The Web

32

Pam's voice on the other side: "Is anyone in there?"

We opened the door.

"Is Dad with you?" She stood, dripping, in a khaki raincoat drenched black, face shiny-wet under a snarl of running makeup.

"No," said Robin.

"I can't find him anywhere! All the cars are here, but he isn't. We were supposed to get together an hour ago."

"Maybe Dennis or one of the deputies picked him up," I said.

"No, I called Dennis. Dad's not in town. I've searched the outbuildings and every square inch of the house except your room and Jo's."

She hurried next door. Jo answered her knock quickly. She had on a bathrobe but looked wide awake.

"Is Dad with you?"

"No."

"Have you seen him at all this evening?"

"Sorry. Been in all day- touch of the stomach bug." She placed a hand on her abdomen. Her hair was combed out and her color was still good. When she noticed me studying her, she stared back hard.

"Oh God," said Pam. "This weather. What if he's outside and fell?"

"Older people do tend to spill," said Jo. "I'll help you look." She went inside and returned wearing a tentlike transparent slicker over a black shirt and black jeans, matching hat, rubber boots.

"When's the last time you saw him?" she said. I followed her eyes down to the entry. Water had pooled there. Gladys and Cheryl were standing next to it, looking helpless.

"Around five," said Pam. "He was in his office, said he just had a little work, would be in soon. We were supposed to have dinner together at seven and it's already eight-thirty."

"I spoke to him just before that," I said, thinking of Moreland's tumble in the lab.

"Hmm," said Jo. "Well, I'm sorry, haven't noticed a thing. Been out of commission since noon."

"Bad stomach," I said.

She gave me another challenging look. "Could he have gone off the grounds?"

"No," said Pam, wringing her hands. "He must be out there- Gladys, get me a flashlight. A big powerful one."

She started for the stairs.

"Let's look for him in a group," I said. "Is anyone else here?"

"No, Dad sent the staff home early so they wouldn't get caught in the rain." To the maids: "Did anyone stay behind?"

Gladys shook her head. Cheryl watched her mother, then imitated the gesture. Her usual stoicism was replaced by a rabbity restlessness: sniffing, rubbing her fingers together, tapping a foot.

A sharp glance from Gladys stilled her.

"Okay," said Jo, "let's do it logically-"

"Did you check the insectarium?" I said.

"I tried to get in," said Pam, "but couldn't. The new locks- do you have the keys, Alex?"

"No."

"The lights were out and I pounded hard on the door, no answer."

"Doesn't he work in the dark sometimes?" said Jo. "Doesn't he keep things dark for the bugs?"

"I guess so," said Pam. Panic stretched her sad eyes. "You're right, he could be in there, couldn't he? What if he's lying there hurt? Gladys, any idea where we can find a duplicate key?"

"I checked all the ones on the rack, ma'am, and it's not there."

Cheryl grunted, then lowered her head.

Gladys turned to her. "What?"

"Nothing, momma."

"Do you know where Dr. Bill is, Cheryl?"

"Uh-uh."

"Have you seen him?"

"Just in the morning."

"When?"

"Before lunchtime."

"Did he say anything to you about going somewhere tonight?"

"No, momma."

Gladys lifted her daughter's chin. "Cheryl?"

"Nothin', momma. I was in the kitchen. Cleaning the oven. Then I made lemonade. You said it had too much sugar, remember?"

Gladys's face tightened with irritation, then resignation set in. "Yes, I remember, Cher."

"Damn, damn," said Pam. "You're sure about the keys on the rack."

"Yes, ma'am."

"He probably forgot. As usual."

"He gave it to Ben," said Cheryl. "I saw it. Shiny."

"Lot of good that does," said Pam. "All right, I'm going back over to the insectarium and try to get in through one of those windows."

"The windows are high," said Jo. "You'll need a ladder."

"Gladys?" said Pam. Her voice was so tight the word was a squeak.

"In the garage, ma'am. I'll go get it."

"I'll come with you," said Jo. "I can hold the ladder or climb it myself."

"You're sick," I said. "Let me."

She closed her door and positioned herself between Pam and me. "I'm fine. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing."

"Still-"

"No problem," she said firmly. "You probably don't have rainclothes, right? I do. Come on, let's not waste any more time."

She and Pam hurried down, picked up Gladys, and headed toward the kitchen.

Cheryl remained alone in the entry. Fidgeting again. Looking everywhere but up at us.

Then right up at us.

At me.

"What is it, Cheryl?" I said.

"Um… can I get you something? Lemonade- no, too sweet… coffee?"

"No, thanks."

She nodded as if expecting the answer. Kept bobbing her head.

"Is everything okay, Cheryl?" said Robin.

The young woman jumped. Forced herself to stand still.

Robin went down to her. "What's the matter, hon?"

Cheryl kept looking up at me.

"It's pretty scary," I said. "Dr. Bill disappearing like this."

She began rubbing her thighs, over and over. I followed Robin down.

"What is it, Cheryl?" said Robin.

Cheryl looked at her guiltily. Turned to me. One hand kept rubbing her leg. The other patted a pocket.

"I need you," she said, on the verge of tears.

I looked at Robin and she went to the far end of the front room. The rain was beating out a two-two rhythm, smearing the picture windows.

Cheryl's rubbing had intensified and her face was compressed with anxiety.

Sweating.

Conflict.

Then I remembered that Moreland had used her to deliver Milo's phone message.

"Did Dr. Bill give you something for me, Cheryl?"

Running her eyes in all directions, she took a folded white card out of her pants pocket and thrust it at me. Stapled shut on all four corners.

I started to pull it open.

"No! He said it's for secret!"

"Okay, I'll look at it in secret." I palmed the card. She started to leave, but I held her back.

"When did Dr. Bill give it to you?"

"This morning."

"To deliver tonight?"

"If he didn't come to the kitchen."

"If he didn't come to the kitchen by a certain time?"

She looked confused.

"Why would he come to the kitchen, Cheryl?"

"Tea. I fix the tea."

"You fix tea for him every night at a special time?"

"No!" Distraught, she tried to pull loose again. Staring at my pocket, as if expecting the paper to burst through.

"Gotta go!"

"One second. Tell me what he told you."

"Give it to you."

"If he didn't want tea."

Nod.

"When do you usually make him tea?"

"When he tells me."

She started to whimper. Looked down at my hand on her arm.

I let go. "Okay, thanks, Cheryl."

Instead of running off, she held back. "Don't tell momma?"

Moreland's trusty courier. He'd figured her limited intelligence would keep her on track, eliminate moral dilemmas.

Wrong.

"All right," I said.

"Momma will be mad."

"I won't tell her, Cheryl. I promise. Go on now, you did the right thing."

She hurried away and I took the card to Robin. It was too dark to read and I didn't want to put on the lights. Hurrying back up to our suite, I popped the staples.

Moreland's familiar handwriting:

DISR. 184: 18

"What?" said Robin. "A library catalogue number?"

"Some kind of reference- probably a volume or page number. He's been leaving cards since we got here. Quotes from great writers and thinkers: Stevenson, Auden, Einstein- the last one was something about time and justice. The only great thinker I can come up with who matches "DISR' is Disraeli. Did you notice a book by him up here?"

"No, only magazines. Maybe there's an article on Disraeli."

"Architectural Digest?" I said. "House and Garden?"

"Sometimes they run features on ancestral homes of famous people."

She divided the magazines and we started scanning tables of contents.

"French Vogue," I muttered. "Yeah, that'll be it. What Disraeli wore when addressing parliament. Now available at Armani Boutique. What the hell's he getting at? Even at his darkest hour the old coot's playing games."

She discarded an Elle, started scrutinizing a Town &Country.

"Using poor Cheryl as a messenger," I said. "If he had something to tell me, why couldn't he just come out and say it?"

"Maybe he feels it's too dangerous."

"Or maybe he's just going off the deep end." I picked up a six-year-old Esquire. "Everything he does is calculated. I feel like a character in a play. His script. Even this disappearance. Middle of the night, so damned theatrical."

"You think he faked it?"

"Who knows what goes on in that big, bald head? I sympathize with the fact that his life's falling apart, but the logical thing would have been to beef up security and wait until Ben's lawyer arrives. Instead, he lets the staff go home early and puts his daughter through this."

Rain hit the window so hard it shook the casement.

I ran my finger down another contents page, tossed it. "Why choose me to play Clue with?"

"He obviously trusts you."

"Lucky me. It makes no sense, Rob. He knows we're leaving. I told him this afternoon. Unless in his own nutty way he thinks this'll keep us here."

"Maybe that or something else spurred him to action. But he could also be in real trouble. Knew he was in danger and left a message for you because you're the only one he's got left."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Someone could have gotten in here and abducted him."

"Or he fell, like he did in the lab."

"Yes," she said. "I've noticed he loses his balance a lot. And the absentmindedness. Maybe he's sick, Alex."

"Or just an old man pushing himself too hard."

"Either way, his being out there on a night like this isn't a pleasant thought."

The rain kept sloshing. Spike listened, tense and fascinated.

We finished the magazines. Nothing on Disraeli.

"There are books in your office," she said. "In back, where the files are."

"But they're not categorized," I said. "Thousands of volumes, no system. Not too efficient if he's really trying to tell me something."

"Then what about that library off the dining room?" she said. "The one he told us wouldn't interest us. Maybe he said that because he was hiding something."

"A book on or by Disraeli? What is this, Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy's blind date?"

"Let's at least check. What could it hurt, Alex? All we've got is time."

We went downstairs again. The house was a scramble of streaks and shadows, hidden angles and blind corners, ripe with charged air.

We passed through the front room and the dining room. The library door was closed but unlocked.

Once inside, I turned on a crystal lamp. Dim light; the salmon moiré walls looked brown, the dark furniture muddy. Very few books. Maybe a hundred volumes housed in the pair of cases.

Unlike the big library, this one was alphabetized: fiction to the left, nonfiction to the right, the former mostly Reader's Digest condensed editions of best-sellers, the latter art books and biographies.

I found the Disraeli quickly: an old British edition of a novel called Tancred. Inside was a rose-pink, lace-edged bookplate that said EX LIBRIS: Barbara Steehoven Moreland. The name inscribed in a calligraphic hand, much more elegant than Moreland's.

I turned hurriedly to page 184.

No distinguishing marks or messages.

Nothing noteworthy about line eighteen or word eighteen or letter eighteen.

Nothing noteworthy about anything in the book.

I read the page again, then a third time, handed it to Robin.

She scanned it and gave it back. "So maybe 'DISR' stands for something else. Could it be something medical?"

Shrugging, I flipped through the book again. No inscriptions anywhere. The pages were yellowed but crisp at the edges, as if never handled.

I put it back, pulled out another volume at random. Gone with the Wind. Then Forever Amber. A couple of Irving Wallaces. All with Barbara Moreland's bookplate.

"Her room," said Robin. "So he probably thinks of the big one as his. Leaving something there makes more sense- it's right behind your office. Maybe he pulled something out and left it for you."

"This isn't exactly strolling weather."

She wagged a finger at me. "And someone forgot to bring his rain slicker!"

"Unlike the always-prepared Dr. Picker. Wonder if she packed her little gun under that giant condom. I should have insisted on going with her and Pam. Maybe I should go over to the bug zoo and see what the two of them are up to."

"No," she said. "If Jo is armed, I don't want you out there in the dark. What if she mistakes you for an intruder?"

"Or pretends to."

"You really suspect her?"

"At the very least she's working for Stasher-Layman."

She frowned. "And Pam's out there with her- let's go see if Bill left anything for you."

"Two targets in the dark? Forget it." I buttoned my shirt at the neck and raised the collar. "You go back and lock yourself in the room, and I'll dash over. I'll circle around from the back and avoid the bug house."

She grabbed my arm. "No way are you leaving me alone. Waiting for you to return will drive me batty."

"I'll be quick. If I don't find anything in ten minutes, I'll forget about it."

"No."

"You'll get drenched."

"We'll get drenched together."

"Let's just forget the whole thing, Rob. If Moreland wanted to send a message, he should have used Western Union."

"Alex, please. You know if I wasn't here, you'd be running to that bungalow."

"I don't know that at all."

"Come on."

"The point is you are here. Let me go in and out or forget about it, Nancy."

"Please, Alex. What if he's in danger and our not helping leads to tragedy?"

"There's already been plenty of tragedy, and what can Disraeli have to do with helping him?"

"I don't know. But like you said, he's got reasons for everything. He may play games, but they're serious ones. Come on, let's make a quick run for it."

"You'll catch a cold, young lady."

"On the contrary. It's a warm rain- think of it as showering together. You always like that."

We were soaked immediately. I held her arm, and rain-blinded and slick-footed, concentrated on staying on the paths.

No worries about the gravel-crunch; the downpour blocked it out.

Vertical swimming; new Olympic event.

The downpour felt oily as it rolled off our skin.

Slow going till I spotted the yellow light over my office door. I stopped, looked around. No one in sight, but an army could have been hiding, and I knew if Moreland was out there it would be nearly impossible to find him before morning.

I glanced toward the insectarium. Lights still off. Pam and Jo hadn't gotten in.

The rain chopped our necks and our backs. Deep-tissue massage. I tapped Robin's shoulder and the two of us made a dash for the bungalow. The door was unlocked, as I'd left it. I got Robin inside, then myself, and flipped on the weakest light in the room- a glass-shaded desk lamp.

Water flooded the hardwood floor. Our clothes clung like leotards and we sounded like squeegees when we moved.

Books and journals on my desk.

Piles of them that hadn't been there this afternoon.

Medical texts. But nothing by or about Disraeli.

No references beginning "DISR."

Then I found it, hefty and blue, on the bottom of the stack.

The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.

I flipped to page 184. Samples of the wisdom of Benjamin Disraeli.

Line 18:

Justice is truth in action.

All that for this? The crazy old bastard.

Robin read the quote out loud.

I tried to recall the Auden quote… naked justice, justice is truth.

Wanting me to do something to ensure justice?

But what?

Suddenly I felt tired and useless. Dropping a sodden sleeve onto the desk, I started to close the book, then noticed a tiny handwritten arrow on the bottom of page 185.

Pointing to the right.

Instruction to turn the page?

I did.

A notation in Moreland's handwriting parallel to the spine. I rotated the book:

214: 2

That turned out to be the wisdom of Gustave Flaubert.

Two quotations.

One about growing beards, the other demeaning the value of books.

More games… Moreland had been reading Flaubert the day he'd shown me the office. L'Éducation sentimentale. In the original French. Sorry, Dr. Bill, I took Latin in high school… tapping the book, I felt something hard under the righthand leaf.

Ten pages down. Wedged into the spine and taped to the paper.

A key. Brass, shiny new.

I removed it. Underneath was another handwritten inscription, the letters so tiny I could barely make them out:

Thank you for persisting.

Gustave's girl will be assisting.

"Gustave's girl?" said Robin.

"Gustave Flaubert," I said. "The girl who comes to my mind is Madame Bovary. I told Bill I'd read the book years ago."

"Meaning what?"

I thought, "Madame Bovary was married to a doctor, got bored, had affairs, ruined her life, ate poison, and died."

"A doctor's wife? Barbara? Is he trying to tell us she committed suicide?"

"He told me she drowned, but maybe. But why bring that up now?"

"Could that be what he feels guilty about?"

"Sure, but it still doesn't make sense, making such a big deal about that now."

I tried to reel the book's plot through my mind.

Then the truth came at me nastily and unexpectedly, like a drunk driver.

"No, not his wife," I said. Dropping the key in a wet pocket, I shut the book.

Stomach turning.

"What is it, Alex?"

"Another Emma," I said, "is going to help us. A girl with eight legs."