Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

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 ranchland 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 brussels 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."

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 AnneMarie 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?"

Moreland 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.