Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 10 - The Web

by The Web(Lit)

  "She's not ready to give up. She thinks she owes him."

  "For what?"

  "Coming through for her during the divorce. She also talked more about herself. Said she'd had problems with men before her marriage attracted to losers, guys who got rough with her, psychologically and physically. After the divorce she was so low she was having suicidal thoughts. Her therapist wanted to establish a support system, found out Bill was her only relative, and called him. To Pam's surprise, he flew out to Philadelphia, stayed with her, took care of her. Even apologized for sending her away. Said losing her mother had been too much to handle, he'd been overwhelmed, it had been a big mistake that he knew he could never make up for, but would she like to come back and give him another chance? But now that she's here..."

  She looked at the clock.

  "It's almost daybreak. Tell you one thing I've learned from all this. I could never be a therapist."

  "Most therapy cases aren't like this."

  "I know, but it's still not for me. I admire you."

  "It's a nasty job, but someone's got to do it."

  "I'm serious, honey."

  "Thank you. I admire you, too. And despite all that's happened, I have no regrets."

  "Me, neither." She ran her fingers through my hair.

  "In a few days when we're back in L.A." I'm going to remember being with you. Everything else good about this place. Frame it in my mind, like a picture."

  Psychic sculpting. I doubted I had the talent.

  26. By ten A.M. the reservations were booked: back to Saipan in five days, LAX in a week. I'd try to find a good time to tell Moreland. If I didn't find one, I'd tell him anyway.

  I phoned the Aruk police station. A man with a sibilant voice told me the chief was busy.

  "When will he be free?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Dr. Delaware. I'm staying at-' "Knife Castle, yeah, I know. I'll give him your message."

  Robin was still sleeping and I went down to breakfast. Jo was there by herself, eating heartily.

  "Morning," she said.

  "Get any sleep?"

  "Not much."

  "It's something, isn't it? You come to an out-of-the-way place, think you're escaping big-city crime, and it runs after you like a mad dog."

  I buttered a piece of toast.

  "True. Life can be a prison.

  Sometimes, out-of-the-way places make the best prisons."

  She wiped her lips.

  "I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

  "Sure," I said.

  "The isolation and poverty. For all we know there are all kinds of behavioral aberrations rampant."

  "Is that what you're looking for in your research?"

  "I haven't gotten far enough to develop hypotheses. Looks like I won't; we're booked on the next boat out."

  "That so?" She placed a dollop of marmalade on a scone. The sun was behind her, crowning her with a rainbow aura.

  "How long are you planning to stay?"

  Till I finish."

  Wind research," I said.

  "What exactly are you looking at?"

  "Currents. Patterns."

  "Ever hear of the Bikini atoll disaster? Atomic blast over in the Marshall Islands. Shifting winds showered the region with radioactive dust."

  "I've heard of it, but I study weather from a theoretical standpoint." She nibbled the scone and gazed at the sky. There are wet winds coming, as a matter of fact. Lots of rain.

  Look."

  I followed her finger. The clouds had moved inland and I could see black patches behind the white fluff.

  "When will the rain get here?"

  "Next few days. It could delay your getting out. The boats won't sail if the winds are strong."

  "Are we -talking winds or a storm?"

  "Hard to say. The house probably won't fly away."

  That's comforting."

  "It could be just rain, very little air movement. If the winds kick up, stay inside. You'll be fine."

  The charter company didn't mention anything about delays."

  "They never do. They just cancel without warning."

  "Great."

  "It's a different way of life," she said.

  "People don't feel bound by the rules."

  "Sounds like Washington."

  She put the scone down and smiled, but held onto her butter knife.

  "Washington has its own set of rules."

  "I'" bet. How long have you been working for the government?"

  "Since I got out of grad school." Her eyes returned to the clouds.

  "As they get lower, they pick up moisture, then they turn jet-black and burst all at once. It's something to see."

  "You've been to the region before?"

  She examined the cutting edge of the knife.

  "No, but I've been other places with comparable patterns." Another glance upward.

  "It could come down in sheets. Only problem'll be if the cisterns fill too high for the filters to handle and the germ count rises."

  "I thought Bill had the water situation under control."

  "Not without access to the town he doesn't. But you heard Laurent. He's stuck here. All of us are. Guilt by association."

  "At least you've got your gun."

  She raised her eyebrows. Put the knife down and laughed.

  Pointing her finger at the coffeepot, she pulled an imaginary trigger.

  "Crack shot?" I said.

  "It was Ly's."

  "How'd he get it through baggage control?"

  "He didn't. Bought it in Guam. He always traveled armed."

  "Exploring dangerous places?"

  Filling her juice glass, she drank and looked at me over the rim.

  "As you said, it's impossible to escape crime."

  "Actually, you said that. I said life could be a prison."

  "Ah. I stand corrected." She put the glass down, snatched up the scone, bit off half, and chewed vigorously.

  "It's incredible, being that close to a psychopathic killer. Ben seemed okay, maybe a little too pukka sahib with Bill, but nothing scary." She shook her head.

  "You never know what's inside someone's head. Or maybe you do."

  Wish I did," I said.

  Dipping her hand into the pastry basket, she scooped up croissants, muffins, and rolls, and then broke off a cluster of grapes.

  "Working lunch," she said, standing.

  "Good talking to you.

  Sorry you didn't have time to solve the mysteries of the island psyche."

  She headed for the doors to the house. When she got there, I said, "Speaking of prisons, this place would make an especially good one, don't you think? U.S. territory, so there'd be no diplomatic problems. Remote, with no significant population to displace, and the ocean's a perfect security barrier."

  Her mouth got small.

  "Like Devil's Island? Interesting idea."

  "And politically expedient. Ship the bad guys halfway around the world and forget about them. With the crime situation back home, I bet it would play great in Peoria."

  Crumbs trickled from her hand, dusting the stone floor.

  Squeezing the pastries.

  "Are you thinking of going into the prison business?"

  "No, just thinking out loud."

  "Oh," she said. Well, you could take it one step further. When you get back home, write your congressman."

  Yet another folded card on my desk:

  O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time.

  In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow...

  WHAuden Below that: A: Don't you think Einstein would agree? B."

  What was he getting at now? The ultimate power of time... deceitful time... Einstein time's relativity? The nightmare death? Impending mortality?

  An old man losing hope?

  Making a typically oblique cry for help?

  If so, I was in no mood to oblige.

  I read a few more
charts but couldn't concentrate. Returning to the house, I encountered Gladys coming out the front door.

  "I'm glad I caught you, doctor. Dennis Chief Laurent's on the phone."

  I picked it up in the front room.

  "Dr. Delaware."

  Dead air, then a click and background voices. The loudest was Dennis, giving orders.

  I said, "I'm here, Chief."

  "Oh yeah. My man said you had something to tell me."

  "I was wondering if I could come into town to talk to Ben."

  Pause.

  "Why?"

  "Moral support. Dr. Moreland asked me. I know it's a tall order-' "No kidding."

  "Okay, I asked."

  "You don't want to do it?"

  "I don't particularly want to mix in," I said.

  "Any idea when the rest of us will be allowed off the estate?"

  "Soon as things quiet down."

  "Robin and I have reservations out in five days. Any problems with that?"

  "No promises. No one's allowed off the island till we settle this."

  "Does that include the sailors on the base?"

  He was silent. The noise in the background hadn't subsided.

  "Actually," he said, 'maybe you should come down to talk to him.

  He's acting nuts, and I don't want to be accused of not providing proper care, create any technicalities."

  "I'm not an M.D."

  "What are you?"

  "Ph.D. psychologist."

  "Close enough. Check him over."

  "Pam's an M.D."

  "She's no head doctor. What, now that I want you, you're not interested?"

  "Are you concerned about a suicide attempt?"

  Another pause.

  "Let's just say I don't like to see prisoners behave like this."

  "What's he doing?"

  "Nothing. That's the point. Not moving or talking or eating.

  Even with his wife there. He wouldn't acknowledge her. I guess you'd call it catatonic."

  "Are his limbs waxy?"

  "You mean soft?"

  "If you position him, does he stay that way?"

  "Haven't tried to move him we don't want anyone claiming brutality. We just slide his food tray in and make sure he's got enough toilet paper. I'm bending over to protect his rights until his lawyer shows up."

  "When's that?"

  "If Guam can free up a public defender and Stanton lets him fly in, hopefully in a couple of days hold on."

  He barked more orders and returned to the line.

  "Listen, you coming or not? If so, I'll send someone to pick you up and drive you back. If not, that's fine too."

  "Pick me up," I said.

  "When?"

  "Soon as I can get someone over."

  "Thanks. See you then."

  "Don't thank me," he said.

  "I'm not doing it for your sake.

  Or his."

  He came himself, an hour later, emotions hidden behind mirrored shades, a shotgun clamped to the dash of the little police car.

  As I walked out, he looked up at the gargoyle roof tiles and frowned, as if in imitation. I got in the car and he took off, speeding around the fountain and through the open gate, downshifting angrily and taking bumps hard. His head nearly touched the roof and he looked uncomfortable.

  When we were out of sight of the estate, he said, "I'" give you an hour, which is probably more than you need 'cause he's still playing statue."

  "Think he's faking?"

  "You're the expert." He grabbed the gearshift as we went around a sharp curve. His forearms were thick and brown, corded and veined and hairless. White crust flecked the corner of his mouth.

  "He told me you two grew up together."

  Bitter smile.

  "He was a couple of years older but we hung out.

  He was always small, I used to protect him."

  "Against who?"

  "Kids making fun his family was trash. He was too, didn't comb his hair, didn't like to bathe. Later, he changed so much you couldn't believe it." He whipped his head toward the window, spat, returned his eyes to the road.

  "After he moved in with Moreland?"

  "Yeah. All of a sudden he got super-straight, studied all the time, preppy mail-order clothes, and Dr. Bill bought him a catamaran.

  We used to go out sailing. I'd have a beer; he never touched it."

  "All that due to Moreland's influence?"

  "Probably the military, too. We did that at the same time also.

  I was an MP in the Marines, he was Coast Guard. Then he got married, kids, all that good stuff. Probably decided it was a good idea to keep the straight life going."

  The next sentence came out a snarl: "I liked the bastard."

  "Hard to reconcile that with what he did."

  He glanced at me and picked up speed.

  "What're you trying to do? Put me on the couch? Dr. Bill tell you to do that?"

  "No. Sometimes I lapse into shoptalk."

  He shook his head and and put on more speed, turning the final dip to the harbor into a roller-coaster swoop.

  The water enlarged as if at the hands of some celestial projectionist, blue, mottled platinum where the clouds hovered.

  Laurent shoved the shift lever hard, yanked it back into neutral, gunned the engine, stopped so short I had to brace myself against the dash. My fingers landed inches from the shotgun and I saw his head swivel sharply. I put my hands in my lap and he chewed his cheek and stared out the windshield.

  More people than usual on the waterfront, mostly men, milling around the docks and congregating in front of the Trading Post, which was closed. The only open establishment, in fact, was Slim's Bar, where a few more drinkers than usual loitered, smoked, and swigged from long-necks. I picked out Skip Amalfi's fair hair among the sea of black, then his father, hovering nervously at the back of the crowd.

  Skip was animated, talking and gesturing and brushing hair out of his face. Some of the villagers nodded and gesticulated with their arms, slicing the air choppily, pointing up Front Street toward the road that led up to Victory Park.

  Laurent put the car into gear and rolled down so fast I couldn't focus on anyone's face. Ignoring the stop sign on Front Street, he made a sharp right and raced toward the municipal center. The parking spaces facing the whitewashed building were all taken. Nosing behind a crumbling Toyota, he jerked the key out of the ignition, freed the shotgun, and got out carrying the weapon against his thigh. His size made it look like a toy.

  Slamming the car door, he marched toward the center.

  Onlookers moved aside and I rode his wake, managing to get inside before the remarks to my back took form.

  The front room was tiny, dingy, and hot, filled with the salty-fatty smell of canned soup. Nicked walls were covered with wanted posters, Interpol communiques, lists of the latest federal regulations. Two desks, messy, with phones tilting on mounds of yet more paper. One held a hot plate

  The only spot of color was a tool company calendar over one of the workstations, starring a long-torsoed, pneumatic brunette in a red spandex bikini that could have been used for a handkerchief.

  A middle-aged deputy sat under sleek, tan thighs, writing and moving a toothpick around in his mouth. Skinny, he had a jutting stub bled chin and a sunken, lipless mouth. Lots of missing teeth.

  His hair was limp and graying, fringing unevenly over his collar.

  His uniform needed pressing but his engraved metal nameplate was shiny. Rui%.

  "Ed," said Dennis. This is Dr. Delaware, the psychologist from the castle."

  Ed pushed away from his desk and the legs of the folding chair groaned against the linoleum floor. The skin under his eyes was smudged. A pile of plastic-wrapped toothpicks was at his left hand.

  He lowered his head to the wastebasket and blew out the pick in his mouth, selected a new one, tore the plastic, rested the splinter on a ridge of bare gum, and laced his hands behind his head.