The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Keeping his eyes closed, he tightened the lids.

  Lying down on the bunk, face to the skimpy straw mattress.

  "Okay," I said. "Maybe you should save it for your lawyer, anyway. Dennis has called for a public defender from Saipan. It'll take at least two days, maybe longer. Anything you want me to tell Moreland other than to abandon you?"

  No movement.

  I called out Dennis's name.

  Deputy Ed Ruiz shuffled in and produced a key. "Say anything?"

  I didn't answer.

  The toothless mouth creased in contempt. "Figures. His old man never said anything either when we used to throw his ass in here. Just lie there, like he's doing. Like some damn piece of wood. Then, soon as the lights went out, he'd start having those drunk-dreams, screaming about things eating him alive."

  He put the key in the lock.

  "When it got so loud we couldn't stand it, we'd hose him off and that would work for a while. Then he'd sleep again and go right back into those DTs. All night like that. Next morning, he'd be denying he did anything. Few days later, he'd be sauced up again, insult some woman or grab her, take a poke at some guy, and be back in here, the same damn thing all over."

  He came forward, pointing at Ben. "Only difference is, Daddy used to sleep on the top bunk. We'd put him on the bottom, but he'd always find a way to get up there, no matter how drunk. Then, of course, he'd roll off in the middle of the night, fall on his ass, crack his head. But climb right back on top, the stupid shithead. Stubborn-stupid. Some people don't learn."

  He snickered and turned the key.

  Behind me, Ben said, "Hold on."

  28

  Ruiz looked at him with disgust.

  "Hey, killer." Bracing one bony hand against the edge of the cell door. USMC tattoo across the top.

  "How much time do I have left?" said Ben.

  "The doctor here is ready to go."

  "I can wait," I said. "If he's got something to tell me."

  Ruiz mashed his lips and peered at his watch. "Suit yourself. Eighteen minutes."

  He lingered near the door.

  "We'll take all eighteen," I said. He walked away, very slowly.

  When I turned back to Ben, he was on his feet, next to the toilet hole, squeezing himself into a corner.

  "This is the story," he said in a dead voice. "I don't care what you think of it, the only reason I'm telling you is so you'll pass it along to Dr. Bill."

  "Okay."

  "Though you probably won't."

  "Why not?"

  "You can't be trusted."

  "Why's that?"

  "The way you talked about him before. He's a great man— you have no idea."

  "Hey," I said. "If you don't trust me to deliver the message, save it for your lawyer."

  "Lawyers can't be trusted, either."

  "The one in Hawaii didn't do well by you?"

  "There was no trial in Hawaii," he said. "I pled guilty and the Guard gave me some brig time. They said it wouldn't go on my record. Obviously, they can't be trusted either."

  "Life's rough," I said. "I'm sure Betty's family thinks so too."

  He stared into the filthy pit.

  I said, "Sixteen minutes left."

  Without shifting position, he said, "When we got home from dinner, Claire was upset with me. For pressuring her to play. She didn't show it, but that's the way she is. I shouldn't have done it."

  Wringing his hands.

  "We had . . . a tiff. Mostly, she talked and I listened, then she went to bed and I stayed up, trying to read. To get rid of my anger. Sometimes that works for me . . . not that I'm angry a lot. And we don't have many tiffs. We get along great. I love her."

  Tears.

  "What did you read?"

  "Medical journals. Dr. Bill gives me his when he's through. I like to educate myself."

  "Which journals?"

  "New England Journal, Archives of Internal Medicine, Tropical Medicine Quarterly."

  "Do you remember any specific articles?"

  "One on pyloric stenosis. Another on gallbladder disease."

  He rattled off more medical terminology, suddenly looking at ease.

  "How long did you read?"

  "Maybe an hour or two."

  "One hour or two? There's a big difference."

  "I— we got home around nine-forty. The . . . tiff took maybe another ten minutes— mostly, it was cold silence. Then Claire was in bed by ten— so I guess a little over an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. Then the phone rang, some guy saying there was a medical emergency."

  "What time was this?"

  "I don't know— when I'm not working I don't watch the clock. Bill taught me time was valuable, but when I'm home, not paying attention to time is my freedom."

  He looked at me in a new way. Childlike. Craving approval.

  "I understand," I said, thinking of the Auden poem Moreland had just left me.

  O let not Time deceive you . . . burrows of the Nightmare . . . naked Justice.

  He scratched his cheek, then his chest. Gazed into the latrine as if he wanted to crawl in.

  "It was probably eleven-thirty," he said. "Or around then."

  "Who called?"

  "Some guy."

  "You don't know who?"

  He shook his head.

  "Small island like this," I said, "I'd think you'd know everyone."

  "At first I thought it was one of the gardeners at the estate, but it wasn't."

  "Which gardener?"

  "Carl Sleet. But it wasn't. When I said "Carl' he didn't acknowledge, and this guy's voice was lower."

  "When you said "Carl' he didn't identify himself?"

  "He was talking fast— very upset. And the connection was bad."

  "Like a long distance call?"

  That surprised him. "Why would anyone call me long distance? No, the worst calls are the local ones. The long distance ones if you get a satellite linkup, you're fine. But most of the island lines are old and corroded."

  "All right," I said. "Some guy you didn't recognize calls you sounding upset—"

  "I've been wracking my brain to see if I could figure out who it was, but I can't."

  "Why was he upset?"

  "He said there was an emergency, a heart attack on Campion Way, near the park, and they needed help."

  "He didn't say who had the heart attack?"

  "No. It all happened very fast— as if he was panicked."

  "Why'd he call you instead of Moreland?"

  "He said he had called Dr. Bill and Dr. Bill was on his way and told him to get me because I was closer to Campion. So I grabbed my stuff and went."

  "What stuff?"

  "Crisis kit— paddles, epinephrine, other heart stimulants. I figured I'd start CPR till Dr. Bill got there, then the two of us . . ."

  "Then what happened?"

  "I left the house—"

  "Did Claire see you go?"

  "No. I snu— left as quietly as possible. I didn't want to wake her or the kids."

  "Did she hear the phone ring?"

  "I don't know . . . usually she doesn't. The phone's in the kitchen and there's no extension in the bedroom. We keep the ringer on low at night."

  "With no bedroom extension, how do you hear emergency calls?"

  "I'm a light sleeper and we usually leave the bedroom door open. Tonight it was shut— Claire shut it 'cause she was mad. When it rang, I ran over and picked up on the first ring."

  Meaning no one could verify the call or the time frame.

  "So you left with your medical kit," I said.

  "Yes."

  "Did you walk or drive?"

  "Drove. I got to the park maybe five minutes after the call."

  "Close to midnight."

  "Must have been. It was really dark, there are no streetlights on the island except for Front Street. At first I couldn't see anything, was worried I'd run over the patient, so I parked and walked. As I got closer I saw someone lying by the side of the
road."

  "Just one person? What about the caller?"

  "No one else. I assumed whoever had called it in had chickened out. And I figured it would take another few minutes for Dr. Bill to get there, so I went over, opening my kit, ready to start, and someone grabbed me."

  "Grabbed you how?"

  "Like this." Hooking his left arm around his neck, he did a rough imitation of a police choke hold.

  "A left arm?"

  "Uh— no, it came from this side." Reversing the hold. "I guess it was the right— I can't be sure. It was so sudden and I blacked out. Next thing I remember is Dennis's face staring down at me, looking really weird. Angry. Other people, all of them staring down at me, my head feels as if it's about to explode and my neck's stiff and I think something happened to me and they're there to rescue me. But their faces— their eyes are hard. Then someone I can't see calls me "killer.' And they're all looking at me the way they used to look at me when I was— the way they did— before I changed."

  I waited a while before saying, "Anything else?"

  "That's it . . . great story, huh?"

  "The one thing you can say for it is, if you killed her, it sure wasn't premeditated. If it had been, you'd have prepared something useful."

  His smile was rueful. "Yeah, great planner. So what do I do?"

  "Tell your lawyer the story and see what he says."

  "You'll tell Dr. Bill? It's important to me— his knowing I'm innocent."

  "I'll tell him."

  "Thank you."

  I heard footsteps.

  "Anything else I can do for you, Ben?"

  He bit his lip. "Have Dr. Bill tell Claire I'm sorry. For pressuring her to play . . . for everything."

  "Do you want to see her?"

  "No. Not like this— ask her to tell the kids something. That I'm away on a trip." Once more, tears welled.

  Ed Ruiz opened the metal door. "Time's up."

  • • •

  On the way back to the office he said, "Have fun?"

  "A real blast," I said. "Next time, I bring streamers and funny hats."

  He let me in. Dennis was at his desk. He put the phone down, looking annoyed.

  "Time well spent?" he asked me.

  I shrugged.

  "Well, the screws are already turning. Dr. Bill doing his thing."

  "What thing is that?"

  "I just got a call from Oahu. Landau, Kawasaki and Bolt. High-powered law firm, senior partner's some motormouth named Alfred Landau. Flying over in a couple of days— scratch the public defender."

  "Flying into Stanton?"

  "Nope, into Saipan by chartered jet, then a private yacht's taking him the rest of the way. If it can't fit into the keyhole harbor, I'm sure they'll find a way of getting him to shore." He drummed the phone receiver. "Must be nice to be rich. Let me take you back."

  • • •

  As we stepped outside, Tom Creedman intercepted us. He was wearing a white polo shirt, white shorts, and tennis shoes. All that was missing was a racquet. Instead, he carried a thin black attaché case in one hand, a pocket tape recorder in the other. The crowd on the waterfront had dispersed somewhat. A few stragglers remained on the south end. Among them were Skip Amalfi and Anders Haygood. Skip pointing to the spot where AnneMarie Valdos had been found.

  "Going to Wimbledon, Tom?" said Laurent.

  "Yeah, me and the queen— got a minute, Dennis?"

  "Not even half of one— come on, doctor."

  Creedman blocked me. "See the suspect, Dr. Delaware?"

  "Let's go," said Dennis, moving to his car.

  Creedman didn't budge. "Care for some coffee, Dr. Delaware?"

  "Sure," I said.

  Surprising both of them.

  "Great," said Creedman. "Let's boogie."

  "I'm taking him back," said Dennis. "For his safety."

  "I'll take him back, Dennis."

  "No way—"

  "I'll take the risk," I said.

  "It's not your risk to assume," said Dennis.

  "No?" I said. "What law are you invoking to restrict my movement?"

  He hesitated for a beat. "Material witness."

  "To what?"

  "You spoke to him."

  "With your permission. Let's call Mr. Landau and see what he has to say about it."

  Dennis's huge shoulders spread even wider. He touched his belt, looked up and down Front Street.

  "Fine," he said savagely. "You're on your own."

  • • •

  Creedman and I walked past Campion Way to the next unmarked road. Past angry stares and mutters.

  "Ooh," he said. "The natives are restless."

  "You're pretty relaxed about it."

  "Why not? I have nothing to do with good ol' Dr. Bill. On the contrary, the fact that he evicted me works in my favor."

  He grinned, then continued, "You, on the other hand, need to watch your back. But I'm here to stand up for you, buddy." Unzipping the attachÉ, he peeled back a flap and revealed a chunky chrome automatic.

  "Sixteen shots," he said gaily. "I'm sure that'll do the trick in the event of civil unrest. Very few of the natives own arms. Safe place and all that."

  "Do you usually carry?"

  "Only during periods of stress."

  "Bring it over with you?"

  "Bought it in Guam, bargain price. Owned by an Army lieutenant who ran up some debts. Took beautiful care of it."

  He zipped the case. "I'm just up the hill."

  "Pretty close to the murder scene."

  "Not close enough."

  "What do you mean?"

  "By the time I got there the crowd was thick— no chance to get close. I would have liked a close look at Mr. Romero's face right after they caught him. Editors like that kind of immediacy. The emptiness in a psychopath's eyes."

  "I'm sure you can make something up."

  His smile died. "That's not very kind, Alex."

  I winked.

  His round face stayed angry, even after he restored the smile. "But I understand. The cognitive dissonance must be painful for you. Coming here expecting Pleasure Island and getting Auschwitz. Did Ben have anything exculpatory to say?"

  "Nothing an editor would be interested in."

  "What a sicko," he continued. "Cutting them up, then eating them."

  "Ever see that kind of thing before?"

  The road had taken on a steeper slant, and though he kept up an athletic pace his breathing got louder. "See what?"

  "Cannibalism."

  "On other islands? No."

  "I meant back in the States, when you were on the crime beat."

  "Did I say I was ever on the crime beat?"

  "I think you did. The first time we met."

  "I think I didn't. Not my meat— pardon the joke. No, Alex, I did politics. Dog eat dog." He laughed. "Have you seen it before?"

  I shook my head.

  "First time for everything," he said.

  We progressed up the hill, passing small houses, children, dogs, cats. Women with frightened eyes drew the children closer as we neared. Window shades lowered suddenly.

  "Tsk, tsk," he said. "Paradise lost."

  29

  His house was at the top, where the street dead-ended, a pale blue cottage with a full ocean view, hugged by pink oleander and yellow hibiscus. A Volkswagen bug sat at the end of a shattered-stone driveway. Much of the surrounding property was overrun by ivy and flowering vines. The nearest house was a hundred feet away, separated by a splintering wooden fence.

  Inside was a different story: freshly painted white walls, black leather couches, oriental rugs that made the vinyl floor look better than it was, limited-edition posters, teak and lacquer furniture. In the closet-kitchen next to the dining area, a cast-iron ceiling rack bore expensive copper pots. German cutlery in a wooden case adorned a counter. All the appliances were European and they looked brand-new.