The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "Maybe she did. Trying to intimidate you."

  "It didn't seem that way. There was absolutely no hostility between us. In fact, the more time I spent with her, the friendlier she got. As if I was helping her cope."

  And cope she had. Tranquilized widow to sharp-eyed interrogator in two days.

  I said, "She sure had an interest in the murder. Did you notice the way she was quizzing Moreland? That would also make sense if she's got an interest in Aruk's decline."

  "But if this company builds things, why would they want Aruk to decline?"

  "Moreland said they build government projects. Milo's memory backs that up: low-income housing, prisons. Maybe they want the land cheap."

  "Low-income housing doesn't make sense," she said, "if the people are all leaving. But a prison might."

  "Yes, it might," I said. "No locals to protest. And what better place to dump felons than a remote island with no natural resources. It would be politically beautiful. Which is where Hoffman may fit in. What if Stasher-Layman paid him under the table to find a site and he chose Aruk because he remembered it from his days as base commander, knew there wasn't much of a constituency? If he embedded the prison, or whatever it is, in an extensive Pacific Rim revitalization— cash infusion for the bigger islands— who'd notice or mind? Other than Bill. But right now Bill's in a position to cause troubles for the deal because he owns so much of the island. Which could be the real reason Hoffman stopped over: making a final offer that Bill refused. So Hoffman pressured him, maybe threatened him with something."

  "Threatened him with what?"

  "I don't know— but remember my feeling they had some issue between them that went way back? The first night I met Bill he said something about guilt being a great motivator. He could have done something years ago that he wants to forget. Something he's been trying to atone for all these years by being "the good doctor."'

  She touched my arm. "Alex, if he is holding up a giant deal he could be in serious danger. Do you think he's aware of what he's up against?"

  "I don't know what he's aware of and what he chooses to deny. The man's an enigma, and he's stubborn."

  "What about Pam? As his heir, she could also be in a treacherous position."

  "If she's his heir."

  "Why wouldn't she be?"

  "Because she has no roots in Aruk, and Bill seems to view the island as his real child. He's excluded Pam from scientific discussion and just about everything else. You saw her surprise when he discussed Ben's family history. She's an outsider. So it wouldn't surprise me if he bequeathed his holdings to someone else. Someone with a strong commitment to Aruk."

  She stared at me. "Ben?"

  "In some ways he's Bill's functional son."

  "And being accused of murder gets him out of the way."

  "Sure, but nothing I've heard indicates he's not a murderer. In fact everything Bill told me just added to the picture of guilt: access to the weapon, Betty's medical records, and AnneMarie's autopsy file. And remember our discussion about his being a hard guy? No sympathy for Picker's crash. The way he vaccinated those children, mechanically. Add alcoholism and a rotten childhood and you've got a pretty good textbook history of a psychopath. Maybe even his outward devotion to Bill and the island is calculated. Maybe he's just after Bill's money."

  "Maybe. . . . Yes, he is dispassionate. But tonight at dinner . . . You really think he could have been so lighthearted while planning to murder someone in a few hours? Planning to mutilate someone?"

  "If he's a severe psychopath, he's got an extremely low level of anxiety. For all we know, sitting here listening to Claire play was part of the thrill."

  "Are you saying he killed both girls or just Betty?"

  "It could go either way. AnneMarie could have been murdered by a sailor and Ben decided to do a copycat as a cover."

  "But why?"

  "He and Betty could have been having an affair. Maybe the baby was his, he wanted out, permanently. When I talked to her, she seemed thrilled about the pregnancy, but who knows?"

  "If he was so calculating, Alex, how'd he get caught so stupidly?"

  "Screwing up's another psychopathic trait. Look at Bundy, escaping from Washington, where there's no death penalty, and murdering in Florida, where there is. Psychopaths walk a narrow line, all screwed up inside, constantly putting on a show. A psychiatrist named Cleckley labeled it perfectly: the mask of sanity. Eventually the mask falls off and shatters. Ben used booze to get rid of his."

  She shuddered. "It's still hard to make sense of. I can see using alcohol to lower his inhibitions. But why stick around and get drunk after killing Betty?"

  "It's possible he drank a little before meeting Betty, to take the edge off, had some more with Betty, killed her before the total effect set in, then boom. Bill said he'd always drunk beer. Vodka could have been too much to handle."

  "I guess so," she said, rubbing her eyes. "But he always seemed decent. I suppose I sound like one of those people who get interviewed on the news: he was such a quiet guy . . . well, at least the part about whose baby Betty was carrying can be tested. Who's doing the medical investigation?"

  "Dennis is bringing a lawyer over from Saipan. I assume he'll call for a pathologist, too."

  She leaned against me heavily. "What a horror."

  "How's Pam taking it?"

  "At first she talked mostly about Bill— worried about him. Wanting to help, but feeling he pushes her away."

  "He does."

  "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. F
or 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 on to her butter knife. "Washington has its own set of rules."

  "I'll 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 door 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. . . .

  WH Auden

  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 i
t for your sake. Or his."

  • • •