Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 10 - The Web

by The Web(Lit)

  "It's over."

  "I'm so sorry, dear. Perhaps the scent of your dog food-' "If it was food they were after," I said, 'why didn't they head for the kitchen?"

  'I keep my kitchen clean and shut up tight," said Gladys.

  "No flies, not even grain weevils."

  "Our door was locked," I said, 'and the dog food's sealed in plastic bags. How did they get in, Bill?"

  He went over to the door, opened and closed it a couple of times, kneeled and ran his hand over the threshold.

  "There's some give to the carpet," he said. They're very good at compressing themselves. I've seen them manage-'

  "Spare the details," I said, "ifou probably knocked a year off our lives."

  "I'm terribly, terribly sorry." He hung his head. The cockroaches bumped inside the box. Then the hissing began again. Louder...

  'You did handle it perfectly," he said.

  "Locking them in. Thank you for not damaging them."

  "You're welcome," I said. I'd turned phone solicitors down with a kinder tone.

  Robin squeezed my hand again.

  "It's okay, Bill," she said.

  "We're fine."

  Moreland said, "An unforgivable laspse. I'm always so careful - I'll put double locks on the insectarium immediately. And door seals. We'll get working on it right now Gladys, call Kamon and Carl Sleet, apologize for waking them up, and tell them I've got a job for them. Triple overtime pay. Tell Carl to bring the Swiss drill I gave him for Christmas."

  Gladys rushed out.

  Moreland looked at the box and rubbed the oiled wood.

  "Better be getting these fellows back." He hurried to the door and nearly collided with Jo Picker as she padded in, wearing robe and slippers, rubbing her eyes.

  "Is everything... okay?" Her voice was thick. She coughed to clear it.

  "Just a little mishap," said Moreland.

  She frowned. Her eyes were unfocused.

  "Took something... to sleep... did I hear someone scream?"

  "I did," said Robin.

  "There were some bugs in the bathroom."

  "Bugs?"

  The roaches hissed and her eyes widened.

  "Go back to sleep, dear," said Moreland, guiding her out.

  "Everything's been taken care of. Everything's fine."

  When we were alone, we let Spike out and he raced around the room, circling. Sniffing near the bathroom before charging in head down.

  "The dog food goes downstairs tomorrow," said Robin.

  Then she got up suddenly, pulled back the bed covers, looked underndeath the box spring, and then stood. Smiling sheepishly.

  "Just being careful," she said.

  "Are you going to be able to sleep?" I said.

  "Hope so. How about you?"

  "My heart's down to two hundred beats a minute."

  She sighed. Started laughing and couldn't stop.

  I wanted to join in but couldn't manage more than a taut smile.

  "Our little bit of New York," she finally said.

  "Manhattan tenement in our island hideaway."

  "Those things could mug New York roaches."

  "I know." She put my hand on her breast.

  "How many beats?"

  "Hmm," I said.

  "Hard to tell. I need to count for a long time."

  More laughter.

  "God, the way I shrieked. Like one of those horror movies."

  Her forehead was moist, curls sticking to it. I brushed them away, kissed her brow, the tip of her nose.

  "So how long do we stay in bug-land?" I said.

  "You want to leave?"

  "Plane crash, unsolved murder, the zombie base, some fairly uncongenial people. Now this."

  "Don't leave on my account. I can't tell you I won't freak out if the same thing happens again, but I'm okay, now. Ms Adaptable.

  I pride myself on it."

  "Sure," I said, 'but sometimes it's nice not having to adapt."

  "True... Maybe I'm nuts but I still like it here. Maybe it's my hand feeling better a lot better, actually. Or even the fact that this may be our last chance to experience Aruk before the Navy turns it into a bomb yard or something. Even Bill he's unique, Aruk is unique."

  She held my face and looked into my eyes.

  "I guess what I'm saying, Alex, is I don't want to be back in L.A. next week, dealing with the house or some business hassle, and start thinking back with regrets."

  I didn't answer.

  "Am I making sense, doctor?"

  I touched my nose to hers. Curled my lip. Bared my teeth.

  Hissed.

  She jumped up. Pounded my shoulder.

  "Oh! Maybe I should have Spike sleep in the bed and put you in the crate."

  Lights out.

  A few self-conscious jokes about creepy-craw lies and she was sleeping.

  I lay awake.

  Trying to picture the roaches trekking all the way from the insectarium to our suite... marching in unison? The idea was cartoonish.

  And even if the dog food had attracted them, why hadn't they stayed in the sitting room, near the bag?

  Roaches were supposed to be smart, as bugs went. Why not head for an easier meal the fruit from the orchard?

  Instead, they'd taken a circuitous journey, scampering up the gravel paths, across the lawn, into the house somehow. Bypassing Gladys's kitchen. Up the stairs. Under our door.

  All because of a sealed sack of kibble?

  Despite Moreland's claim, the bathroom door seemed too snug to let them in or out. Had we left it open before leaving for dinner at the base?

  Robin always left the bathroom door closed. Sometimes I didn't. Which of us had last used the lav?

  Why hadn't they come running out when we arrived home? Or at least hissed in alarm?

  An alternative scenario: they'd been placed in the bathroom and shut in.

  Someone up to mischief during the dinner at Stanton. The house empty. Someone seizing the opportunity to send us a message: Go away.

  But who and why?

  Who had the opportunity?

  Ben was the obvious choice, because he had access to the insectarium.

  He'd said his evening was full, between fatherhood and a hibachi dinner with Claire.

  Had he come back?

  But why? Apart from the remark about natural rhythm, he'd shown no sign of hostility toward us. On the contrary. He'd gone out of his way to make us feel welcome.

  Out of obligation to Moreland?

  Were his own feelings something else?

  I thought about it for a while, but it just didn't make sense.

  Someone else on the staff?

  Cheryl?

  Too dull to be that calculating, and once again, what was her motive? Plus, she usually left after dinner, and no meal had been served tonight.

  Gladys? Same lack of motive, and the idea of her purloining roaches seemed equally ludicrous.

  There had to be at least a dozen grounds keepers and gardeners who came and went, but why would they resent us?

  Unless the message had been meant for Moreland.

  My surmise about his attitude of noblesse oblige and the resentment it might have generated in the villagers could be right on target.

  The good doctor less than universally loved? His guests seen as colonial interlopers?

  If so, it could be anyone.

  Paranoia, Delaware. The guy had kept thousands of bugs for years, four had gotten out because he was old and absentminded and had forgotten to put a lid on tight.

  Spacey, just as Milo had said.

  Not a comforting thought, considering the thousands of bugs, but I supposed he'd be especially careful now.

  I tried to empty my head and sleep. Thought of the way Jo Picker had come in: drowsy, asking if someone had screamed.

  Robin's scream had sounded a full ten minutes before.

  Why the delay?

  The sleeping pill slowing her responses?

  Or no need to hurry
because she knew?

  And she'd been alone upstairs all evening.

  Paranoia run amok. What reason would a grieving widow have for malicious mischief?

  She'd said she was squeamish about insects, had refused even to enter the bug zoo.

  And there was no animosity between us. Robin had been especially kind to her... Even if she was a fiend, how could she have gained access to our room?

  Her own room key the lock similar to ours?

  Or a simple pick. Most bedroom locks weren't designed for security. Ours back home could be popped with a screwdriver.

  I lay there and listened for sounds through the wall.

  Nothing.

  What did I expect to hear, the click of her keyboard? Widow's wails?

  I shifted position and the mattress rocked, but Robin didn't budge.

  Teachers' voices from many years ago filtered through my brain.

  Alexander is a very bright little boy, but he does tend to daydream.

  Is something wrong at home, Mrs. Delaware? Alexander has seemed rather distracted lately.

  A soft, liquid line of light oozed through a part in the curtains like golden paint freshly squeezed.

  Playing on Robin's face.

  She smiled in her sleep, curls dangling over one eye.

  Take her example and adapt.

  I relaxed my muscles consciously and deepened my breathing.

  Soon my chest loosened and I felt better.

  Able to smile at the image of Moreland with his chocolate cake and schoolboy guilt.

  My body felt heavy. Ready to sleep.

  But it took a long time to fall under.

  20. The next morning, the clouds were darker and moving closer, but still, remote.

  We were ready to dive at ten. Spike was acting restless, so we decided to take him along. Needing something to shade him, we went to the kitchen and asked Gladys. She called Carl Sleet in from the rose garden, where he was pruning, and he trotted over carrying his shears. His gray work clothes, hair, and beard were specked with grass clippings, and his nails were filthy. He went to the outbuildings and came back with an old umbrella with a spiked post and a blue-and-white canvas shade that was slightly soiled.

  Want me to load it for you?"

  "No, thanks. I can do it."

  "Put new locks on the bug house last night. Strong ones.

  Shouldn't be having any more problems."

  Thanks."

  "Welcome. Got any fudge left, Gladys?"

  "Here you go." She gave him some and he returned to his work, eating.

  Gladys walked us through the kitchen.

  "Dr. Bill feels awful about last night."

  "I'" let him know there are no hard feelings."

  That would be... charitable now you two have a good time."

  I pitched the umbrella on South Beach and realized we'd forgotten to bring drinks. Leaving Robin and Spike on the sand, I drove over to Auntie Mac's Trading Post. The same faded clothes were in the windows, which were fly-specked and cloudy. Inside, the place was barnlike, with wooden stalls lining a sawdust aisle and walls of raw board.

  Most of the booths were empty and even those that were stocked weren't staffed. More clothing, cheap, out of date. Beach sandals, suntan lotion, and tourist kitsch miniature thatched huts of bamboo and asttoturf, plastic dancing girls, pouting tiki gods, coconuts carved into blowfish. The building smelled of cornmeal and seawater and a bit of backed-up bilge.

  The only other human being was a young, plain faced woman in a red tank top watching TV behind the counter of the third booth to the right. Her cash register was a scarred, black antique.

  Next to it were canisters of beef jerky and pickled eggs and a half-full bottle of Windex and a rag. The front case was filled with candy bars and chips potato, corn, taro. On the rear wall were a swinging door and shelves holding sealed boxes of sweets.

  The television was mounted to the side wall that separated the stall from its neighbor, sharing space with a pay phone.

  She noticed me but kept watching the screen. The image was fuzzy, streaked intermittently with blade like flashes of white. A station from Guam. Long shot of a big room with polished wood walls, corporate logo of a hotel chain over a long banquet table.

  Senator Nicholas Hoffman sat in the center behind a glass of water and a microphone. He wore a white-and-brown batik shirt and several brilliantly colored flower necklaces. The two white men flanking him were dressed the same way. One I recognized as a legislator from the Midwest; the other was cut from the same hair-to nicked hungry-smile mold. Four other men, Asians, sat at the ends of the table.

  Hoffman glanced at his notes, then looked up smiling.

  "And so let me conclude by celebrating the fact that we all share a vision of a more viable and prosperous Micronesia, a multicultural Micronesia that moves swiftly and confidently into the next century."

  He smiled again and gave a small bow. Applause. The screen flickered, went gray, shut off. The young woman turned it back on.

  Commercial for Island Fever Restaurant #6: slack-key guitar theme song, pupu platters and flaming desserts, 'native beauties skilled in ancient dances for your entertainment pleasure." A caricature of a chubby little man in a grass skirt rolling his hips and winking.

  "C'mon, brudda!"

  The woman flicked the remote control. More black screen, then a ten-year-old sitcom. She watched as the credits rolled, then said, "Can I help you?" Pleasant, almost childish voice.

  Twenty or so, with acne and short, wavy hair. No bra under the tank top. Not even close to pretty, but her smile was open and lovely.

  "Something to drink, if you've got it."

  "I've got Coke and Sprite and beer in the back."

  Two Cokes, two Sprites." I noticed a couple of paperback books on the rear counter.

  "Maybe something to read, too."

  She handed me the books. A Stephen King I'd read and a compact world atlas, both with curled covers.

  "Any magazines?"

  "Urn, maybe under here." She bent and stood.

  "Nope. I'll check in back. You're the doctor staying with Dr. Bill, right?"

  "Alex Delaware." I held out my hand and we shook. I noticed a diamond chip ring on the third finger.

  "Bettina Betty Aguilar." She smiled shyly.

  "Just got married."

  "Congratulations."

  "Thanks... he's a great man Dr. Bill. When I was a kid I had a bad whooping cough and he cured me. Hold on, lemme get you your drinks and see about magazines."

  She went through the swinging door.

  So much for rampant island hostility to Moreland.

  She came back with four cans and a stack of periodicals. This is all we've got. Pretty old. Sorry."

  "Is it hard to get current stuff?"

  She shrugged.

  "We get whatever comes over on the supply boats, usually it's a couple of issues late. People and Playboy and stuff like that goes fast any of this interest you?"

  Half-year-old issues of Ladies Home Journal, Reader's Digest, Time, Newsweek, Fortune, and at the bottom, several copies of a large glossy quarterly entitled Island World. Gorgeous smiling black-haired girls and sun-blushed tropical vistas.

  The publications dates, three to five years old.

  "Boy, those really are old," said Betty.

  "Found 'em under a box. They used to publish it out of Guam but I don't think they do anymore."

  I flipped through tables of contents. Mostly boosterism. Then a title caught my eye.

  "I'" take them," I said.

  "Really? Gee, they're so old I wouldn't know what to charge you. Here, take 'em for free."

  "I'" be happy to pay."

  "It's okay," she insisted.

  "You're my best customer today and they're just taking up space. Want some munchies to go with your drinks?"