“Are you advocating the virtues of poverty, Nick?”
“No, Bill, but the world’s changed, some people think we
need to stop looking at ourselves as the universal
nursemaid.”
“We’re talking about
people.
A way of
life—”
Creedman said, “Whoa. You make it sound as though everything
was hunky-dory before the Europeans came over and colonization
spoiled everything, but my research tells me there were
plenty of diseases in the primitive world and that the people
who didn’t die of them would probably have died of famine.”
I expected Moreland to turn on him, but he continued to
stare at Hoffman.
Hoffman said, “There is some truth to that, Bill. As a
doctor you know that.”
“Diseases,” said Moreland, as if the word amused him.
“Yes, there were parasitic conditions, but nothing on the
scale of the misery that was brought over.”
“Come on,” said Creedman. “Let’s get real. We’re
talking primitive tribes. Pagan rituals, no indoor
plumbing—”
Moreland faced him slowly. “Are you a waste-disposal
expert in addition to all your other talents?”
Creedman said, “My resear—”
“Did your
research
tell you that some of those
primitive rituals
ensured
impeccable cleanliness? Practices
such as reserving mornings for defecation and wading out to the ocean
to relieve oneself?”
“That doesn’t sound very hygien—”
Moreland’s hands rose and his fingers sculpted air. “It
was fine! Until the civilized
conquerors
came along and told
them they needed to dig holes in the ground. Do you know
what that ushered in, Tom? An era of
filth.
Cholera,
typhoid, salmonellosis, lungworm fever.
Have you ever
seen
someone with cholera, Creedman?”
“I’ve—”
“Have you ever held a dehydrated child in your arms as
she convulses in the throes of explosive
diarrhea
?”
The gnarled hands dropped and slapped down on the table.
“Research,” he muttered.
Creedman sucked his teeth. He’d gone white.
“I bow, doctor,” he said softly, “to your superior
knowledge of diarrhea.”
The door opened. Zondervein and three sailors, kitchen
smells, more food.
“Well,” said Hoffman, exhaling.
“Bon
appétit.”
Chapter
18
Other than Hoffman, no one ate much.
After his second dessert, he stood and ripped his napkin
free. “Come on, Bill, let’s you and me catch up on old
times. Nice to meet you all.”
A glance at Lieutenant Zondervein, who said, “How about the
rest of us head over to the rec room? There’s a pool table and a
big-screen TV.”
Outside in the hall, Ewing gave him a disgusted look.
“If you’ll all excuse me.” He left swiftly.
“This way,” said Zondervein.
“Do you get cable?” Creedman asked.
“Sure,” said Zondervein. “We get everything, have a
satellite dish.”
“Excellent.”
“Isn’t there a dish at the Trading Post?” I said.
Creedman laughed. “Broke a year ago and no one’s
bothered to fix it. Does that tell you something about local
initiative?”
Creedman and I played a couple of games of pool. He was
good, but cheated anyway, moving the cue ball when he thought
I wasn’t looking.
The big-screen was tuned to CNN.
“News lite,” he said.
“Only thing I get from the news is depressed,” said Pam.
She and Robin were sitting in chairs too big for them,
looking bored. I caught Robin’s eye. She waved and sipped
her Coke.
A few minutes later, Zondervein brought Moreland back.
He sagged with exhaustion.
Pam said, “Dad?”
“Time to go.”
After we landed, Creedman walked away from us without a
word. No one spoke during the ride back to the estate.
When Moreland pulled up in front of the house it was nine-forty.
“I think I’ll catch up on work. You all relax.” He patted Pam’s
arm. “Have a good night, dear.”
“Maybe I’ll go into town.”
“Oh?”
“I thought I might go for a night swim.”
He touched her arm again. Held on to it. “That could
be tricky, Pamela. Urchins, morays, you could run into
trouble.”
“I’m sure Dennis can keep me out of trouble.”
He must have squeezed her arm because she winced.
“Dennis,” he said, just above a whisper, “is engaged to a
girl studying at the nursing school in Saipan.”
“Not anymore,” said Pam.
“Oh?”
“They broke up a few weeks ago.”
She touched his arm and he dropped it.
“A pity,” said Moreland. “Nice girl. She would have been valuable to the
island.” Fixing his eyes on his daughter: “Dennis still is,
dear. It would be best for all concerned if you didn’t
distract
him.”
Turning on his heel, he walked down toward the bungalows.
Pam’s mouth was wide open. She ran up to
the house.
“Fun evening,” I said. We were up in our suite,
sitting on the bed.
“The way he just acted,” said Robin. “I know he’s under
stress, but . . .”
“Loves the natives but doesn’t want them dating his
daughter?”
“It sounded more like he was shielding Dennis from
her.”
“It did. Maybe she’s got an unfortunate history with
men. The first time I saw her I noticed the sadness in her
eyes.”
She smiled. “Is that all you noticed?”
“Yes, she’s good-looking but I don’t find her sexy.
There’s something about her that sets up a clear boundary.
I’ve seen it in patients: “I’ve been wounded. Stay away.”’
“That obviously doesn’t apply to Dennis.”
“The old man really lost it,” I said. “Perfect capper
to a charming dinner.”
She laughed. “That base. Night of the uniformed dead.
And Hoffman. Joe Slick.”
“Why
do I get the feeling Hoffman’s sole purpose for the dinner
was the half hour he and Moreland spent alone?”
“Then why not just drop over here?”
“Maybe he wanted to be on his home turf, not
Moreland’s.”
“You make it sound like some sort of battle.”
“I can’t help but think it was. The tension between
them . . . as if the two of them have some issue that
goes way back. At any rate, Moreland
didn’t get what he wanted for Aruk. Whatever that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He puzzles me, Rob. Talks about helping the island,
rejuvenating it. But if he’s as rich as Creedman says, it
seems to me there are things he could have already done.
Like improve communication. Put some of his fortune into
schooling, training. At the very least, more frequent
shipping schedules. Instead, he pumps a fortune into his
projects. Walled in here like some lord while the
rest of the island molders. Maybe the islanders know that
and that’s why they’re leaving. We certainly haven’t seen
any big show of civic pride. Not even a grassroots movement
to protest the barricade.”
She thought about that. “Yes, he is very much the lord of
the manor, isn’t he? And maybe the islanders know something
else: Hoffman’s right about some places not being set up for
development. Look at Aruk’s geography. The leeward side has
great weather but no harbor, the windward side has a
natural harbor but rocks instead of soil. In
between, you’ve got mountains and a banyan forest full of
land mines. Nothing fits right. It’s like a geographic joke.
Maybe everyone gets it but Moreland.”
“And Skip and Haygood with their resort scheme. Which
proves your point. Oh, well, looks like I signed on with Dr.
Quixote.”
She got up and rolled off her panty hose, frowning. “It
was so out of character, the way he just treated Pam. There doesn’t seem to be
much intimacy between them—which makes sense,
with his being an absent father—but till tonight he’s never
been harsh.”
“He’s the one who sent her to boarding school,” I said. “And
even with her M.D. he
doesn’t consider her a colleague. All in all, no candidate
for father of the year.”
“Poor Pam. First time I saw her I thought, “homecoming
queen.’ But you never know, do you?”
She unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it. Folded
it over a chair and touched her wrist.
“How does it feel?” I said.
“Excellent, actually. Are you working tomorrow?”
“Guess so.”
“Maybe I’ll try to do something with those pieces of
shell.”
She went into the bathroom. And screamed.
Chapter
19
Three of them.
No,
four!
Racing back and forth, light-panicked, on the white tile
floor.
One scurried up the shower wall, pointed its antennae at
us. Waved.
Robin was pressed into a corner, fighting another
scream.
One crawled up the side of the tub, paused on the rim.
Lozenge shaped. Red-brown armored shell as long as my
hand.
Six black legs.
The eyes, too damn smart.
It hissed.
They all began hissing.
Speeding toward us.
I pulled Robin out of the room and slammed the door
behind us. Checked the space beneath the door. Tight fit,
thank God.
My heart was hurtling. Sweat burst out of me and
leaked down in cold, itchy trails.
Robin’s fingers bit into my back.
“Oh God, Alex! Oh God!”
I managed to say, “It’s okay, they can’t get out.”
“Oh, God . . .” She gasped for breath. “I walked
in and something touched—my foot.”
She looked down at her toes and trembled.
I sat her down. She held on to my fingers, shaking.
“Easy,” I said, remembering the insect’s face—stoic, intense.
“Get rid of them, honey. Please!”
“I will.”
“The light was off. I felt it before I saw it—how
many were there?”
“I counted four.”
“It seemed like more.”
“I think four is all.”
“Oh,
God.
”
I held her tight. “It’s all right, they’re confined.”
“Yucch,” she said.
“Yucch!”
Spike was barking. When had he started?
“Maybe I should sic
him
on them.”
“No, no, I don’t want him near them—they’re
disgusting. Just get them out of here, Alex! Call Moreland.
I can take them in their cages, but please get them
out.”
Gladys arrived first.
“Bugs?” she said.
“
Huge
ones,” said Robin. “Where’s Dr. Bill?”
“Must be from the bug zoo. It never happened before.”
“Where
is
he, Gladys?”
“On his way. You poor thing. Where are they?”
I pointed to the bathroom.
She grimaced. “Personally, I hate bugs. Nasty little things.”
“Little wouldn’t be bad,” said Robin.
“Working here doesn’t bother you?” I said.
“What, the zoo? I never go in there. No one goes in
there but Dr. Bill and Ben.”
“Well, something obviously comes out.”
“It never happened before,” she repeated.
Hissing from behind the door. I pictured the damn things chewing
through the wood. Or escaping down the toilet and hiding in the pipes.
Where the hell was Moreland?
“Did you see what they were?” said Gladys.
“They looked like giant cockroaches,” said Robin.
“Madagascar hissing cockroaches,” I said, suddenly
remembering.
“Them I really hate,” said Gladys. “Cockroaches in
general. One of the things I like about Aruk is the dryness,
we don’t get roaches. Lots of bugs, period.”
“So we import them,” I mumbled.
“I keep my kitchen clean. Some of the other islands
you’ve got bugs all over the place, got to spray all the
time. Bugs bring disease—not Dr. Bill’s bugs, he keeps
them real clean.”
“That’s a comfort,” I said.
A knock sounded on the suite door and Moreland loped in
carrying a large mahogany box with a brass handle and looking
around.
“I don’t see how . . . did you happen to
notice what kind—”
“Madagascar hissing roaches,” I said.
“Oh . . . good. They can’t seriously harm
you.”
“They’re in there.”
He advanced to the bathroom door.
“Careful,” said Robin. “Don’t let them out.”
“No problem, dear.” He turned the knob slowly and took
something out of his pocket—a piece of chocolate cake that
he compressed into a gummy ball. Spreading the door a crack,
he tossed the bait, closed, waited.
A few seconds later, he opened the door again, peered
through. Nodded, opened wider, slipped in.
“My new fudge loaf,” said Gladys.
Sounds came from inside the bathroom.
Moreland talking.
Soothingly.
He emerged moments later holding the mahogany box and
giving the OK sign. Chocolate smears on his fingers. Crumbs
on the floor.
Thumps from within the box.
Hiss.
“You’re sure you got all of them?” said Robin.
“Yes, dear.”
“They didn’t lay eggs or anything.”
He smiled at her. “No, dear, everything’s fine.”
It sounded patronizing and it got to me.
“Not really, Bill,” I said. “How the hell did they get
here in the first place?”
“I—don’t know—I’m sorry.
Dreadfully
sorry. My apologies to both of you.”
“They’re definitely from the insectarium?”
“Certainly, Aruk has no indig—”
“So how’d they get out?”
“I—suppose someone must have left the lid
loose.”
“It’s never happened before,” said Gladys.
“That’s us,” I said. “Trailblazers.”
Moreland tugged at his lower lip, rubbed his fleshy nose.
Blinked. “I suppose
I
must have left the lid
off—”
“It’s okay,” Robin said, squeezing my hand. “It’s over.”
“I’m
so
sorry, dear. Perhaps the scent of your dog
food—”
“If it was food they were after,” I said, “why didn’t
they head for the kitchen?”
“I keep my kitchen clean and shut up tight,” said
Gladys. “No flies, not even grain weevils.”
“Our door was locked,” I said, “and the dog food’s
sealed in plastic bags. How did they get in, Bill?”
He went over to the door, opened and closed it a couple
of times, kneeled and ran his hand over the threshold.
“There’s some give to the carpet,” he said. “They’re
very good at compressing themselves. I’ve seen them
manage—”
“Spare the details,” I said. “You probably knocked a
year off our lives.”
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry.” He hung his head.
The cockroaches bumped inside the box. Then the hissing began
again. Louder . . .
“You did handle it perfectly,” he said. “Locking them in.
Thank you for not damaging them.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I’d turned phone solicitors
down with a kinder tone.
Robin squeezed my hand again.
“It’s okay, Bill,” she said. “We’re fine.”
Moreland said, “An unforgivable lapse. I’m always so
careful—I’ll put double locks on the insectarium
immediately. And door seals. We’ll get working on it right
now—Gladys, call Ramon and Carl Sleet, apologize for
waking them up, and tell them I’ve got a job for them. Triple
overtime pay. Tell Carl to bring the Swiss drill I gave him
for Christmas.”
Gladys rushed out.
Moreland looked at the box and rubbed the oiled wood.
“Better be getting these fellows back.” He hurried to the
door and nearly collided with Jo Picker as she padded in,
wearing robe and slippers, rubbing her eyes.
“Is everything . . . okay?” Her voice was
thick. She coughed to clear it.
“Just a little mishap,” said Moreland.
She frowned. Her eyes were unfocused.
“Took something . . . to
sleep . . . did I hear someone scream?”
“I did,” said Robin. “There were some bugs in the
bathroom.”
“Bugs?”
The roaches hissed and her eyes widened.
“Go back to sleep, dear,” said Moreland, guiding her
out. “Everything’s been taken care of. Everything’s fine.”
When we were alone, we let Spike out and he raced around
the room, circling. Sniffing near the bathroom before
charging in head down.
“The dog food goes downstairs tomorrow,” said Robin.
Then she got up suddenly, pulled back the bedcovers,
looked underneath the box spring, and then stood. Smiling
sheepishly.
“Just being careful,” she said.
“Are you going to be able to sleep?” I said.
“Hope so. How about you?”
“My heart’s down to two hundred beats a minute.”
She sighed. Started laughing and couldn’t stop.
I wanted to join in but couldn’t manage more than a taut
smile.
“Our little bit of New York,” she finally said.
“Manhattan tenement in our island hideaway.”
“Those things could
mug
New York roaches.”
“I know.” She put my hand on her breast. “How many
beats?”
“Hmm,” I said. “Hard to tell. I need to count for a
long
time.”
More laughter. “God, the way I shrieked. Like one of
those horror movies.”
Her forehead was moist, curls sticking to it. I brushed
them away, kissed her brow, the tip of her nose.
“So how long do we stay in bug-land?” I said.
“You want to leave?”
“Plane crash, unsolved murder, the zombie base, some
fairly uncongenial people. Now this.”
“Don’t leave on
my account. I can’t tell you I
won’t freak out if the same thing happens again, but I’m okay,
now. Ms. Adaptable. I pride myself on it.”
“Sure,” I said, “but sometimes it’s nice not having to
adapt.”
“True. . . . Maybe I’m nuts but I still like it
here. Maybe it’s my hand feeling better—a lot better, actually.
Or even the fact this may be our
last chance to experience Aruk before the Navy turns it into a
bomb yard or something. Even Bill—he’s unique, Aruk is
unique.”
She held my face and looked into my eyes. “I guess what
I’m saying, Alex, is I don’t want to be back in L.A. next
week, dealing with the house or some business hassle,
and start thinking back with regrets.”
I didn’t answer.
“Am I making sense, doctor?”
I touched my nose to hers. Curled my lip. Bared my
teeth.
Hissed.
She jumped up. Pounded my shoulder.
“Oh!
Maybe I
should have Spike sleep in the bed and put
you
in the
crate.”
Lights out.
A few self-conscious jokes about creepy-crawlies and she
was sleeping.
I lay awake.
Trying to picture the roaches trekking all the way from
the insectarium to our suite . . . marching in
unison? The idea was cartoonish.
And even if the dog food
had
attracted them, why hadn’t they
stayed in the sitting room, near the bag?
Roaches were supposed to be smart, as bugs went. Why
not head for an easier meal—the fruit from the orchard?
Instead, they’d taken a circuitous journey, scampering
up the gravel paths, across the lawn, into the house somehow.
Bypassing Gladys’s kitchen. Up the stairs. Under our door.
All because of a sealed sack of kibble?
Despite Moreland’s claim, the bathroom door seemed too snug
to let them in or out.
Had we left it open before leaving for dinner at the base?
Robin always left the bathroom door closed. Sometimes I
didn’t. . . . Which of us had last used the lav?
Why hadn’t they come running out when we arrived home?
Or at least hissed in alarm?
An alternative scenario: they’d been placed in the bathroom and
shut in.
Someone up to mischief during the dinner at Stanton. The
house empty. Someone seizing the opportunity to send us a
message:
Go away.
But who and why?
Who had the opportunity?
Ben was the obvious choice, because he had access to
the insectarium.
He’d said his evening was full, between fatherhood and a
hibachi dinner with Claire.
Had he come back?
But why? Apart from the remark about natural rhythm, he’d shown
no sign of hostility toward us. On the contrary. He’d gone
out of his way to make us feel welcome.
Out of obligation to Moreland?
Were his own feelings something else?
I thought about it for a while, but it just didn’t make sense.
Someone else on the staff?
Cheryl?
Too dull to be that calculating, and once again, what
was her motive? Plus, she usually left after dinner, and no
meal had been served tonight.
Gladys? Same lack of motive, and the idea of her
purloining roaches seemed equally ludicrous.
There had to be at least a dozen groundskeepers and
gardeners who came and went, but why would
they
resent
us?
Unless the message had been meant for
Moreland.
My surmise about his attitude of noblesse oblige and the
resentment it might have generated in the villagers could be right
on target.
The good doctor less than universally loved? His guests
seen as colonial interlopers?
If so, it could be anyone.
Paranoia, Delaware. The guy had kept thousands of bugs
for years, four had gotten out because he was old and absentminded
and had forgotten to put a lid on tight.
Spacey, just as Milo had said.
Not a comforting thought,
considering
the thousands
of bugs, but I supposed he’d be especially careful now.
I tried to empty my head and sleep. Thought of the way
Jo Picker had come in: drowsy, asking if someone had
screamed.
Robin’s scream had sounded a full ten minutes before.
Why the delay?
The sleeping pill slowing her responses?
Or no need to hurry because she
knew
?
And
she’d
been alone upstairs all evening.
Paranoia run amok. What reason would a grieving widow
have for malicious mischief?
She’d said she was squeamish about insects, had
refused even to enter the bug zoo.
And there was no animosity between us. Robin had been
especially kind to her. . . . Even if she was a fiend,
how could she have gained access to our room?
Her own room key—the lock similar to ours?
Or a simple pick. Most bedroom locks weren’t designed
for security. Ours back home could be popped with a
screwdriver.