by The Web(Lit)
"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, jaway 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-craw lies And if something else happens, you may just see me swimming for Guam."
"I'" 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?"
Tine, 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 inter species 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 lit de 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 glared 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 stared 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 projects due tomorrow."
Moreland walked her and Ben out. Pam nibbled a slice of mango, 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 face. She grabbed my arm.
A door slammed.
"Alex-' More shouts.
Too far away to make out words.
"No!" Again.
A man's voice.
Moreland.
We got up, threw on robes, opened our door carefully.
The chandelier over the entry was on, whitening the landing.
My eyes ached, struggling to stay open.
Moreland wasn't there, but Jo was, her broad back to us, hands atop the banister. A door down the hall opened and Pam came running out, wrapped in a silver kimono, her face paper-white. The door stayed open and I had my first look at her room: white satin bedding, peach-colored walls, cut flowers. At the end of the landing, her father's door remained closed.
But I heard him again. Down in the entry.
We hurried next to Jo. She didn't turn, kept looking.
At Moreland and Dennis Laurent. The police chief stood just inside the front door, in full uniform, hands on his hips.
A bolstered pistol on his belt.
Moreland faced him, hands clenched. He had on a long white nightshirt, soft slippers. His legs were varicosed stilts, his hands inches from the police chief's impassive face.
"Impossible, Dennis! Insane!"
Dennis held out a palm. Moreland came closer anyway.
"Listen to me, Dennis-' "I'm just telling you what we-' "I don't care what you found, it's impossible! How could you of all-' Take it easy. Let's just go one step at a time and I'll do what I-' "What you can do is end it! Right now! Don't even entertain the possibility, and don't allow anyone else to. There's simply no choice, son."
The policeman's eyes became black cuts.
"So you want me "You're the law, son. It's up to you to-' "It's up to me to enforce the law-' "Enforce it, but-' "But not fully?"
"You know what I'm saying, Dennis. This must be-' "Stop." Dennis's bass voice hit a note at the bottom of his register. He stood even taller, bearing down on Moreland. Forced to look up, Moreland said, "This is psychotic. After all you and-' "I go with what I have," said Dennis, 'and what I have looks bad.
And it could get lots worse. I called the base and asked Ewing to keep his men under watch-' "He took your call?"
"As a matter of fact, he did."
"Congratulations," said Moreland bitterly.
"You've finally arrived."
"Doc, there's no reas-' There's no reason to continue this insanity."
The police chief started to open the door. Moreland took hold of his arm. Dennis stared at Moreland's bony fingers until the old man let go.
"I've got things to do, doc. Stay here. Don't leave the estate."
"How can you-' "Like I said, I go with what I have."
"And said-' "Stop wasting your breath." Dennis made another attempt to leave, and once again Moreland reached for his arm. This time the big man shook him off and Moreland fell back.
Dennis caught him as Pam called out.
Dennis looked up at us.
"Think, son!" said Moreland.
"Does it make-' "I'm not your damn son. And I don't need you to tell me what to think or how to do my job. Just stay up here till I tell you different."
"That's house impris-' "It's good sense. You're obviously not going to be of much help, so I'm calling over to Saipan and have them send me someone."
"No," said Moreland.
"I'" cooperate. I'm perfectly-' "Forget it."
"I'm the-' "Not anymore," said Dennis.
"Just stay here and don't cause problems." Growling now. His enormous shoulders bunched.
He looked up at us again. Focused on Pam, then scanned the bannister from end to end, eyes darting like the geckos.
"What's going on?" I said.
He chewed his lip.
Moreland's head was down and he was holding it as if to keep it from falling off his neck.
Pam said, "What's happened? What's happened, Dennis?"
Dennis seemed to consider an answer, then he looked back at Moreland, now leaning, face to the wall.
"A bad thing," he said, putting one foot out the door.
"Daddy can tell you all about it."
The door slammed and he was gone. Moreland remained in the entry, not moving. The chandelier turned his bald head metallic.
Pam rushed down to him and we followed.
"Dad?"
She put her arm around him. His color was bad.
"What is it, Dad?"
He mumbled something.
What?"
Silence.
"Please, Daddy, tell me."
He shook his head and muttered, "As Dennis said. A bad thing."
"What bad thing?"
More headshaking.
She guided him to an armchair in the front room. He sat reluctantly, remaining on the edge, one hand scratching a knobby knee, the other shielding most of his face. The visible part was the color of spoiled milk and his lips looked like slices of putty.
"What's going on, Daddy? Why was Dennis so rude to you?"
Moreland coughed.
"Doing his job..."
"A crime? There was a crime, Dad?"
Moreland dropped both hands in his lap. Defeat had stripped his face of structure; each wrinkle was as black and deep as freshly gouged sculptor's clay.
"Yes, a crime... murder."
"Who was murdered, Dad?"
No answer.
"When?"
"Tonight."
I said, "Another-' He cut me off with a hand-slash.
"A terrible murder."
Who?" said Jo.
"A young woman."
Where, Dad?"
"Victory Park."
"Who was the victim?" pressed Jo.
Long pause.
"A girl named Betty Aguilar."
Pam frowned.
"Do we know her?"
"Ida Aguilar's daughter. She works Ida's stall at the Trading Post. She came in for a checkup last week, I introduced you to her when-' "My God," I said.
"I just spoke to her today. She was three months pregnant."
Robin said, "Oh, no." She was holding onto the sash of my robe, eyes belladonna-bright.
"Well, that's certainly dreadful," said Jo. Not a trace of slur. Off the sleeping pills?
"Yes, yes," said Moreland.
"Very dreadful, yes, yes, yes..." He grabbed for the chair's arm. Pam braced him.
"I'm so sorry, Daddy. Were you close to her?"
"I-' He began to cry and Pam tried to hold him, but he freed himself and looked over at the big dark windows. The sky was still deep blue, the clouds larger, lower.
"I delivered her," he said.
"I was going to deliver her baby. She was doing so well with prenatal care she used to smoke and." He touched his mouth.
"She resolved to take good care of herself and stuck to it."
"Any idea why she was killed?" said Jo.
Moreland stared at her.
"Why would I know that?"
"You knew her."
Moreland turned away from her.
"Why does Dennis want you to stay up here?" I said.
"Not just me, all of us. We're all under house arrest."
Why, Daddy?" said Pam.
"Because... they it's..." He listed forward then sat back heavily, both hands glued to the chair's arms. The fabric was a rose damask, silk, once expensive. Now I noticed the worn spots and the snags, a stitched-up tear, stains that could never be cleaned.
Moreland rubbed his temples the way he had after his fall in the lab. Then his neck. He winced and Pam put a finger under his chin and propped it.
