Jonathan Kellerman: The Web

The tenth book in the Alex Delaware series, 1995

The shark on the dock was no monster.

Four feet long, probably a low-lying reef scavenger. But its dead white eyes had retained their menace, and its jaws were jammed with needles that made it a prize for the two men with the bloody hands.

They were bare-chested Anglos baked brown, muscular yet flabby. One held the corpse by the gill slits while the other used the knife. Slime coated the gray wooden planks. Robin had been looking out over the bow as The Madeleine pulled in to harbor. She saw the butchery and turned away.

I kept my hand on Spike's leash.

He's a French bulldog, twenty-eight pounds of bat-eared, black-brindled muscle and a flat face that makes him a drowning risk. Trained as a pup to avoid water, he now despises it, and Robin and I had dreaded the six-hour cruise from Saipan. But he'd gotten his sea legs before we had, exploring the old yacht's teak deck, then falling asleep under the friendly Pacific sun.

His welfare during the trip had been our main concern. Six hours in a pet crate in the baggage hold during the flight from L.A. to Honolulu had left him shell-shocked. A pep talk and meatloaf had helped his recovery and he'd taken well to the condo where we'd stopped over for thirty hours. Then back on the plane for nearly eight more hours to Guam, an hour at the airport bumping shoulders with soldiers and sailors and minor government officials in guayaberas, and a forty-minute shuttle to Saipan. There Alwyn Brady had met us at the harbor and taken us, along with the bimonthly provisions, on the final leg of the trip to Aruk.

Brady had maneuvered the seventy-foot vessel through the keyhole and beyond the barrier reef. The yacht's rubber bumpers bounced gently off the pilings. Out at the remote edges, the water was deep blue, thinning to silvery green as it trickled over creamy sand. The green reminded me of something- Cadillac had offered the exact shade during the fifties. From above, the reef's ledges were coal-black, and small, brilliant fish flitted around them like nervous birds. A few coconut palms grew out of the empty beach. Dead husks dotted the silica like suspension points.

Another bump and Brady cut the engines. I looked past the dock at sharp, black peaks in the distance. Volcanic outcroppings that told the story of the island's origins. Closer in, soft brown slopes rose above small whitewashed houses and narrow roads that coiled like limp shoelaces. Off to the north a few clapboard stores and a single-pump filling station made up the island's business district. Tin roofs glinted in the afternoon light. The only sign I could make out read AUNTIE MAE'S TRADING POST. Above it was a rickety satellite dish.

Robin put her head on my shoulder.

One of Brady's deckhands, a thin, black-haired boy, tied the boat. "This is it," he said.

Brady came up a few seconds later, pushing his cap back and shouting at the crew to start unloading. Fiftyish, compact, and nearly as blunt faced as Spike, he was proud of his half-Irish, half-islander ancestry and talkative as an all-night disc jockey. Several times during the journey he'd turned the wheel over to one of the crewmen and come up on deck to lecture us on Yeats, Joyce, vitamins, navigation without instrumentation, sport-fishing, the true depth of the Mariana Trench, geopolitics, island history. And Dr. Moreland.

"A saint. Cleaned up the water supply, vaccinated the kids. Like that German fellow, Schweitzer. Only Dr. Bill don't play the organ or no such foolishness. No time for nothing but his good work."

Now Brady stretched and grinned up at the sun, displaying the few yellow teeth he had left.

"Gorgeous, isn't it? Bit of God's own giftwrap- go easy on that, Orson! Fray- gile. And get the doctor-and-missus' gear out!"

He glanced at Spike.

"You know, doc, first time I saw that face I thought of a monkfish. But he's been a sailor, hasn't he? Starting to look like Errol Flynn." He laughed. "Too many hours on water, turn a sea cow into a mermaid- ah, here's your things- lay that gently, Orson, pretend it's your honeybunch. Stay there, folks, we'll unload it for you. Someone should be by any minute to pick you up- ah, talk about prophecy."

He aimed his chin at a black Jeep coming down the center of the hillside. The vehicle stopped at the beach road, waited for a woman to pass, then headed straight for us, parking a few feet away from where the shark was being butchered. What remained of the fish was soft and pitiful.

The man with the knife was inspecting the teeth. In his late twenties, he had small features in a big, soft face, lifeless yellow hair that fell across his forehead, and arms embroidered with tattoos. Running his finger along the shark's gums, he passed the blade to his partner, a shorter man, slightly older, with heavy beard shadow, wild curly brassy hair, and matching coils of body fleece. Impassive, he began working on the dorsal fin.

Brady climbed out of the boat and stood on the dock. The water was flat and The Madeleine barely bobbed.

He helped Robin out and I scooped up Spike. Once on solid ground, the dog cocked his head, shook himself off, snorted, and began barking at the Jeep.

A man got out. Something dark and hairy sat on his shoulder.

Spike became livid, straining the leash. The hairy thing bared its teeth and pawed the air. Small monkey. The man seemed unperturbed. After shaking Brady's hand, he came over and reached for Robin's, then mine.

"Ben Romero. Welcome to Aruk." Thirty to thirty-five, five six, one forty, he had a smooth bronze face and short, straight black hair side-parted precisely. Aviator glasses sat atop a delicate nose. His eyes were burnt almonds. He wore pressed blue cotton pants and a spotless white shirt that had somehow evaded the monkey's footprints.

The monkey was jabbering and pointing. "Calm down, KiKo, it's just a dog." Romero smiled. "I think."

"We're not sure, either," said Robin.

Romero took the monkey off his shoulder and held it to his cheek, stroking its face. "You like dogs, KiKo, right? What's his name?"

"Spike."

"His name is Spike, KiKo. Dr. Moreland told me he's heat sensitive so we've got a portable air conditioner for your suite. But I doubt you'll need it. January's one of our prettiest months. We get some rain bursts, but it stays about eighty."

"It's lovely," said Robin.

"Always is. On the leeward side. Let me get your stuff."

Brady and his men brought our luggage to the Jeep. Romero and I loaded. When we finished, the monkey was standing on the ground petting Spike's head and chattering happily. Spike accepted the attention with a look of injured dignity.

"Good boy," said Robin, kneeling beside him.

Laughter made us all turn. The shark butchers were looking our way. The shorter one had his hands on his hips, the knife in his belt. Rosy-pink hands. He wiped them on his cutoffs and winked. The taller man laughed again.

Spike's bat ears stiffened and the monkey hissed. Romero put it back on his shoulder, frowning. "Better get going. You must be bushed."

We climbed into the Jeep, and Romero made a wide arc and headed back to the beach road. A wooden sign said FRONT STREET. As we drove up the hill, I looked back. The ocean was all-encompassing and the island seemed very small. The Madeleine 's crew stood on the dock, and the men with the bloody hands were heading toward town, wheeling their bounty in a rusty barrow. All that was left of the shark was a stain.