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  As Moreland undid the mesh I found myself stepping back. In went his hand; another pellet dangled.

  Unlike the Australian wolf, this one took the food lazily, almost coyly.

  "This is Emma and she's spoiled." One of the spider's legs nudged his finger, rubbing it. "This is the tarantula of B-movies, but she's really a Grammostola, from the Amazon. In her natural habitat, she eats small birds, lizards, mice, even venomous snakes, which she immobilizes, then crushes. Can you see the advantages for pest control?"

  "Why doesn't she use her own venom?" I said.

  "Most spider venom can't do harm except to very small prey. You can be sure spoiled Madame Emma wouldn't have the patience to wait for the toxin to take effect. Despite her apparent indolence, she's quite eager when she gets hungry. All wolves are; they got their name because they chase their prey down. I must confess they're my favorite. So bright. They quickly recognize individuals. And they respond to kindness. All tarantulae do. That's why your little Lycosa made such a good pet, Robin."

  Robin's eyes remained on the monster.

  Moreland said, "She likes you."

  "I sure hope so."

  "Oh yes, she definitely does. When she doesn't care for someone, she turns her head away— quite the debutante. Not that I bring people in here very often. They need their peace."

  He petted the huge spider, removed his hand, and covered the aquarium. "Insects and arachnids are magnificent, structurally and functionally. I'm sure you've heard all the clichÉs about how they're competing with us, will eventually drive us to extinction. Nonsense. Some species become quite successful but many others are fragile and don't survive. For years entomologists have been trying to figure out what leads to success. The popular academic model is Monomorium pharaonis—the common ant. Many tenures have been granted on studies of what makes Monomorium tick. The conventional wisdom is that there are three important criteria: resistance to dehydration, cooperative colonies with multiple fertile queens, and the ability to relocate the colony quickly and efficiently. But there are insects with those exact traits who fail and others, like the carpenter ant, who've done quite well despite having none of them."

  He shrugged.

  "A puzzle."

  He resumed the tour, pointing out walking stick bugs, mantises with serrated jaws, giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches topped with chitinous armor, dung beetles rolling their fetid treasures like giant medicine balls, stout, black carrion beetles ("Imagine what they could do to solve the landfill problems you've got over on the mainland"). Tank after tank of crawling, climbing, darting, crackling, slithering things.

  "I stay away from butterflies and moths. Too short-lived and they need flying room to be truly happy. All my guests adapt well to close quarters and many of them achieve amazing longevity— my Lycosa's ten years old, and some spiders live double or triple that amount. . . . Am I boring you?"

  "No," said Robin. Her eyes were wide and it didn't seem like fear. "They're all impressive, but Emma . . . her size."

  "Yes." He walked quickly to a tank in the last row. Larger than the others, at least twenty gallons. Inside, several rocks formed a cave that shadowed a wood-chip floor.

  "My brontosaurus," he said. "His ancestors probably did coexist with the dinosaurs."

  Pointing to what seemed to be an extension of the rock.

  I stayed back, looking, steeling myself for another heart-stopping movement.

  Nothing.

  Then it was there. Without moving. Taking shape before my eyes:

  What I'd thought to be a slab of rock was organic. Extending out of the cave.

  Flat bodied, segmented. Like a braided brown leather whip.

  Seven, eight inches long.

  Legs on each segment.

  Antennae as thick as cello strings.

  Twitching antennae.

  I moved further back, waiting for Moreland to play the pellet game.

  He put his face up against the glass.

  More slithered out of the cave.

  At least a foot long. Spikes at the tail end quivered.

  Moreland tapped the glass, and several pairs of feet pawed the air.

  Then, a lunging motion, a sound like snapping fingers.

  "What . . . is it?" said Robin.

  "The giant centipede of East Asia. This one stowed away on one of the supply boats last year— Brady's as a matter of fact. I obtain a lot of my specimens that way."

  I thought of our ride on The Madeleine. Sleeping below deck, wearing only bathing trunks.

  "He's significantly more venomous than most spiders," he said. "And I haven't named him yet. Haven't quite trained him to love me."

  "How venomous is significant?" I said.

  "There's only one recorded fatality. A seven-year-old boy in the Philippines. The most common problem is secondary infection, gangrene. Limb loss can occur."

  "Have you ever been bitten?" I asked.

  "Often." He smiled. "But only by human children who didn't wish to be vaccinated."

  "Very impressive," I said, hoping we were through. But another pellet was between Moreland's fingers, and before I knew it another corner of mesh had been drawn back.

  No dangling this time. He dropped the food into the centipede's cage from a one-foot height.

  The animal ignored it.

  Moreland said, "Have it your way," and refastened the top.

  He headed up the central aisle and we were right behind him.

  "That's it. I hope I haven't repulsed you."

  "So your nutritional research is about them," I said.

  "Primarily. They have much to teach us. I also study web patterns, various other things."

  "Fascinating," said Robin.

  I stared at her. She smiled from the corner of her mouth. Her hand had warmed. Her fingers began tickling my palm, then dropped. Crawling down my inner wrist.

  I tried to pull away but she held me fast. Full smile.

  "I'm glad you feel that way, dear," said Moreland. "Some people are repelled. No telling."

  • • •

  Later, in our suite, I tried to extract revenge by coming up behind her as she removed her makeup and lightly scratching her neck.

  She squealed and shot to her feet, grabbing for me, and we ended up on the floor.

  I got on top and tickled her some more. "Fascinating? All of a sudden I'm living with Spiderwoman? Shall we begin a new hobby when we get back?"

  She laughed. "First thing, let's learn the recipe for those pellets. . . . Actually, it was fascinating, Alex. Though now that I'm out of there, it's starting to feel creepy again."

  "The size of some of them," I said.

  "It wasn't a typical evening, that's for sure."

  "What do you think of our host?"

  "Mucho eccentric. But courtly. Sweet."

  "Dear?"

  "I don't mind that from him. He's from another generation. And despite his age, he's still passionate. I like passion in a man."

  She freed an arm and ran it up mine. "Coochie-coo!"

  I pinioned her. "Ah, my little Lycosa, I am passionate, too!"

  She reached around. "So it seems."

  I bared my teeth. "Hold me and crush me, Arachnodella— liquefy me."

  "You scoff," she said, "but just think what I could do with six more hands."

  8

  The next morning swim fins, snorkels, towels, and masks were waiting for us at the breakfast table.

  "Jeep's out in front," said Gladys.

  We ate quickly and found the vehicle parked near the fountain. One of those bare-bones, canvas-top models that kids in Beverly Hills and San Marino favor when pretending to be rural. This one was the real thing: clouded plastic windows, rough white paint, no four-figure stereo system.

  Just as I started the engine, the Pickers burst out of the house, waving.

  "Hitch a ride into town?" Lyman called out. They were in khakis again, with bush hats. Binoculars hung around his neck and a big, yellow smile open
ed in his beard. "Seeing as this used to be our borrowed vehicle, don't see how you can decently refuse."

  "Wouldn't think of it," I said.

  They climbed in the back.

  "Thanks," said Jo. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mouth looked tight.

  From Robin's lap, Spike grumbled.

  "Talk about brachycephaly," said Picker. "Is he able to breathe?"

  "Apparently," said Robin.

  "Where would you like me to drop you?" I said.

  "I'll direct you. Terrible shocks on this thing, so watch for potholes."

  I drove through the gates, the Jeep gliding on the fresh blacktop, speeding along the palm-lined road. Soon the ocean came into view, true-blue, unperturbed by breakers. As we neared the harbor, the water swooped toward us; driving toward it was like tumbling into a box of sapphires. I remembered Pam's comment about a big, blue slap in the face.

  Picker said, "Did you notice the rotary phones in the house? Thank God it's not two cans and a string."

  Robin put her hand on my leg and turned back to him, smiling. "If you don't like it, why stay?"

  "We do like it," said Jo, quickly.

  "Excellent question, Ms. Craftsperson," said her husband. "If it were up to me, we would not be staying. If it were up to me we would not be staying within a thousand miles of this isle. But Dr. Wife's research is urgent. Heard you saw the zoo-ette last night. Rich man's version of firefly in a jar. No systemization. Scientifically, it's a waste of time."

  Spike reared his head and stared. Picker tried to pet him but he backed away and curled up in Robin's lap again.

  "Male dogs," said Picker, "always go for the femmes."

  "That's not true, Ly," said his wife. "When I was little we had a miniature schnauzer and he preferred my father."

  "Because, dearest, he'd met your mother."

  He didn't mind laughing by himself. "Hormones. Dogs go after women, men go after bitches."

  He began humming. Spike growled.

  "Not a music fan," said Picker.

  "On the contrary," said Robin. "He likes melody but sour notes drive him wild."

  • • •

  At Front Street Picker said, "Go right."

  I drove north, parallel to the waterfront. No boats were in dock and the gas station was still closed, a fuel-rationing schedule posted on the pump. A couple of children rode bikes up and down the waterfront, a woman pushed a baby stroller. Men sat with their feet in the water, and one lay stretched out on the dock, sleeping.

  "Where's the airfield?"

  "Just keep going."

  We passed the shops. A saltwater tang hung in the air; the temperature was a perfect eighty. The windows of Auntie Mae's Trading Post were filled with faded T-shirts and souvenirs and signs above the entrance advertising postal service and snacks and check cashing. Next door was the Aruk Market— two open-air stalls of fruit and vegetables. A few women squeezed and bagged the merchandise. As we passed, a couple of them smiled.

  The adjoining building was white and shuttered with a Budweiser sign long depleted of neon—SLIM'S ORCHID BAR. Skinny, ragged specimens slouched in front, long-necks in hand. The Chop Suey Palace facade was red with gold lettering, and stone Fu dogs guarded the door. Three outdoor tables were set up in front. A dark-haired man sat at one of them drinking a beer and pushing something around his plate with chopsticks. He looked up but didn't smile.

  Next came more stores, all empty, some of the windows boarded, then a freshly whitewashed block structure with several cars parked in front and a sign claiming: MUNICIPAL CENTER.North Beach began as more barrier reef and palms, sand dunes spotted with clumps of white-flowered beach plum. To the right a paved road twisted up the hillside. The stucco houses at the top had been turned to vanilla fudge by the morning sun. I spotted a church steeple and a copper peak below it.

  "Is that where the clinic is?"

  "Yup," said Picker. "Keep going."

  No more outlets appeared as we continued to hug the island's upper shore. No keyhole harbor on the north side, and the water was a little more active. Scattered swimmers stroked lazily and sunbathers offered themselves like bits of cookie batter, but birds outnumbered the human population by far, droves of them searching the water's edge for breakfast.

  Front Street ended at a six-slot parking area. To the east was a fifteen-foot wall of untrimmed bamboo. Hand-lettered signs read PRIVATE PROPERTY and DEAD END NO OUTLET.

  Picker leaned forward and pointed over my shoulder at a break in the bamboo. "In there."

  I turned up a dirt path so narrow that bamboo brushed the sides of the Jeep. A hundred-yard drive brought a house into view.

  More Cape Cod than Tahiti, its splintering planks hadn't been white in a long time. The front porch was piled high with junk, and a stovepipe vent spouted from the tar roof.

  The property was wide and flat, maybe fifteen acres of red dirt walled by bamboo. The tall plants along the rear border looked puny backed by two hundred feet of sheer black rock.

  The western edge of the volcanic range. The mountains hurled shadows so dark and defined they resembled paint splotches.

  A smaller house sat fifty feet behind the first. Same construction and condition with a strange-looking doorway— bright white gingerbread molding that didn't fit.

  Between the two buildings rested half the fuselage of a propeller plane, its sheet-metal edges sliced cleanly. The rest of the acreage was a grimy sculpture garden peppered with more plane carcasses, heaps of parts, and a few craft left intact.

  As I pulled up a man wearing only dirty denim cutoffs came out of the bigger house knuckling his eyes and shoving limp yellow hair out of his face. The younger of the shark butchers we'd seen yesterday.

  Picker drew back the Jeep's plastic window flap. "Where's your father, Skip?"

  The man rubbed his eyes again. " 'Side." His voice was thick and hoarse and peevish.

  "We're renting a plane from him this morning."

  Skip tried to digest that. Finally he said, "Yeah."

  "Where's the takeoff strip, Ly?" said Jo.

  "Anywhere we please; these aren't jumbo jets. Let's get going."

  The two of them climbed out of the Jeep, and Picker went up to Skip and began talking. Jo hung back, mouth still busy, hands plucking at her vest.

  "Poor thing," said Robin. "She's scared."

  As I started to turn the Jeep around, another bare-chested man came out of the house. Flowered boxer shorts. The same wide face as Skip but thirty years older. Sloping shoulders and a monumental gut. What was left of his hair was tan-gray. A two-week beard coated a face made for suspicion.

  He pointed at us and approached the Jeep.

  "You the doctor's new guests?" Heavy voice, like his son, but not as sleepy. "Amalfi." His tiny blue eyes were bloodshot but alert, his nose so flat it was almost flush. The beard was patchy and ingrown. The skin it didn't cover was a ruin of mounds and puckers.

  "What's that you got?"

  "French bulldog."

  "Never saw nothing like that in France."

  Robin stroked Spike, and Harry Amalfi drew back his head. "Having a good time, miss?"

  "Very much so."

  "Doctor treating you good?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, don't count on it." He licked a finger and held it to the wind. "Wanna go up in the air, too?"

  "No thanks."

  He laughed, started coughing, and spat on the ground. "Nervous?"

  "Maybe some other time."

  "Don't worry, miss, my planes are all greased and tuned. I'm the only way to fly around here."

  "Thanks for the offer," I said, and completed the turn. Amalfi put his hands on his hips and watched us, hitching up his shorts. The Pickers had gone inside the house with Skip.

  As I drove away, I glanced back and got a closer look at the smaller house. The white molding around the door was a ring of sharks' jaws.

  • • •

  I got on Front Street and drove back toward
South Beach. The man with the chopsticks was still in front of the Palace, and this time he stood as we approached and waved his arms, as if hailing a cab.

  I pulled over and he trotted to the curb. He was around forty, average height and narrow build, with black hair combed down over his forehead and a black mustache too thin to see from a distance. The rest of his face was sallow and smooth, nearly hairless. He wore wide, black Porsche sunglasses, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt, seersucker pants, and Top-Siders. Back at his table was a stuffed Filofax next to a platter of noodles-and-something, and three empty Sapporos.