The Web

10

"He wasn't Mr. Charm," said Robin, "but to go like that…"

We were up in the sitting room of our suite. No sounds came through the wall bordering Jo Picker's room.

"How's Jo?" I said.

"Wiped out. She decided to call his family. I left her trying to get a phone connection… I know it's trite, but one moment you're talking to someone, the next they're gone."

She put her head on my chest and I traced her jawline.

"How're you doing?" I said.

"With what?"

"Vacation."

She laughed. "Is that what it is? No, I'm fine. Assuming we've used up all the bad vibes, nothing but sunshine and sweetness ahead."

"Ben assures me we've exhausted the island's supply of miscreants."

I told her about Creedman's snooping, his hitting on Jacqui and Claire Romero.

"I'm not surprised," she said. "When we were sitting there he put his hand on my knee."

"What!"

"It's okay, honey, I handled it."

"I didn't see a thing!"

"It happened right at the beginning, when Jacqui came out to take our order. You looked up for a second and he made his move. No big deal- I ended it."

"How?"

"Pinched the top of his hand." She grinned. "Hard. With my nails."

"He didn't react," I said.

"Nope, just kept on talking and cooled the hand on his beer bottle."

I remembered that. "Bastard."

"Forget it, Alex. I know the type. He won't try it again."

"Someone else noticed you," I said. "At the airfield. Skip Amalfi's buddy, that wild-haired guy. Now that I think about it, both he and Skip were probably ogling you the minute we stepped off the boat."

"Probably a woman shortage. Don't worry, I'll stick close to home. Work on my pinching."

"Don't you think Creedman's behavior is pretty risky for a small place like this? You should have seen Ben's face when he talked about Creedman coming on to his wife."

"Maybe that's his kick," she said. "That stupid thrill-of-the-hunt thing. Or maybe Aruk's such a peaceful place that the locals are able to laugh him off as a fool."

"It certainly doesn't seem to be high-crime. The police chief's unarmed."

"I noticed that. Probably why everyone was so sure the murderer was a sailor."

"Does the murder bother you?"

"I didn't love hearing about it, but one homicide a year is heaven compared to L.A., right?"

"According to Ben, it wasn't the reason for the blockade."

"What was?"

I thought back. "He didn't say."

"He's an interesting fellow," she said.

"In what way?"

"Nice, but a bit… hard, don't you think? Like the way he reacted to the crash. Angry at Picker, no sympathy."

"Picker gave him a hard time," I said. "But you're right, it was cold. Maybe it's his training as a nurse. Struggling to save people and then watching someone take what he thought was a stupid risk. Or maybe he's just one of those perfectionists incapable of suffering fools. He seems awfully meticulous. Proprietary about Moreland and Aruk, too. Now Moreland's getting old and Aruk's having problems, so he could be under stress."

"Could be," she said. "Aruk's definitely having problems. All those businesses boarded up, and did you see the gas ration sign in town? How do you think people make a living?"

"In his letters, Moreland said fishing and some crafts. But I haven't seen much sign of either. Ben's educated, could live anywhere, so perhaps he stays here because of some special commitment."

"Yes, it must be hard for him." She snuggled closer. "It is lovely, though. Look at those mountains."

"Want to try diving tomorrow?"

"Maybe." She closed her eyes.

"I'd like everything to go smoothly for you," I said.

"Don't worry. I'll have a great time."

"How's your wrist?"

She laughed. "Much better. And I pledge to go to bed on time and drink my milk."

"I know, I know."

"It's okay, honey. You like to take care of me."

"It's not just that. For some reason, after all these years, I still feel I need to court you."

"I know that, too," she said softly, and slipped her hand under my shirt.

The phone woke us up.

Moreland said, "Oh… were you sleeping? I'm terribly sorry."

"No problem," I said. "What's up?"

"Picker's accident- I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"It was a shock but we're fine."

"I tried to warn him… I want to reassure you that it was a freak event. The last crash we had was in sixty-three, when a military transport went down over the water. Nothing since. I just feel terrible that your welcome has been interrupted by something like this."

"Don't worry about it, Bill."

"I dropped in on Mrs. Picker, gave her some brandy. She's resting peacefully."

"Good."

"All right then, Alex. Sorry again for disturbing your rest." He paused. "We can start working whenever you're ready. Just give me a call downstairs."

Robin sat up and yawned. "Who is it?"

I covered the phone. "Bill. Do you mind if I work a bit?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to get up, too."

"I've got some time right now," I told Moreland.

"Well then," he said, "I could show you your office. Come down when you're ready. I'll be waiting."

We found him sitting in an overstuffed chair near a picture window, drinking orange juice. His legs looked so thin they seemed to fold rather than cross. He wore the same type of plain white shirt. This time the baggy pants were gray. The chained glasses rested low on his nose. He stood, closed his book and put it down. Leather-bound copy of Flaubert's L'Éducation sentimentale.

"Have you read him, son?"

"Just Madame Bovary, years ago."

"A great realistic novel," he said. "Flaubert was excoriated for being realistic." Bending slowly, he petted Spike. "I've set up a little run for this fellow, in a shaded area behind the rose garden. That is, if you feel comfortable leaving him alone."

"Is there a problem with his coming along?"

"Not at all. No zoo this morning. Come, let me show you the smaller library."

He led us through the dining room, pale blue with Chippendale furniture.

"We rarely dine here," he said. "We go outside whenever we can."

The former silver room was on the other side of a mahogany door. He opened it halfway. Salmon moirÉ walls, two dark bookcases, carved moldings, crystal lamps. Dried flowers on the verge of disintegration sprouted from a huge famille verte vase.

He closed the door. "As I said, you'll probably have little use for it."

We continued through a waxed-pine breakfast room, yellow pantry, industrial kitchen, past wall-freezers and out the rear door, ending on one of the rock paths. The closest bungalow was the same light brown as the main house, the roof tiles replaced with asphalt shingles.

Inside the bungalow was a small, cool room paneled beautifully with red-gold koa and set up with an old but flawless walnut desk topped by a leather blotter, a sterling silver inkwell, and an electric typewriter.

Another ceiling fan, desultory rotations. On the opposite wall was a brown couch and matching armchair, some tables and lamps. A carved Japanese motif ran along the top of the paneling. Seashells and corals rested on high shelves. Below hung more of Mrs. Moreland's watercolors.

Two small, open windows let in the breeze and offered a long view of the entry to the estate. The spray from the fountain sparkled like Tivoli lights. Between Spike's heavy breathing, more of that same narcotic silence.

"Very nice," I said.

Behind the desk was a door that Moreland opened, revealing a much larger room with four walls of ceiling-high bookcases. The floor was crowded with high stacks of cardboard cartons- brown columns rising nearly to the ceiling.

Hundreds of boxes, nearly filling the space, randomly separated by narrow aisles.

Moreland shrugged apologetically. "As you can see, I've been waiting for you."

I laughed, as much at his flamingo awkwardness as at the enormity of the task.

"It's shameful, Alex. I won't insult you by making excuses. I can't tell you how many times I've sat down to figure out some system of classification only to get overwhelmed and give up before I began."

"Is it alphabetized?"

He rubbed one sandal against his shin, a curiously boyish gesture. "After my first few years in practice, I tried to alphabetize. Repeated the process every few years. But somewhat… haphazardly. All in all, there are probably a dozen or so independently alphabetized series." He threw up his hands. "Why pretend- it's virtually random. But at least my handwriting's not bad for a doctor."

Robin grinned and I knew she was thinking of my scrawl.

"I don't expect miracles," said Moreland. "Skim, peruse, whatever, tell me if anything jumps out at you. I've always tried to include psychological and social data… Now permit me to show you your atelier, dear."

The adjoining bungalow was identical, but the interior walls were painted white. More old but well-maintained furniture, a drafting table and stool, easels, a flat file. Disposable pallets still wrapped in plastic sat atop the file, along with trays of oil-paint tubes, acrylics, and watercolors. Ink bottles, pens, charcoal sticks, brushes in every shape and size. Everything brand-new. The price tag on a brush was from an artists' supply store in Honolulu.

Off to one side was a table full of shiny things.

"Shell," said Moreland. "Cowry, abalone, mother-of-pearl. Some hardwood remnants as well. And carving tools. I bought them from an old man whose specialties were USMC insignia and leaping dolphins. Back when there was a trinket business."

Robin picked up a small handsaw. "Good quality."

"This was Barbara- my wife's special place. I know you're not carving right now, but Alex told me how gifted you were, so I thought you might like to…"

He trailed off and rubbed his hands together.

"I'd love to," said Robin.

"Only when your hand permits, of course. It's too bad you didn't get a chance to swim."

"We'll try again."

"Good, good… Would you like to stay here and look around, dear? Or do you prefer to be there as Alex discovers how truly disordered I am?"

It was as gracious a way as any to ask for privacy.

"There's plenty here to keep me busy, Bill," Robin said. "Pick me up when you're done, Alex."

"And you?" Moreland said to Spike.

"Watch," I said. Walking to the door, I said, "Come, Spike." The dog ran immediately to Robin and flopped down at her feet.

Moreland laughed. "Impeccable taste."

When we were outside, he said, "What a lovely girl. You're lucky- but I suppose you hear that all the time. It's nice to have someone in Barbara's studio after all these years."

We began walking. "How long has it been?"

"Thirty years this spring."

A few steps later: "She drowned. Not here. Hawaii. She'd gone there for a vacation. I was busy with patients. She went out for an early-morning dip on Waikiki Beach. She was a strong swimmer, but got caught up in a riptide."

He stopped, fished in his pocket, drew out a battered eelskin wallet and extricated a small photo.

The black-haired woman from the mantel portrait, standing alone on a beach, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit. Hair shorter than in the painting, pinned back severely. She looked no older than thirty. Moreland would have been at least forty.

The snapshot was faded: gray sand, the sky an insipid aqua, the woman's flesh nearly dead-white. The ocean that had claimed her was a thin line of foam.

She had a beautiful figure and smiled prettily but her pose- legs together, arms at her side- had a tired, almost resigned quality.

Moreland blinked several times.

I gave him back the snapshot.

"Why don't we work our way downward," he said, lifting a box from the top of an outer column, carrying it into the office, and placing it on the floor between the couch and the armchair.

The carton was taped shut. He cut the tape with a Swiss Army knife and pulled out several blue folders. Putting on his glasses, he read one.

"Of all things…"

Handing me the folder, he said, "This one isn't from Aruk, but it was a case of mine."

Inside were stiff, yellowed papers filled with elegant, indigo, fountain-penned writing that I recognized from the card he'd left on the bed. Forty-year-old medical records of a man named "Samuel H."

"You don't use full names?" I said.

"Generally, I do but this was… different."

I read. Samuel H. had presented him with gastric complaints and thyroid problems that Moreland had treated with synthetic hormones and words of reassurance for eleven months. A month later, several small benign nerve tumors were discovered and Moreland raised the possibility of travel to Guam for evaluation and surgery. Samuel H. was unsure, but before he could decide, his health deteriorated further: fatigue, bruising, hair loss, bleeding lips and gums. Blood tests showed a precipitous drop in red blood cells accompanied by a sharp rise in white cells. Leukemia. The patient "expired" seven months later, Moreland signing the certificate and directing the remains to a mortuary in a place called Rongelap. I asked where that was.

"The Marshall Islands."

"Isn't that clear across the Pacific?"

"I was stationed there after Korea. The Navy sent me all over the region."

I closed the chart.

"Any thoughts?" he said.

"All those symptoms could be due to radiation poisoning. Is Rongelap near Bikini atoll?"

"So you know about Bikini."

"Just in general terms," I said. "The government conducted nuclear tests there after World War Two, the winds shifted and polluted some neighboring islands."

"Twenty-three blasts," he said. "Between nineteen forty-six and nineteen fifty-eight. One hundred billion dollars' worth of tests. The first few were A-bombs- dropped on old fleets captured from the Japanese. Then they got confident and started detonating things underwater. The big one was Bravo in fifty-four. The world's first hydrogen bomb, but your average American has never heard of it. Isn't that amazing?"

I nodded, not amazed at all.

"It broke the dawn with a seventy-five-thousand-foot mushroom cloud, son. The dust blanketed several of the atolls- Kongerik and Utirik and Rongelap. The children thought it was great fun, a new kind of rain. They played with the dust, tasted it."

He got up, walked to the window and braced himself on the sill.

"Shifting winds," he said. "I believed that, too- I was a loyal officer. It wasn't till years later that the truth came out. The winds had been blowing east steadily for days before the test. Steadily and predictably. There was no surprise. The Air Force warned its own personnel so they could evacuate, but not the islanders. Human guinea pigs."

His hands were balled.

"It didn't take long for the problems to emerge. Leukemias, lymphomas, thyroid disorders, autoimmune diseases. And, of course, birth defects: retardation, anencephaly, limbless babies- we called them "jellyfish.' "

He sat down and gave a terrible laugh. "We compensated the poor devils. Twenty-five thousand dollars a victim. Some government accountant's appraisal of the value of a life. One hundred and forty-eight checks totaling one million two hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars. One hundred-thousandth the cost of the blasts."

He sat back down and placed his hands on bony knees. His high forehead was as white and moist as a freshly boiled egg.

"I took part in the compensation program. Someone upstairs thought it a good use of my training. We did it at night, going from island to island in small motorboats. Pulling up to the shore, calling the people out with bullhorns, then handing them their checks and sailing off."

He shook his head. "Twenty-five thousand dollars per life. An actuarial triumph." Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. "After I figured out what the blast had done, I put in for extended stay and tried to do what I could for the people. Which wasn't much… Samuel was a nice man. A very fine carpenter."

"How'd the people react to being paid?" I said.

"The more perceptive among them were angry, frightened. But many were grateful. The United States extending a helping hand."

He put his glasses back on.

"Well, let's crack another box. Hopefully something a bit more routine."

"At least you tried to help them," I said.

"Sticking around helped me more than them, son. Till then I thought medicine boiled down to diagnosis, dosage, and incision. Encountering my own impotence taught me it was much more. And less. You worked in pediatric oncology; you understand."

"By the time I got involved, cancer was no longer a death sentence. I saw enough cures to keep me from feeling like an undertaker."

"Yes," he said. "That's wonderful. Still, you saw the misery, too. Your articles on pain control- scientific yet compassionate. I read them all. Read between the lines. It's one of the reasons I felt you were someone who would understand."

"Understand what, Bill?"

"Why a crazy old man suddenly wants to organize his life."

The other cases were routine and he seemed to tire. As I scanned the chart of a woman with diabetes, he said, "I'll leave you alone. Don't try to do too much, enjoy the rest of the day."

He stood and headed for the door.

"I wanted to ask you something, Bill."

"Yes?"

"I met Tom Creedman in the village this morning. He mentioned something about a murder a half year ago and some social unrest that led to the blockade."

He leaned against the jamb. "What else did he have to say?"

"That was it. Ben told me he lived here, caused some problems."

"Oh, indeed."

I pointed to the rear storage room. "Was that where Ben caught him snooping?"

"No," he said. "That was my office. Two bungalows down. Creedman claimed he'd wandered in and was on his way out when Ben found him. I might have let it pass, but he insulted Ben. That kind of thing isn't tolerated around here. I ordered him off the grounds. He delights in accentuating the negative about me and Aruk."

"He called this place Knife Castle."

"And probably told you that yarn about the slaves butchering every last Japanese."

"It never happened?"

"Allied bombs killed the vast majority of the Japanese soldiers. Three days of constant bombardment. On the third night, the Americans radioed victory and some of the forced workers left the barracks and came up here to loot- understandable, after what they'd been put through. They encountered a few survivors and there was some hand-to-hand fighting. The Japanese were outnumbered. Mr. Creedman calls himself a journalist, but he seems attracted to fiction- not that there's that much difference, nowadays, I suppose."

"He also said that you did the autopsy on the murder victim. Do you agree with the theory that it was a sailor?"

He sucked in breath. "I'm growing a bit concerned, Alex."

"About what?"

"Picker's accident, and now this. You certainly can't be faulted for seeing Aruk as a terrible place, but it's not. Yes, the murder was terrible, but it was the first we'd had in many years. And the only one of its type I remember in over three decades."

"What type is that?"

He pressed his hands together, clapped them silently and looked up at the ceiling fan, as if counting rotations.

Suddenly, he opened the door and stepped out. "I'll be right back."