The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Moreland looked away.

  "What about them, Bill?"

  Moreland's lips trembled. "Of course they deserve sympathy, dear. I ache for them. Betty was my patient— I delivered her, for God's sake!"

  "Whooping cough," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "I spoke with her yesterday. She told me you treated her for whooping cough when she was a kid. She considered you a hero."

  He slumped and sat back down. "Dear God . . ."

  No one talked. Brandy got poured. It burned a slow, cleansing trail down my gullet, the only sensation in an otherwise numb body. Everyone looked numb.

  "Anyone know the time?" I said.

  Pam shot the sleeve of her kimono. "Just after four."

  "Rise and shine," said Jo, softly. "I still don't see why we're all locked up here."

  "For our own safety," said Moreland. "At least that's the theory."

  "Who's out to get us?"

  "No one."

  "Ben is closely identified with this place," I said. "So people may start talking."

  Moreland didn't answer.

  Jo frowned. "Staying cooped up just makes us sitting targets. You've got no security here— anyone can walk right in."

  "I've never needed security, Dr. Picker."

  "Do you keep any weapons around?" she said.

  "No! If you're concerned with your safety, I suggest you—"

  "No problem," said Jo. "Personally, I'm fine. It's the only good thing that came out of losing Ly. When your worst fantasy comes true, you find out you can handle things."

  She got up and shuffled toward the living room, tightening the belt of her robe, big hips shifting like the pans of a balance scale.

  When she was gone, Robin said, "She's got a gun. A little pistol. I saw it in an open drawer of her nightstand."

  Moreland's mouth worked. "I despise firearms."

  Pam said, "Hopefully she won't shoot someone by accident. Is there any way you can get some rest now, Dad? You're going to be needing your strength."

  "I'll be fine, dear. Thank you for your . . . ministrations, but I believe I'll stay up for a while." He leaned over as if to kiss her, but patted her shoulder instead. "Hopefully when the sun comes up, cooler heads will prevail."

  "There are some things I'd like to discuss with you," I said.

  He stared at me.

  "Things we never got to last night."

  "Yes, certainly. In the morning, right after I call Dennis—"

  "I'm staying up, too. We can talk now."

  He fidgeted with the neckband of his nightshirt. "Of course. What say we leave the terrace to the ladies and move to my office?"

  I squeezed Robin's hand and she squeezed back and sat next to Pam, who looked baffled. But the two of them were already talking as Moreland and I left.

  • • •

  "What's so urgent?" he said, flicking the lights on in the bungalow. The newspaper clippings were gone from his desk. So were all his other papers; the wood surface gleamed.

  "We never talked about A. Tutalo—"

  "Surely you can see why that wouldn't be a priority at this time—"

  "There are other things."

  "Such as?"

  "Murder. Ben. What's really going on with Aruk."

  He said nothing for a while, then, "That's quite an agenda."

  "We've got nowhere to go."

  "Very well." He pointed crossly to the sofa and I sat, expecting him to settle in a facing chair. Instead, he went behind the desk, lowered himself with a grimace, opened a drawer, and began searching.

  "You don't believe Ben could have done this," he said. "Do you?"

  "I don't know Ben very well."

  He gave a small, tired smile. "Psychologist's answer. . . . Very well, I can't expect you to follow me blindly; you'll see, he'll be vindicated. The notion of his butchering Betty is beyond ridiculous— all right, trivial things first. "A. Tutalo.' You couldn't find an organism by that name because it's not a germ, it's a fantasy. A local myth. The "A' stands for "Aruk.' "Aruk Tutalo.' An imaginary tribe of creatures who live in the forest. Goes back years. A myth. No one's believed it for a long time."

  "Except Cristobal."

  "Joseph hallucinated. That's not belief."

  "You convinced him he hadn't seen anything?"

  Pause. "He was a stubborn man."

  "Have there been other sightings?"

  "None since I've lived here. As I said, it's a primitive idea."

  "Creatures from the forest," I said. "What do they look like?"

  "Pale, soft, hideous. A shadow society, living under the forest. Nothing unique to Aruk; all cultures develop fantasies of fanciful, lustful creatures in order to project forbidden desires— animal instincts. The minotaurs, centaurs, and satyrs of ancient Greece. The Japanese have a saucer-headed anthro-creature called the kappa who lurks by forest streams, abducting children and pulling their intestines through their anuses. Witches' rituals use animal masks to hide the faces of participants, the Devil himself is often thought of as the Great Beast with goat feet and a serpentine tail. Wood-demons, anthro-bat vampiric creatures, werewolves, the yeti, Bigfoot, it's all the same. Psychological defense."

  "What about the catwoman—"

  "No, no, that was something totally different."

  "A response to trauma."

  "A response to cruelty."

  "Worm people," I said.

  "There are no mammals native to Aruk— one uses what's at hand. "Tutalo' is derived from an ancient island word of uncertain etymology: tootali, or wood-grub. From what I've gathered they're large, humanoid, with tentaclelike limbs, slack bodied but strong. And chalky white. I find that particularly interesting. Perhaps a covert indictment of colonizers: white creatures "appearing' on the island and establishing brutal control."

  "Demonizing the oppressor?"

  "Precisely."

  "Was Joseph Cristobal politically active?"

  "On the contrary. A simple man. Illiterate. But fond of drink. I'm sure that had something to do with it. Today, your average villager would laugh at the notion of a Tutalo."

  "He was your gardener. Did he sight the Tutalo here?"

  He licked his lips and nodded. "He was working on the eastern walls, tying vines. Working overtime, everyone else had gone home. It was well after dark. Fatigue was probably a factor as well."

  "Where did he see the creature?"

  "Making its way through the banyans. Waving its arms, then retreating. He didn't tell anyone right away. Too scared, he claimed, but I suspect he'd been drinking and didn't want to be thought of as a drunkard or old-fashioned."

  "So he suppressed the vision and began hallucinating at night?"

  "It began as nightmares. He'd wake up screaming, see the Tutalo in his room."

  "Could the original sighting have taken place as he slept?" I said. "Could he have dozed off on the job and made up the vision to cover up?"

  "I wondered about that, but of course he denied it. I also wondered if he'd fallen off his ladder and hurt his head, but there were no bruises or swellings anywhere on his body."

  "Was he an alcoholic?"

  "He wasn't a raving drunk but he did like his spirits."

  "Could the visions have been alcohol poisoning?"

  "It's a possibility."

  "Bill, exactly how endemic is alcoholism on Aruk?"

  He blinked and removed his glasses. "In the past it was a serious problem. We've worked hard at education."

  "Who's we?"

  "Ben and myself, which is why what's happened tonight is madness, Alex! You must help him!"

  "What would you like me to do?"

  "Speak to Dennis. Let him know Ben couldn't have done it, that he simply doesn't fit the profile of a psychopathic killer."

  "Why would Dennis listen to me?"

  "I don't know that he would, but we must try everything. Your training and experience will give you credibility. Dennis respects psychology, majored in it in
junior college."

  "What profile don't you think Ben fits?"

  "The FBI's two forms of lust-killer: he's neither the disorganized, low-intellect spree-murderer nor the calculating, sadistic psychopath."

  The FBI had earned a lot of TV time with patterns of serial killers obtained from interviews with psychopaths careless enough to get caught. But psychopaths lied for the fun of it, and profiles rarely if ever led to the discovery of a killer, occasionally confirming what police scut work and luck had already accomplished. Profiles had been responsible for some serious fallacies: Serial killers never murdered across race. Till they did. Women couldn't be serial killers. Till they were.

  People weren't computer chips. People had the uncanny ability to surprise.

  But even if I'd had more faith in the orderly nature of evil, Ben wouldn't have been easily acquitted.

  Right after Lyman Picker's death, Robin and I had discussed the hardness of his personality, and I recalled the cold, impersonal way he'd jabbed needles into the arms of the schoolchildren.

  Family history of alcoholism.

  Rough childhood, probably abuse from the "ugly drunk" father.

  A certain rigidity. Tight control.

  Outwardly controlled men sometimes lost it when under the influence of booze or drugs. A high percentage of serial killers committed their crimes buoyed by intoxication.

  "I'll talk to him," I said. "But I doubt it'll do any good."

  "Talk to Ben, too. Try to make some sense of this. I'm shackled, son."

  "If I'm to succeed with Dennis, I need to be impartial, not Ben's advocate."

  He blinked some more. "Yes, that makes sense. Dennis is rational and honest. If he responds to anything it'll be the rational approach."

  "Rational and honest," I said, "but you don't want him dating your daughter."

  It had slipped out like loose change.

  He recoiled. Sank heavily into the desk chair. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, resigned voice:

  "So you despise me."

  "No, Bill, but I can't say I understand you. The longer I stay here, the more inconsistent things seem."

  He smiled feebly. "Do they?"

  "Your love for the island and its people seems so strong. Yet you tongue-lash Pam for hanging around Dennis. Not that it's my business— you've devoted your life to Aruk and I'm just a visitor."

  He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

  "I know that this situation with Ben is terrible for you," I said, "but if I'm to stay here I need to know a few things."

  Looking away, he said, "What else troubles you, son?"

  "The fact that Aruk's so cut off from the outside world. That more of your energies haven't been spent opening it up. You say there's hope, but you don't act hopeful. I agree with you that TV's mostly garbage, but how can the people ever develop when their access to information is so limited? They can't even get mail on a regular basis. It's solitary confinement on a cultural level."

  His hands started to shake again and spots of color made his cheeks shine.

  "Forget it," I said.

  "No, no, go on."

  "Do you want to respond to what I just said?"

  "The people have books. There's a library in the church."

  "When's the last time new books came in?"

  He used a fingernail to scrape something off the desktop. "What do you suggest?"

  "More frequent shipping schedules. The leeward harbor's too narrow for big craft but couldn't the supply boats sail more often? And if the Navy won't allow planes to land on Stanton, why not build an airfield on the west side? If Amalfi won't cooperate, use some of your land."

  "And how is all this to be financed?"

  "Your personal finances are none of my business, either, but I've heard you're very wealthy."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Creedman."

  His laugh was shrill. "Do you know what Creedman really does for a living?"

  "He's not a journalist?"

  "He's worked for a few minor papers, done some cable television work. But for the last several years he's written quarterly reports for corporations. His last client was Stasher-Layman. Have you heard of them?"

  "No."

  "Big construction outfit, based in Texas. Builders of government housing and other tax-financed projects. They put up ticky-tack boxes, sell the management contract for high profits, and walk away. Instant slum. Creedman's scribblings for them made them sound like saints. If I hadn't thrown the reports out, I'd show them to you."

  "You researched him?"

  "After we caught him snooping I thought it prudent."

  "Okay," I said. "So he's a corporate hack. Is he wrong about your wealth?"

  He pulled on a long, pale finger till it cracked. Righted his glasses. Brushed nonexistent dust from the desk.

  "I won't tell you I'm poor, but family fortunes recede unless the heirs are talented in business. I'm not. Which means I'm in no position to build airports or lease entire fleets of boats. I'm doing all I can."

  "Okay," I said. "Sorry for bringing it up, then."

  "No apology necessary. You're a passionate young man. Passionate but focused. It's rare when the two go hand in hand: "I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and the life, whose fountains are within'— Coleridge said that. Another great thinker; even narcotics didn't still his genius. . . . Your passion even comes through your scientific writing, son. That's why I asked you to join me."

  "And here I thought it was my experience with police cases."

  He sat back and let out another shrill laugh. "Passionate and observant. Yes, your experience with criminal behavior was a bonus because to me it means you have a strict sense of right and wrong. I admire your sense of justice."

  "What does justice have to do with analyzing medical charts?"

  "I was speaking in an abstract sense— doing things ethically."

  "Are you sure that's it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Has the cannibal murder remained on your mind, Bill? Have you been more worried about recurrence than you let on? Because if that's it, you're going to be disappointed. I've gotten involved in a few bloody things, mostly because of my friendship with Milo Sturgis. But he's the detective, not me."

  He took time to answer. Staring at his wife's watercolors. Twisting his fingers as if they were knitting needles.

  "Worry's too strong a word, son. Let's just say the possibility of recurrence has remained in the back of my mind. AnneMarie's murder was my first real brush with this kind of thing, so I read up on it and learned that recurrence is the norm, not the exception. When I learned you had some experience with murder in addition to your scholarly achievements, I felt a great sense of . . . appropriateness."

  "How similar is Betty's murder to AnneMarie Valdos's?"

  "Dennis claims there are . . . similarities."

  "Was Betty cannibalized?"

  "Not . . ." He tapped the desk. The flutter of wings outside a window made us both start. Nightbirds or bats.

  "Not yet," he said. "Nothing was missing. She was . . ." He shook his head. "Decapitated and eviscerated, but nothing had been taken."

  "What about the long bones?"

  "One leg was broken— hacked but not severed."

  "What kind of knife was used?"

  He didn't reply.

  "Bill?"

  "Knives," he said miserably. "A set of surgical tools were found there."

  "Ben's?"

  Headshake.

  "Yours?"

  "An old set I'd once owned."

  "Did you give it to Ben?"

  "No. It was kept here— in the lab. In a drawer of this desk."

  "Where Ben had easy access."

  He nodded, almost crying. "But you must believe me, Ben would never take anything without permission. Never! I know it sounds bad for him, but please believe me."

  "AnneMarie had a drinking problem," I said. "You im
plied Betty did, too."

  "Did I?"