Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 10 - The Web

by The Web(Lit)

  "Used to. Used to sail, too. Had an old catamaran that Dennis and I took out the few days a year we had enough wind. What with the kids, though, no time. And Dr. Bill keeps me busy. No complaints it's what I like."

  He gave another smile full and warm. An old, dented gray Datsun station wagon was parked near the front steps of the house. A Chinese woman got out of it.

  Tiny, with a bone-porcelain face under very short hair, she wore a red blouse tucked into blue jeans. Her eyes were huge. She smiled at me and gave Ben a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. ' "Tuna," he said, kissing her cheek.

  "Excellent. Dr. Delaware, this is my wife, Claire. Claire Chang Romero, Dr. Alex Delaware."

  We exchanged greetings.

  "Everything okay?" said Ben.

  "We still on for hibachi dinner?"

  "After homework addition practice for Cindy and composition for Ben Junior."

  He put his arm around her. He was a small man, but she made him look big. Walking her to the car, he held her door open. He looked happy. I left.

  Casual formal for Robin was a long, sleeveless black dress with a mandarin collar and high slits on the side. Her "hair was piled and mabe-pearl earrings glistened like small moons.

  I put on the linen sportcoat she'd bought me for the trip, tropical wool slacks, blue shirt, maroon tie.

  "Spiffy," she said, patting my hair down.

  Spike looked up at us with big eyes.

  "What?" I said.

  He began baying like a hound.

  The give-me-attention-I'm-so-needy bit. Our dressing up was always a cue.

  "And the Oscar goes to," I said.

  Robin said, "Poor baby I' and bent down and mothered him for a while, then coaxed him into his crate with an extra-large biscuit and a kiss through the grill. He gave out a bass snort, then a whine.

  What is it, Spikey?

  "Probably "I want my MTV,"" I said.

  "His internal clock's telling him The Grind's on in L.A."

  "Aw," she said, still looking into the crate.

  "Sorry, baby. No TV, here. We're roughing it."

  She took my arm.

  No TV, no daily newspaper. The mail irregular, packed on the biweekly supply boats.

  Cut off from the world. So far, I was surprisingly content.

  How would it suit me, long term?

  How did it suit the people of Aruk? Moreland's letters had emphasized the isolation and insulation. Preparing us, but there'd been a bit of boast to it.

  A man who hadn't switched from rotary phones.

  Doing it his way, in the little world he'd built for himself.

  Breeding and feeding his bugs and his plants, dispensing altruism on his own schedule.

  But what of everyone else on the island? They had to know other Pacific islanders lived differently: during our stopover on Guam, we'd had access to newsstands, twenty-four-hour cable, radio bands of music and talk. The travel brochures I'd picked up there showed similar access on Saipan and Rota and the larger Marianas.

  The global village, and Aruk was on the outside looking in.

  Maybe Spike wasn't the only one who missed his MTV.

  Creedman had said Moreland was extremely wealthy, and Moreland had confirmed growing up on ranch land in California wine country.

  Why didn't he use his money to improve communication?

  There was no computer in his office. Journals arrived in the unpredictable mail. How did he keep up with medical progress?

  Did Dennis Laurent have a computer? Without one, how could he do his police tracking?

  Was the failure to find a repeat of the beach murder the result of inadequate equipment, and was that why Moreland was still worried?

  "Alex?" I felt a tug at my sleeve.

  "What, hon?"

  "You all right?"

  "Sure."

  'I was talking to you and you spaced out."

  "Oh. Sorry. Maybe it's contagious."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Moreland spaces out all the time. Maybe it's island fever or something. Too much mellow."

  "Or maybe you're both working too hard."

  "Snorkel all morning and read charts for a couple of hours? I can stand the pain."

  "It's all expenditure of energy, darling. And the air. It does sap you. I find myself wanting to vegetate."

  "My little brussel sprout," I said, taking her hand.

  "So it'll be a real vacation."

  "For you too, doc."

  "Absolutely."

  She laughed.

  "Meaning what? The body rests but the mind races?"

  I tapped my forehead.

  "The mind makes a pit stop."

  "Somehow I don't think so."

  "No? Watch me tonight. Pinkies out, hmph hmph, how about them Dodgers?" I went limp and rolled my eyes.

  "Maybe I should bring a snorkel, then. In case you nod off in the soup."

  17. Moreland was sitting in the Jeep when we got there.

  Wearing an ancient brown blazer and a tie the color of gutter water.

  We're waiting on Pam," he said, looking preoccupied. He started the car and gave it gas, and a moment later the little red MG sped up and screeched to a halt. Pam jumped out, flushed and breathless.

  "Sorry." She ran into the house.

  Moreland frowned and looked at his watch. The first hint of paternal disapproval I'd seen. I hadn't noticed any closeness, either.

  He checked the watch again. An old Timex. Milo would have approved.

  "You look lovely, dear," he said to Robin.

  "As soon as she's ready, we'll get going. Mrs. Picker's not coming, understandably."

  A few minutes later, Pam sprinted out, perfectly composed in a blazing white trouser suit, her hair loose and shining, her cheeks flushed.

  "Onward," said Moreland. When she kissed his cheek he didn't acknowledge it.

  He drove the way he walked, maneuvering the Jeep slowly and awkwardly down toward the harbor, veering close to the edge of the road as he pointed out plants and trees.

  At the bottom of the road, he turned south. The sun had been subdued all day, and now it was retiring; the beach was oyster-gray, the water old nickel.

  So quiet. I thought of Anne Marie Valdos sectioned like a side of meat on the flat rocks.

  We got out and waited silently near the edge of the road.

  "How long of a copter ride is it?" I said.

  "Short," said Moreland.

  A scuffing sound came from the top of the coastal road.

  A man emerged from the shadow of the barrier and came toward us.

  Tom Creedman, waving. He wore a blue pinstripe suit, white button-down shirt, yellow paisley tie, tasseled loafers. His black hair was slicked down and his mustache smiled in harmony with his mouth.

  Moreland's eyes were furious.

  "Tom."

  "Bill. Hi, Moreland fille. Doctor-and-Robin."

  Insinuating himself into the middle of our group, he tightened the knot of his tie.

  "Pretty nifty, personal aerial escort and all that."

  "Not much choice if they want us there," said Moreland.

  Well," said Creedman, 'we could swim. You're a strong swimmer, Pam. I saw you today, taking those waves on the North End with Chief Laurent."

  Moreland blinked hard and snapped his head toward the water.

  "Maybe I should try it one day," said Pam.

  "What is it, a few knots? Do you swim, Tom?"

  "Not if I can avoid it." Creedman chuckled, fished a wood tipped cigarillo out of his jacket, and lit it with a chrome lighter.

  Sucking in deeply, he examined the lagoon with a flinty stare and blew smoke through his nose. Foreign correspondent on assignment. I waited for theme music.

  "Funny, isn't it?" he said.

  "After all the enforced segregation, they decide it's party time at least for the white folk. I see Ben and Dennis weren't included. What do you think, Bill? Is brown skin a disqualifying factor?"

  More
land didn't answer.

  Creedman turned to Robin and me.

  "Maybe it's in your honor.

  Any Navy connections, Alex?"

  "I played with a toy boat in the bathtub when I was five."

  "Ha," said Creedman.

  "Good line."

  Pam said, "You don't swim, you don't sun. What do you do all day, Mr. Creedman?"

  "Live the good life, work on my book."

  "What exactly is it about?"

  Creedman tapped his cigarillo and gave a Groucho leer.

  "If I told you, it would kill the suspense."

  "Do you have a publisher?"

  His smile flickered.

  "The best."

  "When's it coming out?"

  He drew a finger across his lips.

  Pam smiled.

  "That's top secret, too?"

  "Has to be," said Creedman, too quickly. The cigarillo tilted and he pulled it out.

  "The publishing business is vulnerable to leaks.

  Information superhighway; the commodity is... ephemeral."

  "Meaning everyone's out to steal ideas?"

  "Meaning billions are invested in the buying and selling of concepts and everyone's looking for the golden idea."

  "And you've found it on Aruk?"

  Creedman smiled and smoked.

  "It's not like that in medicine," she said.

  "Discover something important, you've got a moral obligation to publicize it."

  "How noble," said Creedman.

  "Then again, you doctors chose your field because you're noble."

  Moreland said, "I think it's coming." His finger was up but he was still facing the ocean.

  I heard nothing but the waves and bird chirps. Moreland nodded. 'Yes, definitely."

  Seconds later, a deep tom-tom rumble sounded from the east, growing steadily louder.

  A big, dark helicopter appeared over the bluffs, sighted directly over us, hovered, then lowered itself on the road like a giant locust.

  Double rotors, bloated body. Sand sprayed and we dropped our heads and cupped our hands over our mouths.

  The rotors slowed but didn't stop. A door opened and a drop-ladder snapped down.

  Hands beckoned.

  We trotted to the craft, eating sand, ears bursting, and climbed into a cabin walled with canvas and plastic and reeking of fuel. Moreland, Pam, and Creedman took the first passenger row and Robin and I settled behind them. Piles of gear and packed parachutes filled the rear storage area. A pair of Navy men sat up front. Half-drawn pleated curtains allowed us a partial view of the backs of their heads and a strip of green lit panel.

  The second officer looked back at us for a moment, then straight ahead. He pointed. The pilot did something and the copter shuddered and rose.

  We headed out to sea, hooking southeast and following the coastline. High enough for me to make out the blade like shape of the island. South Beach was the point of the dagger, our destination the hilt.

  The blockade was no more diana paper cut from this height. The mountaintops were a black leather belt, the banyans obscured by burgeoning darkness and the ring of mountains.

  The copter veered sharply and the east end of the island slid into view.

  Concrete shore and choppy water, no trees or sand or reefs.

  The windward harbor was a generous soupspoon indentation.

  Natural port. Ships large enough to look significant from these heights were moored there. Some of them moved. Strong waves - I could see the froth, piling up against a massive seawall.

  We turned north toward the base: empty stretches of black veined with gray, toy-block assemblages that had to be barracks, some larger buildings.

  The copter descended and we touched down perfectly, the trip as brief as an amusement park ride, the blockade's cruel efficiency clearer than ever. The pilot cut the engine and exited without a word. The second officer waited till the rotors had quieted before releasing our door.

  We got out and were hit by a blast of humid air, stale and chemically tainted.

  "The windward side," said Moreland.

  "Nothing grows here."

  A sailor in a contraption that resembled an oversize golf cart drove us through a sentry post and past the barracks, storehouses, hangars, empty airstrips. Concrete fields crowded with planes and copters and disassembled craft made me think of Harry Amalfi's aerial junkyard. Some of the planes were antiques, others looked new. One sleek passenger jet, in particular, would have done a CEO proud.

  The harbor was blocked from view by the seawall, a monstrous thing of the same raw construction as the blockade. Above it, an American flag whipped and snapped like a locker-room towel. I could hear the ocean charging angrily, hitting the concrete with the roar of a gladiator audience.

  Looking toward the base's western border, I saw the area where Picker must have gone down. At least half a mile away.

  Twenty-foot chain-link fencing completed the banyan's prison.

  Creedman had said the base was run by a skeleton crew, and there were very few sailors on the ground maybe two dozen, walking, watching.

  The golf cart veered across a nearly empty parking lot, through a small drab garden, up to a colonial building, three stories high, white board and brick, green shutters.

  HEADQUARTERS

  CAPT. ELVIN S. EWING

  Next door was a one-story building of the same design. The officer's club.

  Inside the club was a long walnut hallway deep red wool carpeting patterned with crossed sabers, brass fixtures. The paneling was lined with roiling seascapes and model ships in glass cases.

  Another sailor took us to a waiting room decorated with photo blowups of fighter jets and club chairs. A sailor in dress uniform stood behind a host's lectern. Glass doors opened to a dining room: soft lighting, empty tables, the smell of canned vegetable soup and melted cheese.

  The sailors saluted one another, and the first one left without breaking step.

  "This way," said the one behind the lectern. Young, with clipped hair and a soft face full of pimples. He took us to an unmarked door. A sign hanging from the knob said Captain Ewing had reserved the room.

  Inside were one long table under a hammered-copper chandelier and twenty bright blue chairs. A portrait of the President wearing an uneasy smile greeted us from behind the head chair.

  Three walls of wood, one blocked by blue drapes.

  A new sailor came and took our cocktail order. Two different men brought the drinks.

  Creedman sipped his martini and licked his lips.

  "Nice and dry. Why can't we get vermouth like this in the village, Bill?"

  Moreland stared at his tomato juice and shrugged.

  "I asked the Trading Post to get me something dry and Italian," said Creedman.

  "Took a month and what I ended up with was some swill from Malaysia."

  "Pity."

  "Go to any duty-free in the boonie st outpost and they've got everything from Chivas to Stoli, so what's the big deal about filling an order here? It's almost as if they want to do it wrong."

  "Is that the theme of your book?" said Pam.

  "Incompetent islanders?"

  Creedman smiled at her over his drink.

  "If you're that curious about my book, maybe you and I should get together and discuss it. That is, if you've got any energy after your swims."

  Moreland walked to the blue drapes and parted them.

  "Same view," he said.

  "The airfield. Why they put a window here, I'll never know."

  "Maybe they like to see the planes take off, Dad," said Pam.

  Moreland shrugged again.

  "How long did you and Mom live here?"

  "Two years."

  Three men came in. Two wore officer's garb the first fiftyish, tall and thickset, with rough red skin and steel glasses; the other even taller, ten years younger, with a long, swarthy, rubbery face and restless hands.