"When did you figure it out?"
"You paid for Dennis's schooling— Ben's too, but Ben gave you something in return. And you got upset about Dennis and Pam getting close. So upset you spoke to Jacqui about it and she called Dennis off. I didn't think you were a racist. Then, after what Creedman said, it made sense. It must have been hard since Pam came back."
"Oh," he said, more exhalation than word. "As a father, I'm a disgrace. They've both turned out better than I deserve. I sent Pamela away because I didn't— couldn't cope after Barbara died."
Propping himself up.
"No, that's not all of it. I sent her away because of the guilt."
"About Jacqui?"
"And the others. Many others. I did serve as my own abortionist. Barbara had never been a happy woman. I made her miserable."
He sank back down again.
"The bastard was right, I was a repugnant lecher. Lecher with surgical training . . . but Jacqui refused to terminate . . . Barbara's death made me realize . . . how could I hope to raise a daughter?"
"And you already had kids."
He closed his eyes. "I put the needle in their arms . . . my life since then's been a quest for redemption, but I doubt I'm redeemable. . . . Jacqui was such a beautiful thing. Barely eighteen, but mature. I was always . . . hungry— not that it's an excuse, but Barbara was . . . a lady. She had . . . different drives."
A woman alone on the sand, the day before she died.
"It was the baby that drove her to it," he said. "The fact that I'd actually let it get that far."
"How did she find out?"
"Someone told her."
"Hoffman?"
"Had to be. He and Barbara were chums— bridge partners. A younger man paying her attention."
"So Barbara went along with his cheating."
He smiled. "I suppose she can be forgiven that tiny revenge."
"Did their playing go beyond bridge?"
"I truly don't know— anything's possible. But as I said, Barbara wasn't inclined to the physical . . . toward the end, she hated me fiercely. And she always liked him—found his interest in cuisine and tailoring charming."
"Then why did he tell her about Jacqui? "
"To wound me. After our dinner at the base, we spoke of several things. Including the fact that he'd seen Barbara in Honolulu the day before she died. He took the picture I showed you. I'd never known. It was mailed from her hotel, compliments of the manager; I'd always thought it a courtesy."
"Did she go to Honolulu to be with him?"
"He claimed not, that their running into each other was a coincidence. At the hotel bar, he was there on Navy business. Maybe it's true, Barbara did like to drink . . . he told her about Jacqui and Dennis, she cried on his shoulder about my whore and my little bastard. Shattered, was his exact word. Then he smiled— that smile."
"But how did he find out?"
"Back in those days, I was less than discreet— discretion wasn't part of being a first-rate cocksman. So Hoffman or a member of his staff could easily have heard something, or even seen something. There was an empty hangar on the north end of the base. Little unused offices we officers used, to be with girls from the village. "Play rooms' we called them. Mattresses and liquor and portable radios for mood music. We still thought of ourselves as war heroes, entitled."
"Did Hoffman bring girls there?"
"Not that I saw. His only lust is for power."
"And when Jacqui gave birth to a fair-haired baby he figured it out."
"A beautiful baby— a beautiful woman."
"Was it only Aruk you fell in love with, Bill?"
He smiled. "Jacqui and I— she's a very strong woman. Independent. Over the years we've reached an understanding. A fine friendship. I believe it's been good for both of us."
Thinking of the oil over the mantel, I said, "Strong— unlike your wife. Did Barbara have a history of depression?"
He nodded. "She'd been chronically depressed for years, taken shock treatment several times. In fact, the trip to Hawaii was for her to consult yet another psychiatrist. But she never showed up for her appointment. Probably spent her time drinking with Hoffman instead. He sensed her vulnerability, told her what I'd done, and the next morning she walked into the ocean."
Some of his weight shifted onto the wounded arm and his breath caught. I helped him find a comfortable position.
"So you see, that's the hold he has over me: keeping it secret from Pam. I killed her mother and so did he. In that sense we are partners. Rams locking horns, just as you said. Beautiful analogy, my friend— are you offended by my thinking of you as a friend?"
"No, Bill."
"All these years, I've yearned to expose him. Convinced myself the reason I haven't done it is the kids' safety. Then, tonight, you began asking questions and I was forced to confront reality. I acquiesced because I knew it would ruin Pam. I sent her away because I was overwhelmed and guilty, but also because I didn't want her here on the chance that she and Dennis . . . so what happens? She comes back. And it starts . . ." He grabbed my arm and held tight. "What do I do? There's no escape."
"Tell her."
"How can I?"
"In due time you'll be able to."
"Men have mistreated her because I abandoned her! She'll despise me!"
"Give her some credit, Bill. She loves you, wants to get closer to you. Being unable to is the biggest source of her pain."
He covered his face. "It never ends, does it?"
"She loves you," I repeated. "Once she realizes the good things you've done, gets to really know you, she may be willing to pay the price."
"The price," he said weakly. "Everything has its price . . . the microeconomics of existence."
He looked up at me. "Is there anything else you need to know?"
"Not unless there's something else you want to tell me."
Long silence. The eyes closed. His lips moved.
Incoherent mumbles.
"What's that, Bill?"
"Terrible things," he said, barely louder. "Time deceives."
"You've made mistakes," I said, "but you've also done good." Ever the shrink.
His face contorted and I took his cold, limp hand.
"Bill?"
"Terrible things," he repeated.
Then he did sleep.
39
It was a big beautiful room in a big beautiful hotel. One glass wall looked out to white beach and furious surf. Yesterday, I'd seen dolphins leaping.
The three walls were koa panels so densely figured they seemed to tell a story. Crystal chandeliers hung above black granite floors. Up in front was a banquet table laden with papayas and mangoes, bananas and grapes, and thick, wet wedges of the kind of orange-yellow, honey-sweet pineapple you get only when you harvest it ripe.
Sterling silver coffeepots were set every six feet, their shine blue-white.
Other tables, too, round, seating ten, interspersed around the hall. Hundreds of men and a few women, eating and drinking coffee, and listening.
Robin and I watched it on TV, from a suite upstairs. Room service and suntan lotion and every newspaper and magazine we could get our hands on.
"Here he goes," she said
Hoffman stood up at the center of the big table, dressed in a mocha suit, white shirt and yellow tie.
A banner at his back.
He talked, paused for applause, smiled.
The banner said: PACIFIC RIM PROGRESS: A NEW DAWN.
Another one-liner. Laughter.
He continued talking and smiling and pausing for applause.
Then he stopped and only smiled.
Something changed in his eyes. A shutter-snap flicker of confusion.
If I hadn't been looking for it, I probably wouldn't have noticed.
If I hadn't been looking for it, I wouldn't have been tuned to C-Span.
The camera left him and swung to the back of the room.
A tall, gaunt old man in a brand-new charcoal-gray suit walked toward
the front.
Next to him walked a woman I'd known first as Jo Picker, then as Jane Bendig, official-looking in a navy-blue suit and high-necked white blouse. For the last three days she'd worked nearly twenty-four hours a day. The easy part: using Tom Creedman's computer to send bogus messages by e-mail. The hard part: convincing Moreland he could redeem himself.
The doctors and psychologists at the medical center had helped some. Examining the kids with care and compassion, assuring the old man they were clinicians, not technocrats.
Jane shared her grief with him, talked numbers, morality, absolution.
Eventually, she just wore him down.
Now he walked ahead of her.
Behind the two of them, six men in blue suits flanked a massive black thing, like pallbearers.
Black thing with legs, a shuffling variant of the circus horse.
Stirring and confusion at the other tables, too.
Moreland and Jo kept marching. The black cloth seemed to float in midair.
Some men next to Hoffman began to move, but other men stopped them.
Zoom on Hoffman's face, still smiling.
He mouthed something— an order— to a man standing behind him, but the man had been restrained.
Moreland reached Hoffman.
Hoffman started to speak, smiled instead.
Someone shouted, "What's going on?" and that seemed to shake Hoffman out of it.
"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, this man's quite disturbed and he's been harassing me for quite a—"
The men in blue suits flicked their wrists, and the black cloth seemed to fly away.
Six soft, misshapen people stood there, hands at their sides, placid as milk-sated babies. Ruined skin highlighted mercilessly by the chandelier. The doctors at the medical center had established that only UV was a threat. The black sheet protecting them from the stares of gawkers.
Gasps from the room.
The blind one began bouncing and waving his hands, staring up at the light with empty sockets.
"My God!" said someone.
A glass dropped on the granite and shattered.
Two blue-suited men took hold of Hoffman's arms.
Moreland said, "My name is Woodrow Wilson Moreland. I'm a doctor. I have a story to tell."
Hoffman stopped smiling.
40
A few days later, on the plane back to L.A., it hit me.
First-class flight, seats like club chairs, the Defense Department's generosity allowing Spike's crate a seat of its own.
Dinner had been salmon stuffed with sole mousse. I'd indulged in half a bottle of Chablis and fallen asleep. Robin had finished only a third of a glass, but she'd drifted off too. Now her head was heavy on my blanketed shoulder.
Sweet sleep, but I came out of it thinking about Haygood— who he'd been as a child. Was there a mother out there who'd mourn him?
Stupid thoughts, but inevitable. I tried to shake myself out of it, thinking of the good I'd been part of.
Ben freed. Some limited hope for Aruk.
The "kids" liberated and well cared for.
Moreland hospitalized, too, and evaluated. No Alzheimer's, no obscure neurological disease, just an exhausted old man.
I'd visited him an hour before we left. He hadn't told Pam or Dennis yet.
Holding back. His entire life, after the paradise needle, a struggle against impulse.
Heroism thrust upon him, he'd reinvented himself.
A thirty-year transformation, from a cruel womanizer to the patron saint of Aruk.
But yet he felt guilty.
Other sins?
Things for which there was no atonement?
As I'd left his hospital room, he'd called out, "Time deceives."
The same thing he'd told me as he bled on the white couch.
Another confession?
Is there anything else you need to know?
Cold hands . . . still afraid.
Not unless there's something else you want to tell me.
A long silence before he'd closed his eyes and mumbled.
Terrible things. . . . Time deceives.
Offering himself to me— defenses down, his world unraveling.
The first time, I'd comforted him instead of pursuing it. The second time, I'd just kept walking.
Not wanting to know?
Terrible things.
Time's deceit.
His unique brand of deceit. Presenting a veiled truth while changing time and context.
Telling me about cannibal cargo cults because he suspected AnneMarie's death had been part of a money-driven conspiracy.
Recounting the nuclear blast because he'd been part of another technological horror.
Discussing Joseph Cristobal's vision and "A. Tutalo" because he yearned to unload the secret of his kids.
And something else.
The first case he'd discussed with me, moments after we'd met.
Discussing in great detail, but unable to locate the file.
Because there'd never been a file?
The catwoman.
A "lovely lady . . . sweet nature . . . clean habits." Thirty years old, her mother was morose . . .
Abused and humiliated by a philandering husband— forced to watch him make love to another woman.
The husband dead, years later. Eaten away by lung cancer.
A ravaged chest . . .
I'm all right, kitten.
Kitten, kitten . . . I used to call her that when she was little.
Pam not remembering.
Sent away too young to remember anything.
But Moreland remembered everything.
He'd exiled her to the best schools, turned her into an orphan who'd become a woman demeaned by men.
Marrying a philandering abuser. Turning off sexually.
Humiliated . . . had she, too, watched her husband rut with a lover?
Those sad eyes. Driven to depression. To the brink of suicide, she'd admitted to Robin.
So fragile, her therapist searched for family support, located and phoned Moreland.
To Pam's surprise, he flew to Philadelphia. Offered a shoulder to cry on— and more?
Had she told him the details of the humiliation?
Or had he assigned one of his lawyers to find out the facts?
Little kitten . . . pouring her heart out to Daddy.
The truth torturing Daddy. Because of his guilt about sending her away.
Guilt about having once been exactly the kind of man who hurt her.
A few days later, the philandering husband dies in a freak accident.
Falling barbell.
Ravaged chest.
And "kitten" returns to her birthplace.
Is there anything else you need to know?
Not unless there's something else you want to tell me.
Had Moreland stalked the young surgeon? Or had he hired someone to make things right? He was a wealthy man with the means to arrange things. The obsessive's talent for rationalizing extreme measures . . .
The barbell hovering over that arrogant chest . . .
The man who'd hurt his "kitten" so deeply.
Or maybe it had been an accident and I was letting things get away from me.
Terrible things, he'd said.
Had to be . . .
I'd never know.
Did I care?
At that moment, I did. Maybe one day I wouldn't.
Robin's breath reached my nostrils, hot, tinged with coffee and wine.
A pretty, dark-haired flight attendant smiled as she walked down the aisle.
"Comfy, doctor?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Going home?"
"Yup."
"Well, that's nice— unless you'd rather still be on vacation."
"No," I said. "I'm ready to get back to reality."
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