The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "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, teahouses, 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 lungworm 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?"

  "We 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 yours.

  WWM

  "Robert Louis Stevenson," said Robin. "Maybe this will be our Treasure Island."

  "Wanna see my peg?"

  As she laughed, I went to run a 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.

  The windows were still wide open.

  "Don't worry," she said, softly. "I checked and no one can see in— we're too high up."

  "God, you're beautiful."

  "I love you," she said. "This is going to be wonderful."

  3

  A rasping noise woke me. Scratching at one of the screens.

  I sat up fast, saw it.

  A small lizard, rubbing its foreclaws against the mesh.

  I got out of bed and had a closer look.

  It stayed there. Light brown body speckled with black. Skinny head and unmoving eyes.

  It stared at me. I waved. Unimpressed, it scraped some more, finally scampered away.

  Five P.M. I'd been out for two hours. Robin was still curled under the sheets.

  Slipping into my pants, I tiptoed to the sitting room. Spike greeted me by panting and rolling over. I massaged his gut, refilled his water bowl, poured myself a tonic water on ice, and sat by the largest window. The sun was a big, red cherry, the ocean starting to silver.

  I felt lucky to be alive, but disconnected— so far from everything familiar.

  Rummaging in my briefcase I found Moreland's letter. Heavy white paper with a regal watermark. At the top in embossed black:

  Aruk House, Aruk Island.

  Dear Dr. Delaware,

  I am a physician who lives on the island of Aruk in the northern region of Micronesia. Nicknamed "Knife Island" because of its oblong shape, Aruk is officially part of the Mariana Commonwealth and a self-governing U.S. territory, but relatively obscure and not listed in any guidebooks. I have lived here since 1961 and have found it a wonderful and fascinating place.

  I chanced to come across an article you published in The Journal of Child Development and Clinical Practice on group trauma. Progressing to all your other published works, I found that you display a fine combination of scholarliness and common-sense thinking.

  I say all this by way of making an interesting proposition.

  Over the last three decades, in addition to conducting research in natural history and nutrition, I have accumulated an enormous amount of clinical data from my practice, some of it unique. Because the bulk of my time has been spent treating patients, I have not taken the time to properly organize this information.

  As I grow older and closer to retirement, I realize that unless these data are brought to publication, a wealth of knowledge may be lost. Initially, my thought was to obtain the help of an anthropologist, but I decided that someone with clinical experience, preferably in a mental health field, would be better suited to the task. Your writing skills and orientation make me feel that you might be a compatible collaborator.

  I'm sure, Dr. Delaware, that this will seem odd, coming out of the blue, but I have given much thought to my offer. Though the pace of life on Aruk is probably a good deal slower than what you are used to, that in and of itself may have appeal for you. Would you be interested in helping me? By my estimate, the preliminary organization should take two
, perhaps three months, at which point we could sit down and figure out if we've got a book, a monograph, or several journal articles. I would concentrate on the biological aspects, and I'd rely upon you for the psychological input. What I envision is a fifty-fifty collaboration with joint authorship.

  I'm prepared to offer compensation of six thousand dollars per month, for four months, in addition to business-class transportation from the mainland and full room and board. There are no hotels on Aruk, but my own home is quite commodious and I'm sure you would find it pleasant. If you are married, I could accommodate your wife's transportation, though I could not offer her any paid work. If you have children, they could enroll in the local Catholic school, which is small but good, or I could arrange for private tutoring at a reasonable cost.

  If this interests you, please write me or call collect at (607) 555-3334 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting (607) 555-3334 end_of_the_skype_highlighting. There is no formal schedule, but I would like to get to work on this as soon as possible.

  Thank you for your attention to this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Woodrow Wilson Moreland, M.D.

  Slow pace of life; nothing in the letter indicated professional challenges, and any other time, I might have written back a polite refusal. I hadn't done long-term therapy for years, but forensic consultations kept me busy, and Robin's work as a builder of custom stringed instruments left her little free time for vacations, let alone a four-month idyll.

  But we'd been talking, half jokingly, about escaping to a desert island.

  A year ago a psychopath had burned down our home and tried to murder us. Eventually, we'd taken on the task of rebuilding, finding temporary lodgings at a beach rental on the far western end of Malibu.

  After our general contractor flaked out on us, Robin began overseeing the project. Things went well before bogging down the way construction projects inevitably do. Our new home was still months from completion, and the double load finally proved too much for her. She hired a fellow luthier who'd developed a severe allergy to wood dust to oversee the final stages, and returned to her carving.

  Then her right wrist gave out— severe tendinitis. The doctors said nothing would help unless she gave the joint a long hiatus. She grew depressed and did little but sit on the beach all day, insisting she was adjusting just fine.

  To my surprise, she soon was, hurrying to the sand each morning, even when autumn brought biting winds and iron skies. Taking long, solitary walks to the tide pools, watching the pelicans hunt from a vantage point atop the rocky cove.

  "I know, I know," she finally said. "I'm surprised, myself. But now I'm thinking I was silly for waiting this long."

  In November, the lease on our beach house expired and the owner informed us he was giving it to his failed-screenwriter son as an incentive to write.

  Thirty-day notice to vacate.

  Moreland's letter came soon after. I showed it to Robin, expecting her to laugh it off.

  She said, "Call me Robin Crusoe."

  4

  Something human woke her.

  People arguing next door. A man and a woman, their words blunted by thick walls, but the tone unmistakable. Going at each other with that grinding relentlessness that said they'd had long practice.

  Robin sat up, pushed her hair out of her face, and squinted.

  The voices subsided, then resumed.

  "What time is it, Alex?"

  "Five-forty."

  She took a long breath. I sat down on the bed and held her. Her body was moist.

  "Dinner in twenty minutes," she said. "The bath must be cold."

  "I'll run another."

  "When did you get up?"

  "Five." I told her about the lizard. "So don't be alarmed if it happens again."

  "Was he cute?"

  "Who says it was a he?"

  "Girls don't peep through other people's windows."

  "Now that I think about it, he did seem to be ogling you." I narrowed my eyes and flicked my tongue. "Probably a lounge lizard."

  She laughed and got out of bed. Putting on a robe, she walked around, flexing her wrist.

  "How does it feel?"

  "Better, actually. All the warm air."

  "And doing nothing."

  "Yes," she said. "The power of positive nothing."

  • • •

  She slipped into a sleeveless white dress that showed off her olive skin. As we headed for the stairs, someone said, "Hello there."

  A couple had emerged from next door. The woman was locking up. The man repeated his greeting.

  Both were tall, in their forties, with short-sleeved, epauletted khaki ensembles. His looked well worn, but hers was right out of the box.

  He had a red, peeling nose under thick-rimmed glasses and a long, graying beard that reached his breastbone. The hair on top was darker, thin, combed over. His vest pockets bulged. She was big busted and broad beamed, with brown hair pulled back from a round face.

  They lumbered toward us, holding hands. Half an hour ago they'd been assaulting each other with words.

  "Dr. and Mrs. Delaware, I presume?" His voice was low and grainy. Cocktail breath. Up close, his skin was freckled pemmican, the red nose due to shattered vessels, not sunburn.

  "Robin Castagna and Alex Delaware," I said.

  "Jo Picker, Lyman Picker. Dr. Jo Picker and Lyman Picker."

  The woman said, "Actually, it's Dr. Lyman Picker, too, but who cares about that nonsense." She had a sub-alto voice. If the two of them had kids, they probably sounded like tugboat horns.

  She gave Robin a wide, appraising smile. Light brown eyes, an even nose, lips just a little too thin. Her tan was as new as her getup, still pink around the edges.

  "I've heard you're a craftswoman," she said. "Sounds fascinating."

  "We've been looking forward to meeting you," said Picker. "Round out the dinner table— make up for the host's absence."

  "Is the host absent often?" I said.

  "All work, no play. When the man sleeps, I don't know. Are you vegetarians like him? We're not. My line of work, you eat what you can get or you starve to death."

  Knowing it was expected of me, I said, "What line is that?"

  "Epiphytology. Botany. Tropical spores."

  "Are you doing research with Dr. Moreland?"

  He gave a wet laugh. "No, I rarely venture far from the equator. This is a cold weather jaunt for me." He threw an arm around his wife's shoulder. "Keeping the distaff side company. Dr. Jo here is an esteemed meteorologist. Fluctuations in aerial currents. Uncle Sam's quite enamored, ergo grant money."

  Jo gave an uneasy smile. "I study the wind. How was your trip?"

  "Long but peaceful," said Robin.

  "Come over on the supply boat?" said Picker.

  "Yes."

  "Out of Saipan or Rota?"

  "Saipan."

  "Us, too. Damned tedious, give me a plane any day. Even the biggest ocean liner's a thumbnail in a swimming pool. Ridiculous, isn't it, big airfield over on Stanton and the Navy won't let anyone use it."

  "Dr. Moreland wrote that the airport there was closed," I said.

  "Not when the Navy needs it. Damn boats."

  "Oh, it wasn't so bad, Ly," said Jo. "Remember the flying fish? It was lovely, actually."

  The four of us started toward the stairs.

  "Typical government stupidity," said Picker. "All that land, no one using it— probably the result of some subcommittee. Wouldn't you say, dear? You understand the ways of the government."

  Jo's smile was tense. "Wish I did."

  "Spend any time in Guam?" asked her husband. "Read any of those tourist pamphlets they have everywhere? Developing the Pacific, making use of the native talent pool. So what does the military do to a place like this? Blocks off the one link between the base and the rest of the island."

  "What link is that?" I said.

  "Southern coastal road. The leeward side is unapproachable from the north, sheer rock walls fr
om the tip of North Beach up to those dead volcanoes, so the only other ways to get through are the southern beach road and through the banyan forest. Navy blockaded the road last year. Meaning no military contact with the village, no commerce. What little local economy there was got choked off."