“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.”
Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out some keys and gave
them to me.
“Thanks,” I said. “When do you want to start working?”
He smiled. “We already have.”
Chapter
6
We walked back through the silk-papered gallery,
Moreland moving stiffly despite long strides, Robin and I
slowing down for him.
“I like your paintings,” I said.
He gave a puzzled look. “Oh, those. They were done by
my late wife.”
He made no further comment till we reached the entry hall
and a door slammed upstairs from the vicinity of the Pickers’
suite.
“I heard about Lyman’s behavior at dinner,” he said,
stopping. “I apologize.”
“No big deal.”
“They’ll only be here another week or so. She’s just
about completed whatever it is she came here to do. He has
nothing
to do, which is part of the problem. He’s unhappy
about the lack of exotic molds.”
“He may still be hoping to find some,” I said. “They’re
flying over the banyan forest tomorrow morning.”
Thin arms folded across his chest.
“Tomorrow?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Flying in what?”
“A plane owned by a man named Harry Amalfi.”
“Good lord. Those are junk heaps. Harry bought them
from surplus years ago, expecting me to hire him to dust
crops. I decided to use only organic pest control, tried to
explain it to him. Even after I compensated him, he convinced
himself I ruined him.”
“You paid him, anyway?” said Robin.
“I gave him something because he’d taken initiative. I
suggested he use the money to open a car repair business. He
and his son know how to do that. Instead, he spent every
penny and hasn’t taken any initiative since. There’s no
reason to go up in one of those rattletraps. What do they
expect to see?”
“The forest.”
“There’s nothing down there. The area is mostly Navy
land, the rest public domain that would have been cleared
long ago except that it’s not safe. Land mines left by the Japanese.
And who’s going to fly them? Harry hasn’t been up in years.
And
he drinks.”
“Picker has a pilot’s license.”
He shook his head. “I must have a talk with them.
Those land mines are a real danger if he tries to land. I had barbed
wire put up along the eastern wall of my property to make sure no one
climbed over. I’d better go up there right now.”
“He may not be receptive,” I said.
“Oh . . . yes, you’re probably right.
Tomorrow morning, then. . . . Now, in terms of your
recreation here at the house, we don’t get television reception but
the radio in your room should be working. There’s also a small
library on the other side of the dining room.” He gave a little wave.
“Converted silver room. You may not find much of interest there.
Mostly condensed books and biographies. There are many more books
in your office, and mine. Periodicals come in with the
provisions. If there’s something specific you’re interested
in reading, I’ll do my best to find it for you.”
He bent slowly and petted Spike. “Well, I’ll let you
go now. Is there anything you need?”
Robin said, “It’s so pleasant out I thought we might
walk some more.”
Moreland nodded happily. “Have you noticed the sweetness
in the air? I’ve planted for aroma.
Frangipani, night-blooming jasmine, old roses, all sorts of
things.”
“Picker said the soil isn’t good,” I said.
“He’s right about that. Any residues of volcanic ash
have drifted into the jungle, and the rest of the island is
too high in salt and silica. In some places, the dirt only
goes down a couple of feet before you hit coral. With the
exception of a few pines planted by the Japanese, this place
was scrub when I bought it. I brought in boatloads of
topsoil and amendments. It took years. It’s turned out
fairly well. Would you like to see—no, forgive me, I won’t
interrupt your walk.”
“We’d love to,” said Robin.
He blinked. “I believe you’re being kind to an old bore.
But at my age, one takes what one gets—let’s go, little
doggy.”
Behind the house was a courtyard planted with privet-hedged
rose gardens and precisely cut flower beds. Big
conifers, some pruned in the spare, graceful
Japanese style. Then, looser plantings of palm and fern and
crushed rock walkways lined with low-growing lilies.
Artfully placed spotlights allowed just enough illumination
for safe passage. The botanic perfumes
blended in strange combinations. Sometimes the result was
cloying.
“It goes back a ways,” said Moreland, pointing to a
wooden arbor at the rear of the lawn. To the side,
high-voltage spots exposed a grass tennis court without a
net, then more grass. Off to the left stood a group of flat-roofed
buildings: one huge hangarlike structure and several
smaller sheds. Moreland led us to them, saying, “It’s too
dark to see, but I’ve got all sorts of things behind the
arbor. Citrus, plum, peach, table grapes, bananas,
vegetables. Feel free to go picking tomorrow. Everything’s
safe to eat.”
“Are you self-sufficient?” I said.
“For the most part. Meat and fish and dairy products, I
buy for the staff and guests. I used to keep a goat herd for
milk, but we didn’t consume enough to justify it. As I wrote
you, I conduct nutritional research. Sometimes there’s
surplus for the village.”
“Do people in the village grow anything?”
“A bit,” he said. “It’s not an agricultural culture.”
As we got closer to the outbuildings, he said, “Those
are my offices and labs and warehouses. Your office is the
nearest bungalow and I’ve set aside studio space for you, as
well, Robin, right next door. A nice room with
northern exposure and a skylight. My wife used to paint
there. How’s your wrist doing?”
“Better.”
He stopped again. “May I?” Lifting her arm, he flexed
the joint very gently. “No crepitus.
Good. Ice
for acute inflammation and follow up with warmth for pain.
Keep it relaxed and it should knit nicely. The southern
lagoon stays very nice all year round. Swimming’s a low-resistance
exercise that will strengthen the muscles without
unduly stressing the joint.”
Releasing her arm, he looked out into the darkness.
“I should probably dig up some of that lawn.
Ridiculously labor intensive and useless, but I grew up on a
ranch and the smell of new grass brings me back to my
childhood.”
“A ranch where?” I said.
“Sonoma, California. Father grew Santa Rosa plums and pinot noir
grapes.”
We continued walking.
“Do you see patients here?” I said.
“No, that’s done at the clinic in town. The X-ray
machine is there and it’s a lot more convenient for the
villagers.”
“So what kinds of labs do you have here?”
“Research. I have a long-standing interest in
alternative
pesticides—are either of you
squeamish?”
“About what?” said Robin.
“Natural predation.” He blinked. “Spineless
creatures.”
“If they’re crawling all over me, I am.”
He laughed. “I certainly hope not, dear. If you’re
ever interested, I have some very interesting specimens.”
“You keep live specimens here?”
He turned to pat her shoulder. “Under lock and key in
that big building over there. I’m sorry, dear. I should have
told you. Sometimes I forget how people get.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “When I was a kid I had
a tarantula as a pet.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
She laughed. “Neither did my parents. A friend gave it
to me when
her
mother made her get rid of it. I hid it in a
shoebox in my closet for weeks. Then
my
mother discovered
it. One of the more memorable episodes of my childhood.”
“I have tarantulas,” said Moreland. Excitement tinged
his voice. “They’re really quite wonderful, once you get to
know them.”
“Mine wasn’t that big, maybe an inch long. I think it
was from Italy.”
“Probably an Italian wolf spider.
Lycosa tarentula.
Here’s something for
you,
Alex: the bite of the Italian
wolf was once thought to cause madness—weeping and stumbling
and dancing. That’s how the tarantella dance got its name.
Nonsense, of course. The little thing’s harmless.”
“Wish you could have been there to convince my mother,”
said Robin. “She flushed it.”
Moreland winced. “If you’d like to see another
one, I can oblige.”
“Sure,” she said. “If it’s okay with you, Alex.”
I stared at her. Back home she called upon me to swat
mosquitoes and flies.
“Love to see it,” I said. Mr. Macho.
“I’m afraid you’d best leave
him
outside, though,”
said Moreland, looking at Spike. “Dogs are still basically wolves,
and wolves are predators with all the hormonal secretions
that entails. Little scurrying things may set off an
aggressive response in him. I don’t want to upset him. Or
them.”
“Humans are predators, too,” I said.
“Most definitely,” said Moreland. “But we seem to be
naturally afraid of them, and they can deal with that.”
We tied Spike to a tree, gave him a cheese-flavored dog
cracker, and told him we’d be back soon.
Moreland took us to the hangarlike building. The
entrance was a gray metal door.
“The Japanese officers’ bath house,” he said, releasing
a key lock. “They had herbal mudpits here, wet and dry
steam, fresh and saltwater pools. The saltwater was
brought up from the beach in trucks.”
He flipped a switch and light flooded a windowless room.
White tile on all surfaces. Empty. Another gray door,
closed. No lock.
“Careful, now,” he said. “I have to keep the light dim.
There are thirteen steps down.”
Opening the second door, he flicked one of a series of
toggles and a weak, pale blue haze stuttered to life.
“Thirteen steps,” he reiterated, and he counted out loud
as we followed him down a stone flight, grasping cold metal
handrails.
The interior was much cooler than the main house. At
the bottom was a sunken area, maybe sixty feet long. Concrete
walls and floors. The floors were marked by several
rectangles. Seams, where concrete had been poured to fill
the baths.
Narrow windows so high they nearly touched the ceiling
let in feeble dots of moonlight. Translucent wire glass.
The blue light came from a few fluorescent bulbs mounted
vertically on the walls. As my eyes got accustomed to the
dimness, I made out another flight of stairs at the far end.
A raised work space: desk and chair, storage cabinets, lab
tables.
A wide aisle spined through the center of the sunken
area. Metal ribs on both sides: ten rows of steel tables
bolted to the concrete.
The tables housed dozens of ten-gallon aquariums covered
by wire mesh lids. Some tanks were completely dark. Others
glowed pink, gray, lavender, more blue.
Random spurts of sound from within: flutterings and
scratchings, sudden stabs, the
ping
of something hard against
glass.
The panic of attempted escape.
A strange mixture of smells filled my nose. Decayed
vegetation, excreta, peat moss. Wet grain, boiled meat.
Then something sweet—fruit on the verge of rot.
Robin’s hand in mine was as cold as the handrails.
“Welcome,” said Moreland, “to my little zoo.”