by The Web(Lit)
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 10 - The Web
To my daughter, Such pizzazz such intellect, flashing eyes and a smile that lights up the galaxy.
Wonderful things come in tiny packages.
The Web
The shark on the dock was no monster.
Four feet long, probably a low-lying reef scavenger. But its dead white eyes had retained their menace, and its jaws were jammed with needles that made it a prize for the two men with the bloody hands.
They were bare-chested Anglos baked brown, muscular yet flabby. One held the corpse by the gill slits while the other used the knife. Slime coated the gray wooden planks. Robin had been looking out over the bow as The Madeleine pulled in to harbor. She saw the butchery and turned away.
I kept my hand on Spike's leash.
He's a French bulldog, twenty-eight pounds of bat-eared, black-brindled muscle and a flat face that makes him a drowning risk. Trained as a pup to avoid water, he now despises it, and Robin and I had dreaded the six-hour cruise from Saipan. But he'd gotten his sea legs before we had, exploring the old yacht's teak deck, then falling asleep under the friendly Pacific sun.
He helped Robin out and I scooped up Spike. Once on solid ground, the dog cocked his head, shook himself off, snorted, and began barking at the Jeep.
A man got out. Something dark and hairy sat on his shoulder.
Spike became livid, straining the leash. The hairy thing bared its teeth and pawed the air. Small monkey. The man seemed unperturbed. After shaking Brady's hand, he came over and reached for Robin's, then mine.
"Ben Romero. Welcome to Aruk." Thirty to thirty-five, five six, one forty, he had a smooth bronze face and short, straight black hair side-parted precisely. Aviator glasses sat atop a delicate nose.
His eyes were burnt almonds. He wore pressed blue cotton pants and a spotless white shirt that had somehow evaded the monkey's footprints.
The monkey was jabbering and pointing.
"Calm down, KiKo, it's just a dog." Romero smiled.
"I think."
We're not sure, either," said Robin.
Romero took the monkey off his shoulder and held it to his cheek, stroking its face.
"You like dogs, KiKo, right? What's his name?"
"Spike."
"His name is Spike, KiKo. Dr. Moreland told me he's heat sensitive so we've got a portable air conditioner for your suite.
But I doubt you'll need it. January's one of our prettiest months.
We get some rain bursts, but it stays about eighty."
"It's lovely," said Robin.
"Always is. On the leeward side. Let me get your stuff."
Brady and his men brought our luggage to the Jeep. Romero and I loaded. When we finished, the monkey was standing on the ground petting Spike's head and chattering happily. Spike accepted the attention with a look of injured dignity.
"Good boy," said Robin, kneeling beside him.
Laughter made us all turn. The shark butchers were looking our way. They winked and waved. The shorter one had his hands on his hip, the knife in his belt. Rosy-pink hands. He wiped them on his cutoffs and winked. The taller man laughed again.
Spike's bat ears stiffened and the monkey hissed. Romero put ! it back on his shoulder, frowning.
"Better get going. You must be I bushed." f We climbed into the Jeep, and Romero made a wide arc and | headed back to the beach road. A wooden sign said Front I Street. As we drove up the hill, I looked back. The ocean was all-encompassing and the island seemed very small. The Madeleine's crew stood on the dock, and the men with the bloody hands were heading toward town, wheeling their bounty in a rusty barrow. All that was left of the shark was a stain.
2. "Let me give you a proper welcome," said Romero.
"Abuma na abap that's old pidgin for "enjoy our home."
He started up the same central road. Winding and unmarked, it was barely one vehicle wide and bordered by low walls of piled rock. The grade was steeper than it had appeared from the harbor and he played with the Jeep's gears in order to maintain traction.
Each time the vehicle lurched, KiKo nattered and tightened his spidery grip on Romero's shirt. Spike's head was out the window, tilted up at the cloudless sky.
As we climbed, I looked back and caught a frontal view of the business district. Most of the buildings were closed, including the gas station. Romero sped past the small, white houses.
Up close, the buildings looked shabbier, the stucco cracked, sometimes peeled to the paper, the tin roofs dented and pocked and mossy. Laundry hung on sagging lines. Naked and half-naked children played in the dirt. A few of the properties were fenced with chicken wire, most were open. Some looked unoccupied.
A couple of skinny dogs scrounged lazily in the dirt, ignoring Spike's bark.
This was U.S. territory but it could have been anywhere in the developing world. Some of the meanness was softened by vegetation broad-leafed philodendrons, bromeliads, flowering coral trees, palms. Many of the structures were surrounded by greenery whitewashed eggs in emerald nests.
"So how was your trip?" said Romero.
"Tiring but good," said Robin. Her fingers were laced in mine and her brown eyes were wide. The air through the Jeep's open windows ruffled her curls, and her linen shirt billowed.
"Dr. Bill wanted to greet you personally, but he just got called out. Some kids diving out on North Beach, stung by jellyfish."
"Hope it's not serious."
TSIah. But it does smart."
"Is he the only doctor on the island?" I said.
We run a clinic at the church. I'm an RN. Emergencies used to get flown over to Guam or Saipan till... anyway, the clinic does the trick for most of our problems. I'm on call for whenever I'm needed."
"Have you lived here long?"
Whole life except for Coast Guard and nursing school in Hawaii. Met my wife there. She's a Chinese girl. We have four kids."
As we continued to climb, the shabby houses gave way to empty fields of red clay, and the harbor became tiny. But the volcanic peaks remained as distant, as if avoiding us.
To the right was a small grove of ash-colored trees with deeply corrugated trunks and sinuous, knobby branches that seemed to claw at the sky. Aerial roots dripped like melting wax from several boughs, digging their way back into the earth.
"Banyans?" I said.
"Yup. Strangler trees. They send those shoots up around anything unlucky enough to grow near them and squeeze the life out of it. Little hooks under the shoots like Velcro, they just dig in. We don't want them but they grow like crazy in the jungle. Those are about ten years old. Some bird must have dropped seeds."
"Where's the jungle?"
He laughed.
"Well, it's not really that. I mean, there're no wild animals or anything else for that matter except the stranglers."
He pointed toward the mountaintops.
"Just east of the island's center. Dr. Bill's place butts right up against it. On the other side is Stanton the Navy base." He shifted into low, got the Jeep over an especially steep rise, then coasted through big open wooden gates.
The road on the other side was freshly blacktopped. Fourstory coco palms were set every ten feet. The piled rock was replaced by a hand-hewn, Japanese-style pine fence and rows of flame-orange clivia. Velvet lawns rolled away on all sides and I could make out the tops of the banyan forest, a remote gray fringe.
Then movement. A small herd of black-tailed deer grazing to the left. I pointed them out to Robin and she smiled and kissed my knuckles. A few seabirds hovered above us; otherwise the sky was inert.
A hundred more palms and we pulled into a huge, gravel courtyard shaded by red
cedar, Aleppo pine, mango, and avocado.
In the center, an algae-streaked limestone fountain spouted into a carved basin teeming with hyacinths. Behind it stood a massive two-story house, light-brown stucco with pine trim and balconies and a pagoda roof of shiny green tiles. Some of the edge tiles wore gargoyle faces.
Romero turned off the engine and KiKo scrambled off his shoulder, ran up wide stone steps, and began knocking on the front door.
Spike jumped out of the Jeep and followed, scratching at the wood with his forepaws.
Robin got out to restrain him.
"Don't worry," said Romero.
"That's iron pine, hundreds of years old. The whole place is rock solid. The Japanese army built it in 1919, after the League of Nations took the territories away from
Germany and gave them to the emperor. This was their official headquarters."
KiKo was swinging from the doorknob as Spike barked in encouragement. Romero said, "Looks like they're already buddies.
Don't worry about your stuff, I'll get it for you later."
He pushed the door open with the monkey still holding on.
It had been a long time since I'd left a door unlocked in
L.A.
A round white stone entry led to a big front room with waxed pine floors under Chinese rugs, high plaster walls, a carved teak ceiling, and lots of old, comfortable-looking furniture. Pastel watercolors on the walls. Potted orchids in porcelain jardinieres supplied richer hues. Archways on each side led to long hallways.
In front of the right-hand passage was an awkward-looking, red-carpeted staircase with an oiled bannister, all right angles, no curves. It hooked its way up to the second-floor landing and continued out of view.
Straight ahead, a wall of picture windows framed a tourist brochure vista of terraces and grasslands and the heartbreakingly blue ocean. The barrier reef was a tiny dark comma notched by the keyhole harbor, the western tip of the island a distinct knife point cutting into the lagoon. Most of Aruk Village was now concealed by treetops. The few houses I could see were sprinkled like sugar on the hillside.
"How many acres do you have here?"
"Seven hundred acres, give or take."
Over a square mile. Big chunk of a seven-by-one-mile island.
"When Dr. Bill bought it from the government, it was abandoned," Romero said.
"He brought it back to life can I get you something to drink?"
He returned with a tray of Coke cans, lime wedges, glasses, and a water bowl for Spike. Trailing him were two small women in floral house dresses and rubber thongs, one in her sixties, the other half that age. Both had broad, open faces. The older woman's was pitted:
"Dr. Alexander Delaware and Ms Robin Castagna," said Romero, placing the tray on a bamboo end table and the water bowl on the floor.
Spike rushed over and began lapping. KiKo watched analytically, scratching his little head.
"This is Gladys Medina," said Romero.
"Gourmet chef and executive housekeeper, and Cheryl, first daughter of Gladys and executive vice-housekeeper."
"Please," said Gladys, flipping a hand. We cook and clean. Nice to meet you." She bowed and her daughter imitated her.
"False modesty," said Romero, handing Robin her drink.
"What are you after, Benjamin? A ginger cookie? I didn't bake yet, so it won't do you any good. That's a very... cute dog. I ordered some food for him on the last boatload and it stayed dry." She named the brand Spike was used to.
"Perfect," said Robin.
"Thank you."
"When KiKo eats here, it's in the service room. Maybe they want to keep each other company?"
Spike was belly down on the entry floor, jowls spreading on the stone, eyelids drooping.
"Looks like he needs to nap first," said Romero.
"Whatever," said Gladys.
"You need anything, you just come to the kitchen and let me know." Both women left. Cheryl hadn't uttered a word.
"Gladys has been with Dr. Bill since he left the Navy," said Romero.
"She used to work for the base commander at Stanton as a cook, came down with scrub typhus and Dr. Bill got her through it. While she recuperated, they fired her. So Dr. Bill hired her. Her husband died a few years ago. Cheryl lives with her. She's a little slow."
He led us upstairs. Our suite was in the center of the second-story landing. Sitting room with a small refrigerator, bedroom, and white-tiled bath. Old brown wool carpeting covered the floors. The walls were teak and plaster. Overstuffed floral-print furniture, more bamboo tables. The bathtub was ancient cast-iron and spotless with a marble shelf holding soaps and lotions and loofah sponges still in plastic wrap. Fly fans churned the air lazily in all three rooms. A faint insecticidal smell hung in the air.
The bed was a turn-of-the-century mahogany four-poster, made up with crisp, white linens and a yellow wilted-silk spread. On one nightstand was a frosted glass vase of cut amaryllis. A folded white card formed a miniature tent on the pillow.
Lots of windows, silk curtains pulled back. Lots of sky.
"Look at that view," said Robin.
"The Japanese military governor wanted to be king of the mountain," said Romero.
"The highest point on the island is actually that peak over there." He pointed to the tallest of the black crags.
"But it's too close to the windward side. You've got your gales all year round and rotten humidity."
He walked to a window. The Japanese figured the mountains gave them a natural barrier from an eastern land assault. The German governor built his house here, too, for the same reason.
The Japanese tore it down. They were really into making the place Japanese. Brought in geishas, tea houses, baths, even a movie theater down where the Trading Post is now. The slave barracks were in that field we passed on the way up, where the accidental banyans are. When MacArthur attacked, the slaves came out of the barracks and turned against the Japanese. Between that and the bombing, two thousand Japanese died. Sometimes you still find old bones and skulls up along the hillside."
He went into the bathroom and tried out the taps.
"You can drink the water. Dr. Bill installed activated carbon filters on all the cisterns on the island and we take regular germ counts. Before that, cholera and typhus were big problems. You've still got to be careful about eating the local shellfish marine toxins and rat lung worm disease. But fruits and vegetables are no problem. Anything here at the house is no problem, Dr. Bill grows it all himself. In terms of outside stuff, the bar food at Slim's isn't much but the Chop Suey Palace is better than it sounds. At least my Mandarin wife doesn't mind it. Sometimes Jacqui, the owner, cooks up something interesting, like bird's nest soup, depending on what's available."
"Is that where the shark's fin was headed?" I said.
"Pardon?"
"Those two guys down at the harbor. Was it for the restaurant?"
He pushed his glasses up his nose.
"Oh, them. No, I doubt it."
A gray-haired, gray-bearded man brought up our bags. Romero introduced him as Carl Sleet and thanked him.
When he left, Romero said, "Anything else I can do for you?" seem to have everything."
"Okay, then, here's your key. Dinner's at six. Dress comfortably."
He exited. Spike had fallen asleep in the sitting room. Robin and I went into the bedroom and I closed the door on canine snores.
"Well," she said, taking a deep breath and smiling.
I kissed her. She kissed back hard, then yawned in the middle of it and broke away, laughing.
"Me, too," I said.
"Nap time?"
"After I clean up." She rubbed her arms.
"I'm crusted with salt."
"Ah, dill-pickle woman!" I grabbed her and licked her skin. She laughed, pushed me away, and began opening a carry-on.
I picked up the folded card on the bed. Inside was a handwritten note:
Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter
home from the hill.
R. L. Stevenson Please make my home jours.
WWM
"Robert Louis Stevenson," said Robin.
"Maybe this will be our Treasure Island."
Wanna see my peg?"
As she laughed, I filled the bath. The water was crystalline, the towels brand-new, thick as fur.
When I returned, she was lying on top of the covers, naked, her hands behind her head, auburn hair spread on the pillow, nipples brown and stiff. I watched her belly rise and fall. Her smile. The oversized upper incisors I'd fallen for, years ago.
