Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"If you're hearing voices, perhaps you should have a long talk with Dr. Delaware."

"Dear?" said Moreland, softly.

Claire shook her head. "Sure, Dr. Bill."

She played wonderfully, but she looked tense. Mouth set, shoulders hunched, swaying in time with the music as she filled the terrace with a rich brocade of melody. When she was through, we applauded and she said, "Thanks for your tolerance. Now, I've really got to get going. Science project's due tomorrow."

Moreland walked her and Ben out. Pam nibbled a slice of passion fruit, distracted. Robin took my hand.

"She is good, Alex."

"Fantastic," I said. But I was thinking about A. Tutalo. The other things I'd ask Moreland when he returned.

He didn't.

When Robin said, "Let's go upstairs," I didn't argue.

The moment we closed our suite door we were embracing, and soon we were in bed, kissing deeply, merging hungrily.

Afterward, I sank into a molasses vat of dreamless sleep, a welcome brain-death.

That made waking up in the middle of the night so much more unsettling.

Sitting up, sweating.

Noises… my head was fogged and I struggled to make sense of what I was hearing:

Rapid pounding- footsteps out in the hall…

Someone running?

A tattoo of footsteps; more than one person.

Fast.

Panic…

Then shouts- angry, hurried- someone insisting, "No!"

Spike barked.

Robin sat up, hair in her face. She grabbed my arm.

A door slammed.

"Alex-"

More shouts.

Too far away to make out words.

"No!" again.

A man's voice.

Moreland.

We got up, threw on robes, opened our door carefully.

The chandelier over the entry was on, whitening the landing. My eyes ached, struggling to stay open.

Moreland wasn't there, but Jo was, her broad back to us, hands atop the banister. A door down the hall opened and Pam came running out, wrapped in a silver kimono, her face paper-white. The door stayed open and I had my first look at her room: white satin bedding, peach-colored walls, cut flowers. At the end of the landing, her father's door remained closed.

But I heard him again. Down in the entry.

We hurried next to Jo. She didn't turn, kept looking at Moreland and Dennis Laurent. The police chief stood just inside the front door, in full uniform, hands on his hips. A holstered pistol on his belt.

Moreland faced him, hands clenched. He had on a long white nightshirt, soft slippers. His legs were varicosed stilts, his hands inches from the police chief's impassive face.

"Impossible, Dennis! Insane!"

Dennis held out a palm. Moreland came closer anyway.

"Listen to me, Dennis-"

"I'm just telling you what we-"

"I don't care what you found, it's impossible! How could you of all-"

"Take it easy. Let's just go one step at a time and I'll do what I-"

"What you can do is end it! Right now ! Don't even entertain the possibility, and don't allow anyone else to. There's simply no choice, son."

The policeman's eyes became black cuts. "So you want me to-"

"You're the law, son. It's up to you to-"

"It's up to me to enforce the law-"

"Enforce it, but-"

"But not fully?"

"You know what I'm saying, Dennis. This must be-"

"Stop." Dennis's bass voice hit a note at the bottom of his register. He stood even taller, bearing down on Moreland. Forced to look up, Moreland said, "This is psychotic. After all you and-"

"I go with what I have," said Dennis, "and what I have looks bad. And it could get lots worse. I called the base and asked Ewing to keep his men under watch-"

"He took your call?"

"As a matter of fact, he did."

"Congratulations," said Moreland bitterly. "You've finally arrived."

"Doc, there's no reas-"

"There's no reason to continue this insanity !"

The police chief started to open the door. Moreland took hold of his arm. Dennis stared at Moreland's bony fingers until the old man let go.

"I've got things to do, doc. Stay here. Don't leave the estate."

"How can you-"

"Like I said, I go with what I have."

"And I said-"

"Stop wasting your breath." Dennis made another attempt to leave, and once again Moreland reached for his arm. This time the big man shook him off and Moreland fell back.

Dennis caught him as Pam called out.

Dennis looked up at us.

" Think, son!" said Moreland. "Does it make-"

"I'm not your damn son. And I don't need you to tell me what to think or how to do my job. Just stay up here till I tell you different."

"That's house impris-"

"It's good sense. You're obviously not going to be of much help, so I'm calling over to Saipan and have them send me someone."

"No," said Moreland. "I'll cooperate. I'm perfectly-"

"Forget it."

"I'm the-"

"Not anymore," said Dennis. "Just stay here and don't cause problems." Growling now. His enormous shoulders bunched.

He looked up at us again. Focused on Pam, then scanned the banister from end to end, eyes darting like the geckos.

"What's going on?" I said.

He chewed his lip.

Moreland's head was down and he was holding it as if to keep it from falling off his neck.

Pam said, "What's happened? What's happened, Dennis?"

Dennis seemed to consider an answer, then he looked back at Moreland, now leaning, face to the wall.

"A bad thing," he said, putting one foot out the door. "Daddy can tell you all about it."

The door slammed and he was gone. Moreland remained in the entry, not moving. The chandelier turned his bald head metallic.

Pam rushed down to him and we followed.

"Dad?"

She put her arm around him. His color was bad. "What is it, Dad?"

He mumbled something.

"What?"

Silence.

"Please, Daddy, tell me."

He shook his head and muttered, "As Dennis said. A bad thing."

"What bad thing?"

More headshaking.

She guided him to an armchair in the front room. He sat reluctantly, remaining on the edge, one hand scratching a knobby knee, the other shielding most of his face. The visible part was the color of spoiled milk and his lips looked like slices of putty.

"What's going on, Daddy? Why was Dennis so rude to you?"

"Doing his job…"

"A crime? There was a crime, Dad?"

Moreland dropped both hands in his lap. Defeat had stripped his face of structure; each wrinkle was as black and deep as freshly gouged sculptor's clay.

"Yes, a crime… murder."

"Who was murdered, Dad?"

No answer.

"When?"

"Tonight."

I said, "Another-"

He cut me off with a hand-slash. "A terrible murder."

"Who?" said Jo.

"A young woman."

"Where, Dad?"

"Victory Park."

"Who was the victim?" pressed Jo.

Long pause. "A girl named Betty Aguilar."

Pam frowned. "Do we know her?"

"Ida Aguilar's daughter. She works Ida's stall at the Trading Post. She came in for a checkup last week, I introduced you to her when-"

"My God," I said. "I just spoke to her today. She was three months pregnant."

Robin said, "Oh, no." She was holding on to the sash of my robe, eyes belladonna-bright.

"Well, that's certainly dreadful," said Jo. Not a trace of slur. Off the sleeping pills?

"Yes, yes," said Moreland. "Very dreadful, yes, yes, yes…" He grabbed for the chair's arm. Pam braced him.

"I'm so sorry, Daddy. Were you close to her?"

"I-" He began to cry and Pam tried to hold him, but he freed himself and looked over at the big dark windows. The sky was still deep blue, the clouds larger, lower.