The Web (33 page)

Creedman and Haygood coming up with a grisly touch—perverse
mastery over the case that had ruined
their careers. A side benefit: slaking their own hatred for
women.

The team .   .   . Lyman Picker’s plane crash an accident
or had his big mouth offended the higher-ups?

Haygood, living on Harry Amalfi’s airfield, had been in
a perfect position to mess with the plane.

Creedman .   .   . the crash had taken place just
after Robin and I finished drinking with him outside the restaurant.
Creedman and Jacqui had both gone inside, but
after the explosion only Jacqui had come out.

Creedman not bothering because he’d
known.

Someone else had known, too: Jo, opting out at the last
minute. Opting out of the base dinner, too, to plant the roaches. And
now she was up there with
Pam.   .   .   .

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” said Haygood, pointing
back to the rear ramp.

“Those boxes in the tunnel,” said Creedman. “There
could be something important in them.”

“They could also be rigged. We’ll check it out later.”

“I opened a few boxes,” I said. “All I saw was food and
drugs and bottled water. Like I said, he’s planning for
Armageddon.”

“Stop being so helpful,” said Creedman.
“It won’t do you any good.”

Haygood said, “Come on, folks. Out.” He might have
been guiding a tour.

He turned his back on the music room and began to herd
us forward.

“Actually,” I said, “he does have some kids down here.”

A strangled noise rose from Moreland’s throat.

Haygood stopped. “That so?”

“Right in there.” I pointed to one of the sleeping
areas. Haygood’s eyes followed. “Want to see?”

Before he could answer, I shouted,
“Kids! Kids!
Kids!”

Creedman cursed and Haygood’s hand tightened around his
gun. But he stayed calm and kept his eyes on the sleeping-room
entrance.

Nothing happened. Haygood smiled. “Very funny, sir.
Onward.”

Then a small white face appeared in the doorway to the
music room. Two others.

Three, four, five, six. All of them,
openmouthed and wide-eyed with wonder.

Except the blind one. He was making quick little
circles with his hands.

Lesions and scars bright as strip-joint neon.

Haygood’s calm finally shaken.

Creedman’s face lost its color.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and took his eyes off me. I hit him
hard under his nose, grabbed for his gun as he went down, but
missed. Shoving Robin out of the way, I threw myself on top
of him.

Haygood wheeled around. The soft people began croaking
and rasping, looking at Moreland, moaning that burn-victim
moan.

Moreland ran toward them. Haygood aimed his gun at the
old man’s back. The soft people kept coming and Haygood’s
bafflement gave way to revulsion and fear as he stepped back.

I had Creedman’s gun now and was punching blindly at
his face.

Haygood charged Moreland, shoved him to the floor, kicked at his
head, aimed at me. The soft people were between us. I
crouched low. They kept coming at Haygood and he struck out
at them wildly as they cowered and moaned. Retreating closer
to the door he believed was rigged to blow, he stopped. Trapped,
confused.

Brassy hair visible above the throng. I pointed
Creedman’s gun at it.

But I was an easy target, too, and he raised his gun arm
high while fending off the soft people with his free hand.

I shifted sharply to the right, trying to stay clear of
the soft people so they wouldn’t be caught in the middle.

Haygood lost sight of me, as he shoved and circled.

Moreland got to his feet, hurled himself at Haygood.

Haygood turned reflexively at the movement and fired.
Moreland’s left arm turned red and he fell.

The soft people converged upon his prone form. Haygood
looked for me, but I was behind him.

I shot him five times.

His black slicker exploded. He stood there for a
second. Collapsed.

The soft people were all over Moreland, croaking and
moaning as he bled.

Robin was shouting my name and pointing.

Creedman trying to get up, holding his face. Blood
gushed through his fingers. One eye was swollen shut and his
nose was already blackening.

I put the gun to his forehead. He sank back down.

Robin pressed herself against the wall, staring at me.
All the blood.

Moreland struggled to stand, the wounded arm dangling,
dripping, the other arm trying to shield the soft people.

They were entranced by Haygood’s corpse. Gray skin,
eyes really dead now, dull and empty as the shark’s. Gaping
mouth leaking pink vomitus.

Blood spread from under him, settling in the crevices of
the stone floor.

I’d turned him into a sieve.

I felt big as a building, sick to my stomach.

I’d never owned a firearm, never imagined killing
anyone.

Robin, being there to see it.

Chapter

37

Moreland’s blood took me away from those thoughts. His
sleeve was dyed crimson, and red drops hit the floor with a
soft plunk.

He seemed unaware, kept trying to calm his kids.

As Robin ran to him, he said, “It’s all right, dear.
Right through the muscle—the latissimus—and
I’m leaking not spurting, so the brachial artery’s
been spared. Probably the basilic vein .   .   . I’ll be
fine. Get me a clean shirt from the basket in there and I’ll staunch
it.”

He smiled down at the smaller of the men who’d met us at
the end of the tunnel. “A little booboo, Eddie. Daddy’s
going to be just fine. Go help Gordon.” Pointing to the
blind man who was up against a wall, grimacing and threshing
the air.

“Go, Eddie. Tell him everything’s okay.”

The little hunchback obeyed. Robin came back with a
plaid shirt and Moreland pressed it against his arm. Smiling
at me, he said, “Wonderful bluff. We’re a good team.”

One of the soft women looked at Haygood’s body and
started to whimper.

“Bad man,” said Moreland. “Bad, bad
man.
All
gone,
Sally. He’ll
never
come back.”

Creedman gasped. His face was ballooning. I yanked him
to his feet.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Robin.

“There’s still Jo to consider,” I said. “Where is she,
Tom?”

Creedman stared at me. More shock than defiance, and his
eyes were glassy. Had I hit him that hard?

I repeated the question. He cried out in pain, held his
head, started to go loose. When I saw his eyes roll back, I
propped him up.

Moreland had managed to quiet the soft people and was
guiding them back into the game room. Despite the wound he
looked revitalized.

“Play some more music, kids. How do the
daddies
on the
bus go?”

Silence.

“Come on, now: “The daddies on the bus
go   .   .   .’ ”

“Ee ee ee.”

“Right!
Read read read—
you should read, too.
It’ll make you smart—go get some books down, Jimmy. Give
everyone a book. I’ll be right back.”

He smiled, closed the game room door, bolted it.

From inside, the music resumed.

“All right,” he said, eyes full of fear.

“Is there another way out besides the two ramps?” I
said.

“I’m afraid not.”

“So either way, we could be walking into something.”

“But we’re trapped down here, too,” said Robin. “The
longer we stay down, the more dangerous it gets, and you’re
still bleeding, Bill.”

“I’ll be fine, dear.”

“Taking the rear ramp,” I said, “will lead us into the
forest and zero visibility, so I vote for the tunnel.”

Moreland didn’t argue.

I shook Creedman back to consciousness. Holding him by the
scruff, I pushed him past the smaller rooms and into the large entry
cavern. His weight dragged. The hand I’d pummeled him with was
beginning to throb.

“Stay behind me,” I told Robin and Moreland. “If she’s
waiting for us at the hatch, Mr. Gourmet here will be her
first course.”

The return trip seemed a lot quicker, Moreland
maintaining a good pace despite his age and his injury.
Silent, no attempts to convince us of anything.

The one time our eyes met, his begged.

To let go? Forget about the things he hadn’t revealed?

Creedman was limp with dejection, but conscious. He
tried to get me to do all the work, and I had to shove him
every other step. The silence of the tunnel emptied my head,
until I thought of Haygood, perforated.

Remembering what he’d done to AnneMarie and Betty
helped .   .   . the shark, the molding of bleached white
jaws nailed over the door.

Trophies. I didn’t want one.

Fifty feet from the hatch, I ordered Creedman to stay
silent. His face was so bloated that his eyes could barely open,
and his nose leaked filmy, blood-streaked mucus.

We reached the AstroTurfed steps and the open hatch. The
lab above was a square yellow sun.

Someone had turned the lights on.

No choice but to go on. Motioning Moreland and Robin
back, I propelled Creedman up, one step at a time. His
rain boots squeaked but he kept quiet. Then, as we approached
the top, he began to struggle.

A sharp jab of the gun in his back stopped him.

Three more steps. We waited.

Quiet from above.

Two more steps. One.

No sign of Jo.

We were in.

The room was just as we’d left it. Except for the
doorway to the front office.

A man sat there, bound to a chair, gagged.

Thin, scraggly gray beard, spiked hair.

Carl Sleet. The gardener whose voice had drawn Ben to
the park.

His eyes zoomed to Creedman, pupils constricted. His
fingers flexed below wrists secured to the chair legs with
plastic ties. The kind policemen used. Had Haygood taken care
of him first?

But no: Creedman looked as confused as I was.

I stood there trying to figure out what to do next.

Jo appeared in the doorway, hands up. No weapon.

“Don’t shoot,” she said cheerfully. “Now, how
about I move
my
scumbag out of the way so you can get
your
scumbag through.”

Her gun sat atop the books on Moreland’s desk, well out
of reach.

She produced something out of nowhere and held it up.

White card in a black leatherette holder, next to a silver
badge. Some sort of government seal on the card, but I was
too far away to read the small print.

“Where’re Robin and Dr. Moreland?” she said.

“Waiting for me to give them the okay.”

“I heard shots. Anyone actually hit?”

“Moreland was wounded.”

“I heard six shots. One, then five more.”

I said nothing. She laughed and waved the card. “Don’t
worry, it’s genuine. Except for the name.”

I stepped closer.

Department of Defense, a numbered division that meant
nothing to me.
JANE MARCIA BENDIG, SENIOR INVESTIGATOR.

I stood there, gripping Creedman. Wishing I had three
more arms and a weapon for each.

“Look, I can understand your being wary,” she said. “But
if I wanted to
shoot you, you’d be dead. I
am
a crack shot.”

I didn’t respond.

“Okay,” she said. “I can get in big trouble for this,
but would giving you my gun make you feel better?”

“Maybe.”

“Suit yourself.” She stepped back and I managed to keep
my gun on Creedman and pocket hers.

“Happy?” she said.

My laugh scared me. “Ecstatic.”

“Okay, you’re the guy in charge now. Why don’t you give
your friends the word.”

Moreland and Robin came up.

Jo said, “Looks like that arm needs attention, doctor.”

“I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine to me.”

“You’re not a physician.”

Carl Sleet made a noise.

“Put a lid on it,” she said, and Sleet obeyed.

Moreland said,
“Carl?”

“Carl’s been naughty,” said Jo. “Pilfering petty cash,
tools, your old surgical kit. Putting cockroaches in
people’s rooms. When he thinks no one’s looking he tends to
skulk around places he shouldn’t be. I’ve had my eye on him
for some time. Tonight, instead of leaving with the other
members of the staff, he stayed in one of the storage sheds.
Thought
he
was watching
me.
”

She smiled.

“After I dropped Pam off, I went back and watched him
some more. Did you know that you hum when you’re bored,
Carl? Not advisable when skulking.”

Sleet writhed in the chair.

She turned to me. “When you and Robin showed up at the
bug zoo, he was off in the bushes, watching you. After you
went in, he waited, then made a call from the lab phone, right
here. His pals got over in a jiff—probably waiting down the
road, outside the gates. They left him here to stand watch,
went into the lab, were gone for a long time, and came back.
Then they headed for the walls, and that was the last I saw of
them. I decided to take Carl’s place. I’d like my gun now,
please. I have others in my room, but like I said, I could
get in real big trouble.”

I hesitated.

“Pretty please?” she said, in a harder voice.

I handed her the automatic.

“Thanks. I’ll take custody of your scumbag now.”
Producing more plastic ties.

I gave her Creedman, and she bound his wrists behind him
and moved him closer to Carl Sleet.

“Carl,” said Moreland, sadly.

Sleet refused to look at him.

“Okay,” said Jo, “let’s get these losers locked up and see
to that arm.”

“After all these years, Carl,” said Moreland.

“All these years, Carl’s been bearing a grudge against
you, doc. Or at least that’s his excuse—I’m sure the money
they paid him didn’t hurt.”

“A grudge?” said Moreland.

Sleet still avoided looking at him.

Jo said, “Something about a cousin who saw a monster and
died of a heart attack. Carl says you told the guy he was
crazy instead of giving him heart medication.”

“That’s not true. His arteries were clogged. Highly
advanced athero—”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Freeing Sleet’s limbs
from the chair, she stood him up, placed him face to the wall,
and flipped Creedman around in the same position.

“Did Sleet say anything about calling Ben to the park?”
I said.

“No.”

I summarized Ben’s alibi.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure old Carl will be forthcoming
when he finds out what it’s like to be charged with multiple
murder.”

Creedman stiffened, and she said, “Watch it. Can I
assume some of the five shots went into Haygood?”

“All five,” I said.

“Dead? Or did you leave him to bleed down there?”

“Dead.”

“Nothing worse than a bad cop,” she said. “Even before
he got busted in Maryland he was a suspect in some burglaries. He and Mr.
Creedman have been doing bad things for a long time.”

“Who pays the bills?” I said. “Stasher-Layman?”

“You won’t find their name on any checks. All cash.
Mr. Creedman here is the bursar. Haygood’s really dead,
huh?”

Big smile for a split second, then it was gone. Slip of
professionalism. Something personal.

Haygood monkeying with the plane.

“Your husband—”

“He wasn’t my husband. Though we did have
a .   .   . relationship.”

“Was he also—”

“He was a botanist, just like he said. Keeping me
company.”

She frisked Creedman. “I tried to talk him out of going
up in that heap. Traveling with me was always tough for
him—okay, let’s put these morons somewhere safe and see to that
arm. Does the tunnel lead all the way into the forest?”

“Yes,” said Moreland.

“What do you keep down there, Dr. M.?”

Moreland didn’t answer.

She frowned. “C’mon, I’m one of the good guys.”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “It’s a very long story.”

We moved Sleet and Creedman to the house, locking them
in separate basement closets, and put Moreland on a sofa in
the front room. Gladys ran in from the kitchen, stared at
the bloody sleeve, and put her hand to her mouth.

“He’s been shot but it’s not serious,” said Jo. “Tell
Pam to bring her medical stuff.”

Gladys ran up the stairs, and Pam came rushing down
seconds later, carrying a black bag.

Moreland waved at her from the couch. “Hello, kitten.”

She suppressed a cry, unsnapped the bag, and crouched
next to him.

“Oh, Daddy.”

“I’m all right, kitten.”

Pulling scissors from the bag, she began cutting away at
the sleeve.

“Clean through the latissimus. No
arterial   .   .   .”

Jo hooked a finger at Robin and me.

As we left, Moreland called out my name.

I stopped.

“Thank you, Alex.” Another beseeching look.

Once in the living room, Jo took an armchair under
Barbara Moreland’s beautiful, sad face.

“Tell me what’s down there,” said Jo.

We did.

She tried to maintain her composure, but each revelation
knocked it looser. When we were through, she was pale.
“Unbelievable—six of them, down there all these years?”

“Locked up for their own good,” said Robin.

“Twilight Zone .   .   . unbelievable. Think he’s
crazy? I’m asking you professionally now.”

“Obsessive,” I said. “And a hero of sorts. Everyone
else went down on that plane.”

“That plane .   .   . they like plane crashes,
don’t they? .   .   . Must have somehow heard Defense was
sending someone here and figured it was Ly. All he wanted to do was
see the trees, bring some photos back for his pals. But they assumed
he
was the agent, me the tagalong—top of everything
else, they’re sexist pigs.”

Cold laugh.

“Six of them,” she said. “Crazy .   .   . are
they—is there any danger going down there?”

“They’re harmless,” said Robin. “But sick.”

She described some of their physical anomalies.

Jo said, “And what did he call this toxic injection?”

“The “paradise needle.”’

She repeated it. “Talk about a Christmas gift. For
years, we’ve been watching the financial angles, but this is
gorgeous—
Moreland actually kept records of the
injections?”

“So he says.”

Her eyes sparkled. “These .   .   . people.
They’re all retarded?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But not vegetables.”

“No. More like small children.”

“Any way they could testify in court?”

“I don’t see how. Apart from mental incompetence, they can’t
speak. Damaged vocal cords.”

She winced. “Still .   .   . just the visual
impact—we can video them, get Moreland to list all their
problems. A whole other line of evidence. Thank you, Dr. M.”