by The Web(Lit)
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'" 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 one 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.
The door to the lab was open. Tables, beakers, flasks, test tubes in racks, a centrifuge, a balance scale, equipment I couldn't identify. Next to the scale was a tall jar full of the gray-brown pellets he'd used to feed the insects. A smaller container of some sort of brownish liquid sat beside it.
"So," he said, taking off his glasses. His tone was strained; I'd interrupted something.
"I wanted to check if it was okay to use the phone for long distance."
He laughed.
"Returning Detective Sturgis's call? Of course.
There was no need to ask. Give him my best. He's a pleasant fellow."
Robin sat there caressing her two hairy pals as I dialed. The phone rang twice and a cranky deep voice grunted, "Sturgis."
"Hi, it's me. Still up?"
"Alex." Milo's voice lightened. I hadn't thought much about his missing us.
"Yeah, wide awake," he said, reverting to a grumble.
"So how's Bali Hoo?"
"Sunny and clear. Want to hop over and join us?"
"I don't tan, I parboil."
"Thought you were Black Irish."
"That's temperament, not complexion. So you pretty much settled in?"
"Very nicely. Just got back from diving in a gorgeous coral reef."
"Yo, Jacques. There really is a Garden of Eden, huh?"
"My fig leaf says yes. What are you doing up past your bedtime, sonny boy?"
"Working double shifts and building up the overtime. Reason I called is the guy who's handling your house has a couple of questions. Seems the crown and floor moldings Robin told him to order have been discontinued. He can get something similar, a little wider, or go for her exact specifications and have it custom milled. The difference is a couple of thou and he wants authorization. Also, the cost of your alarm is going to be a little higher than estimated. Something about having to connect up with a power line that's outside the basic contractual area. Probably another grand. It's never below estimate, is it? Anyway, ask the lovely Ms. C. what she wants to do, get back to me, and I'll forward the message."
"I'" put her on right now."
I handed over the receiver. Robin said, "Hi!" and KiKo's eyes widened. As she began to speak the monkey stuck his head closer to the phone and began talking along in a wordless chittering singsong.
"What? Oh... no, it's a monkey, Milo... a monkey. As in barrel of... No, he hasn't replaced Spikey, we still love him. No, they're getting along fine, as a matter of fact... That's it in terms of mammals... What?... No, just some bugs...
Bugs. Insects, spiders... tarantulas. Dr. Moreland does research on them... What's up, detective?"
She talked to him about the construction, then ended with more small talk and returned the phone to me.
"I'm putting these guys outside again, then running a bath. Love it if you'd join me when you're through."
She left.
"Bugs," said Milo.
"Eden has bugs."
"God created them, too. What day was it?"
"His bad-joke day. Exactly what kind of research does this guy do?"
"Nutrition. Predatory behavior."
"He sounded a little spacey when I talked to him."
"How so?"
"Taking the message, but somewhere else."
"He thought you were a pleasant fellow."
"That proves he was somewhere else."
I laughed.
"What kind of things are you working on?"
"You really want to know?"
"Intensely."
"Four armed robberies, one with hostages in a meat locker and a near fatality. One drive-by of a drug dealer slash rap artist that we probably won't solve, aw shucks, and the beauty that's been keeping me up late: sixteen-year-old girl out in the Palisades shot her father to death while he sat on the can. She claims long-time molestation, but the mother says no way and she's been divorced from the old man for years, no love lost. The kid has a history of naughty behavior, and Daddy had promised her a brand-new Range Rover for her birthday if she passed all her classes. She
flunked, he said no go, and friends say she got mighty pissed."
"Any evidence of molestation?"
"Nope, and friends say she was a big fan of those two little shits with shotguns from Beverly Hills. She's got dead eyes, Alex, so who knows what was done to her. But that's not my concern, right now. She retained a mouthy lawyer with dead Daddy's dough... but enough, Ishmael. You set sail to escape all this barbarism."
"True," I said, 'but allow me to raise your cynicism quotient even higher. Even Eden has its problems."
I told him about Anne Marie Valdos's murder.
He didn't answer.
"You still there?"
"Cracking her bones to eat the marrow?"
"That's Moreland's hypothesis."
"You go to Paradise and outdo me in the grossness department?"
"According to Moreland, cannibalism's pretty common across cultures. Ever come across it?"
"He an expert on that, too? Tell me, is there some huge guy stomping around the estate with a bad haircut and bolts in his neck? Marrow... no, thanks, dear, I'll pass on that breakfast steak and stick with the veggie plate."
"Funny you should say that. Moreland's a vegetarian. His daughter says he saw things after the Korean War that made him never want to be cruel again."
"How sensitive. And no, I haven't personally come across any bad guy gourmets. But there are a few years left to retirement, so now I've got something to live for."
"How's Rick?"
"He says, changing the subject. Doing the workaholic thing as usual, night shift at the ER... Marrow? Why do I keep hearing jungle drums going oonka loonkd? Come across any missionaries in a pot?"
"Not yet, and Moreland says not to worry. There's no history of cannibalism here. Both he and the chief of police see it as a sicko killer trying to look exotic. Local opinion pins it on a Navy man who moved on."
"Moreland's a crime sleuth, too?"
"He's the only doctor on the island, so he handles all the forensics."
"Cannibalism," he said.
"Does Robin know about this?"
"She knows there was a homicide, but I haven't given her the details. I don't want to make too big of a deal about it. Other than that, there's been no serious crime here for years."
'"Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play." Why a Navy man?"
"Because the locals aren't violent and the killer seems to be transitory."
"Well," he said, "I was Joe Army, so you won't get any big debate from me. Okay, hang loose, don't eat anything you can't identify, and stay away from jokers with bones in their noses."
"A creed to live by," I said.
"Thanks for calling, and good luck on your cases."
"Yeah... all bullshit aside, I'm really glad you guys got to do this. I know what last year was like for you."
A phone rang in the distance and he grunted.
"Other line," he said.
"More sludge. Sayonara and all that, and if you see a bearded French guy painting ladies in flowery mum us buy up the canvases."
14. Robin napped and I took a walk, crossing the rose garden and descending the sloping acres of lawn. Four men in drive-and-mows were working on the turf. The rotting-sugar smell of cut grass brought to mind childhood Sundays.
So had Victory Park, I realized. The war memorial in my Missouri hometown had been only slightly larger. Sunday meant my mother bundling my sister and me off to the park when my father chose to drink at home. Bologna sandwiches and apple juice, climbing the cannon, pretending to fire, Mother's sweet, forced smiles. When she died, Dad's drinking stopped, and so did the rest of his life.
Shaking off melancholy, I continued down to the fruit groves, stepping among fallen oranges and tangerines and a popcorn spray of citrus blossoms. The meadow Moreland had created out of wildflowers was brilliant. A collection of miniature conifers had been trimmed surgically and a boxwood knot garden was as intricate as any maze I'd encountered in graduate school. Then the greenhouses, every pane spotless, and trees full of orchids, the plants tucked into the folds and hollows of branches like hatchlings. I kept going till I spotted patches of granite and the brown, thorny fuzz of rusty barbed wire.
The eastern border. Plumbago and honeysuckle and wisteria covered most of the high stone walls, softening the wire but not hiding it.
On the other side, the banyan tops formed a greener-gray awning, aerial roots shooting through the canopy like the tentacles of a beast in pain. From what I could see, the tree trunks below were stout and kinked cruelly, whipsawing in a struggle for space.
For a second, the entire forest seemed to be moving, tumbling down on me, and I felt myself losing balance.
After I restored equilibrium, a tight spot remained at the base of my throat.
I looked up at the trees again.
Robin had mentioned a subtle coolness drifting over the walls, but all I felt was an internal chill.
I hiked along the border, listening for sounds from the other side but hearing nothing. When I stopped, the same illusion of movement recurred and I placed both hands on the stone and breathed in deeply.
Probably low blood sugar. I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
I headed back. When I got to the grove, I picked up an orange, peeled it, and finished it in three bites, letting the juice run down my chin the way I'd done as a child.
Back in my office, I tackled another carton of medical files.
More routine; the only psychological diagnoses Moreland had noted were stress reactions to physical illnesses.
I pulled down another box and found myself growing bored till a folder at the bottom made me take notice.
On the front cover Moreland had drawn a large, red question mark.
The patient was a fifty-one-year-old laborer named Joseph
Cristobal, with no history of mental disorder, who began to experience visual hallucinations 'white worms' and 'white worm people' and symptoms of agitation and paranoia.
Moreland treated him with tranquilizers and noted that Cristobal did have 'a fondness for drink but is not an alcoholic." The symptoms didn't abate.
Two weeks later Cristobal died suddenly in his sleep, the apparent victim of a heart attack. Moreland's autopsy revealed no brain pathology but did discover an occluded coronary artery.
Then the doctor's final remark in large, bold print, the same red color as the question mark: "A. Tutalo?
I figured that for a bacterium or virus but the medical dictionary he'd provided me didn't list it.
A drug? No citation in the Physicians' Desk Reference.
I returned to the storage room, squeezed my way past the columns of boxes, and searched the bookshelves.
Natural history, archaeology, mathematics, mythology, history, chemistry, physics, even a collection of antique travelogues.
One complete case devoted to insects.
Another to plant pathology and toxicology, which I went through carefully.
No mention of A. Tutalo.
Finally, in a dark, musty corner, the medical books.
Nothing.
I thought of the cat woman Moreland's telling me about the case moments after we'd met.
Now another case of spontaneous death.
I'd reviewed perhaps sixty files. Two out of sixty was three percent.
An emerging pattern?
Time for another collegia! chat.
When I reached the house, I saw Jo Picker near the fountain, watching Dennis Laurent's police car drive away. Water dotted her hair and face. As I came up to her she wiped her cheek and looked at the moisture on her hand. The spray continued to hit her. Slowly she moved out of its arc.
"That policeman came over to tell me what's going on."
She rubbed her eyes. Her new tan had been replaced by mourner's pallor.
"They say Ly landed on the base and they're shipping him back today... I should've expected it, working in Washington. But when it happens to you... I've been calling his family."
