The Web

36

His heavy face was calm, the lower half shadowed by stubble. Wide mouth set, gray eyes as dead as pebbles.

"Against the wall." Practiced boredom. Ex-cop's familiarity with rousting suspects.

He frisked me, then Robin. She gave out a high-pitched sound of surprise. Not reacting was agonizing.

From where I was standing I could see Tom Creedman with his grip on Moreland. From the way his fingers hooked, it must have hurt, but Moreland wasn't showing it. Staring at Creedman, as if trying to snag his eyes. Creedman's face was rain specked and sweating, his gun jammed against Moreland's rib cage.

"The boys from Maryland," I said. "Off on a South Seas lark."

Creedman's black mustache arced in surprise. Haygood flipped me around with a surprisingly light touch. His cleft chin looked rough enough to hone a blade.

I smiled. "Why'd you pull me over, officer?"

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

He put his gun against my heart and chucked Robin's chin. His hand dropped lazily onto her chest. Brushing. Squeezing.

Robin's eyes closed. Haygood continued to touch her, studying me.

I looked at Creedman. The water rolling off the top of his hat and into his eyes. He flinched, and Haygood finally let go of Robin.

"Never met a cannibal before," I said. "Who did the surgery? Or was it both of you?"

"Fuck off," said Creedman.

Haygood said, "Chill," but it was unclear who he was addressing.

Creedman frowned but shut up.

The rain, louder; they'd opened some kind of hatch aboveground. Found the tunnel with the help of all the doors I'd had to leave open. The slab sticking out of the laboratory floor.

They'd probably climbed down and walked some distance before figuring out where it led. Unable to broach the webbed door, they'd retraced their steps, made it over the wall, and come in from the other end.

The rain blocked out the music from the game room. I could still hear the nagging drone of the generator.

"The boys from Maryland," I repeated. "Reporter buys information from cop on a murder case, gets them both fired. Reporter finds a job with Stasher-Layman and procures cop a position there, too. Must be a close friendship."

Creedman wanted to say something, but a look from Haygood silenced him. Haygood the pro… he kept his gun steady while examining the cavern with all the passion of a camera.

"You've done lots of cute things for the company," I said, "so now you get a sun-and-fun assignment. But does the home office have any idea you handled it by replicating the murder that got you into trouble in the first place? Slicing up women and pretending to eat them? Or maybe you didn't pretend. You did say you were a gourmet cook, Tom."

"What is this?" said Haygood, "a bomb shelter or something?"

"If I know about Maryland, don't you think others do?"

Creedman looked at Haygood.

Haygood continued to inspect the cavern.

"What they don't know," I said, "is the part of it that's wishful thinking, Tom. Telling me it was a rape-murder when it wasn't. A few problems in the potency area?"

Creedman turned red and tightened his grip on Moreland.

Haygood repeated, "A bomb shelter?"

"Japanese supply tunnel," said Moreland. "My little sanctuary."

Keeping his eyes away from the game room.

"What do you have down here?"

"Old furniture, clothes, a few books."

"Let's take a look."

"There's nothing interesting, Anders."

"Let's take a look, anyway." Haygood waved us forward with the gun and told Creedman: "Bring him over."

Creedman poked Moreland and the old man tripped forward.

"You two, out," said Haygood, when they'd passed. He looked down the narrow opening and frowned. "Don't surprise me, doctor. You go in front, Tom. Anything happens, kill the girl."

Creedman didn't argue. I'd have pegged him as the one in charge. Class snobbery. Haygood's police experience gave him the edge.

I thought back to the day we'd arrived. Haygood on the dock, butchering the shark with quiet authority.

Haygood and Skip Amalfi.

Was Skip just a cover, allowing Haygood to come across as the aimless beachbum? All along, Haygood's attitude toward him had been a mixture of patience and contempt. Watching, amused, as Skip peed on the sand. Remaining in the background as Skip harangued the villagers.

Tolerating him the way you tolerate a dull sibling.

Skip, stupid enough to get sucked into a fantasy of running a resort. The dream probably planted by Haygood.

Skip peeing in front of women… Had he also been involved in the cannibal murders? Probably not; too unstable.

But he had served his purpose the night of Betty Aguilar's killing: fishing on the docks, as Haygood knew he did most every night. There to hear Bernardo Rijks's cries of alarm, rushing over to subdue Ben.

Haygood and Creedman had murdered both girls. First, AnneMarie Valdos on the beach, a rehearsal for Betty and setting up Ben. And the stimulus to local unrest that had justified the blockade.

Then, Betty in Victory Park- what had they used to lure her? Dope? Money? One last fling before motherhood?

Cutting her throat and carrying out the mutilation. Drawing Ben out with a bogus emergency call, then choking him out, pouring vodka down his throat, and positioning him with the corpse.

An ex-cop would know how to pull off a perfect choke hold.

An ex-cop would know about positioning corpses.

The park because it was secluded and a common spot for partying. And because Rijks the insomniac walked by every night.

Even if Rijks hadn't heard the moans, he could have been led by a night-strolling Creedman. Not as neat, but no reason for anyone to catch on.

Because Ben came from trash and Betty had been promiscuous.

Ben lying asleep on the carnage. An absurd alibi.

Skip's outrage, genuine. Hostile to Moreland because his father resented the old man, he'd eagerly whipped up the villagers' anger.

Framing Ben had killed three birds with one stone: damaging Moreland irreparably, getting rid of his protÉgÉ, and causing another deep rip in Aruk's social fabric.

Hastening the exodus from the island.

Hoffman and Stasher-Layman's war of attrition. Perhaps Hoffman had decided to speed things up after coming face to face with the old man, his stubbornness…

Believing Moreland cared about the island, when all he really wanted was a few years of peace for the kids.

Moreland willing to do anything to prevent Hoffman from finding out about the kids. Willing to let Aruk die, buying time.

The two of them circling like wrestlers, waiting for an opening.

Still, the same thing bothered me: if Moreland had that kind of power over Hoffman, why not bargain harder?

Creedman stepped in front of me. "Stay back." The thin mustache was beaded with perspiration.

"Sure, Tom. But when this is over, share some gourmet recipes with me. How about girl bourguignon?"

Creedman's nostrils opened. From behind, Haygood cleared his throat and Creedman grabbed Moreland and cuffed him through the passage. Then he turned sideways and squeezed in himself. When he was several paces ahead of us, Haygood cupped Robin's buttock, squeezed, and shoved.

"Go, babe."

Then the heel of his hand hit me in the lower back.

We filed out. When the passage widened, Creedman stopped and Haygood herded us into the center. The dead eyes shifted as he heard something.

Music from the game room. The broken record removed. Something new asserting itself above the generator.

The wheels on the bus go round and round…

"What the…?" said Creedman.

The game room was less than thirty feet away, the door partially open.

Haygood said, "What's with the music?"

"I like music," said Moreland. "As I said, it's my refuge."

"Kiddie music?" said Creedman. "You are one buggy old fart." His eyes brightened: "Do you bring little girls down here to play?"

Moreland blinked. "Hardly."

"Hardly," Creedman imitated. "Maybe you bring kiddies down here to play doctor."

The doors on the bus go open and shut…

"Projection," said Moreland.

"What's that?"

"A Freudian term. Projecting one's own impulses onto someone else. That's what you just did, Tom."

"Oh, fuck off, you self-righteous bag of shit." To us: "Bet you didn't know Dr. Bill here was once the ace pussy-hound of the U.S. Navy. Big-time stud, chased everything in a skirt, the younger the better. Remember those days, Dr. Bill? Chasing and bagging, dark meat, light meat, any kind of meat? Just couldn't control your pecker, could you? Drove poor Mrs. Bill to one-way surfing."

Moreland said nothing, did nothing. That blank look…

"Turned herself to shark chum," said Creedman, "because Dr. Bill here couldn't stop playing doctor with the local pussy. Nice advantage, that M.D. Knock some little thing up, do your own abortion-"

"Unlike you," I said. "Assault with a dead weapon."

Creedman snarled. Haygood clicked his tongue and said, "Check out all these doors."

"Maybe you should," said Creedman. "You're the expert."

Haygood shrugged and pushed Robin, Moreland, and me close together. Backing away, he said, "Not the stomach, the head," and Creedman raised his gun till it was half a foot from Robin's right eye.

"Any problems," he said, "I want to see her brains on the wall."

He stepped back some more, pausing a few feet from the entrance to the latrine, then flattening himself against the wall the way cops do and inching toward the opening, gun first.

Waiting. Looking back at us. Waiting some more.

He peeked in. Took a long, slow look.

The broad face puzzled.

Moving to the next door, just as carefully.

"Wait," I said. "It's rigged- that door and the others. He's got it booby-trapped."

Haygood turned.

"He is nuts," I said. "Stockpiling food and clothes and survival gear, preparing for the end of the world. I'd let you blow yourself up, but he's rigged enough explosives to turn us all into soup."

"That so?" said Haygood.

"Tell him, Bill."

"Nonsense," said Moreland. "Utter nonsense."

Haygood thought a while. "What doors are you saying are rigged?"

"That one for sure," I said. "The room where the music's coming from has a package of dynamite hooked up to the record player. The cable runs into another room. Connected to a generator- listen."

The drone.

"He's got it set up so if the record arm's lifted, boom. There are probably other traps, too, but that's the one he showed us."

"Ridiculous," said Moreland. "Go take a look, Anders."

"How about you go in there," Haygood told him. "Turn off the music while I watch you."

Moreland blinked. "I'd rather not."

"Why not?"

"Because it's silly," said Moreland.

"Come over here," said Haygood.

Moreland ignored him.

"Come over here, pissant."

Moreland closed his eyes and moved his lips silently.

Creedman took hold of his shirt and yanked him forward. "Move, you crazy asshole!"

Moreland passed within Haygood's reach and Haygood got behind him.

"Go," he said, shoving the old man.

Moreland stumbled and stopped. "I'd rather not."

"Go or I'll kill you, sir."

"I'd rather-"

"Okay," said Haygood, smiling at me. "Thanks for the tip, doc. What else should we know about?"

"I wish I knew."

The driver on the bus says, "Move on back…"

"Fucking maniac," said Creedman. "Let's shoot all of them right now and get the hell out of here, Anders."

"I don't think so," said Haygood.

Ordered by his bosses to keep Moreland alive. Till the insurance policy was found… Hoffman going along with the stalemate for thirty years, willing to wait a while longer.

Thirty years of silence from Moreland had convinced him the paradise needle had been forgotten. So he'd felt safe in refocusing his energies on Aruk. Wanting to destroy the island, depopulate it, rebuild it in his own image.

Moreland claimed it was simply greed, but I doubted it.

I visualized Hoffman at a D.C. power lunch with the brothers from Stasher-Layman. "Soft money" changing hands, a discussion of potential sites for a multibillion-dollar project, with Hoffman getting a chunk of the profits.

Storing human garbage along with plutonium and cobalt and strontium.

The need for an isolated spot. A remote place with no political constituency.

Hoffman smiling and coming up with one.

Finding out that Moreland still lived on Aruk, but that the doctor was unable or unwilling to reverse the island's economic problems. The population sliding, the welfare checks coming in regularly; what little commerce there was, dependent upon the Navy base.

Send in the advance team: Creedman, Haygood, the Pickers. Probably others. The goal: hasten the decline and isolate Moreland so that the old man would sell out cheap.

Then Moreland starts writing letters, and the team's told to speed things up.

Creedman and Haygood coming up with a grisly touch- perverse mastery over the case that had ruined their careers. A side benefit: slaking their own hatred for women.

The team… Lyman Picker's plane crash an accident or had his big mouth offended the higher-ups?

Haygood, living on Harry Amalfi's airfield, had been in a perfect position to mess with the plane.

Creedman… the crash had taken place just after Robin and I finished drinking with him outside the restaurant. Creedman and Jacqui had both gone inside, but after the explosion only Jacqui had come out.

Creedman not bothering because he'd known.

Someone else had known, too: Jo, opting out at the last minute. Opting out of the base dinner, too, to plant the roaches. And now she was up there with Pam…

"Okay, let's get out of here," said Haygood, pointing back to the rear ramp.

"Those boxes in the tunnel," said Creedman. "There could be something important in them."

"They could also be rigged. We'll check it out later."

"I opened a few boxes," I said. "All I saw was food and drugs and bottled water. Like I said, he's planning for Armageddon."

"Stop being so helpful," said Creedman. "It won't do you any good."

Haygood said, "Come on, folks. Out." He might have been guiding a tour.

He turned his back on the music room and began to herd us forward.

"Actually," I said, "he does have some kids down here."

A strangled noise rose from Moreland's throat.

Haygood stopped. "That so?"

"Right in there." I pointed to one of the sleeping areas. Haygood's eyes followed. "Want to see?"

Before he could answer, I shouted, "Kids! Kids! Kids!"

Creedman cursed and Haygood's hand tightened around his gun. But he stayed calm and kept his eyes on the sleeping-room entrance.

Nothing happened. Haygood smiled. "Very funny, sir. Onward."

Then a small white face appeared in the doorway to the music room. Two others.

Three, four, five, six. All of them, openmouthed and wide-eyed with wonder.

Except the blind one. He was making quick little circles with his hands.

Lesions and scars bright as strip-joint neon.

Haygood's calm finally shaken.

Creedman's face lost its color. "Oh, shit," he said, and took his eyes off me. I hit him hard under his nose, grabbed for his gun as he went down, but missed. Shoving Robin out of the way, I threw myself on top of him.

Haygood wheeled around. The soft people began croaking and rasping, looking at Moreland, moaning that burn-victim moan.

Moreland ran toward them. Haygood aimed his gun at the old man's back. The soft people kept coming and Haygood's bafflement gave way to revulsion and fear as he stepped back.

I had Creedman's gun now and was punching blindly at his face.

Haygood charged Moreland, shoved him to the floor, kicked at his head, aimed at me. The soft people were between us. I crouched low. They kept coming at Haygood and he struck out at them wildly as they cowered and moaned. Retreating closer to the door he believed was rigged to blow, he stopped. Trapped, confused.

Brassy hair visible above the throng. I pointed Creedman's gun at it.

But I was an easy target, too, and he raised his gun arm high while fending off the soft people with his free hand.

I shifted sharply to the right, trying to stay clear of the soft people so they wouldn't be caught in the middle.

Haygood lost sight of me, as he shoved and circled.

Moreland got to his feet, hurled himself at Haygood.

Haygood turned reflexively at the movement and fired. Moreland's left arm turned red and he fell.

The soft people converged upon his prone form. Haygood looked for me, but I was behind him.

I shot him five times.

His black slicker exploded. He stood there for a second. Collapsed.

The soft people were all over Moreland, croaking and moaning as he bled.

Robin was shouting my name and pointing.

Creedman trying to get up, holding his face. Blood gushed through his fingers. One eye was swollen shut and his nose was already blackening.

I put the gun to his forehead. He sank back down.

Robin pressed herself against the wall, staring at me. All the blood.

Moreland struggled to stand, the wounded arm dangling, dripping, the other arm trying to shield the soft people.

They were entranced by Haygood's corpse. Gray skin, eyes really dead now, dull and empty as the shark's. Gaping mouth leaking pink vomitus.

Blood spread from under him, settling in the crevices of the stone floor.

I'd turned him into a sieve.

I felt big as a building, sick to my stomach.

I'd never owned a firearm, never imagined killing anyone.

Robin, being there to see it.