The Web Page 3

  "What about through the forest?"

  "The Japanese salted it with land mines."

  His wife moved out from under his arm. "What kinds of things do you craft, Robin?"

  "Musical instruments."

  "Ah . . . drums and such?"

  "Guitars and mandolins."

  "Lyman plays the guitar."

  Picker scratched his beard. "Took a guitar into the hoyos of central Ecuador— now that was a place— ocelots, tapir, kinkajou. Only indigenous thingies around here lack spines, and my bride despises spineless things, don't you?"

  "He plays quite well," said Jo.

  "Regular Segovia." Picker mimed a strum. "Sitting around the campfire with the Auca Indians, trying to charm them so they'd lead me to a juicy trove of Cordyceps militaris—fungal parasite, grows on insect pupae, they eat it like popcorn. Humidity loosened the glue on the thing, woke up the next morning to a stack of soggy boards." He laughed. "Used the strings to strangle my supper that night, the rest for toothpicks."

  We reached the bottom of the stairs. Ben Romero was in the front room, KiKo on his shoulder. Picker eyed the animal. "I've eaten them, too. Gamy. Can't housebreak them, did you know?"

  "Evening, Ben," said Jo. "Alfresco, as usual?"

  Ben nodded. "Dr. Bill will be a little late."

  "Surprise, surprise," said Picker.

  We walked through the right-hand hallway. Raw silk walls were hung with yet more pale watercolors. Nature scenes, well executed. The same signature on all of them: "B. Moreland." Another of the doctor's talents?

  Ben led us through a big, yellow living room with a limestone fireplace, brocade couches, chinoiserie tables, Imari porcelain lamps with parchment shades. An oil portrait of a black-haired woman took up the space over the mantel. Her haughty beauty evoked Sargent.

  The room opened to a wraparound terrace where a banquet table was covered with bright blue cloth. Bone china set for seven. Nascent light from hanging iron lanterns was swallowed by the still-bright evening.

  The sun nudged the horizon, spilling crimson onto the skin of the water, a lovely wound. Down in the village tin roofs glinted through the treetops like tiny coins. The road leading up to the estate was a sleeping gray snake, its head resting at the big front gates. I thought of the slaves storming up from the barracks. Some Japanese general watching, helpless, knowing how it would end.

  Lyman Picker touched his throat and winked at Ben.

  "Bourbon," Ben said in a tight voice. "Straight up."

  "Excellent memory, friend."

  "And for you, Mrs. Picker?"

  "Just a soda, if it's no bother."

  "No bother at all." Ben's jaw flexed. "Ms. Castagna? Dr. Delaware?"

  "Nothing, thanks," I said.

  Robin looked at me. "Me, neither."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  He left.

  "Conscientious one, that," said Picker.

  Jo began examining the flatware. Robin and I walked to the pine railing. Picker followed us and leaned against the wood, elbows resting on the cap.

  "So you're here to work with the old man. Sun and fun, maybe a publication or two. He's lucky to get you. You wouldn't find a serious scientist here."

  I laughed.

  "No offense, man," he said, as if offended. "When I say serious, I mean us theoretical and oh-so-irrelevant types. Panhandlers with Ph.D.'s, rattling our beakers and praying stipends will drop in. This part of the globe, you want funding, you don't study a place like this, you go for Melanesia, Polynesia. Big, fat, fertile islands, plenty of flora, fauna, agreeably colorful indigenous tribes, serious mythology for the folklore crowd."

  "Aruk doesn't have any of that?"

  He coughed without covering his mouth. "Micronesia, my friend, is two thousand dirt specks in three million square miles of water, most of them uninhabited bumps of coral. This bump's one of the most obscure. Did you know there were no people till the Spanish brought them over to grow sugar? The crop failed and the Spanish sailed away, leaving the workers to starve. Then came the Germans, who, for all their authoritarianism, hadn't a clue about colonizing. Sat around reading Goethe all day. Then the Japanese trying the same damn sugar thing, slave labor."

  He laughed. "So what was the payoff? MacArthur bombs them to hell and the slaves say payback time. Night of the long knives." He drew a finger across his beard.

  Jo came over. "Is he regaling you with tales of his far-flung adventures?"

  "No," said Picker, grumpily. "Reviewing local history." He coughed again. "Where's that drink?"

  "Soon, Ly. So what led you to become a craftswoman, Robin?"

  "I love music and working with my hands. Tell us about your research, Jo."

  "Nothing very exciting. I was sent to do a wind survey of several islands in the Mariana complex and Aruk's my last stop. We were renting a teeny place in town till Bill was kind enough to invite us up here. We're leaving in a week."

  "Don't make it sound like the weather service, girl," said Picker. "Defense Department pays her bills. She's an important national asset. Marry an asset, get an all-expense-paid vacation."

  He slapped his wife on the back, none too gently. She stiffened but smiled.

  "Do you live in Washington?" said Robin.

  "We have a town house in Georgetown," said Jo, "but most of the time we're both gone."

  She recoiled. A lizard, just like the one I'd seen at the window, raced along the top of the railing. Her husband flicked a finger at it, laughing as it disappeared over the side.

  "Still jittery?" he reproached her. "I told you it's harmless. Hemidactylus frenatus. House gecko, semidomesticated. People feed them near the house, so they'll stick around and eat all the buggies."

  He wiggled his fingers in his wife's face. In grade school, he'd probably been a pigtail yanker.

  She tried to smile. "Well, I just can't get used to them doing push-ups on my screen."

  "Squeamish," Picker told us. "Meaning I can't bring my work home."

  Jo colored beneath her tan.

  The young housekeeper, Cheryl, came out with a tray. On it were the drinks the Pickers had ordered and mineral waters with lime for Robin and me.

  "Retarded, that," Picker said when she was gone. Tapping his temple. He raised his glass. "To spineless things."

  Red light bounced off the ocean and bloodied his beard.

  His wife looked the other way and sipped.

  Robin drew me away to the opposite corner.

  "Charming, huh?" I said.

  "Alex, why were you so adamant about not ordering drinks?"

  "Because Ben's teeth were clenched when Picker ordered his. He's a nurse, doesn't want to be thought of as a butler. Notice he sent Cheryl with the tray."

  "Oh," she said. "My psychologist." She slipped her hand around my waist and lowered her head to my shoulder.

  "Lovers' secrets?" Picker called out. His glass was empty.

  "Let them be, Ly," said Jo.

  "Looks like they're being just fine."

  "Welcome to paradise," I muttered.

  Robin quelled a laugh. It came out sounding like a hiccup.

  "Hitting the sauce, girl?" I whispered. "Tsk, tsk. Damned self-indulgent."

  "Stop," she said, biting her lip.

  I leaned close. "Great fun ahead, wench. Cooked flesh and spirits, and after dinner he'll regale us with tales of the giant-penised Matahuaxl tribe. Human tripods, they are. Very virile."

  She licked her lips and whispered back: "Very, indeed. As they trip their way over the roots of the variegated crotchweed. 'Cause let's face it, when it comes to tribes, bigger is better."

  "Ah, love . . . ," Picker called from across the terrace. "Need another drinkie, I do."

  But he made no move to get one and neither did his wife. Welcome silence, then light footsteps sounded from behind. I turned and saw a lovely-looking blond woman walk toward us.

  Late twenties or early thirties, she had a nipped waist, boyi
sh hips, small breasts, long legs. She wore an apricot silk blouse and black crepe slacks. Blunt-cut hair ended at her shoulders, held in place by a black band. The honey tint looked real and her sculpted face had a scrubbed-clean look. Her features were fine and perfectly placed: soft, wide mouth, clean jaw, delicate ears. Blue eyes with a downward slant that made them look sad.

  Except for her coloring, she could have been the woman in the oil portrait.

  "Dr. Delaware and Ms. Castagna? I'm Pam, Dr. Moreland's daughter." Soft, musical, slightly reticent voice. She had a fetching smile but looked away as she extended her hand. I'd had patients with that tendency to avert; all had been painfully shy as children.

  "Doctor herself," Picker corrected. "All these accomplished femmes and everyone's playing the modesty game."

  Pam Moreland gave him a pitying smile. "Evening, Lyman. Jo. Sorry I'm late. Dad should be here shortly. If not, we'll start without him. Gladys has done a nice Chicken Kiev. Dad's vegetarian, but he tolerates us barbarians."

  She smiled beautifully but the eyes remained sad, and I wondered if physical structure completely explained it.

  Picker said, "Just gave our new chums a history lesson, Dr. Daughter. Told them scientists shun this lovely bit of real estate because Margaret Mead showed the key to stardom is witch doctors, puberty rites, and bare-chested, dusky girls." His eyes dropped to Pam's bodice.

  "Interesting theory. Can I get you some coffee?"

  "No thanks, my dear. But a refill of this wouldn't hurt."

  "Ly," said Jo. She hadn't moved from her corner.

  Picker kept his back to her. "Yes, my love?"

  "Come here and look at the sunset."

  He nibbled his mustache. "The old distraction technique? Worried about my liver?"

  "I just—"

  He swiveled and faced her. "If Entamoeba histolytica and Fasciola hepatica failed to do the trick, do you really think a little Wild Turkey will succeed, Josephine?"

  Jo said nothing.

  "Lived on metronodizole and bithionol for months," Picker told Pam. "Long overdue for a physical. Any referrals?"

  "Not unless you're going to Philadelphia."

  "Ah, the city of brotherly love," said Picker. "Don't have a brother. Would I love him, if I did?"

  Pondering that, he walked away.

  "I will take that refill, Dr. Pam," he called over his shoulder.

  "The man who came to dinner," Pam said very softly. "Excuse me."

  She returned with a quarter-full bottle of Wild Turkey, thrust it at the surprised Picker, and returned to us. "Dad's sorry about not being able to greet you properly."

  "The jellyfish," I said.

  She nodded. Glance at a Lady Rolex. "I guess we should get started."

  • • •

  She seated Robin and me with a view of the sunset, the Pickers on the other end, herself in the middle. Two empty chairs remained and moments later Ben Romero came out and took one. He'd put on a tan cotton sportcoat.

  "Usually I go home by six," he said, unrolling his napkin, "but my wife's having a card party, the baby's sleeping, and the older kids are farmed out."

  "Next time we'll have Claire up," said Pam. "She's a marvelous violinist. The kids, too."

  Ben laughed. "That'll be real relaxing."

  "Your kids are great, Ben."

  The food came. Platters of it.

  Watercress salad with avocado dressing, carrot puree, fricassee of wild mushrooms with walnuts and water chestnuts. Then the chicken, sizzling and moist.

  A bottle of white burgundy remained untouched. Picker poured himself the rest of the bourbon. His wife looked the other way and ate energetically.

  "Gladys didn't learn to cook like this at the base," said Robin.

  "Believe it or not, she did," Pam said. "The commander thought himself quite the gourmet. She's very creative, lucky for Dad."

  "Has he always been a vegetarian?"

  "Since after the Korean War. The things he saw made him determined never to hurt anything again."

  Picker grunted.

  "But he's always been tolerant," said Pam. "Had meat shipped over for me when I arrived."

  "You don't live here?" said Robin.

  "No, I came last October. It was supposed to be a stopover on the way to a medical convention in Hong Kong."

  "What's your specialty?" I said.

  "Internal medicine and public health. I work at the student health center at Temple U." She paused. "Actually, it was a combination work trip and breather. I just got divorced."

  She filled her water glass, shrugged.

  "Did you grow up here?" asked Robin.

  "Not really. Ready for dessert?"

  Picker watched her walk away. "Some fool in Philadelphia's missing out."

  Ben eyed him. "Another bottle, Dr. Picker?"

  Picker stared back. "No thank you, amigo. Better keep my wits. I'm flying tomorrow."

  Jo put down her fork. Picker grinned at her.

  "Yes, darling, I've decided to go ahead."

  "Flying in what?" said Ben.

  "Vintage craft, but well maintained. Man named Amalfi owns it."

  "Harry Amalfi? One of those crop dusters? They haven't flown in years."

  "They're quite serviceable, friend. I examined them myself. Been buzzing jungles for fifteen years and I'm going to buzz your poor excuse for one tomorrow morning, me and Dr. Missus. Take some aerial photographs, prove to the boys back at the institute that I've been here and that there was nothing to dig up."

  Jo's fingers were gathering tablecloth. "Ly—"

  Ben said, "It's not a good idea, Dr. Picker."

  Picker shot him a fierce smile. "Your input is duly noted, friend."

  "The forest is Navy territory. You'll need official permission to fly over."

  "Wrong," said Picker. "Only the east end is Navy land. The western half is public land, never formally claimed by the Navy. Or so Dr. Wife here tells me from her maps."

  "That's true, Ly," said Jo, "but it's still—"

  "Zoom," Picker spoke over her. "Up and away— would you rather I remain bored to the point of brain death?"

  "The entire forest is one mile wide," said Ben. "Once you're up there it's going to be pretty hard to keep track—"

  "Concerned about me, amigo?" said Picker, with sudden harshness. He picked up the bourbon bottle, as if ready to break it. Put it down with exquisite care, and got up.

  "Everyone so concerned about me. Touching." His beard was littered with crumbs. "Fonts of human kindness to my face, but behind my back: drunken buffoon."

  He shifted his attention to his wife, glaring and grinning simultaneously. "Are you coming, angel?"

  Her lip trembled. "You know how I feel about small craft, Ly—"

  "Not that. Now. Are you coming, now?"

  Without taking his eyes off her, he picked up a piece of chicken and bit in. Chewing with his mouth open, he shot a hard, dark glance at Romero: "It's a metaphor, friend."

  "What is?" said Ben.

  "This place. All the other damn bumps in the ocean. Volcanoes ejaculating, then dropping dead. Conquerors arriving with high hopes only to slink away or die, the damned coral parasites taking over, everything sinking. Entropy."

  Jo put down her fork. "Excuse us."

  Picker tossed the chicken onto a plate and took her arm roughly.

  "Everything sinks," he said, pulling her away.

  5

  Pam came back carrying a huge bowl of fruit. She eyed the empty chairs.

  "They left," said Ben. "They're renting one of Harry's crop dusters and buzzing the jungle tomorrow morning."

  "In one of those wrecks? Are they safe?"

  "I tried to talk him out of it. He's a world-class explorer." He arched his eyebrows.

  She put the bowl down and sat. "I'm afraid sometimes Dr. Picker gets a little . . . difficult."

  "Nice of your father to put them up all this time," I said.

  She and Ben exchanged looks.
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  "They kind of invited themselves," she said. "Dad's a soft touch. Apparently, she's quite a prominent researcher."