The Web (5 page)

Authors: Jonathan Kellerman

Tags: #Fiction, #Psychological Thriller

BOOK: The Web

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Chapter

He led us past the first two rows and stopped at the
third. “Some sort of classification system would have been
clever, but I know where everyone is and I’m the one who feeds
them.”

Turning left, he stopped at a dark tank. Inside was a
floor of mulch and leaves, above it a tangle of bare
branches. Nothing else that I could see.

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it between his
fingers. A pellet, not unlike Spike’s kibble.

The wire lid was clamped; he loosened it and pushed,
exposing a corner. Inserting two fingers, he dangled the
pellet.

At first, nothing happened. Then, quicker than I
believed possible, the mulch heaved, as if in the grip of a
tiny earthquake, and something shot up.

A second later, the food was gone.

Robin pressed herself against me.

Moreland hadn’t moved. Whatever had taken the pellet
had disappeared.

“Australian garden wolf,” said Moreland, securing the
top. “Cousin of your Italian friend. Like
tarantula,
they
burrow and wait.”

“Looks as if you know what it likes,” said Robin. I
heard the difference in her voice, but a stranger might not
have.

“What
she
likes—this one’s quite the
lady—is animal protein. Preferably in liquid form. Spiders
always liquefy their food. I combine insects, worms, mice, whatever,
and create a broth that I freeze and defrost. This is the same
stuff, compressed and freeze-dried. I did it to see if
they’d adapt to solids. Luckily, many of them did.”

He smiled. “Strange avocation for a vegetarian, right?
But what’s the choice? She’s my responsibility. . . . Come
with me, perhaps we can bring back some memories.”

He opened another aquarium at the end of the row, but
this time he shoved his arm in, drew out something, and
placed it on his forearm. One of the vertical bulbs was
close enough to highlight its form on his pale flesh.
A spider, dark, hairy, just over an inch long. It crawled
slowly up toward his shoulder.

“Does this resemble what your mother found, dear?”

Robin licked her lips. “Yes.”

“Her name is Gina.” To the spider, now at his collar:
“Good evening, señora.” Then to Robin: “Would you like to
hold her?”

“I guess.”

“A new friend, Gina.” As if understanding, the spider
stopped. Moreland lifted it tenderly and placed it in Robin’s
palm.

It didn’t budge, then it lifted its head and seemed to
study her. Its mouth moved, an eerie lip sync.

“You’re cute, Gina.”

“We can send one to your mother,” I said.
“For old times’ sake.”

She laughed and the spider stopped again. Then, moving
with mechanical precision, it walked to the edge of her palm
and peered over the edge.

“Nothing down there but floor,” said Robin. “Guess
you’d like to go back to Daddy.”

Moreland removed it, stroked its belly, placed it back
in its home, walked on.

Pulling out his doctor’s penlight, he pointed out
specimens.

Colorless spiders the size of ants. Spiders that
looked
like ants. A delicate green thing with translucent,
lime-colored legs. A sticklike Australian
hygropoda.
(“Marvel of energy conservation. The slender build prevents it from
overheating.”) A huge-fanged arachnid whose brick-red
carapace and lemon-yellow abdomen were so vivid they
resembled costume jewelry. A Bornean jumper whose big black
eyes and hairy face gave it the look of a wise old man.

“Look at this,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve never seen a
web like this.”

Pointing to a zigzag construction, like crimped paper.

“
Argiope,
an orb spinner. Custom-tailored to attract
the bee it loves to eat. That central “X’ reflects ultraviolet
light in a manner that brings the bees to it. All webs are
highly specific, with incredible tensile strength. Many use
several types of silk; many are pigmented with an eye toward
particular prey. Most are modified daily to adapt to varying
circumstances. Some are used as mating beds. All in all, a
beautiful deceit.”

His hands flew and his head bobbed. With each sentence,
he grew more animated. I knew I was
anthropomorphizing, but the creatures seemed excited, too.
Emerging from the shadows to show themselves.

Not the panic I’d heard before. Smooth, almost
leisurely motions. A dance of mutual interest?

“. . . why I concentrate on predators,” Moreland
was saying. “Why I’m so concerned with keeping them fit.”

A brilliant pink, crablike thing rested atop his bony
hand. “Of course, natural predation is nothing new. Back in
nineteen twenty-five,
levuana
moths threatened the entire
coconut crop on Fiji. Tachinid parasites were brought in and they did
the job beautifully. The following year, a particularly
voracious destructor scale was done in by the coccinellid
beetle. And I’m sure you know gardeners have used ladybugs
on aphids for years. I breed them to protect my citrus
trees, as a matter of fact.” He pointed to an aquarium that
seemed to be red carpeted. A finger against the glass made
the carpet move. Thousands of miniature Volkswagens, a
ladybug traffic jam. “So simple, so practical. But the key
is keeping them nutritionally robust.”

We moved further up the row and he stopped and breathed
deeply. “If it weren’t for public prejudice,
this
beauty
and her compatriots could be trained to clear homes of rats.”

Shining the penlight into a dark tank, he revealed
something half covered by leaves.

It crawled out slowly and my stomach lurched.

Three inches wide and more than twice that length, legs
as thick as pencils, hairs as coarse as boar bristle. It
remained inert as the light washed over it. Then it opened
its mouth wide—yawning?—and stroked the orifice with
clawlike pincers.

As Moreland undid the mesh I found myself stepping back.
In went his hand; another pellet dangled.

Unlike the Australian wolf, this one took the food
lazily, almost coyly.

“This is Emma and she’s spoiled.” One of the spider’s
legs nudged his finger, rubbing it. “
This
is the
tarantula of B-movies, but she’s really a
Grammostola,
from the Amazon. In her natural habitat, she eats small birds,
lizards, mice, even venomous snakes, which she immobilizes, then
crushes. Can you see the advantages for pest control?”

“Why doesn’t she use her own venom?” I said.

“Most spider venom can’t do harm except to very small
prey. You can be sure spoiled Madame Emma wouldn’t have the
patience to wait for the toxin to take effect. Despite
her apparent indolence, she’s quite eager when
she gets hungry. All wolves are; they got their name because
they chase their prey down. I must confess they’re my
favorite. So bright. They quickly recognize individuals.
And they respond to kindness. All tarantulae do. That’s why
your little
Lycosa
made such a good pet, Robin.”

Robin’s eyes remained on the monster.

Moreland said, “She likes you.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Oh yes, she definitely does. When she doesn’t care for
someone, she turns her head away—quite the debutante. Not
that I bring people in here very often. They need
their peace.”

He petted the huge spider, removed his hand, and covered
the aquarium. “Insects and arachnids are magnificent,
structurally and functionally. I’m sure you’ve heard all the
clichés about how they’re competing with us, will eventually
drive us to extinction. Nonsense. Some species become quite
successful but many others
are fragile and don’t survive. For years entomologists
have been trying to figure out what leads to success. The
popular academic model is
Monomorium pharaonis—
the
common ant. Many tenures have been granted on studies of what makes
Monomorium
tick. The conventional wisdom is that there are
three important criteria: resistance to dehydration,
cooperative colonies with multiple fertile queens, and the
ability to relocate the colony quickly and efficiently. But
there are insects with those exact traits who fail and
others, like the carpenter ant, who’ve done quite well
despite having none of them.”

He shrugged.

“A puzzle.”

He resumed the tour, pointing out walking stick bugs,
mantises with serrated jaws, giant Madagascar hissing
cockroaches topped with chitinous armor, dung beetles rolling
their fetid treasures like giant medicine balls, stout, black
carrion beetles (“Imagine
what they could do to solve the landfill problems you’ve got
over on the mainland”). Tank after tank of crawling,
climbing, darting, crackling, slithering things.

“I stay away from butterflies and moths. Too short-lived
and they need flying room to be truly happy. All my
guests adapt well to close quarters and many of them achieve
amazing longevity—my
Lycosa
’s ten years old, and
some spiders live double or triple that
amount. . . . Am I boring you?”

“No,” said Robin. Her eyes were wide and it didn’t seem
like fear. “They’re all impressive, but
Emma . . . her size.”

“Yes.” He walked quickly to a tank in the last row. Larger
than the others, at least twenty gallons. Inside, several
rocks formed a cave that shadowed a wood-chip floor.

“My brontosaurus,” he said. “His ancestors probably
did
coexist with the dinosaurs.”

Pointing to what seemed to be an extension of the rock.

I stayed back, looking, steeling myself for another
heart-stopping movement.

Nothing.

Then it was
there.
Without moving. Taking shape
before my eyes:

What I’d thought to be a slab of rock was organic. Extending out
of the cave.

Flat bodied, segmented. Like a braided brown leather
whip.

Seven, eight inches long.

Legs on each segment.

Antennae as thick as cello strings.

Twitching antennae.

I moved further back, waiting for Moreland to play the
pellet game.

He put his face up against the glass.

More
slithered out of the cave.

At least a foot long. Spikes at the tail end quivered.

Moreland tapped the glass, and several pairs of
feet pawed the air.

Then, a lunging motion, a sound like snapping fingers.

“What . . . is it?” said Robin.

“The giant centipede of East Asia. This one stowed
away on one of the supply boats last year—Brady’s as a
matter of fact. I obtain a lot of my specimens that way.”

I thought of our ride on
The Madeleine.
Sleeping
below deck, wearing only bathing trunks.

“He’s significantly more venomous than most spiders,” he
said. “And I haven’t named him yet. Haven’t quite trained
him to love me.”

“How venomous is significant?” I said.

“There’s only one recorded fatality. A seven-year-old
boy in the Philippines.
The most common problem is secondary infection, gangrene.
Limb loss can occur.”

“Have you ever been bitten?” I asked.

“Often.” He smiled. “But only by human children who
didn’t wish to be vaccinated.”

“Very impressive,” I said, hoping we were through. But
another pellet was between Moreland’s fingers, and before I
knew it another corner of mesh had been drawn back.

No dangling this time. He dropped the food into the
centipede’s cage from a one-foot height.

The animal ignored it.

Moreland said, “Have it your way,” and refastened the
top.

He headed up the central aisle and we were right behind
him.

“That’s it. I hope I haven’t repulsed you.”

“So your nutritional research is about them,” I said.

“Primarily. They have much to teach us. I also study
web patterns, various other things.”

“Fascinating,” said Robin.

I stared at her. She smiled from the corner of her
mouth. Her hand had warmed. Her fingers began tickling my
palm, then dropped. Crawling down my inner wrist.

I tried to pull away but she held me fast. Full smile.

“I’m glad you feel that way, dear,” said Moreland.
“Some people are repelled. No telling.”

Later, in our suite, I tried to extract revenge by
coming up behind her as she removed her makeup and lightly
scratching her neck.

She squealed and shot to her feet, grabbing for me, and we
ended up on the floor.

I got on top and tickled her some more.
“Fascinating?
All of a sudden I’m living with
Spiderwoman
? Shall we begin
a new
hobby
when we get back?”

She laughed. “First thing, let’s learn the recipe for those
pellets. . . . Actually, it
was
fascinating,
Alex. Though now that I’m out of there, it’s starting to feel creepy
again.”

“The
size
of some of them,” I said.

“It wasn’t a typical evening, that’s for sure.”

“What do you think of our host?”

“Mucho eccentric. But courtly. Sweet.”

“Dear?”

“I don’t mind that from him. He’s from another
generation. And despite his age, he’s still passionate. I like
passion in a man.”

She freed an arm and ran it up mine. “Coochie-coo!”

I pinioned her. “Ah, my little
Lycosa, I
am
passionate,
too
!”

She reached around. “So it
seems.
”

I bared my teeth. “Hold me and crush me,
Arachnodella
—liquefy
me.”

“You scoff,” she said, “but just think what I could do
with six more hands.”

Chapter

The next morning swim fins, snorkels, towels, and masks
were waiting for us at the breakfast table.

“Jeep’s out in front,” said Gladys.

We ate quickly and found the vehicle parked near the
fountain. One of those bare-bones, canvas-top models that
kids in Beverly Hills and San Marino favor when pretending to
be rural. This one was the real thing: clouded plastic
windows, rough white paint, no four-figure stereo system.

Just as I started the engine, the Pickers burst out of
the house, waving.

“Hitch a ride into town?” Lyman called out. They were
in khakis again, with bush hats. Binoculars hung around his neck
and a big, yellow smile opened in his beard. “Seeing as this used
to be
our
borrowed vehicle, don’t see how you can
decently refuse.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said.

They climbed in the back.

“Thanks,” said Jo. Her eyes were bloodshot and her
mouth looked tight.

From Robin’s lap, Spike grumbled.

“Talk about brachycephaly,” said Picker. “Is he able to
breathe?”

“Apparently,” said Robin.

“Where would you like me to drop you?” I said.

“I’ll direct you. Terrible shocks on this thing, so
watch for potholes.”

I drove through the gates, the Jeep gliding on the fresh
blacktop, speeding along the palm-lined road. Soon the
ocean came into view, true-blue, unperturbed by breakers. As
we neared the harbor, the water swooped toward us; driving
toward it was like tumbling into a box of sapphires. I
remembered Pam’s comment about a big, blue slap in the face.

Picker said, “Did you notice the rotary phones in the
house? Thank God it’s not two cans and a string.”

Robin put her hand on my leg and turned back to him,
smiling. “If you don’t like it, why stay?”

“We do like it,” said Jo, quickly.

“Excellent question, Ms. Craftsperson,” said her
husband. “If it were up to me, we would
not
be staying.
If it were up to me we would not be staying within a thousand
miles of this
isle.
But Dr. Wife’s research is
urgent. Heard
you saw the zoo-ette last night.
Rich man’s version of firefly in a jar.
No systemization. Scientifically, it’s a waste of time.”

Spike reared his head and stared. Picker tried to pet
him but he backed away and curled up in Robin’s lap again.

“Male dogs,” said Picker, “always go for the
femmes.
”

“That’s not true, Ly,” said his wife. “When I was
little we had a miniature schnauzer and he preferred my
father.”

“Because, dearest, he’d met your
mother.”

He didn’t mind laughing by himself. “Hormones. Dogs go
after women, men go after bitches.”

He began humming. Spike growled.

“Not a music fan,” said Picker.

“On the contrary,” said Robin. “He likes melody but
sour notes drive him wild.”

At Front Street Picker said, “Go right.”

I drove north, parallel to the waterfront. No boats were
in dock and the gas station was still closed, a fuel-rationing
schedule posted on the pump. A couple of children
rode bikes up and down the waterfront, a woman pushed a baby
stroller. Men sat with their feet in the water, and one lay
stretched out on the dock, sleeping.

“Where’s the airfield?”

“Just keep going.”

We passed the shops. A saltwater tang hung in the
air; the temperature was a perfect eighty. The windows of Auntie
Mae’s Trading Post were filled with faded T-shirts and
souvenirs and signs above the entrance advertising postal
service and snacks and check cashing.
Next door was the Aruk Market—two
open-air stalls of fruit and vegetables. A few women
squeezed and bagged the merchandise. As we passed, a
couple of them smiled.

The adjoining building was white and shuttered with a
Budweiser sign long depleted of neon—
SLIM’S ORCHID
BAR.
Skinny, ragged specimens slouched in front, long-necks in
hand. The Chop Suey Palace facade was red with gold
lettering, and stone Fu dogs guarded the door. Three outdoor
tables were set up in front. A dark-haired man sat at one of
them drinking a beer and pushing something around his plate
with chopsticks. He looked up but didn’t smile.

Next came more stores, all empty, some of the windows
boarded, then a freshly whitewashed block structure with
several cars parked in front and a sign claiming:
MUNICIPAL
CENTER.
North Beach began as more barrier reef and palms,
sand dunes spotted with clumps of white-flowered beach plum.
To the right a paved road twisted up the hillside. The stucco
houses at the top had been turned to vanilla fudge by the
morning sun. I spotted a church steeple and a copper peak
below it.

“Is that where the clinic is?”

“Yup,” said Picker. “Keep going.”

No more outlets appeared as we continued to hug the
island’s upper shore. No keyhole harbor on the north side,
and the water was a little more active. Scattered swimmers
stroked lazily and sunbathers offered themselves like bits of
cookie batter, but birds outnumbered the human population by
far, droves of them searching the water’s edge for breakfast.

Front Street ended at a six-slot parking area. To the
east was a fifteen-foot wall of untrimmed bamboo. Hand-lettered
signs read
PRIVATE PROPERTY
and
DEAD END
NO OUTLET.

Picker leaned forward and pointed over my shoulder at a
break in the bamboo. “In there.”

I turned up a dirt path so narrow that bamboo brushed the
sides of the Jeep. A hundred-yard drive brought a house into
view.

More Cape Cod than Tahiti, its splintering planks hadn’t
been white in a long time. The front porch was piled high
with junk, and a stovepipe vent spouted from the tar roof.

The property was wide and flat, maybe fifteen acres of red dirt
walled by bamboo. The tall plants along the rear border looked
puny backed by two hundred feet of sheer black rock.

The western edge of the volcanic range. The mountains
hurled shadows so dark and defined they resembled paint
splotches.

A smaller house sat fifty feet behind the first. Same
construction and condition with a strange-looking
doorway—bright white gingerbread molding that didn’t fit.

Between the two buildings rested half the fuselage of a
propeller plane, its sheet-metal edges sliced cleanly. The rest
of the acreage was a grimy sculpture garden peppered with
more plane carcasses, heaps of parts, and a few craft left
intact.

As I pulled up a man wearing only dirty denim cutoffs
came out of the bigger house knuckling his eyes and shoving limp
yellow hair out of his face. The younger of the shark
butchers we’d seen yesterday.

Picker drew back the Jeep’s plastic window flap.
“Where’s your father, Skip?”

The man rubbed his eyes again. “ ’Side.” His voice was thick
and hoarse and peevish.

“We’re renting a plane from him this morning.”

Skip tried to digest that. Finally he said, “Yeah.”

“Where’s the takeoff strip, Ly?” said Jo.

“Anywhere we please; these aren’t jumbo jets. Let’s get
going.”

The two of them climbed out of the Jeep, and Picker went
up to Skip and began talking. Jo hung back, mouth still
busy, hands plucking at her vest.

“Poor thing,” said Robin. “She’s scared.”

As I started to turn the Jeep around, another bare-chested
man came out of the house. Flowered boxer shorts.
The same wide face as Skip but thirty years older. Sloping
shoulders and a monumental gut. What was left of his hair
was tan-gray. A two-week beard coated a face made for
suspicion.

He pointed at us and approached the Jeep.

“You the
doctor’s
new guests?” Heavy voice, like his
son, but not as sleepy. “Amalfi.” His tiny blue eyes were
bloodshot but alert, his nose so flat it was almost flush. The
beard was patchy and ingrown. The skin it didn’t cover was a
ruin of mounds and puckers.

“What’s that you got?”

“French bulldog.”

“Never saw nothing like that in France.”

Robin stroked Spike, and Harry Amalfi drew back his head.
“Having a good time, miss?”

“Very much so.”

“Doctor treating you good?”

She nodded.

“Well, don’t count on it.” He licked a finger and held
it to the wind. “Wanna go up in the air, too?”

“No thanks.”

He laughed, started coughing, and spat on the ground.
“Nervous?”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Don’t worry, miss, my planes are all greased and tuned.
I’m the only way to fly around here.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, and completed the turn.
Amalfi put his hands on his hips and watched us, hitching up
his shorts. The Pickers had gone inside the house with Skip.

As I drove away, I glanced back and got a closer look at
the smaller house. The white molding around the door was a
ring of sharks’ jaws.

I got on Front Street and drove back toward South Beach.
The man with the chopsticks was still in front of the Palace,
and this time he stood as we approached and waved his arms,
as if hailing a cab.

I pulled over and he trotted to the curb. He was around
forty, average height and narrow build, with black hair
combed down over his forehead and a black mustache too thin
to see from a distance. The rest of his face was sallow and
smooth, nearly hairless. He wore wide, black Porsche
sunglasses, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt,
seersucker pants, and Top-Siders. Back at his table was a
stuffed Filofax next to a platter of noodles-and-something,
and three empty Sapporos.

He said “Tom Creedman” in a tone that
said we should recognize the name. When we didn’t, he smiled
unhappily and clicked his tongue. “L.A., right?”

“Right.”

“New York,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Before
that, D.C. Used to work in the news business.” He paused,
then dropped the names of a TV network and two major
newspapers.

“Ah,” I said, as if all was clear. His smile warmed up.

“Care to join me for a beer?”

I looked at Robin. She nodded.

We got out and went over to his table, Spike in tow. He
looked at the dog but didn’t say anything. Then he stuck his
head in the restaurant’s open door. “Jacqui!”

A statuesque woman came out, dishcloth balled in one
hand. Her long dark hair was thick and wavy,
crowning a full-lipped, golden face. A few lines but
young skin. Her age was hard to gauge—anywhere from
twenty-five to forty-five.

“The new guests up at Knife Castle,” Creedman told her.
“A round for everyone.”

Jacqui smiled at us. “Welcome to Aruk.”

“Something to eat?” said Creedman. “I know it’s early
but I’ve found Chinese for breakfast a great pick-me-up.
Probably all the soy sauce, gets that blood pressure up.”

“No thanks.”

“Okay,” said Creedman to Jacqui. “Just beers.”

She left.

“Knife Castle?” said Robin.

“Local nickname for your lodgings. Didn’t you know?
The Japanese owned this island; Moreland’s manse was their
headquarters. They used the locals as slaves to do all the
dirty work, imported more. Then MacArthur decided to take
over everything from Hawaii to Tokyo and bombed the hell out
of them. When the surviving Japanese soldiers were trying to
entrench, the slaves grabbed any sharp thing they could find,
left their barracks, and finished the job. Knife Island.”

I said, “Dr. Moreland said it was because of the shape.”

Creedman laughed.

“Sounds like you’ve done some research,” I said.

“Old habits.”

Jacqui brought the beers and he threw a dollar tip at
her. She looked irritated and left quickly.

Creedman lifted a bottle but instead of drinking rubbed
the top of his hand against the glass.

“What brings you here?” I said.

“Little wind-down from reality. Running with the Beltway
movers and shakers too long.”

“You covered politics?”

“In all its sleazy splendor.” He raised his bottle.
“To island torpor.”

The beer was ice-cold and terrific.

Robin took my hand. Creedman stroked the bottle some
more, then the Filofax. “I’m working on a book. Nonfiction
novel—life-changes, isolation, internal revolution. The
island mystique as it relates to the end-of-the-century
zeitgeist.” He smiled. “Can’t really say more.”

“Sounds interesting,” I said.

“My publisher hopes so. Got
them to pay me enough so they’ll break their asses
promoting.”

“Is Aruk your only subject or have you been to other
islands?”

“Been traveling for over a year. Tahiti, Fiji, Tonga,
the Marshalls, Guam, rest of the Marianas. Came here last
year to start writing because the place is dead, no
distractions.”

Taking a long swallow, he gave yet another closed-mouth
laugh. “So how long will you be here?”

“Probably a couple of months,” I said.

“What exactly are you here for?”

“Helping Dr. Moreland organize his data.”

“Medical data?”

“Whatever he’s got.”

“Any specific diseases you’re looking at?”

“No, just a general overview.”

“For a book?”

“If there’s a book in it.”

“You’re a psychologist, right?”

“Right.”