The Web

13

As we got back in the Jeep, Skip and Haygood were walking along the shore, smoking and flicking ash into the water.

Robin said, "Let's drive around a bit, explore some of the smaller roads."

I turned the vehicle around and she looked up at the barricade.

"It's almost as if they wanted it to be ugly."

"Moreland agrees with Picker that the Navy's shutting the island down gradually. I asked him how people live and he admitted the main source was welfare."

"End of an era," she said. "That may be why he's so eager to document what he's done."

I headed toward the bowed gray pilings of the dock. The open-air market was closed and the ration sign remained atop the gas pump.

"Did you talk about the murder?"

"A bit."

"And?"

"Moreland and Dennis are assuming it's a one-shot, that the murderer's gone. Because he hasn't done it again in the region. So it could very well be a sailor who's transferred to another base."

"Meaning he could be doing it in another region."

"Dennis has been keeping an eye out for similar crimes and none have come up."

We were nearing the Chop Suey Palace. Creedman was outside again, with a bottle and a mug. Looking straight ahead, I passed him and hung a sharp right onto the next road, passing more tumbledown houses and empty lots. Then a small, poorly tended patch of grass housing a World War Two cannon and a life-size statue of MacArthur shading his eyes. A wooden sign said VICTORY PARK, EST. 1945. The only obvious triumph was that of birds over bronze.

More shacks and lean-tos and dirt till the crest, where a narrow white church stood. I stopped. Two stories high, with a sharply pitched roof, fish-scale trim, and a badly tarnished copper steeple, the building canted to the right. The balusters of the front stair rail were intricately turned but flaking. The five-pace front yard was thick with high grass edged with leggy white petunias.

"Early Victorian," said Robin. "It's sunk a little on the foundation, but the design's nice."

A display board staked in the lawn said OUR LADY OF THE HARBOR CATHOLIC CHURCH. VISITORS WELCOME. A few feet away a metal flagpole hosted Old Glory. The flag drooped in the motionless air.

Behind the church was more tall grass squared by a low picket fence. Rows of white crosses, stone and wooden grave markers. A few flashes of color. Floral wreaths, some so bright they had to be plastic.

Next door was a large aluminum Quonset hut labeled ARUK COMMUNITY CLINIC. The old black Jeep Ben had used to pick us up was parked near the door next to an even older MG roadster, once red, now faded to salmon. The emergency number on the door was that of Moreland's estate.

Just as I started to drive on, Pam came out, removing her stethoscope. She waved and I stopped again. Taking something out of the MG, she came over. Handful of plastic-wrapped lollipops.

"Hi. Snack?"

"No, thanks," said Robin.

"Sure? They're sugarless." Unwrapping a green pop, she put it in her mouth. "So you guys got to swim. How was it?"

Robin told her about our dive. Through the open door I could see children, their small faces pinched with fright.

"They seemed okay about the crash," said Pam, "but still pretty nervous about their shots, so we decided to get it over with. Want to come in?"

We followed her into the hut and breathed in the sharp smell of alcohol. The floor was blue linoleum. Fiberboard partitions sectioned the interior into cubicles. Cartoon posters and nutritional charts nearly covered the walls, but the aluminum fought the attempt to cheer.

Fifteen or so children, all dark haired, none older than eight, were lined up in front of a long table. Two chairs sat behind the table, the one on the right empty, the other occupied by Ben. To his left were steel trays of bandages, cotton swabs, disinfectant pads, disposable syringes, and small glass jars with rubber stoppers. A trash basket near his left foot brimmed with discarded needles and blood-specked pads.

He crooked his finger and a little girl in a pink T-shirt and red-and-white paisley shorts stepped forward. Her hair was waist long; her feet were in beach thongs. She was losing the struggle not to cry.

Ben unwrapped a pad, picked up a bottle, and jabbed the needle through the rubber cap with his left hand. Filling the syringe, he squirted it clear of air, took hold of the girl's arm and drew her closer. Cleaning her bicep swiftly, he tossed the pad in the basket, said something that made her look at him and flicked the needle at her arm, almost teasingly. The girl's mouth opened in pain and insult. The tears flowed. Some of the boys in line laughed, but none with enthusiasm. Then, the needle was out and Ben was bandaging her arm. The whole process had taken less than five seconds and he remained impassive.

The girl kept crying. Ben looked back at us. Pam rushed over and unwrapped a lollipop for the whimpering child. When the tears didn't stop, she cradled the girl.

Ben said, "Next," and crooked a finger. A small, chubby boy stepped into position and stared down at his arm. Dimpled fists drummed his thighs. Ben reached for a pad.

"All done, Angie," said Pam, walking the girl to the door. "You did great!" The child sniffed and sucked her lollipop and the white paper stick bobbed. "These are some visitors from the mainland, honey. This is Angelina. She's seven and a half and very brave."

"I'll say," said Robin.

The girl wiped an eye.

"These people came all the way from California," said Pam. "Do you know where that is?"

Angelina mumbled around the sucker.

"What's that, sweetie?"

"Disn'land."

"Right." Pam tousled her hair and guided her outside, watching as she ran to the church.

By the time she returned, Ben had vaccinated two more children, working rapidly, as rhythmic as a machine. Pam stayed with us, comforting the children and seeing them off.

"School's still in session," she said. "They're in class for another hour."

"Who teaches?" I said. "The priest?"

"No, there is no priest. Father Marriot was called back last spring and Sister June just left for Guam- breast cancer. Claire- Ben's wife- was our substitute, but now she's the faculty. A couple of other mothers serve as part-time assistants."

Another weeping child passed through.

"Guess I should do a few," said Pam, "but Ben's so good. I hate inflicting pain."

Cheryl was sweeping the entry to the big house, but when we walked in she stopped.

"Dr. Bill said give you this." She handed me a scrap of yellow, lined paper. Moreland's writing:

Det. Milo Sturgis called 11 A.M., Aruk time.

West Hollywood exchange. Milo's home number.

"That's one in the morning, L.A. time," said Robin. "Wonder what it could be."

"You know what a night owl he is. Probably something to do with the house and he's trying to catch us at a good time."

Mention of the house tightened her face. She looked at her watch. "It's two-thirty there, now. Should we wait?"

"If he was up an hour and a half ago, he probably still is."

Cheryl stood there, as if trying to follow the conversation. When I turned to her, she blushed and began sweeping.

"Is it all right to use the phone for long distance?"

She looked puzzled. "There's a phone in your room."

"Is Dr. Bill around?"

She thought. "Yes."

"Where?"

"In his lab."

We went back to the run to pick up Spike. He and KiKo stopped their play immediately and he ran to Robin. The monkey shinnied up a low branch, then let go and landed feather light on my shoulder. A small dry hand cupped the back of my neck. He'd been shampooed recently- something with almonds. But his fur also gave off a faint hint of zoo.

We left with both animals. Robin said, "I'd like to freshen up."

"I'll go ask Moreland about using the phone."

She turned back toward the house; KiKo jumped off and joined her and Spike. I walked down to the outbuildings and knocked on Moreland's office door.

He said, "Come in," but the door was locked and I had to wait for him to open it.

"Sorry," he said. "How was your swim?"

"Terrific."

He was holding a pencil stub and looked distracted. His office was the same size as the one he'd given me, but with pale green walls and no furniture other than a cheap metal desk and chair. Papers, loose and bound, carpeted half the floor. The desk was blanketed too, though I did notice one high stack that had been squared neatly and placed in the center. Journal reprints. The top one, an article I'd written ten years ago on treating childhood phobias. My name underlined in red.

The door to the lab was open. Tables, beakers, flasks, test tubes in racks, a centrifuge, a balance scale, equipment I couldn't identify. Next to the scale was a tall jar full of the gray-brown pellets he'd used to feed the insects. A smaller container of some sort of brownish liquid sat beside it.

"So," he said, taking off his glasses. His tone was strained; I'd interrupted something.

"I wanted to check if it was okay to use the phone for long distance."

He laughed. "Returning Detective Sturgis's call? Of course. There was no need to ask. Give him my best. He's a pleasant fellow."

Robin sat there caressing her two hairy pals as I dialed. The phone rang twice and a cranky deep voice grunted, "Sturgis."

"Hi, it's me. Still up?"

"Alex." Milo's voice lightened. I hadn't thought much about his missing us.

"Yeah, wide awake," he said, reverting to a grumble. "So how's Bali Hoo?"

"Sunny and clear. Want to hop over and join us?"

"I don't tan, I parboil."

"Thought you were Black Irish."

"That's temperament, not complexion. So, you pretty much settled in?"

"Very nicely. Just got back from diving in a gorgeous coral reef."

"Yo, Jacques. There really is a Garden of Eden, huh?"

"My fig leaf says yes. What are you doing up past your bedtime, sonny boy?"

"Working double shifts and building up the overtime. Reason I called is the guy who's handling your house has a couple of questions. Seems the crown and floor moldings Robin told him to order have been discontinued. He can get something similar, a little wider, or go for her exact specifications and have it custom milled. The difference is a couple of thou and he wants authorization. Also, the cost of your alarm is going to be a little higher than estimated. Something about having to connect up with a power line that's outside the basic contractual area. Probably another grand. It's never below estimate, is it? Anyway, ask the lovely Ms. C. what she wants to do, get back to me, and I'll forward the message."

"I'll put her on right now."

I handed over the receiver. Robin said, "Hi!" and KiKo's eyes widened. As she began to speak the monkey stuck his head closer to the phone and began talking along in a wordless chittering singsong.

"What? Oh… no, it's a monkey, Milo… a monkey. As in barrel of… No, he hasn't replaced Spikey, we still love him… No, they're getting along fine, as a matter of fact… That's it in terms of mammals… What?… No, just some bugs… Bugs. Insects, spiders… tarantulas. Dr. Moreland does research on them… What's up, detective?"

She talked to him about the construction, then ended with more small talk and returned the phone to me. "I'm putting these guys outside again, then running a bath. Love it if you'd join me when you're through."

She left.

"Bugs," said Milo. "Eden has bugs."

"God created them, too. What day was it?"

"His bad-joke day. Exactly what kind of research does this guy do?"

"Nutrition. Predatory behavior."

"He sounded a little spacey when I talked to him."

"How so?"

"Taking the message, but somewhere else."

"He thought you were a pleasant fellow."

"That proves he was somewhere else."

I laughed. "What kind of things are you working on?"

"You really want to know?"

"Intensely."

"Four armed robberies, one with hostages in a meat locker and a near fatality. One drive-by of a drug dealer slash rap artist that we probably won't solve, aw shucks, and the beauty that's been keeping me up late: sixteen-year-old girl out in the Palisades shot her father to death while he sat on the can. She claims long-time molestation, but the mother says no way and she's been divorced from the old man for years, no love lost. The kid has a history of naughty behavior, and Daddy had promised her a brand-new Range Rover for her birthday if she passed all her classes. She flunked, he said no go, and friends say she got mighty pissed."

"Any evidence of molestation?"

"Nope, and friends say she was a big fan of those two little shits with shotguns from Beverly Hills. She's got dead eyes, Alex, so who knows what was done to her. But that's not my concern, right now. She retained a mouthy lawyer with dead Daddy's dough… but enough, Ishmael. You set sail to escape all this barbarism."

"True," I said, "but allow me to raise your cynicism quotient even higher. Even Eden has its problems."

I told him about AnneMarie Valdos's murder.

He didn't answer.

"You still there?"

"Cracking her bones to eat the marrow?"

"That's Moreland's hypothesis."

"You go to Paradise and outdo me in the grossness department?"

"According to Moreland, cannibalism's pretty common across cultures. Ever come across it?"

"He an expert on that, too? Tell me, is there some huge guy stomping around the estate with a bad haircut and bolts in his neck? Marrow… no, thanks, dear, I'll pass on that breakfast steak and stick with the veggie plate."

"Funny you should say that. Moreland's a vegetarian. His daughter says he saw things after the Korean War that made him never want to be cruel again."

"How sensitive. And no, I haven't personally come across any bad guy gourmets. But there are a few years left to retirement, so now I've got something to live for."

"How's Rick?"

"He says, changing the subject. Doing the workaholic thing as usual, night shift at the ER… Marrow? Why do I keep hearing jungle drums going oonka loonka? Come across any missionaries in a pot?"

"Not yet, and Moreland says not to worry. There's no history of cannibalism here. Both he and the chief of police see it as a sicko killer trying to look exotic. Local opinion pins it on a Navy man who moved on."

"Moreland's a crime sleuth, too?"

"He's the only doctor on the island, so he handles all the forensics."

"Cannibalism," he said. "Does Robin know about this?"

"She knows there was a homicide, but I haven't given her the details. I don't want to make too big of a deal about it. Other than that, there's been no serious crime here for years."

" 'Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play.' Why a Navy man?"

"Because the locals aren't violent and the killer seems to be transitory."

"Well," he said, "I was Joe Army, so you won't get any big debate from me. Okay, hang loose, don't eat anything you can't identify, and stay away from jokers with bones in their noses."

"A creed to live by," I said. "Thanks for calling, and good luck on your cases."

"Yeah… all bullshit aside, I'm really glad you guys got to do this. I know what last year was like for you."

A phone rang in the distance and he grunted.

"Other line," he said. "More sludge. Sayonara and all that, and if you see a bearded French guy painting ladies in flowery muumuus, buy up the canvases."