Moreland rubbed his temples the way he had after his
fall in the lab. Then his neck. He winced and Pam put a
finger under his chin and propped it. “Why are we under house
arrest, Daddy?”
He shuddered.
“Da—”
He reached up, removed her finger, held on to it.
Shaking.
“Ben,”
he said. “They think
Ben
did
it.”
Chapter
24
He hid his face again.
Pam left and returned with Gladys, who
carried a bottle of brandy and glasses.
Seeing Moreland in
that state frightened the housekeeper.
“Dr. Bill—”
“Please go back to
bed,” said Pam, “we’ll need you in the morning.”
Gladys wrung her hands.
“Please, Gladys.”
Moreland said, “I’m fine, Gladys,” in a voice that
proved otherwise.
The old woman chewed her cheek and finally left.
“Brandy, Dad?”
He shook his head.
She filled a glass anyway and held it out to him.
He waved off the liquor but accepted some water. Pam
took his pulse and felt his forehead.
“Warm,” she said. “And you’re sweating.”
“The room’s hot,” he said. “All the glass.”
The windows were open and scented air flowed through the
screens. Chilly air. My hands were icy.
Pam wiped Moreland’s brow. “Let’s get some fresh air,
Dad.”
We moved to the terrace, Moreland offering no
resistance as Pam put him at the head of the empty
dining
table.
“Here, have some more water.”
He sipped as the rest of us stood around. The sky was
blue suede, the moon a slice of lemon rind.
Droplets of light hit the ocean. I looked out over the
railing, watching as lights switched on rapidly in the
village.
I poured brandy all around.
Moreland’s eyes were fixed and wide.
“Insane,” he said. “How could they
think
it!”
“Do they have evidence?” said Jo.
“No!” said Moreland. “They claim he—someone found
him.”
“At the scene?” I said.
“Sleeping at the scene. Convenient, isn’t it?”
“Who found him?” said Jo.
“A man from the village.”
“A credible man?” Something new in her
voice—scientist’s skepticism, an almost hostile curiosity.
“A man named Bernardo Rijks,” said Moreland. “Chronic
insomniac. Takes too many daytime naps.” He
looked at the brandy. “More water
please, kitten.”
Pam filled a glass and he gulped it empty.
“Bernardo takes a walk late at night, has for years.
Down from his home on Campion Way to the docks, along the
waterfront, then back up. Sometimes he makes two or three
circuits. Says the routine helps make him drowsy.”
“Where’s Campion Way?” I said.
“The street where the church is,” said Pam. “It’s
unmarked.”
“The street where Victory Park is.”
Moreland gave a start. “Tonight when he passed the park
he heard groans and thought there might be a problem. So he
went to see.”
“What kind of problem?” I said.
“Drug overdose.”
“The park’s a drug hangout?”
“Used to be,” he said angrily. “When the sailors came
into town. They’d drink themselves silly at Slim’s or smoke
marijuana on the beach, try to pick up local girls, then head
for the park. Bernardo lives at the top of Campion. He used
to call me to treat the stuporous boys.”
“Is he credible?” said Jo.
“He’s a
fine
gentleman. The problem’s not with him,
it’s—” Moreland ran his fingers through the white puffs
at his temples. “This is insane, just insane! Poor Ben.”
I felt Robin tense.
“What happened then?” said Jo. “After this Bernardo
went over to check the moaning?”
“He found . . .” Long pause. Moreland began breathing
rapidly.
“Dad?” said Pam.
Inhaling and letting the air out, he said, “The moaning
was Ben. Lying there, next to . . . the foul scene.
Bernardo ran to the nearest home, woke the people up—soon a
crowd gathered. Among them Skip Amalfi, who pinned Ben down until
Dennis got there.”
“Skip doesn’t live nearby,” I said.
“He was down on the docks fishing and heard the
commotion. Apparently he now fancies himself the great white
leader, taking charge. He twisted Ben’s arm and sat on top
of him. Ben was no danger to anyone. He hadn’t even
regained consciousness.”
“Why was he unconscious?” I pressed.
Moreland studied his knees.
“Was
he
on drugs?” said Jo.
Moreland’s head snapped up. “No. They claim he was
drunk.”
“Ben?” said Pam. “He’s as much a teetotaler as you,
Dad.”
“Yes, he is . . .”
“Has he always been?” I said.
Moreland covered his eyes with a trembling hand.
Touching his hair again, he twisted white strands. “He’s been
completely sober for years.”
“How long ago did he have an alcohol problem?” I
said.
“Very long ago.”
“In Hawaii?”
“No, no, before that.”
“He went to college in Hawaii. He had problems as a kid?”
“His problem emerged when he was in high school.”
“Teenage alcoholic?” said Pam, incredulous.
“Yes, dear,” said her father, with forced patience. “It
happens. He was vulnerable because of a difficult family
situation. Both his parents were drinkers. His father was an
ugly
drunk. Died of cirrhosis at fifty-five. Lung
cancer got his mother, though her liver was highly necrotic,
as well. Stubborn woman. I set her up with oxygen tanks in
her home to ease the final months. Ben was sixteen, but he became
her full-time nurse. She used to yank off the mask, scream
at him to get her cigarettes.”
“Poor genetics and environment,” pronounced Jo.
Moreland shot to his feet and staggered, shaking off
help from Pam. “Both of which he
overcame,
Dr. Picker.
After he was orphaned, I put him up here, exchanging work for
room and board. He started as a caretaker, then I saw how
bright he was and gave him more responsibility. He read
through my entire medical library, brought his grades up,
stopped drinking completely.”
Sadness had replaced Pam’s surprise.
Jealousy of his devotion to Ben or feeling left out because
it was the first time she’d heard the story?
“Completely sober,” repeated Moreland. “Incredible
strength of character. That’s why I financed the rest of his
education. He’s built a life for himself and Claire and the
children . . . you saw him tonight. Was that the
face of a psychopathic killer?”
No one answered.
“I tell you,” he said, slapping the tabletop, “what
they’re claiming is
impossible
! The fact that it was a
bottle of vodka near his hand proves it. He drank only beer.
And I treated him with Antabuse, years ago. The taste of
alcohol’s made him ill ever since—he despises it.”
“What are you saying?” said Jo. “Someone poured it down
his throat?”
The coolness in her voice seemed to throw him off
balance. “I—I’m
saying
he has no
tolerance—or desire for alcohol.”
“Then that’s the only alternative I can see,” she said.
“Someone forced him to drink. But who would do that? And
why?”
Moreland gritted his teeth. “I don’t
know,
Dr.
Picker. What I do know is Ben’s nature.”
“How was Betty killed?” I said.
“She . . . it was . . . a
stabbing.”
“Was Ben found with the weapon?”
“He wasn’t holding it.”
“Was it found at the scene?”
“It was . . . embedded.”
“Embedded,” echoed Jo. “Where?”
“In the poor girl’s throat! Is it necessary to
know
these things?”
Robin was squeezing my hand convulsively.
“The whole thing is absurd!” said Moreland. “They claim
Ben was right next to her
—sleeping
with her, his
arms around her, his head on her . . . what was left
of her abdomen.
That he’d be able to sleep with her after something like that
is
—absurd
!”
Robin broke away and ran to the railing. I followed her
and covered her shoulders with my arms, feeling her shivers
as she stared up at the bright yellow moon.
Back at the table, Jo was saying, “He
mutilated
her?”
“I don’t want to continue this discussion, Dr. Picker.
The key is to help Ben.”
Robin wheeled around. “What about Betty? What about
helping her family?”
“Yes, yes, of course that’s . . .”
“She was
pregnant
! What about her unborn child? Her
husband, her parents?”
Moreland looked away.
“What
about
them, Bill?”
Moreland’s lips trembled. “Of course they deserve
sympathy, dear. I
ache
for them. Betty was my
patient—I
delivered
her, for God’s sake!”
“Whooping cough,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I spoke with her yesterday. She told me you treated
her for whooping cough when she was a kid. She considered you a hero.”
He slumped and sat back down. “Dear
God . . .”
No one talked. Brandy got poured. It
burned a slow, cleansing trail down my gullet, the only
sensation in an otherwise numb body. Everyone looked numb.
“Anyone know the time?” I said.
Pam shot the sleeve of her kimono. “Just after four.”
“Rise and shine,” said Jo, softly. “I still don’t see
why we’re all locked up here.”
“For our own safety,” said Moreland. “At least that’s
the theory.”
“Who’s out to get us?”
“No one.”
“Ben is closely identified with this
place,” I said. “So people may start talking.”
Moreland didn’t answer.
Jo frowned. “Staying cooped up just makes us sitting
targets. You’ve got no security here—anyone can walk
right
in.”
“I’ve never
needed
security, Dr. Picker.”
“Do you keep any weapons around?” she said.
“No! If you’re concerned with your safety, I suggest
you—”
“No problem,” said Jo. “Personally, I’m fine. It’s the
only good thing that came out of losing Ly. When your worst
fantasy comes true, you find out you can handle things.”
She got up and shuffled toward the living room,
tightening the belt of her robe, big hips shifting like the
pans of a balance scale.
When she was gone, Robin said, “She’s got a gun. A
little pistol. I saw it in an open drawer of her
nightstand.”
Moreland’s mouth worked. “I despise firearms.”
Pam said, “Hopefully she won’t shoot someone by
accident. Is there any way you can get some rest now, Dad?
You’re going to be needing your strength.”
“I’ll be fine, dear. Thank you for
your . . . ministrations, but I believe I’ll stay up
for a while.” He leaned over as if to kiss her, but patted her
shoulder instead. “Hopefully when the sun comes up, cooler
heads will prevail.”
“There are some things
I’d like to discuss with you,” I said.
He stared at me.
“Things we never got to last night.”
“Yes, certainly. In the morning, right after I call
Dennis—”
“I’m staying up, too. We can talk now.”
He fidgeted with the neckband of his nightshirt. “Of
course. What say we leave the terrace to the ladies and move
to my office?”
I squeezed Robin’s hand and she squeezed back and sat
next to Pam, who looked baffled. But the two of them were
already talking as Moreland and I left.
“What’s so urgent?” he said, flicking the lights on
in the bungalow. The newspaper clippings were gone from his
desk. So were all his other papers; the wood surface
gleamed.
“We never talked about
A. Tutalo
—”
“Surely you can see why that wouldn’t be a priority at
this time—”
“There are other things.”
“Such as?”
“Murder. Ben. What’s really going on with
Aruk.”
He said nothing for a while, then, “That’s quite an
agenda.”
“We’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Very well.” He pointed crossly to the sofa and I sat,
expecting him to settle in a facing chair. Instead, he went
behind the desk, lowered himself with a grimace, opened a
drawer, and began searching.
“You don’t believe Ben could have done this,” he said.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know Ben very well.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “Psychologist’s
answer. . . . Very well, I can’t expect you to follow me
blindly; you’ll see, he’ll be vindicated. The notion of his
butchering Betty is beyond ridiculous—all right, trivial
things first. “A. Tutalo.’ You couldn’t find an organism by that name
because it’s not a germ, it’s a fantasy. A local myth. The “A’ stands
for “Aruk.’ “Aruk Tutalo.’ An imaginary tribe of creatures who
live in the forest. Goes back years. A myth. No one’s
believed it for a long time.”
“Except Cristobal.”
“Joseph hallucinated. That’s not belief.”
“You convinced him he hadn’t seen anything?”
Pause. “He was a stubborn man.”
“Have there been other sightings?”
“None since I’ve lived here. As I said, it’s a primitive
idea.”
“Creatures from the forest,” I said. “What do they look
like?”
“Pale, soft, hideous. A shadow society, living under
the forest. Nothing unique to Aruk; all cultures develop
fantasies of fanciful, lustful creatures in order to project
forbidden desires—animal
instincts.
The
minotaurs, centaurs, and satyrs of
ancient Greece. The Japanese have a saucer-headed
anthro-creature called the
kappa
who lurks by forest
streams, abducting children and pulling their intestines
through their anuses. Witches’ rituals
use animal masks to hide the faces of participants,
the Devil himself is often thought of as the Great Beast
with goat feet and a serpentine tail. Wood-demons, anthro-bat
vampiric creatures, werewolves, the yeti, Bigfoot, it’s
all the same. Psychological defense.”
“What about the catwoman—”
“No, no, that was something totally different.”
“A response to trauma.”
“A response to
cruelty.
”
“Worm people,” I said.
“There are no mammals native to Aruk—one uses what’s
at hand. “Tutalo’ is derived from an ancient
island word of uncertain etymology:
tootali,
or wood-grub.
From what I’ve gathered they’re large, humanoid, with
tentaclelike limbs, slack bodied but strong. And chalky
white.
I find that particularly interesting. Perhaps a
covert indictment of colonizers: white
creatures “appearing’ on the island and establishing brutal control.”