The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "The stone walls continue all around, but as the road curves there's a very thick planting of avocado and mango that blocks the border. Hundreds of mature trees, you have to really squeeze to get through. Spike kept huffing, really yanking me. After a hundred feet or so I figured out why: someone was crying. I ran to see."

  She took my hand and squeezed it.

  "It was Pam, Alex. Lying on a blanket between the trees. Picnic stuff with her, a thermos, sandwiches. Lying on her back, wearing a sundress . . . oh, boy."

  "What?"

  "The straps were down and one hand was here." She cupped her own left breast. "Her eyes were closed; the other hand was up her dress. We just burst in on her—"

  "Crying from pleasure?"

  "No, no, I don't think so. More like emotional pain. She'd been . . . touching herself, and for some reason it had made her miserable. Tears were running down her cheeks. I tried to leave before she saw us, but Spike started barking and she opened her eyes. I was mortified. She sat up and adjusted her clothes, and meanwhile Spike's running straight to her, licking her face."

  "Our little protector."

  "Lord, lord."

  "Poor you."

  "Can you imagine, Alex? The size of this place, you'd figure you could find a private spot without Sherlock Bones sniffing you out."

  "Rotten luck," I agreed. "Though I guess a really private spot would have been in her room with the door closed. How'd she react?"

  "A split second of shock, then calm, ladylike, as if I was a neighbor dropping by to borrow sugar. She invited me to sit down. I wanted to be anywhere but there, but what could I say? No, thanks, I'll just leave you to whatever dark and depressing sexual fantasies you were having, ta ta? Meanwhile, Spike's sniffing the sandwiches and drooling."

  "The boy knows his priorities."

  "Oh, yeah, the world stops for ham and cheese. Actually, having him there was a good distraction. She played with him for a while, fed him, and we were doing a pretty good job of pretending it never happened. Then all of a sudden she burst into tears and stuff just started pouring out— how rotten her marriage had been, what an ugly divorce. . . . I felt like a sponge, soaking up her pain— I don't know how you've done it all these years. I didn't say a thing, but she just kept going. It was almost as if she was glad I'd found her."

  "Maybe she was."

  "Or being discovered lowered her defenses."

  "What was so rotten about her marriage?"

  "Her husband was also a doctor, a vascular surgeon, couple of years younger. Very brilliant, very good-looking, the med center's most eligible bachelor. Love at first sight, whirlwind courtship, but sex with him was— she couldn't respond, so she faked it. It had never been a problem for her before; she figured it would work itself out. But it didn't and eventually he realized it. At first he didn't care, as long as he got his. Soon, though, it began to bother him. Affront to his manhood, he started pressuring her. Interrogating her. Then it became an obsession: if she didn't come, it wasn't real lovemaking. Eventually, they started avoiding each other and he started having affairs. Lots of affairs, not even trying to hide it. With both of them working in the same place, she felt she was a laughingstock."

  "She just sat there and told you all this?"

  "It was more as if she was talking to herself, Alex. She asked him to go into counseling. He refused, saying it was her problem. So she went into therapy by herself, and eventually things just broke down between them completely and she filed for divorce. At first he was really rotten— humiliating her with cracks about her being frigid, telling her about all the girls he was going out with. But then he had a change of heart and wanted to reconcile. She turned him down; he kept calling her, begging for another chance. She said no and pressed on with the divorce. A month later he died in a freak accident. Working out in his home gym, bench-pressing. The barbell fell on his chest and crushed him to death."

  "And she feels guilty."

  "Extremely guilty. Even though she knows it's not rational. Because she feels he really did still love her. She can't get rid of the idea that he was overdoing the weight lifting because he was stressed out over her. And to think the first time I saw her I thought she was the girl with everything."

  "The girl with nothing left," I said. "So she packs up and returns here. And finds another younger man. Did the flap over Dennis come up?"

  "No. But it sure looks like you were right about her having man problems, so maybe that's what Bill was reacting to. He doesn't want her hurt again so soon."

  "Maybe. C'mere." She climbed onto my lap and I held her close. "Looks like you missed your true calling."

  "That's what I'm concerned about. It's not my calling. You always talk about patients saying too much, too quickly, then growing hostile."

  "Honey," I said, "you weren't probing, you just listened. And you have no professional responsibility—"

  "I know, Alex, but I like her— basically she seems to be a sweet woman who's experienced some horrible things. She was only three when her mother died and Bill sent her away— farming her out to relatives and then boarding schools. She says she doesn't blame Bill, he was doing his best. But it's got to hurt. Is there anything more I should be doing for her?"

  "If she seeks you out, listen, as long as it doesn't make you feel uncomfortable."

  "I don't want her to feel uncomfortable. We're all living together in close quarters."

  "This place," I said, "is starting to feel like Eden after the fall from grace."

  "No," she said, smiling. "No serpents, just bugs."

  "Maybe we should think about cutting our stay short, Rob— no, wait, hear me out. There are things bothering me that I haven't told you."

  She shifted position and stared up at me. "Like what?"

  "Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I can't get rid of the idea that someone planted those roaches." I told her my suspicions.

  "But what would be the motive, Alex?"

  "The only thing I can think of is that someone wants us out of here."

  "Who and why?"

  "I don't know, but I'm pretty sure Bill hasn't been totally straight about his reasons for bringing me over, so there may be something going on that we're totally unaware of."

  I told her about Moreland's fall in the lab, the crime clippings on his desk, his knowledge of my friendship with Milo.

  "You think he wants help with a crime?" she said. "The murder on South Beach?"

  "He says it's the only major crime they've had in a long time."

  "What could he want from you?"

  "I don't know, but he did show me the record of the autopsy, and he claims no one else has seen it other than Dennis. Each time I talk to him I get the feeling he's holding back. Either he's building up his courage or making sure he can trust me. The question is, will I ever be able to trust him? Because he lied to me about something else."

  I recounted the case of Samuel H.'s radiation poisoning and my conversation with Micah Sanjay.

  "That is odd," she said. "But maybe there's an explanation. Why don't you just come out and ask him?"

  "I was on my way to do just that. But after he fell and started bleeding, I guess I felt sorry for him. I'll deal with it."

  "And then we leave?" She looked sad.

  I said, "There are also things about the murder I haven't told you. It was more than just a gory killing. There was organ theft. Evidence of cannibalism."

  She lost color. Got off my lap, walked to a teak wall, and traced the wood's grain with her finger. "You thought I couldn't handle it?"

  "I didn't think it was necessary to expose you to every disgusting detail."

  She didn't answer.

  "I wasn't patronizing you, Rob. But this was supposed to be a vacation. Would hearing about marrow being sucked out of leg bones have done you any good?"

  "You know," she said, facing me, "when Pam started unloading, it was tough at first, but then it felt good. The fact that she trusted me. Breaking my routine and find
ing out my sympathies have been awakened isn't a bad thing. I've started to realize how much I use work to escape people."

  "I've always considered you great with peop—"

  "I'm talking about relating in depth, Alex. Especially to other women. You know, I've never done much of that, growing up so close to my dad, always trying to please him by doing boy stuff. You always say we're an odd couple— the guy dealing with feelings, the girl wielding power tools."

  I got up and stood next to her.

  "Being here," she said, "away from the grind, even for these few days, has been a . . . learning experience. Don't worry, I'm not going to give it all up to be a therapist. Two shrinks in one house would be too much to bear. But helping people gratifies me."

  She threw her arms around me and pressed her face against my chest. "Welcome to Robin's epiphany— all that said, we can leave early if you're uncomfortable here."

  "No, there's no emergency— I'm probably letting my imagination get out of control, as usual."

  She kissed my chin. "I like your imagination."

  "So you're okay with cannibals on the beach?"

  "Hardly. But it happened half a year ago, and as you said, sex killers don't just stop. So I figure he is gone."

  "You're a tough kid, Castagna."

  She laughed. "Not really. First thing I did this afternoon was check my shoes for creepy-crawlies. And if something else happens, you may just see me swimming for Guam."

  "I'll be right behind you. Okay, if you're fine, I am— hey, you calmed me down. You can be my therapist."

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "Ethical considerations. I want to keep sleeping with you."

  23

  I went back to Moreland's bungalow. Locked now, and no one answered.

  The next time I saw him was at the dinner table that evening. The bandage on his hand was fresh, and he acknowledged me with a smile. Pam stood in a corner of the terrace, hands at her sides. She wore a blood-red Chinese silk dress and red sandals. Her hair was pinned and a yellow orchid rested above her left ear. Forced festivity?

  She turned and gave us a wave. Robin looked at me and when I nodded went over to her.

  I sat down next to Moreland.

  "How's the hand?"

  "Fine, thank you. Some juice? Mixed citrus, quite delicious."

  I took some. "There's a case I'd like to discuss with you."

  "Oh?"

  "A man named Joseph Cristobal, thirty-year-old file. He complained of visual hallucinations— white worms, white worm people— and then he died in his sleep. You found a blocked coronary artery and gave the cause of death as heart failure. But you also noted an organism called A. Tutalo. I looked it up but couldn't find any mention of it."

  He rubbed his crinkled chin. "Ah, yes, Joseph. He worked here, gardening. Looked healthy enough, but his arteries were a mess. Loved coconut, maybe that contributed. He never complained of any cardiac symptoms, but even if he had there wouldn't have been much I could have done. Today, of course, I'd refer him for an angiogram, possible bypass surgery. It's the humbling thing about medicine. Acceptable practice inevitably resembles medieval barbering."

  "What about A. Tutalo?"

  He smiled. "No, it's not an organism. It's . . . a bit more complicated than that, son— ah, one second."

  Jo had come out, Ben and Claire Romero right behind her. Moreland sprang up, touched Jo's hand briefly, then continued on and gave Claire a hug. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "Shall we continue our discussion after dinner, Alex?"

  • • •

  Jo seemed different— eyes less burdened, voice lighter, almost giddy, praising the food every third bite, informing the table that Lyman's body had reached the States and been picked up by his family. Then, waving off condolences, she changed the subject to her research, pronouncing that everything was "proceeding grandly."

  The sky turned deep blue, then black. The rain clouds were gray smudges. They hadn't moved much since morning.

  When Jo stopped talking, Moreland strode to the railing where some geckos were racing. When he waved a piece of fruit, they stopped and stared at him; dinnertime was probably a cue. He hand-fed them, then returned to the table and delivered a discourse on interspecies bonding. Avoiding my eyes, I thought.

  A bit of small talk followed before the conversation settled upon Claire Romero, the way it often does with a newcomer.

  She was well-spoken, but very quiet. The Honolulu-born daughter of two high school teachers, she'd played violin in college and in several chamber groups and had considered a professional career in music.

  "Why didn't you?" said Jo, nibbling a croissant.

  Claire smiled. "Not enough talent."

  "Sometimes we're not our own best judges."

  "I am, Dr. Picker."

  "She's the only one who feels that way," said Ben. "She was a child prodigy. I married her and took her away from it."

  Claire looked at her plate. "Please, Ben—"

  "You are immensely talented, dear," said Moreland. "And it's been so long since you played for us— last year, wasn't it? On my birthday, in fact. What a lovely night that was."

  "I've barely played since, Dr. Bill." She turned to Robin. "Have you ever built a violin?"

  "No, but I've thought of it. I have some old Alpine spruce and Tyrolean maple that would be perfect, but it's a little intimidating."

  "Why's that?" said Jo.

  "Small scale, subtle gradations. I wouldn't want to ruin old wood."

  "Claire's got a terrific old fiddle," said Ben. "French— a Guersan. Over a hundred years old." He winked. "In fact, it just happens to be down in the car."

  Claire stared at him.

  He smiled back with mock innocence.

  She shook her head.

  "Well, then," said Moreland, clapping his hands. "You must play for us."

  "I'm really rusty, Dr. Bi—"

  "I'm willing to assume the risk, dear."

  Claire glared at Ben.

  "Please, dear. Just a piece or two."

  "I'm warning you, get out the earplugs."

  "Warning duly noted. Would it be possible to play the piece you did for us last year? The Vivaldi?"

  Claire hesitated, glanced at Ben.

  "I saw the case," he said. "Just lying there in the closet. It said, "Take me along."'

  "If you're hearing voices, perhaps you should have a long talk with Dr. Delaware."

  "Dear?" said Moreland, softly.

  Claire shook her head. "Sure, Dr. Bill."

  • • •

  She played wonderfully, but she looked tense. Mouth set, shoulders hunched, swaying in time with the music as she filled the terrace with a rich brocade of melody. When she was through, we applauded and she said, "Thanks for your tolerance. Now, I've really got to get going. Science project's due tomorrow."

  Moreland walked her and Ben out. Pam nibbled a slice of passion fruit, distracted. Robin took my hand.

  "She is good, Alex."

  "Fantastic," I said. But I was thinking about A. Tutalo. The other things I'd ask Moreland when he returned.

  He didn't.

  When Robin said, "Let's go upstairs," I didn't argue.

  • • •

  The moment we closed our suite door we were embracing, and soon we were in bed, kissing deeply, merging hungrily.

  Afterward, I sank into a molasses vat of dreamless sleep, a welcome brain-death.

  That made waking up in the middle of the night so much more unsettling.

  Sitting up, sweating.

  Noises . . . my head was fogged and I struggled to make sense of what I was hearing:

  Rapid pounding— footsteps out in the hall . . .

  Someone running?

  A tattoo of footsteps; more than one person.

  Fast.

  Panic . . .

  Then shouts— angry, hurried— someone insisting, "No!"

  Spike barked.

  Robin sat up, hair in her fa
ce. She grabbed my arm.

  A door slammed.

  "Alex—"

  More shouts.

  Too far away to make out words.

  "No!" again.

  A man's voice.