The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  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."

  "So he wants you to analyze his patients psychologically?"

  "We're still discussing the specifics."

  He smiled. "What's that, your version of no comment?"

  I smiled back. "My version of we're still discussing the specifics."

  He turned to Robin. "And you, Robin? What's your project?"

  "I'm on vacation."

  "Good for you." He faced me again. "Another beer?"

  "No thanks."

  "Good stuff, isn't it? Most of the packaged goods that get over here are from Japan. Marked up two, three hundred percent— ultimate revenge."

  He drained his bottle and put it down. "I'll have you guys over for dinner."

  "Where do you live?" I said.

  "Just up there." He tilted his head toward the hillside. "Spent a few days up at Moreland's but couldn't take it. Too intense— he is something, isn't he?"

  "He seems very dedicated."

  "Easy to be dedicated when you're loaded. Did you know his father was a big San Francisco investment honcho?"

  I shook my head.

  "Big bucks. Mega. Owned a brokerage house, some banks, ranchland all over wine country. Moreland's an only child, inherited the whole kit and k. How else could he keep that place going? Not that it's going to matter. Lost cause."

  "What is?" said Robin.

  "Saving this place. I don't want to put a downer on your trip, but Aruk's on the way out. No natural resources, no industry. No industriousness. Talk about your slackers— look at that beach. They don't even have the energy to swim. The smart ones keep leaving. Only a matter of time before it looks like one of those cartoon desert islands, shipwrecked loser under a palm tree."

  "I hope not," said Robin. "It's so beautiful."

  Creedman inched closer to her. "Maybe so, Robin, but let's face it, ebb and flow is part of the life rhythm— that's a theme of my book."

  "How much of the island's decline is due to the Navy's blocking the southern road?" I said.

  "Have you been to Stanton?"

  "No."

  "If that's a base, I'm a sea anemone. The only incoming flights are to feed and clothe the skeleton crew that runs the place. Letting a few sailors come into town to get drunk and laid doesn't create a viable economy."

  "What happens to Stanton after the island closes down?"

  "Who knows? Maybe the Navy will sell the island. Or maybe they'll just let it sit here."

  "The base has no strategic value?"

  "Not since the Cold War ended. Main thing is there's no constituency here. Seagulls don't vote."

  "So you don't think the Navy's intentionally shutting the island down?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "A guest up at the estate suggested it."

  "Dr. Picker." He chuckled. "Kind of an asshole, isn't he? Couple more weeks in the sun, he'll be spotting Amelia Earhart skinny-dipping in the lagoon with Judge Crater. Sure you don't want another?"

  I shook my head.

  "Actually," said Robin, petting Spike, "we were going to do some snorkeling."

  We stood and I tried to put money on the table.

  "On me," said Creedman. "How often do I get to have an intelligent conversation. And your pooch is okay, too. Didn't pee on me."

  He walked us back to the Jeep.

  "I like to cook. Have you up for dinner sometime."

  We got in the car. He leaned into Robin's window and took off his sunglasses. His eyes were small and very dark, scanning slowly.

  "There was a good reason for blockading the south road," he said. "Public safety."

  "Disease control?" I said.

  "If you consider murder a disease. It happened half a year ago. Local girl found on the beach, right where you're headed. Raped and mangled pretty badly. The details never came out. Moreland can give them to you— he did the autopsy. Villagers were sure the murderer was some sailor because that kind of thing just doesn't happen here, right? At least not since they massacred the Japanese." He chuckled. "Some of the young bloods worked themselves up and started hiking up to Stanton for a tÊte-À-tÊte with Captain Ewing. Navy guards stopped them, a little civil unrest resulted. Soon after, the Navy started building that blockade."

  He shrugged. "Sorry to darken your day, but one thing I've learned: the only real escape
is in your head."

  Putting his shades back on, he walked back to his table, scooped up his Filofax, and went inside the restaurant.

  I started up the Jeep, shifted into first, and pulled away.

  Just as I shifted into second, the sound hit— a giant paper bag being popped. Then a swirling black plume spiraled up from behind the volcano tips, rising high above them, inking the perfect sky.

  9

  Spike's neck was bow-tight. He growled and sniffed the air and began to bark. The people on the dock pointed up at the explosion.

  Robin's hand was clamped around my wrist.

  "Navy maneuvers?" I said.

  "At a nonfunctional base?"

  I reversed the Jeep quickly. As I passed the Chop Suey Palace, Jacqui stepped out, still holding her dishtowel. Her curiosity and fear stayed in my head as I sped back to the airfield.

  Harry Amalfi stood near his house, looking dazed. Studying the black smoke as if it bore a message.

  We drove up right behind him and got out, but he didn't move. Shouts made all three of us pivot.

  Skip Amalfi and the other shark carver were running toward us. The older man wore bathing trunks too long for his stocky legs.

  Harry Amalfi said, "It's a good craft."

  "Was," said Skip Amalfi's companion. His voice was soft, his eyes rainwater gray, very close-set.

  Skip said, "Maybe he fucked up and flooded the engine or something, Dad."

  Amalfi turned back to the sky. The smoke was thinning and curling.

  The other man shaded his eyes and looked upward, too. "Looks like it might have gone down right over Stanton."

  "Probably," said Skip. "Probably right on the fucking tarmac."

  His father started to say something, then shuffled back toward his front porch.

  "Want me to call over there?" said Skip. "See if it went down there?"

  Amalfi didn't answer. Pulling a bandana out of his pocket, he wiped his face and kept trudging.

  "Shit deal," said Skip's companion. The gray eyes washed over Robin, then checked to see if I was watching. I was. He nodded.

  "Major shit," said Skip.

  "He probably did flood it."

  Skip turned to us. "Dumb fuck said he knew how to fly. Did he?"

  "Just met him yesterday," I said.

  He shook his head disgustedly.

  "Probably got it up there and flooded it first thing," said the gray-eyed man, pushing his hand through wild, curly hair.

  "His poor wife," said Robin. "She didn't want to go."

  "Asshole said he knew what he was doing," said Skip. "You guys come back here for something?"

  We returned to the Jeep and I drove toward the bamboo thatch. Just as I was about to turn onto the dirt path, Jo Picker came running out, hatless, her big purse flopping against her thigh.

  Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide and blank. She kept coming toward us and I jammed the brakes. Slapping her hands on the Jeep's hood, she stared at us through the windshield.

  Robin jumped out and embraced her. Spike wanted to jump out but I restrained him. He hadn't relaxed since the explosion.

  All that remained in the sky were gray wisps.

  Jo said, "No, oh God, no!" She struggled away from Robin and I saw her mouth contort.

  Off in the distance, Skip and the gray-eyed man watched.

  • • •

  We finally got her in the Jeep and drove home. She cried softly till we got through the big, open gates and close to the house. Then: "We had a— I was planning to go but I got scared!"

  Ben was already outside, KiKo on his shoulder, along with Gladys and a crew of men in work clothes. This close, I could still see hints of smoke. The noise would have been louder up here.

  Jo had stopped crying and looked stunned. Robin helped ease her out of the Jeep, and she and Gladys walked her into the house.

  Ben said, "So it was him. I wasn't sure. He couldn't have been up long."

  "Not long at all."

  "Did you see the plane?"

  "We saw a bunch of them when we dropped him off."

  "Junk," he said. "Whole thing was stupid. No point."

  "Amalfi's son said he might have come down on the base."

  "Or darn close to it. Forget about retrieving the body."

  He turned to the house. "Why didn't she go up with him? Cold feet?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, she was the smart one," he said. "You try to tell people. . . . Dr. Bill talked to Picker this morning. Picker just got rude."

  "Does Dr. Bill know yet?" said Robin.

  He nodded. "I called him at the clinic. He's on his way up."

  "My first thought was some sort of military maneuver," I said. "Does the Navy ever shoot anything in the air?"

  "The only things that fly in and out of there are big transports. If one of those went down, you'd think the volcano had erupted."

  A white subcompact came barreling through the gates and stopped short, scattering gravel. POLICE was stenciled in blue on the door. Pam Moreland was in the front passenger seat. A man was driving.

  They both got out. Pam looked frightened. The man was good-looking, in his late twenties and huge— six four, two fifty, with nose-tackle shoulders and enormous hands. His skin was bronze with islander features, but his hair was light brown and his eyes pale hazel.

  He had on a short-sleeved sky-blue shirt and razor-creased blue pants over military lace-ups. A silver badge was pinned to the breast pocket, but he had no club or gun. Pam matched his stride.

  "This is terrible," she said.

  The big man clasped Ben's hand. "Hey," he said in a deep voice.

  Ben said, "Hey, Dennis, some mess. Folks, meet Dennis Laurent, our chief of police."

  Laurent shook both our hands, noticed Spike and suppressed a smile. His gaze was intense.

  "Anyone know how many people were in the plane?" he said.

  "Just Lyman Picker," I said. "His wife started to go but changed her mind. She's in the house."

  He shook his head. "Can't remember anything like this."

  "Never happened," said Ben. "Because no one goes up in Harry's heaps. You figure it crashed on Stanton?"

  "Either there or right near the eastern border. I called Ewing, got put on hold. Finally his aide says he's busy, will get back to me."

  "Busy," said Ben with scorn.

  Laurent said, "The wife's probably going to want details." He put on mirrored sunglasses and looked around some more. "Guess she's in no shape now."

  "She's in shock," said Robin.

  "Yeah," said Laurent. "Let me know if she wants to talk to me or if there's anything I can do for her. Weren't they supposed to be leaving soon?"

  "In a week or so," said Pam. "She's just about finished her work."

  Laurent nodded. "Weather research. She came into the station a couple of weeks ago with this little laptop computer, wanting to know if we kept storm records. I told her we really never got the big ones so we didn't. Any idea why her husband went up in the first place?"

  "To take pictures of the jungle," said Ben. "Prove to his colleagues he'd been here."

  "He was a scientist, too, right?"

  "Botanist."

  "So what was he looking at, the banyans?"

  "He wasn't really working," said Pam. "Told us he was bored. Tagging along after her probably made him feel like a third foot. Maybe he just wanted to do some flying."

  Laurent digested that. "Well, too bad he picked this time and place. . . . Harry probably should have been closed down, but like you said, no one used him. I hope the wife doesn't think we're going to be able to do any big FAA-type investigation. If he went down in the jungle, we'll be lucky to get the body."