'Just before you arrived.'
'Club Skip. Ready to call your broker?'
'Got a cell phone?'
He laughed. 'Can't you just see Skip greeting a boatload of tourists-'Hey, welcome to fucking Aruk, man.''
'Chamber of commerce should hire him.'
'Yeah,' he said, 'if we had one- hello, Ms. Castagna. How was the water?'
'Warm.'
'Always is. Something about the lack of water movement and the insulating properties of the coral. I'm happy to see you two finally enjoying yourselves. Finally got a callback from the Navy: just headed up to the estate to talk to Mrs. Picker. They found the wreckage just inside Stanton. Nothing much left; they'll be shipping the remains back to the States, billing her later for the transport.'
'You're kidding.'
'Wish I was. Captain Ewing thinks he's being generous because the plane was trespassing on military property. He says he could have filed a complaint, fined Picker bigtime, and the estate would be financially responsible.'
'That's despicable,' said Robin.
Laurent flicked a speck of sand off his badge. 'Yup. How's Mrs. Picker doing?'
'This morning she looked pretty exhausted.'
'I'd better leave out the part about the bill for now. Knowing the military- I'm an ex-Marine- they'll take two years just to finish the paperwork, if they even follow through. Trouble is, I'm not going to be able to get her the body. Even if Ewing was cooperative, there's no real mortuary here, just a couple of guys who dig graves for the cemetery behind the church, and no supply boat for another ten days or so. Without proper embalming it could get pretty ripe-'
He stopped himself. 'Sorry.'
'Why's Ewing so hostile?' I said.
He shrugged. 'Maybe it's his nature, maybe he doesn't like being here. He was involved in Skipjack- that Navy sex scandal in Virginia? Got exiled here because of it. But maybe that's just talk… Anyway, I'll just tell Mrs. Picker the Navy's doing her a favor by shipping the body. Ewing asked me to get an address. She can have someone claim it back in the States.'
He removed his shades and blew sand off the lenses. His light eyes took in the beach, the harbor. Lingering for a split second on the flat rocks above the tide pools. Or had I imagined it?
'Do you know if Doctor Bill's up at the house?' he said.
'He wasn't at breakfast.'
'He's usually up way before breakfast. Goes to sleep late, too. Never met a man who needs less sleep, always moving, moving, moving. If you see him, tell him hi. Pam, too.'
13
As we got back in the Jeep, Skip and Haygood were walking along the shore, smoking and flicking ash into the water.
Robin said, 'Let's drive around a bit, explore some of the smaller roads.'
I turned the vehicle around and she looked up at the barricade.
'It's almost as if they wanted it to be ugly.'
'Moreland agrees with Picker that the Navy's shutting the island down gradually. I asked him how people live and he admitted the main source was welfare.'
'End of an era,' she said. 'That may be why he's so eager to document what he's done.'
I headed toward the bowed gray pilings of the dock. The open-air market was closed and the ration sign remained atop the gas pump.
'Did you talk about the murder?'
'A bit.'
'And?'
'Moreland and Dennis are assuming it's a one-shot, that the murderer's gone. Because he hasn't done it again in the region. So it could very well be a sailor who's transferred to another base.'
'Meaning he could be doing it in another region.'
'Dennis has been keeping an eye out for similar crimes and none have come up.'
We were nearing the Chop Suey Palace. Creedman was outside again, with a bottle and a mug. Looking straight ahead, I passed him and hung a sharp right onto the next road, passing more tumbledown houses and empty lots. Then a small, poorly tended patch of grass housing a World War Two cannon and a life-size statue of MacArthur shading his eyes. A wooden sign said VICTORY PARK, EST. 1945. The only obvious triumph was that of birds over bronze.
More shacks and lean-tos and dirt till the crest, where a narrow white church stood. I stopped. Two stories high, with a sharply pitched roof, fish-scale trim, and a badly tarnished copper steeple, the building canted to the right. The balusters of the front stair rail were intricately turned but flaking. The five-pace front yard was thick with high grass edged with leggy white petunias.
'Early Victorian,' said Robin. 'It's sunk a little on the foundation, but the design's nice.'
A display board staked in the lawn said OUR LADY OF THE HARBOR CATHOLIC CHURCH. VISITORS WELCOME. A few feet away a metal flagpole hosted Old Glory. The flag drooped in the motionless air.
Behind the church was more tall grass squared by a low picket fence. Rows of white crosses, stone and wooden grave markers. A few flashes of color. Floral wreaths, some so bright they had to be plastic.
Next door was a large aluminum Quonset hut labeled ARUK COMMUNITY CLINIC. The old black Jeep Ben had used to pick us up was parked near the door next to an even older MG roadster, once red, now faded to salmon. The emergency number on the door was that of Moreland's estate.
Just as I started to drive on, Pam came out, removing her stethoscope. She waved and I stopped again. Taking something out of the MG, she came over. Handful of plastic-wrapped lollipops.
'Hi. Snack?'
'No, thanks,' said Robin.
'Sure? They're sugarless.' Unwrapping a green pop, she put it in her mouth. 'So you guys got to swim. How was it?'
Robin told her about our dive. Through the open door I could see children, their small faces pinched with fright.
'They seemed okay about the crash,' said Pam, 'but still pretty nervous about their shots, so we decided to get it over with. Want to come in?'
We followed her into the hut and breathed in the sharp smell of alcohol. The floor was blue linoleum. Fiberboard partitions sectioned the interior into cubicles. Cartoon posters and nutritional charts nearly covered the walls, but the aluminum fought the attempt to cheer.
Fifteen or so children, all dark haired, none older than eight, were lined up in front of a long table. Two chairs sat behind the table, the one on the right empty, the other occupied by Ben. To his left were steel trays of bandages, cotton swabs, disinfectant pads, disposable syringes, and small glass jars with rubber stoppers. A trash basket near his left foot brimmed with discarded needles and blood-specked pads.
He crooked his finger and a little girl in a pink T-shirt and red-and-white paisley shorts stepped forward. Her hair was waist long; her feet were in beach thongs. She was losing the struggle not to cry.
Ben unwrapped a pad, picked up a bottle, and jabbed the needle through the rubber cap with his left hand. Filling the syringe, he squirted it clear of air, took hold of the girl's arm and drew her closer. Cleaning her bicep swiftly, he tossed the pad in the basket, said something that made her look at him and flicked the needle at her arm, almost teasingly. The girl's mouth opened in pain and insult. The tears flowed. Some of the boys in line laughed, but none with enthusiasm. Then, the needle was out and Ben was bandaging her arm. The whole process had taken less than five seconds and he remained impassive.
The girl kept crying. Ben looked back at us. Pam rushed over and unwrapped a lollipop for the whimpering child.
