The Web

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "Let me fix you a drink," said Creedman, heading for a portable brass-and-glass bar.

  "Just a Coke."

  He poured the soda and fixed a double scotch for himself. Johnnie Black. Ice from a small, chrome-faced Swedish freezer.

  I looked around. The main space was an office–living room. Computer and printer, thousand-watt battery pack, brass reflector telescope, stereo set, CD rack, German twenty-inch TV hooked up to a beefy cable that ran up through the ceiling.

  "Had a dish," he said, "but a wind blew it down."

  "Looks like you've settled in for the long run."

  "I like to live well. Lime with that?"

  "Sure."

  He brought the drinks and we sat down. The ocean was framed beautifully through a wide window.

  "Best revenge," he said, sipping. "Living well."

  "Revenge against who?"

  "Whoever deserves it." He took a long, slow swallow and emptied his glass. Sucking in an ice cube, he moved it around his mouth.

  "So what can I do for you?" I said.

  "Nothing, Alex. Just trying to be friendly. Fellow ugly Americans, and all that. Too bad we didn't get much time together before you left."

  "Who said I'm leaving?"

  He smiled. "Aren't you?"

  "Eventually. How about you?"

  "I've got no schedule— one advantage of freelancing."

  "Sounds nice."

  "It is."

  We drank and he emptied his glass. "Can I get you another one?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Don't mind if I do."

  He poured himself a taller scotch and returned.

  "It's really something, isn't it, this blood fest. Guess I am on the crime beat now. Back in D.C. it never appealed to me because the vast majority of criminals were total shit-for-brains. The police and the prosecutors were no rocket scientists, either."

  "Are politicians smart?"

  "Some of them." He laughed. "A few."

  "Nicholas Hoffman?"

  He took a long, slow sip. "Smart enough, from what I hear. So when are you packing out?"

  "I'm not sure yet, Tom."

  "So what happens to your project with Moreland?"

  "There isn't much of a project."

  "What was it all about, anyway?"

  "Reviewing his files to see if we could find themes."

  "Themes?"

  "Patterns of disease."

  "Mental disease?"

  "All kinds."

  "That's it?"

  "That's as far as it got."

  "And if you found patterns, then what?"

  "We'd write it up for a medical journal. Maybe a book of our own. How's your own book going?"

  "Great."

  "Going to add a chapter on the murders?"

  "You better believe it. . . . So how's Robin?"

  "Fine."

  "Doggy okay, too?"

  "Great."

  "Any chance Moreland put Ben up to killing those girls?"

  I exaggerated my surprise. "Why would he?"

  He put the drink down, uncrossed his legs, scooted forward. "Let's face it, Alex, the guy's strange."

  "He's a little different."

  "Like Norman Bates was different. That place— those bugs. And what the hell does he do all day in that lab? It sure ain't medicine, 'cause Ben handles most of the medical situations— or at least he used to till Pam came over. So what's the old guy up to all day?"

  "I don't know."

  "Come on, you've been working with him."

  "In separate buildings."

  "What's he hiding?"

  "I don't know that he's hiding anything."

  His mustache turned down. The black line was as flat as a grease-pencil scrawl, but he smoothed it anyway.

  "He probably told you about the hassle Ben gave me. Probably made me out to be a thief."

  "He said you were looking for something. Were you?"

  "Sure. Reporter's instincts. Because the minute I got to that place I started having a strange feeling."

  "About what?"

  "Just general weirdness. And obviously I was right. All that do-gooding and his best boy's a serial killer. People are pissed, Alex. If you care about that pretty lady and that cute little pooch, you'll head back to lala land pronto."

  His voice had stayed low and even, but his eyes were holes burnt in linen.

  "That sounds almost like a warning, Tom."

  "Word to the wise, Alex. Strategic assessment based upon the data at hand."

  I smiled. "And that sounds kind of corporate. Almost like a quarterly report."

  He reached for the scotch. Missed, groped, got hold of it, drank. When he lowered the glass, his lower lip was wet and shiny. "Guess I'd better be taking you back to Weird Castle."

  "Guess so."

  We left the house and he walked ahead of me and got into the VW. The engine squealed but it wouldn't turn over.

  "Damn," he said, without a trace of regret. "Battery must have gone dead. I'd call Harry or Skip for a jump, but they're back in town with everyone else."

  "I'll walk." I started down the road.

  "I feel terrible," he called after me. When I looked over my shoulder he was smiling.

  • • •

  The clouds had moved directly over the shoreline, and the air was warm and sticky.

  I encountered no one on my way to the harbor, but a stray yellow mutt with a gray muzzle heeled for a while, then ran off as I reached Front Street. A group of young men standing near the intersection watched me over their cigarettes, grumbling as I passed and ignoring my "good morning."

  Dennis's police car was still parked in front of the municipal center. He wouldn't want to play taxi.

  I'd accepted Creedman's invitation in order to check him out. He'd wanted me there for the same reason.

  Pumping me and warning me off.

  Then stranding me.

  His decor said someone was paying him well. His reaction to my crack about quarterly reports said it was probably Stasher-Layman.

  Had it been a mistake to let him know I was onto that? No matter, I'd be gone soon.

  I walked along the docks, ignoring stares. The municipal center's door opened and Dennis came out, followed by three small men, one middle-aged, the others in their twenties. They all wore thin shirts and jeans and talked wildly as Dennis tried to appease them.

  The middle-aged man stamped a foot, waved a fist, and shouted. Dennis said something and the fist waved again. The man pointed and touched his heart. Dennis put a hand on his shoulder. The man shook it off angrily.

  People started to move in from the street.

  Dennis glared and they dispersed, very slowly.

  The older man stamped and touched his heart again. One of the younger men turned and I got a look at his face: plain, round, acned.

  Unmistakable resemblance to Betty Aguilar.

  Dennis ushered them back inside and I continued south. I hadn't gone far before I heard footsteps behind me. A quick look back: some of the youths I'd passed at the intersection. Four of them, hands in pockets, advancing quickly.

  I stopped, looked at them blankly and when that didn't stop them, tried to stare them down.

  They kept coming.

  I crossed the street, ending up in front of the Trading Post. The structure was sealed with yellow crime-scene tape. Some things were the same everywhere.

  Slim's Bar was closed now too, but several beer swillers loitered in the gravel bed that served as the tavern's parking lot.

  The four men behind me hesitated, then jogged across.

  I reversed direction and headed back toward the center.

  The youths picked up speed. One of them had something in his hand. A short wooden club— like a cop's billy, but sawn-off.

  I ran.

  They did, too. Their mouths were open and their eyes were fixed.

  The police station wasn't far, but the hangers-on at Slim's could be a problem.

  A
s I got closer, they closed rank, forming a human wall.

  Skip Amalfi among them, flushed, his lips pursed in an attempted belch. Anders Haygood, next to him, stolid and sober, the gray eyes amused.

  The boys to my back shouted something.

  The Slim's crowd moved forward.

  Caught in the middle.

  More shouts, loud murmuring, then someone's voice above it all: "Idiots!"

  Jacqui Laurent had burst through the Slim's crowd. Taller than most of the men, she wore a grease-specked apron over her flowered dress and was waving something.

  Big cast-iron frypan.

  One of the Slim's crowd said something.

  She cut him off: "Shut up, you moron! What do you think you're doing?"

  The four young men were close enough for me to hear their panting.

  I whipped around.

  The one with the club came forward, making small circles with the weapon. He had a feather beard and long hair. Some of his shirt buttons were missing, exposing a hairless chest.

  Jacqui was at my side. "Ignacio!"

  She grabbed for the club. Ignacio held on. She tugged.

  Someone laughed.

  She curled her lip. "Big shots. Big heroes. Ganging up on an innocent guy."

  "Who says he's innocent?" said one of the Slim's crowd. "He lives up there."

  "Yeah."

  "Yeah, motherfu—"

  "So?" said Jacqui. "So what?"

  "So he's . . ."

  "What?"

  "A—"

  "What, Henry? So he's a guest up at the castle? So what does that mean? That we act like animals?"

  "Someone's been acting like an animal," said Skip, "and it ain't—"

  "You shut up—look who's talking."

  Skip's nostrils opened. "Hey—"

  "Hey, yourself. Shut up and listen. You're an animal— and that animal's a pig."

  Skip moved forward. Haygood held him back, thick arms taut.

  "Come on, big man," said Jacqui, jerking the club. "You going to attack me? A woman with a frypan? That how you get your jollies? Or is peeing at women your only thing?"

  Skip's chinless face paled and he struggled in Haygood's grip.

  Haygood said something and Skip made the sound of a hungry kid refused supper.

  "Big shot," said Jacqui. "Big shot with your bladder. Every time a woman goes on the beach you follow her and pee near her blanket. Like a dog marking. Very brave."

  Skip lunged. Haygood restrained him, and some of the other men joined in holding him back.

  "Easy, man," said one of them.

  "Come on," said Jacqui, suddenly wresting the billy from Ignacio's grip and waving it along with the skillet. "Go at me, Skip. You like to get tough with women, right? Maybe you had something to do with Betty, tough guy."

  Skip snarled and Haygood did something to his shoulder that made his face go limp.

  "Like a dog," said Jacqui. "Following every new woman around, peeing— you think that's funny?"

  She ran her eyes over the other men: "Any of you think that's funny? Peeing on the beach near a woman's blanket? Did it happen to any of your sisters? Or your mamas? 'Cause he did it to me when he first came over— remember that, Skip?"

  Back to the others: "That your idea of brave, boys? Peeing on women and beating up on innocent men?"

  Silence.

  "Big tough macho-men. Gang up on a guest— what's his crime? Visiting? How do you think this island will ever get anywhere, you treat people like this?"

  The men avoided her eyes.

  Skip was rubbing his shoulder. Haygood turned him around and tried to move him away. Skip shoved Haygood's arm away but walked.

  Jacqui stared at the Slim's crowd until it began to fall apart. Soon no one was left but the four youths who'd stalked me. The one named Ignacio stared at the billy in Jacqui's hand. She pointed the frypan at them.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself. I have a good mind to tell your mothers."

  One of the youths started to smirk.

  "Think that's funny, Duane? I'll tell your mama first."

  "Go ahea—"

  "Want me to? Really, Duane? First I'll tell her about what I saw on North Beach."

  Duane's mouth slammed shut. The other boys stared at him.

  "Yeah, so?" he said.

  "Yeah, so." Jacqui tapped a firm thigh with the skillet. "You really want me to do that, Duane?"

  "Whu—?" said one of the other boys, giggling. "Whud you do, Duane?"

  "Nuthin'."

  "Sure was nothing," said Jacqui, and Duane's nose twitched.

  "Ah, fuck," he said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

  "Good idea," said Jacqui. "All of you— scoot."

  They slunk away, the other boys surrounding Duane as he cursed them. When they were well past the center, Jacqui faced me.

  "What did you think you were doing?"

  "Walking home."

  "It's not a good time to play tourist."

  "I see that."

  She inspected the billy, frowned, and put it in her pocket. "Walking all the way back to the castle?"

  "My ride didn't come through."

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  I told her about Creedman.

  "What'd you want with him?"

  "He invited me."

  Her expression said I was a cretin.

  "Come on, I'll get Dennis or a deputy to drive you."

  "Dennis already offered," I said. "I turned him down, so I doubt he'll want to."

  She scraped something off the bottom of the frypan. Hefted the utensil as if considering braining me.

  "Men," she said. "Why does everything have to be a contest? Come on, we'll go ask him again. He'll do it. He's been raised on the Fifth Commandment."

  Her fingers prodded the small of my back. Strong. Her skin was creamy and unlined, her body big and strong. She'd been eighteen when she'd given birth to Dennis, but even up close she could pass for his sister.

  "Come on," she said, "I can't be here forever."

  She walked very fast, swinging the pan in a semicircle, big breasts heaving, mouth slightly parted.

  I said, "What did you see that boy Duane do on North Beach?"

  She grinned.

  "Never really saw him. Heard him." Chuckle. "Fooling around with his girlfriend."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "Not for North Beach. Kids go there all the time."

  Avoiding South Beach because of the murder?

  "So what was the big threat?" I pressed.

  She laughed, high and girlish. It relaxed her face and made her seem even younger. Shifting closer to me, she said, "The big threat, Dr. Delaware, was that the boy was no good at it. His girlfriend was not very happy with him."

  More laughter as her hip nudged mine. "You know, wham bam, thank you ma'am?"

  "Ah," I said.

  "Ah." She smiled, tightening the arc of the pan and scraping her flank. Her dress blew up, revealing brown leg. "Ah."

  30

  She went into the center first. I stuck my head in, saw Dennis huddled with Betty's family, and backed out quickly.

  I waited next to the police car, keeping my eyes on the street. Quiet had settled over the waterfront. The rain clouds seemed to sag.

  Deputy Ed Ruiz came out a few minutes later and said, "Let's go."

  The ride to the estate was silent. He stopped in front of the big gates. "This far enough?"

  "Thanks." I got out.

  "When you leaving Aruk?"

  "Soon as the boats come in."