Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

The arm hung loosely.

Very loosely. An invertebrate grace.

Fingers curling in ways that normal fingers couldn't.

Serpentine- no, even a snake had more firmness.

White and flaccid-

Wormlike.

He scratched a thigh, a cuff rode up, and I saw something shiny atop a loafer. Brand-new penny.

He saw something behind me and his head lowered shyly.

"Hi," I heard Robin say.

Then I saw something behind him.

Another man emerging from the shadows, even smaller, so severely hunchbacked his head seemed to protrude from his chest.

Red-and-black plaid button-down, blue jeans, high-top sneakers.

Two good eyes. One ear. The eyes soft.

Innocent.

Curling a finger, he turned his back on us and stepped further into the cave.

The first man's forehead creased again and he followed.

We tagged along, tripping and stumbling as our feet snagged on bits of rock.

The little soft men had no trouble at all.

Gradually, the cave turned from black to charcoal to dove-gray to gold as we stepped out into a huge, domed cavern lit by several more of the caged fixtures.

Rock formations too blunt to be stalagmites rose from the floor. A bank of refrigerators filled one wall. Ten of them, smallish, a random assortment of colors and brands. Avocado. Gold. Hues fashionable thirty years ago. The wires met at a junction box attached to a thick black cable that ran behind a crag and out of the room.

In the center of the cavern were two wooden picnic tables and a dozen chairs. Shag area rugs were scattered over a spotless stone floor. A whirring, humming noise came from behind the junction box- a generator.

The rain slightly audible, now. A tinkle. But everything was dry.

Moreland came in and sat at the head of the table, behind a large bowl of fresh fruit. He wore his usual white shirt and his bald head looked oiled. His hands took hold of a grapefruit.

Four more small, soft people filed in and sat around him. Two wore cotton dresses and had finer features. Women. The others were dressed in plaid shirts and jeans or khakis.

One of the men had no eyes at all, just tight drums of shiny skin stretched across the sockets. One of the women was especially tiny, no larger than a seven-year-old.

They looked at us, then back at Moreland, their ruined faces even whiter in the full light.

Place settings before each of them. Fruit and biscuits and vitamin pills. Glasses of bright orange and green and red liquid. Gatorade. Empty bottles were grouped in the center of the table, along with plates full of rinds and pits and cores.

The two men who'd brought us stood with their hands folded.

Moreland said, "Thank you, Jimmy. Thank you, Eddie."

Rolling the grapefruit away, he motioned. The men took their places at the table.

Some of the others began to murmur. Deformed hands trembled.

Moreland said, "It's all right. They're good."

Runny eyes settled upon us, once again. The blind man waved his hands and clapped.

"Alex," said Moreland. "Robin."

"Bill," I answered numbly.

"I'm sorry to put you through such a rigamarole, son- and I didn't know you'd be coming, dear. Are you all right?"

Robin nodded absently, but her eyes were elsewhere.

The tiny woman had engaged her visually. She had on a child's pink party dress with white lace trim. A white metal bracelet circled a withered forearm. A child's curious eyes.

Robin smiled at her and hugged herself.

The woman licked the place where her lips should have been and kept staring.

The others noticed her concentration and trembled some more. The generator kept up its song. I took in details: framed travel posters on the walls- Antigua, Rome, London, Madrid, the Vatican. The temples at Angkor Wat. Jerusalem, Cairo.

More cartons of food lined up neatly across from the refrigerators. Portable cabinets and closets, a couple of dollies.

So many refrigerators because they had to be small enough to fit down the hatch. I pictured Moreland wheeling them through the tunnel. Now I knew where he'd gone that night with his black bag. Where he'd gone so many nights, all these years, barely sleeping, working to the point of exhaustion. The fall in the lab…

A sink in the corner was hooked up to a tank of purified water. Gallon bottles stood nearby.

No stove or oven- because of poor ventilation?

No, the air was cool and fresh, and the rain sound was faint but clear, so there had to be some kind of shaft leading up to the forest.

No fire because the smoke would be a giveaway.

No microwave, either- probably because Moreland had doubts about the safety. Worries about people who'd already been damaged.

His lie about being part of the nuclear coverup a partial truth?

Lots of partial truths; right from the beginning he'd swaddled the truth in falsehood.

Events that had happened but in other places, other times.

Einstein would approve… it's all relative… time's deceit.

Everything a symbol or metaphor.

The other quotes… all for the sake of justice ?

Testing me.

I looked at the scarred faces huddled around him.

White, wormlike.

Joseph Cristobal, tying vines to the eastern walls, hadn't hallucinated thirty years ago.

Three decades of hiding punctuated by only one mishap?

One of them going stir-crazy, emerging aboveground and heading toward the stone walls?

Cristobal sees, is gripped by fright.

Moreland diagnoses hallucinations.

Lying to Cristobal… for justice's sake.

Soon after, Cristobal gives one last scream and dies.

Just like the catwoman… what had she seen?

"Please," said Moreland. "Sit down. They're gentle. They're the gentlest people I know."

We squeezed out our soaked clothes and took our places around the table as Moreland announced our names. Some of them seemed to be paying attention. Others remained impassive.

He cut fruit for them and reminded them to drink.

They obeyed.

No one spoke.

After a while, he said, "Finished? Good. Now please wipe your faces- very good. Now please clear your plates and go into the game room to have some fun."

One by one they stood and filed out, slipping behind the refrigerators and disappearing around a rock wall.

Moreland rubbed his eyes. "I knew you'd manage to find me."

"With Emma's help," I said.

"Yes, she's a dear…"

"Time's deceit. Including the deceit you used to bring me over. You've been leading up to this since the first day I got here, haven't you?"

He blinked repeatedly.

"Why now?" I said.

"Because things have come to a head."

"Pam's up there looking for you, scared to death."

"I know- I'll tell her… soon. I'm sick, probably dying. Nervous system deterioration. Neck and head pain, things go blank… out of focus. I forget more and more, lose equilibrium… remember my tumble in the lab?"

"Maybe that was just lack of sleep."

He shook his head. "No, no, even when I want to sleep it rarely comes. My concentration… wanders. It may be Alzheimer's or something very similar. I refuse to put myself through the indignities of diagnosis. Will you help me before there's nothing left of me?"

"Help you how?"

"Documentation- this must be recorded for perpetuity. And taking care of them- we must figure out something so they'll be cared for after I'm gone."

He stretched his arms out. "You've got the training, son. And the character- commitment to justice."

"Mr. Disraeli's justice? Truth in action?"

"Exactly… there is no truth without action."

"The great thinkers," I said.

His eyes dulled and he threw back his head and stared at the cavern's ceiling. "Once upon a time I thought I might develop into a significant thinker- shameless youthful arrogance. I loved music, science, literature, yearned to be a Renaissance man." He laughed. " Medieval man would be more like it. Always mediocre, occasionally evil."