The Web Page 4

  "What about him?"

  "He works part-time for some wildlife organization with a shoestring budget. Studying some fungus or other. I get the feeling he's having trouble finding grant money. I guess it's difficult. . . . Dad should be here any moment."

  She passed the bowl.

  "Is it true?" I said. "About the Navy cutting off contact with the village with a blockade?"

  She nodded.

  "Why?"

  "It's the military," said Ben. "They live in their own little world."

  "Dad's working on it," said Pam. "Wrote to Senator Hoffman because the two of them go back a ways. And Hoffman knows Aruk from personal experience; he was Stanton's commander during the Korean War."

  "The gourmet?"

  She nodded. "He used to come up here with his wife, sit right on this terrace and play bridge."

  "Sounds like a good contact," I said. The senator from Oregon had been discussed as a presidential candidate.

  Ben put his napkin down and stood. " 'Scuse me, got to pick up the kids. Anything you need for tomorrow, Pam?"

  "Just more disposable needles. And vaccine if it's running low."

  "Already there," said Ben. "I set up before dinner."

  He shook our hands and left quickly.

  "He's terrific," said Pam. "Really knows what he's doing. He found KiKo on the docks, dying of infection, and nursed him back to health." She smiled. "KiKo's short for King Kong. He sleeps in a cradle in Ben's house."

  "Dr. Picker said monkeys can't be housebroken."

  "I'm no primatologist, but sometimes I think animals are a lot more tractable than people."

  The sound of a car engine drew my eyes down toward the road. Darkness had set in, obscuring details, but a pair of headlights shone through.

  ". . . one of the most levelheaded people you'll ever meet. Dad wouldn't mind if he went on to med school; the island could use a younger doctor. But the time commitment— he's got a big family to support."

  "In his letter to me," I said, "your father mentioned retirement."

  She smiled. "I don't imagine he'll ever fully retire, but with three thousand people on this island, he could use some help. I've been pitching in, but . . ." She put her spoon down.

  "You asked before if I grew up on Aruk and I said not really. I was born here but boarded out very young. Went to Temple for med school and stayed in Philadelphia. I kept thinking I should come back here, but I grew up a city girl, found out I like the city."

  "I know what you mean," said Robin. "Small towns are great in theory but they can be limiting."

  "Exactly. Aruk is wonderful; you guys will have a great time. But as a permanent place to live, it's— how shall I put this? At the risk of sounding elitist . . . it's just very small. And the water all around. You just can't go very far without being reminded of your insignificance."

  "We lived on the beach this last year," said Robin. "There were times the ocean made me feel invisible."

  "Precisely. Everywhere you turn, it's there. Sometimes I think of it as a big, blue slap in the face."

  She nibbled more fruit. "And then there's the pace. Cross the international dateline and for some reason everything moves slow-ly. I'm not the most patient person in the world."

  Gladys and Cheryl arrived with a rolling tray and coffee, cleared the dishes and poured.

  Pam said, "Everything was delicious, Gladys."

  "Tell your father to show up for dinner. He needs to take better care of himself."

  "I've been telling him that since I got here, Gladys."

  "And I've been ignoring it, mule that I am," said a voice from the house.

  A very tall, very homely man stood in the double doorway. Stooped, gaunt, clean-shaven, bald except for white dandelion puffs over his ears, he had a narrow, lipless mouth, a thick, fleshy nose and a long face bottoming in a misshapen, crinkled chin that made me think of a camel. His cheeks were hollow and limp, his eye sockets deep and pouched. Sad blue eyes— the only physical trait he'd passed on to his daughter.

  He wore a cheap-looking white shirt over baggy brown pants, white socks, and sandals. His chest looked caved in, his arms long and ungainly and spotted by the sun, the flesh loose on thin bones. Plastic eyeglasses hung from a chain. His breast pocket drooped with pens, a doctor's penlight, a pair of sunglasses, a small white plastic ruler. He carried an old black leather medical bag.

  As I stood, he waved and came forward in an ungainly, headfirst lope.

  Not a camel. A flamingo.

  Touching his lips to Pam's cheek, he said, "Evening, kitten."

  "Hi, Dad."

  The narrow mouth widened a millimeter. "Miss Castagna. A pleasure, dear." He gave Robin's fingertips a brief, double-hand clasp, then took my hand, sighing, as if he'd been waiting a long time to do it.

  "Dr. Delaware."

  His hand was dry and limp, exerting feeble pressure, then slipping away like a windblown leaf.

  "I'm bringing you dinner," said Gladys. "And don't tell me you grabbed a snack in the village."

  "I didn't," said Moreland, putting his palms together. "I promise, Gladys."

  He sat down and inspected his napkin before unfolding it. "I trust you've been well taken care of. Any seasickness coming over?"

  We shook our heads.

  "Good. Madeleine's a fine craft and Alwyn's the best of the supply captains. She used to belong to a sportsman from Hawaii. Runs fine on sails, but Alwyn upgraded the engines and he really makes good time. He babies that boat."

  "How many boats make the run?" I said.

  "Three to six, depending on orders, circulating among the smaller islands. On the average, we get one or two loads twice a month."

  "Must be expensive."

  "It does inflate the cost of goods."

  Cheryl returned with two plates piled high with everything we'd eaten but the chicken. Beans had been added to the rice. She set the food in front of Moreland and he smiled up at her.

  "Thank you, dear. I hope your mother doesn't expect me to finish all this."

  Cheryl giggled and scurried off.

  Moreland took a deep breath and raised a fork. "How's your little bulldog faring?"

  "Sleeping off the boat ride," I said.

  Robin said, "Matter of fact, I'd better go check on him. Excuse me."

  I walked her to the stairway. When I got back, Moreland was looking at his food but hadn't touched it. Pam was sitting in place, not moving.

  Moreland's eyes drifted up to the black sky. For a moment they seemed clouded. Then he blinked them clear. Pam was fiddling with her napkin ring.

  "I think I'll take a walk," she said, rising.

  "Good night, kitten."

  "Nice to meet you, Dr. Delaware."

  "Nice to meet you."

  Another exchange of pecks and she was gone. Moreland took a forkful of rice and chewed slowly, washing it down with water. "I'm very happy to finally meet you."

  "Same here, doctor."

  "Call me Bill. May I call you Alex?"

  "Of course."

  "How are your accommodations?"

  "Great. Thanks for everything."

  "What did you think of my Stevenson quote?"

  The question threw me. "Nice touch. Great writer."

  "Home is the sailor," he said. "This is my home, and it's my pleasure to have you here. Stevenson never made it to the northern Marianas but he did have a feel for island life. Great thinker as well as a great writer. The great thinkers have much to offer. . . . I have high hopes for our project, Alex. Who knows what patterns will emerge when we really get into the data."

  He put the fork down.

  "As I mentioned, I'm particularly interested in mental health problems because they always pose the greatest puzzles. And I've seen some fascinating cases."

  He aimed the pouchy eyes at me. "For example, years ago I encountered a case of— I suppose the closest label would be lycanthropy, but it really wasn't classical lycanthropy."

  "A wo
lf-man?"

  "A cat woman. Have you seen that?"

  "During my training I saw schizophrenics with transitory animal hallucinations."

  "This was more than transitory. Thirty-year-old woman, quite attractive, sweet nature. Shortly after her thirty-first birthday, she began withdrawing from her family and wandering around staring at cats. Then she started chasing mice— rather uselessly. Mewing, licking herself, eating raw meat. That's what finally brought her to me: rampant intestinal parasites caused by her diet."

  "Was this a constant delusion?"

  "More like a series of fits— acute spells, but they lasted longer and longer as time went on. By the time I saw her the periods between the fits weren't good, either. Appetite loss, poor concentration, bouts of weeping. Tell all that to a psychiatrist and he'd probably diagnose psychotic depression or a bipolar mood disorder. An anthropologist, on the other hand, would pounce on tribal rituals or a plant-induced religious hallucinosis. The problem is, there are no native hallucinogenic plants on Aruk nor any pre-Christian shamanic culture."

  He ate more rice but didn't seem to taste it. "Interesting from a diagnostic standpoint, wouldn't you say?"

  "Did the woman drink heavily?" I said.

  "No. And her vitamin B intake was sufficient, so it wasn't an idiopathic Korsakoff's syndrome."

  "What about the parasites? Had they infiltrated her brain?"

  "Good question. I wondered about that, too, but her symptoms made conducting even a gross neurological exam impossible. She'd gotten quite aggressive— snarling and biting and scratching to the point where her husband tied her up in her room. She'd become quite a burden."

  "Sounds brutal."

  He looked pained. "In any event, the symptoms didn't conform to any parasitical disease I'd ever come across, and I was able to treat her intestinal problems quite easily. After she died, the husband refused an autopsy and I certified cause of death as heart attack."

  "How did she die?"

  He put down his fork. "She screamed out one night— a cri du chat—cat's cry. Louder than usual, so the husband went in to check. He found her lying on her bed, open-eyed, dead."

  "No evidence of any kind of poisoning?"

  "My lab was rather primitive in those days, but I was able to test her blood for the obvious things and found nothing."

  "What was her relationship with her husband like?"

  He stared at me. "Is there any particular reason you ask that?"

  "I'm a psychologist."

  He smiled.

  "Also," I said, "you said she'd become a burden. And that he only went in because her cat's cry was louder. That implies he usually ignored her. It doesn't sound like marital devotion."

  He looked up and down the table, then past it, into the living room, as if making sure we were alone.

  "Shortly after she died," he said, "her husband took up with another woman and moved off the island. Years later, I found out he'd been quite a Don Juan." His eyes dropped to his plate. "I suppose I'd better get through this or Gladys will have my head."

  Eating a few mouthfuls of vegetables, he said, "I fibbed. Had some chow mein brought into the clinic. Sudden emergency, influx of jellyfish on North Beach."

  "Pam told me. How are the children?"

  "Sore and covered with welts and totally unchastened. . . . Any more thoughts on our catwoman?"

  "Did she have a history of fainting or any other evidence of syncope?"

  "A cardiac arrhythmia to explain the sudden death? None that I picked up. And no family history of heart disease. But the mode— sudden death. Her heart stopped so I called it heart disease."

  "Allergies? Anaphylaxis?"

  He shook his head.

  "No heavy drinking," I said. "What about drug abuse?"

  "Her habits were clean, Alex. A lovely lady, really. Until the change."

  "How completely was she bound when she slept?"

  "Hands and feet."

  "Pretty severe."

  "She was considered dangerous."

  "And she was tied up the night she died."

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps something frightened or upset her," I said. "To the point of heart failure."

  "Such as?"

  "An especially severe hallucination. Or a nightmare."

  He didn't respond and I thought he looked angry.

  "Or," I said, "something real."

  He closed his eyes.

  "Maybe," I continued, "her Don Juan husband took up with another woman before she died."

  Slow nods; the eyes remained shut.

  "Tied up at night," I said. "But the husband and the girlfriend were in the next room? Did they make love in front of her?"

  The eyes opened. "My, my. You are a remarkable young man."

  "Just guessing."

  Another long pause. "As I said, it wasn't till years later that I found out about him, and only then because I treated a cousin of his who lived on another island and came to me to be treated for shingles. I gave him acyclovir and it reduced his pain. I suppose he felt he owed me something. So he told me the catwoman's husband had just died and had mentioned me on his deathbed. He'd been married three more times."

  "Any other mysterious deaths?"

  "No, three divorces. All because he couldn't stop philandering. But as he lay eaten away by lung cancer, his chest completely ravaged, he confessed to tormenting his first wife. Right from the beginning. The day after the wedding, she saw him kill a cat that had gotten into their yard and eaten a chicken. He choked it to death, chopped its head off and tossed the carcass at her, laughing. She learned of his infidelities soon after. When she complained, he called her a bitch-cat and sent her to clean the chicken coop. It became a regular pattern whenever they'd fight. Years later her symptoms began. The more disturbed she became, the less he cared about hiding his affairs. During her final months, the other woman was actually living with them, ostensibly to clean house. The night she died, the husband and the girlfriend were making love noisily. The wife cried out in protest and they laughed at her. This went on for a while, then she entered her cat mode and began mewing. Then hissing. Then screaming." He touched one cheek and the flesh bobbled. "They came into her room and continued to . . . in front of her. She strained at her bonds, screaming. I'm sure her blood pressure was skyrocketing. Finally, she gave a last scream."

  He pushed his plate away.

  "Deathbed confession," he said. "Guilt is a great motivator."

  "Infidelities," I said. "Catting around?"

  He said nothing for several seconds. Then: "I like that." But he sounded anything but happy. "So what are we talking about, diagnostically? Manic-depression marked by some sort of primitive feline identification? Or a full-blown schizophrenia?"

  "Or a severe stress reaction. Was there any psychiatric history in the family at all?"

  "Her mother was . . . morose." He leaned in closer, bald pate shining like an ostrich egg. "Dying like that. Was it due to fear? Shame? Can a person truly die of frustration? Or did she suffer from some physical irregularity that I wasn't clever enough to discover? That's what I mean about puzzles. We'll document the case."

  "Fascinating," I said, thinking of the catwoman's agony.

  "I've got many more, son. Many, many more." A hand began to reach out. For a moment I thought he'd put it on mine, but it landed on the table and lay there, exhibiting a slight tremor.

  "I'm so glad you're here to help me."

  "Glad to be here."

  A bark made us both turn. Robin returned with Spike on his leash.

  Moreland brightened. "Oh, look at him."

  He went over and crouched, hand out, palm down.

  Spike panted and jumped, then nosed the old man's crotch.

  "Oh, my," said Moreland, laughing and standing. "You're a friendly little fellow. . . . Has he had his dinner?"

  "He just finished," said Robin, "and we took a short walk."

  "Lovely," Moreland said, absently. "Do you two have any
plans for tomorrow? If you're up to it, you might try snorkeling down on South Beach. The reefs are beautiful and the fish come right into the shallows, so you don't need tanks. I have an extra Jeep for you to use."