Cutting her throat and carrying out the mutilation. Drawing Ben out with a bogus emergency call, then choking him out, pouring vodka down his throat, and positioning him with the corpse.
An ex-cop would know how to pull off a perfect choke hold.
An ex-cop would know about positioning corpses.
The park because it was secluded and a common spot for partying. And because Rijks the insomniac walked by every night.
Even if Rijks hadn't heard the moans, he could have been led by a night-strolling Creedman. Not as neat, but no reason for anyone to catch on.
Because Ben came from trash and Betty had been promiscuous.
Ben lying asleep on the carnage. An absurd alibi.
Skip's outrage, genuine. Hostile to Moreland because his father resented the old man, he'd eagerly whipped up the villagers' anger.
Framing Ben had killed three birds with one stone: damaging Moreland irreparably, getting rid of his protÉgÉ, and causing another deep rip in Aruk's social fabric.
Hastening the exodus from the island.
Hoffman and Stasher-Layman's war of attrition. Perhaps Hoffman had decided to speed things up after coming face to face with the old man, his stubbornness . . .
Believing Moreland cared about the island, when all he really wanted was a few years of peace for the kids.
Moreland willing to do anything to prevent Hoffman from finding out about the kids. Willing to let Aruk die, buying time.
The two of them circling like wrestlers, waiting for an opening.
Still, the same thing bothered me: if Moreland had that kind of power over Hoffman, why not bargain harder?
Creedman stepped in front of me. "Stay back." The thin mustache was beaded with perspiration.
"Sure, Tom. But when this is over, share some gourmet recipes with me. How about girl bourguignon?"
Creedman's nostrils opened. From behind, Haygood cleared his throat and Creedman grabbed Moreland and cuffed him through the passage. Then he turned sideways and squeezed in himself. When he was several paces ahead of us, Haygood cupped Robin's buttock, squeezed, and shoved.
"Go, babe."
Then the heel of his hand hit me in the lower back.
We filed out. When the passage widened, Creedman stopped and Haygood herded us into the center. The dead eyes shifted as he heard something.
Music from the game room. The broken record removed. Something new asserting itself above the generator.
The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .
"What the . . . ?" said Creedman.
The game room was less than thirty feet away, the door partially open.
Haygood said, "What's with the music?"
"I like music," said Moreland. "As I said, it's my refuge."
"Kiddie music?" said Creedman. "You are one buggy old fart." His eyes brightened: "Do you bring little girls down here to play?"
Moreland blinked. "Hardly."
"Hardly," Creedman imitated. "Maybe you bring kiddies down here to play doctor."
The doors on the bus go open and shut . . .
"Projection," said Moreland.
"What's that?"
"A Freudian term. Projecting one's own impulses onto someone else. That's what you just did, Tom."
"Oh, fuck off, you self-righteous bag of shit." To us: "Bet you didn't know Dr. Bill here was once the ace pussy-hound of the U.S. Navy. Big-time stud, chased everything in a skirt, the younger the better. Remember those days, Dr. Bill? Chasing and bagging, dark meat, light meat, any kind of meat? Just couldn't control your pecker, could you? Drove poor Mrs. Bill to one-way surfing."
Moreland said nothing, did nothing. That blank look . . .
"Turned herself to shark chum," said Creedman, "because Dr. Bill here couldn't stop playing doctor with the local pussy. Nice advantage, that M.D. Knock some little thing up, do your own abortion—"
"Unlike you," I said. "Assault with a dead weapon."
Creedman snarled. Haygood clicked his tongue and said, "Check out all these doors."
"Maybe you should," said Creedman. "You're the expert."
Haygood shrugged and pushed Robin, Moreland, and me close together. Backing away, he said, "Not the stomach, the head," and Creedman raised his gun till it was half a foot from Robin's right eye.
"Any problems," he said, "I want to see her brains on the wall."
He stepped back some more, pausing a few feet from the entrance to the latrine, then flattening himself against the wall the way cops do and inching toward the opening, gun first.
Waiting. Looking back at us. Waiting some more.
He peeked in. Took a long, slow look.
The broad face puzzled.
Moving to the next door, just as carefully.
"Wait," I said. "It's rigged— that door and the others. He's got it booby-trapped."
Haygood turned.
"He is nuts," I said. "Stockpiling food and clothes and survival gear, preparing for the end of the world. I'd let you blow yourself up, but he's rigged enough explosives to turn us all into soup."
"That so?" said Haygood.
"Tell him, Bill."
"Nonsense," said Moreland. "Utter nonsense."
Haygood thought a while. "What doors are you saying are rigged?"
"That one for sure," I said. "The room where the music's coming from has a package of dynamite hooked up to the record player. The cable runs into another room. Connected to a generator— listen."
The drone.
"He's got it set up so if the record arm's lifted, boom. There are probably other traps, too, but that's the one he showed us."
"Ridiculous," said Moreland. "Go take a look, Anders."
"How about you go in there," Haygood told him. "Turn off the music while I watch you."
Moreland blinked. "I'd rather not."
"Why not?"
"Because it's silly," said Moreland.
"Come over here," said Haygood.
Moreland ignored him.
"Come over here, pissant."
Moreland closed his eyes and moved his lips silently.
Creedman took hold of his shirt and yanked him forward. "Move, you crazy asshole!"
Moreland passed within Haygood's reach and Haygood got behind him.
"Go," he said, shoving the old man.
Moreland stumbled and stopped. "I'd rather not."
"Go or I'll kill you, sir."
"I'd rather—"
"Okay," said Haygood, smiling at me. "Thanks for the tip, doc. What else should we know about?"
"I wish I knew."
The driver on the bus says, "Move on back . . ."
"Fucking maniac," said Creedman. "Let's shoot all of them right now and get the hell out of here, Anders."
"I don't think so," said Haygood.
Ordered by his bosses to keep Moreland alive. Till the insurance policy was found. . . . Hoffman going along with the stalemate for thirty years, willing to wait a while longer.
Thirty years of silence from Moreland had convinced him the paradise needle had been forgotten. So he'd felt safe in refocusing his energies on Aruk. Wanting to destroy the island, depopulate it, rebuild it in his own image.
Moreland claimed it was simply greed, but I doubted it.
I visualized Hoffman at a D.C. power lunch with the brothers from Stasher-Layman. "Soft money" changing hands, a discussion of potential sites for a multibillion-dollar project, with Hoffman getting a chunk of the profits.
Storing human garbage along with plutonium and cobalt and strontium.
The need for an isolated spot. A remote place with no political constituency.
Hoffman smiling and coming up with one.
Finding out that Moreland still lived on Aruk, but that the doctor was unable or unwilling to reverse the island's economic problems. The population sliding, the welfare checks coming in regularly; what little commerce there was, dependent upon the Navy base.
Send in the advance team: Creedman, Haygood, the
Pickers. Probably others. The goal: hasten the decline and isolate Moreland so that the old man would sell out cheap.
Then Moreland starts writing letters, and the team's told to speed things up.
Creedman and Haygood coming up with a grisly touch— perverse mastery over the case that had ruined their careers. A side benefit: slaking their own hatred for women.
The team . . . Lyman Picker's plane crash an accident or had his big mouth offended the higher-ups?
Haygood, living on Harry Amalfi's airfield, had been in a perfect position to mess with the plane.
Creedman . . . the crash had taken place just after Robin and I finished drinking with him outside the restaurant. Creedman and Jacqui had both gone inside, but after the explosion only Jacqui had come out.
Creedman not bothering because he'd known.
Someone else had known, too: Jo, opting out at the last minute. Opting out of the base dinner, too, to plant the roaches. And now she was up there with Pam. . . .
"Okay, let's get out of here," said Haygood, pointing back to the rear ramp.
"Those boxes in the tunnel," said Creedman. "There could be something important in them."
"They could also be rigged. We'll check it out later."
"I opened a few boxes," I said. "All I saw was food and drugs and bottled water. Like I said, he's planning for Armageddon."
"Stop being so helpful," said Creedman. "It won't do you any good."
Haygood said, "Come on, folks. Out." He might have been guiding a tour.
He turned his back on the music room and began to herd us forward.
"Actually," I said, "he does have some kids down here."
A strangled noise rose from Moreland's throat.
Haygood stopped. "That so?"
"Right in there." I pointed to one of the sleeping areas. Haygood's eyes followed. "Want to see?"
Before he could answer, I shouted, "Kids! Kids! Kids!"
Creedman cursed and Haygood's hand tightened around his gun. But he stayed calm and kept his eyes on the sleeping-room entrance.
Nothing happened. Haygood smiled. "Very funny, sir. Onward."
Then a small white face appeared in the doorway to the music room. Two others.
Three, four, five, six. All of them, openmouthed and wide-eyed with wonder.
Except the blind one. He was making quick little circles with his hands.
Lesions and scars bright as strip-joint neon.
Haygood's calm finally shaken.
Creedman's face lost its color. "Oh, shit," he said, and took his eyes off me. I hit him hard under his nose, grabbed for his gun as he went down, but missed. Shoving Robin out of the way, I threw myself on top of him.
Haygood wheeled around. The soft people began croaking and rasping, looking at Moreland, moaning that burn-victim moan.
Moreland ran toward them. Haygood aimed his gun at the old man's back. The soft people kept coming and Haygood's bafflement gave way to revulsion and fear as he stepped back.
I had Creedman's gun now and was punching blindly at his face.
Haygood charged Moreland, shoved him to the floor, kicked at his head, aimed at me. The soft people were between us. I crouched low. They kept coming at Haygood and he struck out at them wildly as they cowered and moaned. Retreating closer to the door he believed was rigged to blow, he stopped. Trapped, confused.
Brassy hair visible above the throng. I pointed Creedman's gun at it.
But I was an easy target, too, and he raised his gun arm high while fending off the soft people with his free hand.
I shifted sharply to the right, trying to stay clear of the soft people so they wouldn't be caught in the middle.
Haygood lost sight of me, as he shoved and circled.
Moreland got to his feet, hurled himself at Haygood.
Haygood turned reflexively at the movement and fired. Moreland's left arm turned red and he fell.
The soft people converged upon his prone form. Haygood looked for me, but I was behind him.
I shot him five times.
His black slicker exploded. He stood there for a second. Collapsed.
The soft people were all over Moreland, croaking and moaning as he bled.
Robin was shouting my name and pointing.
Creedman trying to get up, holding his face. Blood gushed through his fingers. One eye was swollen shut and his nose was already blackening.
I put the gun to his forehead. He sank back down.
Robin pressed herself against the wall, staring at me. All the blood.
Moreland struggled to stand, the wounded arm dangling, dripping, the other arm trying to shield the soft people.
They were entranced by Haygood's corpse. Gray skin, eyes really dead now, dull and empty as the shark's. Gaping mouth leaking pink vomitus.
Blood spread from under him, settling in the crevices of the stone floor.
I'd turned him into a sieve.
I felt big as a building, sick to my stomach.
I'd never owned a firearm, never imagined killing anyone.
Robin, being there to see it.
37
Moreland's blood took me away from those thoughts. His sleeve was dyed crimson, and red drops hit the floor with a soft plunk.
He seemed unaware, kept trying to calm his kids.
As Robin ran to him, he said, "It's all right, dear. Right through the muscle— the latissimus— and I'm leaking not spurting, so the brachial artery's been spared. Probably the basilic vein . . . I'll be fine. Get me a clean shirt from the basket in there and I'll staunch it."
He smiled down at the smaller of the men who'd met us at the end of the tunnel. "A little booboo, Eddie. Daddy's going to be just fine. Go help Gordon." Pointing to the blind man who was up against a wall, grimacing and threshing the air.
"Go, Eddie. Tell him everything's okay."
The little hunchback obeyed. Robin came back with a plaid shirt and Moreland pressed it against his arm. Smiling at me, he said, "Wonderful bluff. We're a good team."
One of the soft women looked at Haygood's body and started to whimper.
"Bad man," said Moreland. "Bad, bad man. All gone, Sally. He'll never come back."
Creedman gasped. His face was ballooning. I yanked him to his feet.
"Let's get out of here," said Robin.
"There's still Jo to consider," I said. "Where is she, Tom?"
Creedman stared at me. More shock than defiance, and his eyes were glassy. Had I hit him that hard?
I repeated the question. He cried out in pain, held his head, started to go loose. When I saw his eyes roll back, I propped him up.
Moreland had managed to quiet the soft people and was guiding them back into the game room. Despite the wound he looked revitalized.
"Play some more music, kids. How do the daddies on the bus go?"
Silence.
"Come on, now: "The daddies on the bus go . . .' "
"Ee ee ee."
"Right! Read read read—you should read, too. It'll make you smart— go get some books down, Jimmy. Give everyone a book. I'll be right back."
He smiled, closed the game room door, bolted it.
From inside, the music resumed.
"All right," he said, eyes full of fear.
"Is there another way out besides the two ramps?" I said.
"I'm afraid not."
"So either way, we could be walking into something."
"But we're trapped down here, too," said Robin. "The longer we stay down, the more dangerous it gets, and you're still bleeding, Bill."
"I'll be fine, dear."
"Taking the rear ramp," I said, "will lead us into the forest and zero visibility, so I vote for the tunnel."
Moreland didn't argue.
I shook Creedman back to consciousness. Holding him by the scruff, I pushed him past the smaller rooms and into the large entry cavern. His weight dragged. The hand I'd pummeled him with was beginning to throb.
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