract attention. .   .   . Come,
come, there’s more.”

He led us back into the passageway. It narrowed and we
had to turn sideways. At the end was another webbed door.
He saw me looking at it.

“Japanese ironwork. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

On the other side was an exit ramp, descending steeply, its
terminus out of view. The door was fastened with an enormous
lock.

The soft people confined forever.

Moreland produced a key, rammed it into the lock, pushed
the door open, and the three of us walked to the bottom of the
ramp.

“Sometimes, when it’s very dark and I can be sure
they’ll behave themselves, I take them up to the forest for
nighttime picnics. Moonlight is kind to them. They love
their picnic time. Mentally they’re children, but their bodies
are aging prematurely. Arthritis, bursitis, scoliosis,
osteoporosis, cataracts. One of the boys has developed
significant atherosclerosis. I treat him with anticoagulants,
but it’s a bit tricky because he bruises so
easily.”

He stopped. Stared at us.

“I’ve learned more about medicine than I ever believed
possible.”

“Do you have any idea of their life expectancy?” said
Robin.

Moreland shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. They’re
deteriorating, but they’ve survived so many crises, who knows?
With good care, all or most of them will probably outlive
me.”

He leaned against the wall. “And that is the issue.
That’s why I must arrange something for them.”

“Why haven’t you gone public and gotten them care?” she
said.

“What would that accomplish, dear? Subjecting them to
the scrutiny of scientists and
doctors
? Scientists
condemned them to this life. How long would they last out in
the monstrosity we call the real world? No, I couldn’t
allow that to happen.”

“But surely they—”

“They’d wither and die, dear,” said Moreland, straining
for patience.

He reached for the open door and took hold of one of the
bars. “What they need is
continuity.
A transfer of
care.”

His eyes moved from Robin to me. Studying. Waiting.

I could hear music from the game room. A scratchy
record.
Lou, Lou, skip to my Lou.

He said: “I want you to be their guardians
once I’m gone.”

“I’m not a physician,” I said. As if that was the only
reason.

“I can teach you what you need to know. It’s not that
difficult, believe me. I’ve been composing a
manual   .   .   .”

“You just pointed out how tricky it—”

“You can
learn,
son. You’re a smart man.”

Raising his voice. When I didn’t answer, he turned to
Robin.

“Bill,” she said.

“Hear me out,” he said. “Don’t close your minds.
Please.”

“But why me?” I said. “Give me the real answer, this
time.”

“I already have—your dedication to—”

“You don’t even
know
me.”

“I know enough. I’ve
studied
you! And now that I’ve
met Robin, I’m even more convinced. With two people, sharing
the challenge, it would be—”

“How did you really find me, Bill?”

“Coincidence. Or fate. Choose your nomenclature. I
was in Hawaii taking care of some legal matters with Al
Landau. My hotel delivered the daily paper. Despite my
aversion to what passes for news, I skimmed it. The usual
corruption and distortions, then I came across an article
about a case in California. A little girl in a hospital,
poisoned to simulate illness. You helped bring the matter to
resolution. References were made to other cases you’d been
involved in—abused children, murders, various outrages.
You sounded like an interesting fellow. I researched you and
learned you were a serious scholar.”

“Bill—”

“Please, son, listen: intellectual vigor and humanity
don’t always go together. One can be an A student but a D
person. And you have
drive.
I need someone with
drive.
And
you,
dear. You’re his soulmate in every
way.”

I tried to find words. The look on his face said no
language existed that would work.

“Mind you, I’m not proposing a one-way deal. Care for
my kids properly, and the entire estate and all my other
property holdings on Aruk will be yours, in addition to
excellent real estate in Hawaii and California, securities, a
bit of cash. What I told you about my family fortune
dwindling was true, but it’s still substantial. Of course,
I’ll have to give a generous inheritance to Pam as well as
some stipends to trusted individuals, but the rest would be
yours. Once the kids are all gone. You can see why I need
someone with integrity. Someone who wouldn’t kill them to
get to the money. I now trust you—both of you. When your
duties are through, you’ll be wealthy and free to
enjoy your wealth in any way that pleases you.”

Robin said, “Pam’s a doctor. Why don’t you want her to
take over?”

He shook his head so vigorously his glasses fell off his
nose.

Retrieving them, he said, “Pam’s a wonderful girl, but
not equipped. She has .   .   . vulnerabilities. My
fault. I don’t deserve the title “father.’ She needs to get out in
the world. To find someone who values her—the kind of
relationship you two have. But you
will
have assistance.
From Ben.”

“Ben knows?”

“I let him into my confidence five years ago. The kids
have come to adore him. He’s been a tremendous help, taking
shifts as my strength ebbs.”

“You don’t want him to take over?” said Robin.

“I considered it, but he has his own family. My kids need
full-time parents.”

Single-minded, isolated parents. As he’d been after
Barbara died and Pam was sent away.

What he wanted was
philosophical cloning.
I felt
stunned and sick.

“Ben will continue to pitch in,” he said. “Between the
three of you the task is doable.”

“Ben’s in no position to help anyone,” I said.

“He will be once we get past this nonsense. Al Landau’s
brilliant, especially when defending an innocent man.
Please.
Accept my offer. I’ve taken you into my confidence.
I’m at the mercy of your good graces.”

He picked up Robin’s hand and held it in both of his.

“A woman’s touch,” he said. “It would be so good for
them.”

Smiling. “Now you know everything.”

“Do we?” I said.

He let go of her hand. “What’s the problem, son?”

“The written report you threatened Hoffman with. Does
it exist?”

“Of course.”

“Where is it?”

He blinked hard. “In a safe place. If we progress, you’ll
know the precise location.”

“And you want us to believe it’s the only reason he let
you live all these years.”

He thumbed his chest and smiled. “I’m here, am I not?”

“I think there’s more, Bill. I think Hoffman’s always
known you wouldn’t expose him because he’s got something on
you.
”

The smile evaporated. He took a step up the ramp and
ran his hand over the rough stone wall.