The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "Mean though," said Skip. "Bite your finger clear off. Best thing is throw 'em in the pot live— how was your swim?"

  "Great."

  "See any octopus?"

  "No, just a turtle."

  "Little one?"

  I nodded.

  "Last summer's hatch. They come in, lay at the breaker line, bury the eggs. The natives dig 'em up— makes a helluva omelet. The suckers that make it swim the hell out of here, but most of them get eaten, too. Sometimes a real stupid one comes back. Musta been what you saw."

  "Checking out the old 'hood," said Haygood, laughing. His teeth were widely spaced and white. The sun turned his body hair into dense copper wire.

  "Octopus are smart," said Skip. "Those big eyes, you swear they're checking you out." A glance Robin's way.

  "Best omelet for my money is tern," said Haygood. "Lays pink eggs. First time people see it they freak out, think it's blood. But pink's the true color. Pink omelet." He licked his lips. "Salty— like duck."

  "You can have it, man," said Skip. "Too fuckin' gamy."

  Haygood smiled. "Well, I go for the pink."

  Skip snickered.

  "Shark's good eating, too," said Haygood, "but you have to soak the meat in acid or it tastes like piss— how long are you here for, doc?"

  "Couple of months."

  "Like it?"

  "It's beautiful."

  They looked at each other. Haygood snapped off another crab leg.

  Skip said, "Rich people would dig this place, right?"

  "I guess anyone who likes swimming and relaxing would."

  "What about you? What kind of stuff do you dig?"

  "All kinds of things."

  He dragged on his cigarette and flipped the butt onto the spotless sand. "Me and my buddy Hay here wanna build a resort. But different. Grass huts, like a Club Med. Pay one price up front, get your food, drinks, the works. No TV or phones or video movies, just swimming and digging the beach, maybe we'll bring some girls over to put on a dance show or something."

  His eyes got hard. "So what do you think?"

  "Sounds good."

  "It does, huh?"

  "Sure."

  He spat on the sand. "I figure rich assholes from the mainland'd go for it in a big way, right? 'Cause otherwise, we'd hafta go for the Japanese tour groups like all the other islands do." He put both hands in front of his face, hooked his upper teeth over his lower lip and flexed his thumbs.

  "Take pikcha, crick crick." He laughed.

  Haygood smiled and examined the crab's legless body.

  "Full of roe," he said. "A girl."

  "We wanna get Americans," said Skip. "This is America even though no one in America knows shit about this place."

  "Good luck." I started to walk away.

  "Wanna invest?" he called after me.

  I was about to laugh, then I saw his face and stopped.

  "I'm not really much of an investor."

  "Then maybe you should start, man. Get in early. Guys who invested in Hawaii after the war are wiping their asses with hundred-dollar bills."

  He held out a palm, as if panhandling.

  "Hey, the man came here to mellow out," said Haygood. "Give him a break."

  Skip flipped him a middle finger and his weak chin struggled for a jut. "Shut the fuck up, man. I'm talking business, here."

  Haygood didn't speak, but his wrists flexed and the crab's torso shattered wetly.

  Skip tried to stare him down, but the older man ignored him.

  "Think about it, man," said Skip, passing some of the anger over to me. "Talk to your lady; she looks pretty smart."

  Another glance Robin's way. She'd draped her shoulders with a towel and was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking out at the sea.

  A voice to my back said, "Gentlemen," and Skip's dull eyes narrowed. Haygood wiped his hands with a T-shirt but his face didn't move.

  I turned. Dennis Laurent stood on the sand in full mirrored sunglasses flashing white light. He looked vast. None of us had heard him approach.

  He touched an eyebrow. "Doctor. Got a nice stoner, there, Hay. Must be what, six, seven pounds of meat?"

  "Eight at least," said Skip.

  "Pull it off a coco?"

  "Didn't have to," said Haygood. "Lazy one, sleeping over there." He pointed to the tide pools.

  "Nothing like an easy target," said Laurent. "I see you finally got in the water, doc. Nice?"

  "Perfect."

  "Always is. Have a nice day, gentlemen." He and I walked to Robin. His shoed feet were steady on the sand. Spotting the butt Skip had discarded, he picked it up and pocketed it.

  "Those two give you any trouble?"

  "No. Are they troublemakers?"

  "Not generally, but they've got too much free time and one IQ between them, most of it Haygood's. Skip hit on you for his resort scheme, right?"

  "Just before you arrived."

  "Club Skip. Ready to call your broker?"

  "Got a cell phone?"

  He laughed. "Can't you just see Skip greeting a boatload of tourists—"Hey, welcome to fucking Aruk, man."'

  "Chamber of commerce should hire him."

  "Yeah," he said, "if we had one— hello, Ms. Castagna. How was the water?"

  "Warm."

  "Always is. Something about the lack of water movement and the insulating properties of the coral. I'm happy to see you two finally enjoying yourselves. Finally got a callback from the Navy: just headed up to the estate to talk to Mrs. Picker. They found the wreckage just inside Stanton. Nothing much left; they'll be shipping the remains back to the States, billing her later for the transport."

  "You're kidding."

  "Wish I was. Captain Ewing thinks he's being generous because the plane was trespassing on military property. He says he could have filed a complaint, fined Picker bigtime, and the estate would be financially responsible."

  "That's despicable," said Robin.

  Laurent flicked a speck of sand off his badge. "Yup. How's Mrs. Picker doing?"

  "This morning she looked pretty exhausted."

  "I'd better leave out the part about the bill for now. Knowing the military— I'm an ex-Marine— they'll take two years just to finish the paperwork, if they even follow through. Trouble is, I'm not going to be able to get her the body. Even if Ewing was cooperative, there's no real mortuary here, just a couple of guys who dig graves for the cemetery behind the church, and no supply boat for another ten days or so. Without proper embalming it could get pretty ripe—"

  He stopped himself. "Sorry."

  "Why's Ewing so hostile?" I said.

  He shrugged. "Maybe it's his nature, maybe he doesn't like being here. He was involved in Skipjack— that Navy sex scandal in Virginia? Got exiled here because of it. But maybe that's just talk. . . . Anyway, I'll just tell Mrs. Picker the Navy's doing her a favor by shipping the body. Ewing asked me to get an address. She can have someone claim it back in the States."

  He removed his shades and blew sand off the lenses. His light eyes took in the beach, the harbor. Lingering for a split second on the flat rocks above the tide pools. Or had I imagined it?

  "Do you know if Doctor Bill's up at the house?" he said.

  "He wasn't at breakfast."

  "He's usually up way before breakfast. Goes to sleep late, too. Never met a man who needs less sleep, always moving, moving, moving. If you see him, tell him hi. Pam, too."

  13

  As we got back in the Jeep, Skip and Haygood were walking along the shore, smoking and flicking ash into the water.

  Robin said, "Let's drive around a bit, explore some of the smaller roads."

  I turned the vehicle around and she looked up at the barricade.

  "It's almost as if they wanted it to be ugly."

  "Moreland agrees with Picker that the Navy's shutting the island down gradually. I asked him how people live and he admitted the main source was welfare."

  "End of an era," she said. "That may
be why he's so eager to document what he's done."

  I headed toward the bowed gray pilings of the dock. The open-air market was closed and the ration sign remained atop the gas pump.

  "Did you talk about the murder?"

  "A bit."

  "And?"

  "Moreland and Dennis are assuming it's a one-shot, that the murderer's gone. Because he hasn't done it again in the region. So it could very well be a sailor who's transferred to another base."

  "Meaning he could be doing it in another region."

  "Dennis has been keeping an eye out for similar crimes and none have come up."

  We were nearing the Chop Suey Palace. Creedman was outside again, with a bottle and a mug. Looking straight ahead, I passed him and hung a sharp right onto the next road, passing more tumbledown houses and empty lots. Then a small, poorly tended patch of grass housing a World War Two cannon and a life-size statue of MacArthur shading his eyes. A wooden sign said VICTORY PARK, EST. 1945. The only obvious triumph was that of birds over bronze.

  More shacks and lean-tos and dirt till the crest, where a narrow white church stood. I stopped. Two stories high, with a sharply pitched roof, fish-scale trim, and a badly tarnished copper steeple, the building canted to the right. The balusters of the front stair rail were intricately turned but flaking. The five-pace front yard was thick with high grass edged with leggy white petunias.

  "Early Victorian," said Robin. "It's sunk a little on the foundation, but the design's nice."

  A display board staked in the lawn said OUR LADY OF THE HARBOR CATHOLIC CHURCH. VISITORS WELCOME. A few feet away a metal flagpole hosted Old Glory. The flag drooped in the motionless air.

  Behind the church was more tall grass squared by a low picket fence. Rows of white crosses, stone and wooden grave markers. A few flashes of color. Floral wreaths, some so bright they had to be plastic.

  Next door was a large aluminum Quonset hut labeled ARUK COMMUNITY CLINIC. The old black Jeep Ben had used to pick us up was parked near the door next to an even older MG roadster, once red, now faded to salmon. The emergency number on the door was that of Moreland's estate.

  Just as I started to drive on, Pam came out, removing her stethoscope. She waved and I stopped again. Taking something out of the MG, she came over. Handful of plastic-wrapped lollipops.

  "Hi. Snack?"

  "No, thanks," said Robin.

  "Sure? They're sugarless." Unwrapping a green pop, she put it in her mouth. "So you guys got to swim. How was it?"

  Robin told her about our dive. Through the open door I could see children, their small faces pinched with fright.

  "They seemed okay about the crash," said Pam, "but still pretty nervous about their shots, so we decided to get it over with. Want to come in?"

  We followed her into the hut and breathed in the sharp smell of alcohol. The floor was blue linoleum. Fiberboard partitions sectioned the interior into cubicles. Cartoon posters and nutritional charts nearly covered the walls, but the aluminum fought the attempt to cheer.

  Fifteen or so children, all dark haired, none older than eight, were lined up in front of a long table. Two chairs sat behind the table, the one on the right empty, the other occupied by Ben. To his left were steel trays of bandages, cotton swabs, disinfectant pads, disposable syringes, and small glass jars with rubber stoppers. A trash basket near his left foot brimmed with discarded needles and blood-specked pads.

  He crooked his finger and a little girl in a pink T-shirt and red-and-white paisley shorts stepped forward. Her hair was waist long; her feet were in beach thongs. She was losing the struggle not to cry.

  Ben unwrapped a pad, picked up a bottle, and jabbed the needle through the rubber cap with his left hand. Filling the syringe, he squirted it clear of air, took hold of the girl's arm and drew her closer. Cleaning her bicep swiftly, he tossed the pad in the basket, said something that made her look at him and flicked the needle at her arm, almost teasingly. The girl's mouth opened in pain and insult. The tears flowed. Some of the boys in line laughed, but none with enthusiasm. Then, the needle was out and Ben was bandaging her arm. The whole process had taken less than five seconds and he remained impassive.

  The girl kept crying. Ben looked back at us. Pam rushed over and unwrapped a lollipop for the whimpering child. When the tears didn't stop, she cradled the girl.

  Ben said, "Next," and crooked a finger. A small, chubby boy stepped into position and stared down at his arm. Dimpled fists drummed his thighs. Ben reached for a pad.

  "All done, Angie," said Pam, walking the girl to the door. "You did great!" The child sniffed and sucked her lollipop and the white paper stick bobbed. "These are some visitors from the mainland, honey. This is Angelina. She's seven and a half and very brave."

  "I'll say," said Robin.

  The girl wiped an eye.

  "These people came all the way from California," said Pam. "Do you know where that is?"

  Angelina mumbled around the sucker.

  "What's that, sweetie?"

  "Disn'land."

  "Right." Pam tousled her hair and guided her outside, watching as she ran to the church.

  By the time she returned, Ben had vaccinated two more children, working rapidly, as rhythmic as a machine. Pam stayed with us, comforting the children and seeing them off.

  "School's still in session," she said. "They're in class for another hour."

  "Who teaches?" I said. "The priest?"

  "No, there is no priest. Father Marriot was called back last spring and Sister June just left for Guam— breast cancer. Claire— Ben's wife— was our substitute, but now she's the faculty. A couple of other mothers serve as part-time assistants."

  Another weeping child passed through.

  "Guess I should do a few," said Pam, "but Ben's so good. I hate inflicting pain."

  • • •

  Cheryl was sweeping the entry to the big house, but when we walked in she stopped.

  "Dr. Bill said give you this." She handed me a scrap of yellow, lined paper. Moreland's writing:

  Det. Milo Sturgis called 11 A.M., Aruk time.

  West Hollywood exchange. Milo's home number.

  "That's one in the morning, L.A. time," said Robin. "Wonder what it could be."

  "You know what a night owl he is. Probably something to do with the house and he's trying to catch us at a good time."

  Mention of the house tightened her face. She looked at her watch. "It's two-thirty there, now. Should we wait?"

  "If he was up an hour and a half ago, he probably still is."

  Cheryl stood there, as if trying to follow the conversation. When I turned to her, she blushed and began sweeping.

  "Is it all right to use the phone for long distance?"

  She looked puzzled. "There's a phone in your room."

  "Is Dr. Bill around?"

  She thought. "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "In his lab."

  • • •

  We went back to the run to pick up Spike. He and KiKo stopped their play immediately and he ran to Robin. The monkey shinnied up a low branch, then let go and landed feather light on my shoulder. A small dry hand cupped the back of my neck. He'd been shampooed recently— something with almonds. But his fur also gave off a faint hint of zoo.

  We left with both animals. Robin said, "I'd like to freshen up."

  "I'll go ask Moreland about using the phone."

  She turned back toward the house; KiKo jumped off and joined her and Spike. I walked down to the outbuildings and knocked on Moreland's office door.

  He said, "Come in," but the door was locked and I had to wait for him to open it.

  "Sorry," he said. "How was your swim?"

  "Terrific."

  He was holding a pencil stub and looked distracted. His office was the same size as the one he'd given me, but with pale green walls and no furniture other than a cheap metal desk and chair. Papers, loose and bound, carpeted half the floor. The desk was blanketed too, though I did notice o
ne high stack that had been squared neatly and placed in the center. Journal reprints. The top one, an article I'd written ten years ago on treating childhood phobias. My name underlined in red.