The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She laughed. "Meaning what? The body rests but the mind races?"

  I tapped my forehead. "The mind makes a pit stop."

  "Somehow I don't think so."

  "No? Watch me tonight. Pinkies out, hmph hmph, how about them Dodgers?" I went limp and rolled my eyes.

  "Maybe I should bring a snorkel, then. In case you nod off in the soup."

  17

  Moreland was sitting in the Jeep when we got there. Wearing an ancient brown blazer and a tie the color of gutter water.

  "We're waiting on Pam," he said, looking preoccupied. He started the car and gave it gas, and a moment later the little red MG sped up and screeched to a halt. Pam jumped out, flushed and breathless.

  "Sorry." She ran into the house.

  Moreland frowned and looked at his watch. The first hint of paternal disapproval I'd seen. I hadn't noticed any closeness, either.

  He checked the watch again. An old Timex. Milo would have approved. "You look lovely, dear," he said to Robin. "As soon as she's ready, we'll get going. Mrs. Picker's not coming, understandably."

  A few minutes later, Pam sprinted out, perfectly composed in a blazing white trouser suit, her hair loose and shining, her cheeks flushed.

  "Onward," said Moreland. When she kissed his cheek he didn't acknowledge it.

  • • •

  He drove the way he walked, maneuvering the Jeep slowly and awkwardly down toward the harbor, veering close to the edge of the road as he pointed out plants and trees.

  At the bottom of the road, he turned south. The sun had been subdued all day, and now it was retiring; the beach was oyster-gray, the water old nickel.

  So quiet. I thought of AnneMarie Valdos sectioned like a side of meat on the flat rocks.

  We got out and waited silently near the edge of the road.

  "How long of a copter ride is it?" I said.

  "Short," said Moreland.

  A scuffing sound came from the top of the coastal road.

  A man emerged from the shadow of the barrier and came toward us.

  Tom Creedman, waving. He wore a blue pinstripe suit, white button-down shirt, yellow paisley tie, tasseled loafers. His black hair was slicked down and his mustache smiled in harmony with his mouth.

  Moreland's eyes were furious. "Tom."

  "Bill. Hi, Moreland fille. Doctor-and-Robin."

  Insinuating himself into the middle of our group, he tightened the knot of his tie. "Pretty nifty, personal aerial escort and all that."

  "Not much choice if they want us there," said Moreland.

  "Well," said Creedman, "we could swim. You're a strong swimmer, Pam. I saw you today, taking those waves on the North End with Chief Laurent."

  Moreland blinked hard and snapped his head toward the water.

  "Maybe I should try it one day," said Pam. "What is it, a few knots? Do you swim, Tom?"

  "Not if I can avoid it." Creedman chuckled, fished a wood-tipped cigarillo out of his jacket, and lit it with a chrome lighter. Sucking in deeply, he examined the lagoon with a flinty stare and blew smoke through his nose. Foreign correspondent on assignment. I waited for theme music.

  "Funny, isn't it?" he said. "After all the enforced segregation, they decide it's party time— at least for the white folk. I see Ben and Dennis weren't included. What do you think, Bill? Is brown skin a disqualifying factor?"

  Moreland didn't answer.

  Creedman turned to Robin and me. "Maybe it's in your honor. Any Navy connections, Alex?"

  "I played with a toy boat in the bathtub when I was five."

  "Ha," said Creedman. "Good line."

  Pam said, "You don't swim, you don't sun. What do you do all day, Mr. Creedman?"

  "Live the good life, work on my book."

  "What exactly is it about?"

  Creedman tapped his cigarillo and gave a Groucho leer. "If I told you, it would kill the suspense."

  "Do you have a publisher?"

  His smile flickered. "The best."

  "When's it coming out?"

  He drew a finger across his lips.

  Pam smiled. "That's top secret, too?"

  "Has to be," said Creedman, too quickly. The cigarillo tilted and he pulled it out. "The publishing business is vulnerable to leaks. Information superhighway; the commodity is . . . ephemeral."

  "Meaning everyone's out to steal ideas?"

  "Meaning billions are invested in the buying and selling of concepts and everyone's looking for the golden idea."

  "And you've found it on Aruk?"

  Creedman smiled and smoked.

  "It's not like that in medicine," she said. "Discover something important, you've got a moral obligation to publicize it."

  "How noble," said Creedman. "Then again, you doctors chose your field because you're noble."

  Moreland said, "I think it's coming." His finger was up but he was still facing the ocean.

  I heard nothing but the waves and bird chirps. Moreland nodded. "Yes, definitely."

  Seconds later, a deep tom-tom rumble sounded from the east, growing steadily louder.

  A big, dark helicopter appeared over the bluffs, sighted directly over us, hovered, then lowered itself on the road like a giant locust.

  Double rotors, bloated body. Sand sprayed and we dropped our heads and cupped our hands over our mouths.

  The rotors slowed but didn't stop. A door opened and a drop-ladder snapped down.

  Hands beckoned.

  We trotted to the craft, eating sand, ears bursting, and climbed into a cabin walled with canvas and plastic and reeking of fuel. Moreland, Pam, and Creedman took the first passenger row and Robin and I settled behind them. Piles of gear and packed parachutes filled the rear storage area. A pair of Navy men sat up front. Half-drawn pleated curtains allowed us a partial view of the backs of their heads and a strip of green-lit panel.

  The second officer looked back at us for a moment, then straight ahead. He pointed. The pilot did something and the copter shuddered and rose.

  We headed out to sea, hooking southeast and following the coastline. High enough for me to make out the bladelike shape of the island. South Beach was the point of the dagger, our destination the hilt.

  The blockade was no more than a paper cut from this height. The mountaintops were a black leather belt, the banyans obscured by burgeoning darkness and the ring of mountains. The copter veered sharply and the east end of the island slid into view.

  Concrete shore and choppy water, no trees or sand or reefs. The windward harbor was a generous soupspoon indentation. Natural port. Ships large enough to look significant from these heights were moored there. Some of them moved. Strong waves— I could see the froth, piling up against a massive seawall.

  We turned north toward the base: empty stretches of black veined with gray, toy-block assemblages that had to be barracks, some larger buildings.

  The copter descended and we touched down perfectly, the trip as brief as an amusement park ride, the blockade's cruel efficiency clearer than ever. The pilot cut the engine and exited without a word. The second officer waited till the rotors had quieted before releasing our door.

  We got out and were hit by a blast of humid air, stale and chemically tainted.

  "The windward side," said Moreland. "Nothing grows here."

  • • •

  A sailor in a contraption that resembled an oversize golf cart drove us through a sentry post and past the barracks, storehouses, hangars, empty airstrips. Concrete fields crowded with planes and copters and disassembled craft made me think of Harry Amalfi's aerial junkyard. Some of the planes were antiques, others looked new. One sleek passenger jet, in particular, would have done a CEO proud.

  The harbor was blocked from view by the seawall, a monstrous thing of the same raw construction as the blockade. Above it, an American flag whipped and snapped like a locker-room towel. I could hear the ocean charging angrily, hitting the concrete with the roar of a gladiator audience.

  Looking toward the base's western b
order, I saw the area where Picker must have gone down. At least half a mile away. Twenty-foot chain-link fencing completed the banyans' prison. Creedman had said the base was run by a skeleton crew, and there were very few sailors on the ground— maybe two dozen, walking, watching.

  The golf cart veered across a nearly empty parking lot, through a small drab garden, up to a colonial building, three stories high, white board and brick, green shutters.

  HEADQUARTERS

  CAPT. ELVIN S. EWING

  Next door was a one-story building of the same design. The Officers' Club.

  Inside the club was a long walnut hallway— deep red wool carpeting patterned with crossed sabers, brass fixtures. The paneling was lined with roiling seascapes and model ships in glass cases.

  Another sailor took us to a waiting room decorated with photo blowups of fighter jets and club chairs. A sailor in dress uniform stood behind a host's lectern. Glass doors opened to a dining room: soft lighting, empty tables, the smell of canned vegetable soup and melted cheese.

  The sailors saluted one another, and the first one left without breaking step.

  "This way," said the one behind the lectern. Young, with clipped hair and a soft face full of pimples. He took us to an unmarked door. A sign hanging from the knob said Captain Ewing had reserved the room.

  Inside were one long table under a hammered-copper chandelier and twenty bright blue chairs. A portrait of the President wearing an uneasy smile greeted us from behind the head chair. Three walls of wood, one blocked by blue drapes.

  A new sailor came and took our cocktail order. Two different men brought the drinks.

  Creedman sipped his martini and licked his lips. "Nice and dry. Why can't we get vermouth like this in the village, Bill?"

  Moreland stared at his tomato juice and shrugged.

  "I asked the Trading Post to get me something dry and Italian," said Creedman. "Took a month and what I ended up with was some swill from Malaysia."

  "Pity."

  "Go to any duty-free in the booniest outpost and they've got everything from Chivas to Stoli, so what's the big deal about filling an order here? It's almost as if they want to do it wrong."

  "Is that the theme of your book?" said Pam. "Incompetent islanders?"

  Creedman smiled at her over his drink. "If you're that curious about my book, maybe you and I should get together and discuss it. That is, if you've got any energy after your swims."

  Moreland walked to the blue drapes and parted them.

  "Same view," he said. "The airfield. Why they put a window here, I'll never know."

  "Maybe they like to see the planes take off, Dad," said Pam.

  Moreland shrugged again.

  "How long did you and Mom live here?"

  "Two years."

  Three men came in. Two wore officer's garb— the first was fiftyish, tall and thickset, with rough red skin and steel glasses; the other even taller, ten years younger, with a long, swarthy, rubbery face and restless hands.

  The man between them had on a beautiful featherweight gray serge suit that trimmed ten pounds from his two hundred. Six feet tall, heavy shouldered and narrow hipped, with a square face, bullish features, slit mouth, rancher's tan. His shirt was soft blue broadcloth with a pin collar, his foulard a silver and wine silk weave. His hair was bushy and black on top, the temples snow-white. The contrast was almost artificial, as dramatic in real life as on TV.

  He looked like Hollywood's idea of a senator, but Hollywood had nothing to do with his becoming one, if newspapers and magazines could be believed.

  The story was a good one: born to a young widow in a struggling Oregon logging camp, Nicholas Hoffman had been tutored at home till the age of fifteen, when he'd lied about his age and enlisted in the Navy. By the end of the Korean War, he was a decorated hero who gave the military another fifteen years of distinguished service before entering the real estate business, making his first million by forty and running successfully for the Senate at forty-three. His doctrine was the avoidance of extremes; someone dubbed him Mr. Middle-of-the-Road and it stuck. True believers on both ends tried to use it against him. The voters ignored them, and Hoffman was well into his third term after a no-contest race.

  "Bill!" he said, barging ahead of the officers and stretching out a meaty hand.

  "Senator," said Moreland softly.

  "Oh, Jesus!" roared Hoffman. "Cut the crap! How are you, man?"

  He grabbed Moreland's hand and pumped. Moreland remained expressionless. Hoffman turned to Pam. "You must be Dr. Moreland, Junior. Christ, last time I saw you, you were in diapers." He let go of her father and touched her fingers briefly. "You are a doctor?"

  She nodded.

  "Splendid."

  Creedman stuck out his hand and announced himself.

  "Ah, the press," said Hoffman. "Captain Ewing told me you were here, so I said invite him, show him open government in action or he'll make something up. On assignment?"

  "Writing a book."

  "On what?"

  "Nonfiction novel."

  "Ah. Great."

  "What brings you here, Senator?"

  "Fact-finding trip. Not one of those sun-and-fun junkets. Real work. Downsizing. Appraising military installations."

  Unbuttoning his jacket, he patted his middle. He had a small, hard paunch that tailoring had done a good job of camouflaging.

  "And you must be the doctors from California." He stuck out his hand. "Nick Hoffman."

  "Dr. Delaware's a psychologist," said Robin. "I build musical instruments."

  "How nice . . ." He glanced at the table. "Shall we, Captain?"

  "Certainly, Senator," said the red-faced officer. His voice was raspy. Neither he nor the swarthy man had budged during the introductions. "You're at the head, sir."

  Hoffman strode quickly to his place and removed his jacket. The taller officer rushed to take it from him, but he'd already hung it on the back of the chair and sat down, removing his collar pin and loosening his tie.

  "Drink, Senator?" the officer said.

  "Iced tea, Walt. Thanks."

  The tall man left. The red-faced man remained in place near the door.

  "Join us, Captain Ewing," said Hoffman, motioning to one of the two empty chairs.

  Ewing removed his hat and complied, leaving lots of space between his back and the chair.

  "Can I assume everyone knows everyone, Elvin?" said Hoffman.

  "I know everyone by name," said Ewing. "But we've never met."

  "Mr. Creedman, Dr. Pam Moreland, Dr. and Mrs. Delaware," said Hoffman, "Captain Elvin Ewing, base commander."

  Ewing put a finger to his eyeglasses. He looked as comfortable as a eunuch in a locker room.

  The officer returned with Hoffman's tea. The glass was oversized and a mint sprig floated on top.

  "Anything else, Senator?"

  "No. Sit down, Walt."

  As he started to obey, Ewing said, "Introduce yourself, Lieutenant."

  "Lieutenant Zondervein," said the tall man, looking straight ahead.

  "There," said Hoffman. "Now we're all friends." Emptying most of the glass with one gulp, he picked out the mint sprig and chewed on a leaf.

  "Are you traveling alone, Senator?" said Creedman.

  Hoffman grinned at him. "Just can't turn it off, can you? If you mean do I have an entourage, no, just me. And yes, it's a leased government jet, but I rode along with the base supplies."

  The sleek craft I'd noticed.

  "Actually," continued Hoffman, "there are three other legislative luminaries assigned to this particular trip. Senators Bering, Petrucci, and Hammersmith. They're in Hawaii right now, arriving in Guam tomorrow, and I can't promise you they haven't been sunbathing." Grinning. "I decided to come early so I could revisit my old stomping grounds, see old friends. No, Mr. Creedman, it didn't cost the taxpayers an extra penny, because my assignment is to assess facilities on several of the smaller Micronesian islands, including Aruk, and by coming alone I turned it i
nto a cheap date."

  He finished the tea, crushed an ice cube, swallowed, and laughed. "I got to sit up with the pilot. God, the instrumentation on these things. Might as well have been trying to play one of those damn computer games my grandkids are addicted to— did you know the average seven-year-old has more computer proficiency than his parents will ever achieve? Great eye-hand skills, too. Maybe we should train seven-year-olds to fly combat, Elvin."