Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

And even if the dog food had attracted them, why hadn't they stayed in the sitting room, near the bag?

Roaches were supposed to be smart, as bugs went. Why not head for an easier meal- the fruit from the orchard?

Instead, they'd taken a circuitous journey, scampering up the gravel paths, across the lawn, into the house somehow. Bypassing Gladys's kitchen. Up the stairs. Under our door.

All because of a sealed sack of kibble?

Despite Moreland's claim, the bathroom door seemed too snug to let them in or out. Had we left it open before leaving for dinner at the base?

Robin always left the bathroom door closed. Sometimes I didn't… Which of us had last used the lav?

Why hadn't they come running out when we arrived home? Or at least hissed in alarm?

An alternative scenario: they'd been placed in the bathroom and shut in.

Someone up to mischief during the dinner at Stanton. The house empty. Someone seizing the opportunity to send us a message: Go away.

But who and why?

Who had the opportunity?

Ben was the obvious choice, because he had access to the insectarium.

He'd said his evening was full, between fatherhood and a hibachi dinner with Claire.

Had he come back?

But why? Apart from the remark about natural rhythm, he'd shown no sign of hostility toward us. On the contrary. He'd gone out of his way to make us feel welcome.

Out of obligation to Moreland?

Were his own feelings something else?

I thought about it for a while, but it just didn't make sense.

Someone else on the staff?

Cheryl?

Too dull to be that calculating, and once again, what was her motive? Plus, she usually left after dinner, and no meal had been served tonight.

Gladys? Same lack of motive, and the idea of her purloining roaches seemed equally ludicrous.

There had to be at least a dozen groundskeepers and gardeners who came and went, but why would they resent us?

Unless the message had been meant for Moreland.

My surmise about his attitude of noblesse oblige and the resentment it might have generated in the villagers could be right on target.

The good doctor less than universally loved? His guests seen as colonial interlopers?

If so, it could be anyone.

Paranoia, Delaware. The guy had kept thousands of bugs for years, four had gotten out because he was old and absentminded and had forgotten to put a lid on tight.

Spacey, just as Milo had said.

Not a comforting thought, considering the thousands of bugs, but I supposed he'd be especially careful now.

I tried to empty my head and sleep. Thought of the way Jo Picker had come in: drowsy, asking if someone had screamed.

Robin's scream had sounded a full ten minutes before.

Why the delay?

The sleeping pill slowing her responses?

Or no need to hurry because she knew ?

And she'd been alone upstairs all evening.

Paranoia run amok. What reason would a grieving widow have for malicious mischief?

She'd said she was squeamish about insects, had refused even to enter the bug zoo.

And there was no animosity between us. Robin had been especially kind to her… Even if she was a fiend, how could she have gained access to our room?

Her own room key- the lock similar to ours?

Or a simple pick. Most bedroom locks weren't designed for security. Ours back home could be popped with a screwdriver.

I lay there and listened for sounds through the wall.

Nothing.

What did I expect to hear, the click of her keyboard? Widow's wails?

I shifted position and the mattress rocked, but Robin didn't budge.

Teachers' voices from many years ago filtered through my brain.

Alexander is a very bright little boy, but he does tend to daydream.

Is something wrong at home, Mrs. Delaware? Alexander has seemed rather distracted lately.

A soft, liquid line of light oozed through a part in the curtains like golden paint freshly squeezed.

Playing on Robin's face.

She smiled in her sleep, curls dangling over one eye.

Take her example and adapt.

I relaxed my muscles consciously and deepened my breathing. Soon my chest loosened and I felt better.

Able to smile at the image of Moreland with his chocolate cake and schoolboy guilt.

My body felt heavy. Ready to sleep.

But it took a long time to fall under.

The next morning, the clouds were darker and moving closer, but still remote.

We were ready to dive at ten. Spike was acting restless, so we decided to take him along. Needing something to shade him, we went to the kitchen and asked Gladys. She called Carl Sleet in from the rose garden, where he was pruning, and he trotted over carrying his shears. His gray work clothes, hair, and beard were specked with grass clippings, and his nails were filthy. He went to the outbuildings and came back with an old umbrella with a spiked post and a blue-and-white canvas shade that was slightly soiled.

"Want me to load it for you?"

"No, thanks. I can do it."

"Put new locks on the bug house last night. Strong ones. Shouldn't be having any more problems."

"Thanks."

"Welcome. Got any fudge left, Gladys?"

"Here you go." She gave him some and he returned to his work, eating.

Gladys walked us through the kitchen. "Dr. Bill feels awful about last night."

"I'll let him know there are no hard feelings."

"That would be… charitable- now you two have a good time."

I pitched the umbrella on South Beach and realized we'd forgotten to bring drinks. Leaving Robin and Spike on the sand, I drove over to Auntie Mae's Trading Post. The same faded clothes were in the windows, which were fly-specked and cloudy. Inside, the place was barnlike, with wooden stalls lining a sawdust aisle and walls of raw board.

Most of the booths were empty and even those that were stocked weren't staffed. More clothing, cheap, out of date. Beach sandals, suntan lotion, and tourist kitsch- miniature thatched huts of bamboo and AstroTurf, plastic dancing girls, pouting tiki gods, coconuts carved into blowfish. The building smelled of cornmeal and seawater and a bit of backed-up bilge.

The only other human being was a young, plainfaced woman in a red tank top watching TV behind the counter of the third booth to the right. Her cash register was a scarred, black antique. Next to it were canisters of beef jerky and pickled eggs and a half-full bottle of Windex and a rag. The front case was filled with candy bars and chips- potato, corn, taro. On the rear wall were a swinging door and shelves holding sealed boxes of sweets. The television was mounted to the side wall that separated the stall from its neighbor, sharing space with a pay phone.

She noticed me but kept watching the screen. The image was fuzzy, streaked intermittently with bladelike flashes of white. A station from Guam. Long shot of a big room with polished wood walls, corporate logo of a hotel chain over a long banquet table.

Senator Nicholas Hoffman sat in the center behind a glass of water and a microphone. He wore a white-and-brown batik shirt and several brilliantly colored flower necklaces. The two white men flanking him were dressed the same way. One I recognized as a legislator from the Midwest; the other was cut from the same hair-tonicked, hungry-smile mold. Four other men, Asians, sat at the ends of the table.

Hoffman glanced at his notes, then looked up smiling. "And so let me conclude by celebrating the fact that we all share a vision of a more viable and prosperous Micronesia, a multicultural Micronesia that moves swiftly and confidently into the next century."

He smiled again and gave a small bow. Applause. The screen flickered, went gray, shut off. The young woman turned it back on. Commercial for Island Fever Restaurant # 6: slack-key guitar theme song, pupu platters and flaming desserts, "native beauties skilled in ancient dances for your entertainment pleasure." A caricature of a chubby little man in a grass skirt rolling his hips and winking.