The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

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 holstered 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 to—"

  "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 I 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'll 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 banister 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?"

  "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 on to 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. "Why are we under house arrest, Daddy?"

  He shuddered.

  "Da—"

  He reached up, removed her finger, held on to it. Shaking.

  "Ben," he said. "They think Ben did it."

  24

  He hid his face again.

  Pam left and returned with Gladys, who carried a bottle of brandy and glasses.

  Seeing Moreland in that state frightened the housekeeper.

  "Dr. Bill—"

  "Please go back to bed," said Pam, "we'll need you in the morning."

>   Gladys wrung her hands.

  "Please, Gladys."

  Moreland said, "I'm fine, Gladys," in a voice that proved otherwise.

  The old woman chewed her cheek and finally left.

  "Brandy, Dad?"

  He shook his head.

  She filled a glass anyway and held it out to him.

  He waved off the liquor but accepted some water. Pam took his pulse and felt his forehead.

  "Warm," she said. "And you're sweating."

  "The room's hot," he said. "All the glass."

  The windows were open and scented air flowed through the screens. Chilly air. My hands were icy.

  Pam wiped Moreland's brow. "Let's get some fresh air, Dad."

  We moved to the terrace, Moreland offering no resistance as Pam put him at the head of the empty dining table.

  "Here, have some more water."

  He sipped as the rest of us stood around. The sky was blue suede, the moon a slice of lemon rind. Droplets of light hit the ocean. I looked out over the railing, watching as lights switched on rapidly in the village.

  I poured brandy all around.

  Moreland's eyes were fixed and wide.

  "Insane," he said. "How could they think it!"

  "Do they have evidence?" said Jo.

  "No!" said Moreland. "They claim he— someone found him."

  "At the scene?" I said.

  "Sleeping at the scene. Convenient, isn't it?"

  "Who found him?" said Jo.

  "A man from the village."

  "A credible man?" Something new in her voice— scientist's skepticism, an almost hostile curiosity.

  "A man named Bernardo Rijks," said Moreland. "Chronic insomniac. Takes too many daytime naps." He looked at the brandy. "More water please, kitten."

  Pam filled a glass and he gulped it empty.

  "Bernardo takes a walk late at night, has for years. Down from his home on Campion Way to the docks, along the waterfront, then back up. Sometimes he makes two or three circuits. Says the routine helps make him drowsy."

  "Where's Campion Way?" I said.

  "The street where the church is," said Pam. "It's unmarked."

  "The street where Victory Park is."

  Moreland gave a start. "Tonight when he passed the park he heard groans and thought there might be a problem. So he went to see."

  "What kind of problem?" I said.

  "Drug overdose."

  "The park's a drug hangout?"

  "Used to be," he said angrily. "When the sailors came into town. They'd drink themselves silly at Slim's or smoke marijuana on the beach, try to pick up local girls, then head for the park. Bernardo lives at the top of Campion. He used to call me to treat the stuporous boys."

  "Is he credible?" said Jo.

  "He's a fine gentleman. The problem's not with him, it's—" Moreland ran his fingers through the white puffs at his temples. "This is insane, just insane! Poor Ben."

  I felt Robin tense.

  "What happened then?" said Jo. "After this Bernardo went over to check the moaning?"

  "He found . . ." Long pause. Moreland began breathing rapidly.

  "Dad?" said Pam.

  Inhaling and letting the air out, he said, "The moaning was Ben. Lying there, next to . . . the foul scene. Bernardo ran to the nearest home, woke the people up— soon a crowd gathered. Among them Skip Amalfi, who pinned Ben down until Dennis got there."

  "Skip doesn't live nearby," I said.

  "He was down on the docks fishing and heard the commotion. Apparently he now fancies himself the great white leader, taking charge. He twisted Ben's arm and sat on top of him. Ben was no danger to anyone. He hadn't even regained consciousness."

  "Why was he unconscious?" I pressed.

  Moreland studied his knees.

  "Was he on drugs?" said Jo.

  Moreland's head snapped up. "No. They claim he was drunk."

  "Ben?" said Pam. "He's as much a teetotaler as you, Dad."

  "Yes, he is . . ."

  "Has he always been?" I said.

  Moreland covered his eyes with a trembling hand. Touching his hair again, he twisted white strands. "He's been completely sober for years."

  "How long ago did he have an alcohol problem?" I said.

  "Very long ago."

  "In Hawaii?"

  "No, no, before that."

  "He went to college in Hawaii. He had problems as a kid?"

  "His problem emerged when he was in high school."

  "Teenage alcoholic?" said Pam, incredulous.

  "Yes, dear," said her father, with forced patience. "It happens. He was vulnerable because of a difficult family situation. Both his parents were drinkers. His father was an ugly drunk. Died of cirrhosis at fifty-five. Lung cancer got his mother, though her liver was highly necrotic, as well. Stubborn woman. I set her up with oxygen tanks in her home to ease the final months. Ben was sixteen, but he became her full-time nurse. She used to yank off the mask, scream at him to get her cigarettes."

  "Poor genetics and environment," pronounced Jo.

  Moreland shot to his feet and staggered, shaking off help from Pam. "Both of which he overcame, Dr. Picker. After he was orphaned, I put him up here, exchanging work for room and board. He started as a caretaker, then I saw how bright he was and gave him more responsibility. He read through my entire medical library, brought his grades up, stopped drinking completely."

  Sadness had replaced Pam's surprise. Jealousy of his devotion to Ben or feeling left out because it was the first time she'd heard the story?

  "Completely sober," repeated Moreland. "Incredible strength of character. That's why I financed the rest of his education. He's built a life for himself and Claire and the children . . . you saw him tonight. Was that the face of a psychopathic killer?"

  No one answered.

  "I tell you," he said, slapping the tabletop, "what they're claiming is impossible! The fact that it was a bottle of vodka near his hand proves it. He drank only beer. And I treated him with Antabuse, years ago. The taste of alcohol's made him ill ever since— he despises it."

  "What are you saying?" said Jo. "Someone poured it down his throat?"

  The coolness in her voice seemed to throw him off balance. "I— I'm saying he has no tolerance— or desire for alcohol."

  "Then that's the only alternative I can see," she said. "Someone forced him to drink. But who would do that? And why?"

  Moreland gritted his teeth. "I don't know, Dr. Picker. What I do know is Ben's nature."

  "How was Betty killed?" I said.

  "She . . . it was . . . a stabbing."

  "Was Ben found with the weapon?"

  "He wasn't holding it."

  "Was it found at the scene?"

  "It was . . . embedded."

  "Embedded," echoed Jo. "Where?"

  "In the poor girl's throat! Is it necessary to know these things?"

  Robin was squeezing my hand convulsively.

  "The whole thing is absurd!" said Moreland. "They claim Ben was right next to her— sleeping with her, his arms around her, his head on her . . . what was left of her abdomen. That he'd be able to sleep with her after something like that is— absurd!"

  Robin broke away and ran to the railing. I followed her and covered her shoulders with my arms, feeling her shivers as she stared up at the bright yellow moon.

  Back at the table, Jo was saying, "He mutilated her?"

  "I don't want to continue this discussion, Dr. Picker. The key is to help Ben."

  Robin wheeled around. "What about Betty? What about helping her family?"

  "Yes, yes, of course that's . . ."

  "She was pregnant! What about her unborn child? Her husband, her parents?"