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  Alex Delaware [10]

  Kellerman, Jonathan

  Ballantine Books (2011)

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  Tags: Alex Delaware

  Alex Delawarettt

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  Psychologist-detective Dr. Alex Delaware finds terror in the heart of paradise in this relentlessly sinister novel by America's premier writer of psychological suspense, the author of ten successive New York Times bestsellers. Three months in paradise, all expenses paid. It's an invitation Alex Delaware can't refuse. Dr. Woodrow Wilson Moreland, a revered scientist and philanthropist on the tiny Pacific island of Aruk, has invited Alex to his home to help him organize his papers for publication-- a light workload leaving Alex plenty of time to enjoy a romantic interlude with Robin Castagna.

  Quickly, however, secretive houseguests, frightening nocturnal visitors, and the elusive Dr. Moreland himself dim the pleasures of deep blue water and white

  sand.

  The cases Moreland chooses to share--a patient driven to madness by a cruel, unspeakable act; a man who succumbed forty years ago to radiation poisoning after a nuclear blast; a young woman, brutally murdered, whose mutilated body was found on the beach just six months before-- seem unconnected. And yet Alex can't help wondering what the good doctor is trying to tell him...and what Moreland's real reason for inviting him to Aruk is.

  As Alex probes--with a little long-distance help from his friend LAPD detective Milo Sturgis--he comes to believe the answer lies hidden somewhere on Moreland's vast estate. Yet when he finally discovers the truth, the revelation will be more shocking than he could have imagined. And it will come too late to stem the tide of violence that threatens guilty and innocent alike on the lovely lost island of Aruk.

  Once again, with his brilliant characterizations and rapid-fire pace, Jonathan Kellerman has redefined the boundaries of suspense, probing real-life horrors and innermost fears in a novel that transfixes from first page to last.

  The Web

  Alex Delaware – Book 10

  By Jonathan Kellerman

  To my daughter, Aliza.

  Such pizzazz, such intellect, flashing eyes and a smile that lights up the galaxy.

  Wonderful things come in tiny packages.

  1

  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 mo
nkey'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.

  2

  "Let me give you a proper welcome," said Romero. "Ahuma na ahap—that's old pidgin for "enjoy our home.' "

  He started up the same central road. Winding and unmarked, it was barely one vehicle wide and bordered by low walls of piled rock. The grade was steeper than it had appeared from the harbor and he played with the Jeep's gears in order to maintain traction. Each time the vehicle lurched, KiKo nattered and tightened his spidery grip on Romero's shirt. Spike's head was out the window, tilted up at the cloudless sky.

  As we climbed, I looked back and caught a frontal view of the business district. Most of the buildings were closed, including the gas station. Romero sped past the small, white houses. Up close, the buildings looked shabbier, the stucco cracked, sometimes peeled to the paper, the tin roofs dented and pocked and mossy. Laundry hung on sagging lines. Naked and half-naked children played in the dirt. A few of the properties were fenced with chicken wire, most were open. Some looked unoccupied. A couple of skinny dogs scrounged lazily in the dirt, ignoring Spike's bark.

  This was U.S. territory but it could have been anywhere in the developing world. Some of the meanness was softened by vegetation— broad-leafed philodendrons, bromeliads, flowering coral trees, palms. Many of the structures were surrounded by greenery— whitewashed eggs in emerald nests.

  "So how was your trip?" said Romero.

  "Tiring but good," said Robin. Her fingers were laced in mine and her brown eyes were wide. The air through the Jeep's open windows ruffled her curls, and her linen shirt billowed.

  "Dr. Bill wanted to greet you personally, but he just got called out. Some kids diving out on North Beach, stung by jellyfish."

  "Hope it's not serious."

  "Nah. But it does smart."

  "Is he the only doctor on the island?" I said.

  "We run a clinic at the church. I'm an RN. Emergencies used to get flown over to Guam or Saipan till . . . anyway, the clinic does the trick for most of our problems. I'm on call for whenever I'm needed."

  "Have you lived here long?"

  "Whole life except for Coast Guard and nursing school in Hawaii. Met my wife there. She's a Chinese girl. We have four kids."

  As we continued to climb, the shabby houses gave way to empty fields of red clay, and the harbor became tiny. But the volcanic peaks remained as distant, as if avoiding us.

  To the right was a small grove of ash-colored trees with deeply corrugated trunks and sinuous, knobby branches that seemed to claw at the sky. Aerial roots dripped like melting wax from several boughs, digging their way back into the earth.

  "Banyans?" I said.

  "Yup. Strangler trees. They send those shoots up around anything unlucky enough to grow near them and squeeze the life out of it. Little hooks under the shoots— like Velcro, they just dig in. We don't want them but they grow like crazy in the jungle. Those are about ten years old. Some bird must have dropped seeds."

  "Where's the jungle?"

  He laughed. "Well, it's not really that. I mean, there're no wild animals or anything else for that matter except the stranglers."

  He pointed toward the mountaintops. "Just east of the island's center. Dr. Bill's place butts right up against it. On the other side is Stanton— the Navy base." He shifted into low, got the Jeep over an especially steep rise, then coasted through big open wooden gates.

  The road on the other side was freshly blacktopped. Four-story coco palms were set every ten feet. The piled rock was replaced by a hand-hewn, Japanese-style pine fence and rows of flame-orange clivia. Velvet lawns rolled away on all sides and I could make out the tops of the banyan forest, a remote gray fringe.

  Then movement. A small herd of black-tailed deer grazing to the left. I pointed them out to Robin and she smiled and kissed my knuckles. A few seabirds hovered above us; otherwise the sky was inert.

  A hundred more palms and we pulled into a huge, gravel courtyard shaded by red cedar, Aleppo pine, mango, and avocado. In the center, an algae-streaked limestone fountain spouted into a carved basin teeming with hyacinths. Behind it stood a massive two-story house, light brown stucco with pine trim and balconies and a pagoda roof of shiny green tiles. Some of the edge tiles wore gargoyle faces.

  Romero turned off the engine and KiKo scrambled off his shoulder, ran up wide stone steps, and began knocking on the front door.

  Spike jumped out of the Jeep and followed, scratching at the wood with his forepaws.

  Robin got out to restrain him.

  "Don't worry," said Romero. "That's iron pine, hundreds of years old. The whole place is rock solid. The Japanese army built it in 1919, after the League of Nations took the territories away from Germany and gave them to the emperor. This was their official headquarters."

  KiKo was swinging from the doorknob as Spike barked in encouragement. Romero said, "Looks like they're already buddies. Don't worry about your stuff, I'll get it for you later."

  He pushed the door open with the monkey still holding on. It had been a long time since I'd left a door unlocked in L.A.

  A round white stone entry led to a big front room with waxed pine floors under Chinese rugs, high plaster walls, a carved teak ceiling, and lots of old, comfortable-looking furniture. Pastel watercolors on the walls. Potted orchids in porcelain jardinieres supplied richer hues. Archways on each side led to long hallways. In front of the right-hand passage was an awkward-looking, red-carpeted staircase with an oiled banister, all right angles, no curves. It hooked its way up to the second-floor landing and continued out of view.

  Straight ahead, a wall of picture windows framed a tourist-brochure vista of terraces and grasslands and the heartbreakingly blue ocean. The barrier reef was a tiny dark comma notched by the keyhole harbor, the western tip of the island a distinct knife point cutting into the lagoon. Most of Aruk Village was now concealed by treetops. The few houses I could see were sprinkled like sugar on the hillside.

  "How many acres do you have here?"

  "Seven hundred, give or take."

  Over a square mile. Big chunk of a seven-by-one-mile island.

  "When Dr. Bill bought it from the government, it was abandoned," Romero said. "He brought it back to life— can I get you something to drink?"

  He returned with a tray of Coke cans, lime wedges, glasses, and a water bowl for Sp
ike. Trailing him were two small women in floral housedresses and rubber thongs, one in her sixties, the other half that age. Both had broad, open faces. The older woman's was pitted.

  "Dr. Alexander Delaware and Ms. Robin Castagna," said Romero, placing the tray on a bamboo end table and the water bowl on the floor.

  Spike rushed over and began lapping. KiKo watched analytically, scratching his little head.

  "This is Gladys Medina," said Romero. "Gourmet chef and executive housekeeper, and Cheryl, first daughter of Gladys and executive vice-housekeeper."

  "Please," said Gladys, flipping a hand. "We cook and clean. Nice to meet you." She bowed and her daughter imitated her.

  "False modesty," said Romero, handing Robin her drink.

  "What are you after, Benjamin? A ginger cookie? I didn't bake yet, so it won't do you any good. That's a very . . . cute dog. I ordered some food for him on the last boatload and it stayed dry." She named the brand Spike was used to.