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Alex Delaware.'

We exchanged greetings.

'Everything okay?' said Ben. 'We still on for hibachi dinner?'

'After homework- addition practice for Cindy and composition for Ben Junior.'

He put his arm around her. He was a small man, but she made him look big. Walking her to the car, he held her door open. He looked happy. I left.

***

Casual formal for Robin was a long, sleeveless black dress with a mandarin collar and high slits on the side. Her hair was piled and mabe-pearl earrings glistened like small moons.

I put on the linen sportcoat she'd bought me for the trip, tropical wool slacks, blue shirt, maroon tie.

'Spiffy,' she said, patting my hair down.

Spike looked up at us with big eyes.

'What?' I said.

He began baying like a hound.

The give-me-attention-I'm-so-needy bit. Our dressing up was always a cue.

'And the Oscar goes to,' I said.

Robin said, 'Poor baby!' and bent down and mothered him for a while, then coaxed him into his crate with an extra-large biscuit and a kiss through the grill. He gave out a bass snort, then a whine.

'What is it, Spikey?'

'Probably 'I want my MTV,'' I said. 'His internal clock's telling him The Grind's on in L.A.'

'Aw,' she said, still looking into the crate. 'Sorry, baby. No TV, here. We're roughing it.'

She took my arm.

No TV, no daily newspaper. The mail irregular, packed on the biweekly supply boats.

Cut off from the world. So far, I was surprisingly content.

How would it suit me, long term?

How did it suit the people of Aruk? Moreland's letters had emphasized the isolation and insulation. Preparing us, but there'd been a bit of boast to it.

A man who hadn't switched from rotary phones.

Doing it his way, in the little world he'd built for himself. Breeding and feeding his bugs and his plants, dispensing altruism on his own schedule.

But what of everyone else on the island? They had to know other Pacific islanders lived differently: during our stopover on Guam, we'd had access to newsstands, twenty-four-hour cable, radio bands of music and talk. The travel brochures I'd picked up there showed similar access on Saipan and Rota and the larger Marianas.

The global village, and Aruk was on the outside looking in.

Maybe Spike wasn't the only one who missed his MTV.

Creedman had said Moreland was extremely wealthy, and Moreland had confirmed growing up on ranchland in California wine country.

Why didn't he use his money to improve communication? There was no computer in his office. Journals arrived in the unpredictable mail. How did he keep up with medical progress?

Did Dennis Laurent have a computer? Without one, how could he do his police tracking?

Was the failure to find a repeat of the beach murder the result of inadequate equipment, and was that why Moreland was still worried?

'Alex?' I felt a tug at my sleeve.

'What, hon?'

'You all right?'

'Sure.'

'I was talking to you and you spaced out.'

'Oh. Sorry. Maybe it's contagious.'

'What do you mean?'

'Moreland spaces out all the time. Maybe it's island fever or something. Too much mellow.'

'Or maybe you're both working too hard.'

'Snorkel all morning and read charts for a couple of hours? I can stand the pain.'

'It's all expenditure of energy, darling. And the air. It does sap you. I find myself wanting to vegetate.'

'My little brussels sprout,' I said, taking her hand. 'So it'll be a real vacation.'

'For you too, doc.'

'Absolutely.'

She laughed. 'Meaning what? The body rests but the mind races?'

I tapped my forehead. 'The mind makes a pit stop.'

'Somehow I don't think so.'

'No? Watch me tonight. Pinkies out, hmph hmph, how about them Dodgers?' I went limp and rolled my eyes.

'Maybe I should bring a snorkel, then. In case you nod off in the soup.'

17

Moreland was sitting in the Jeep when we got there. Wearing an ancient brown blazer and a tie the color of gutter water.

'We're waiting on Pam,' he said, looking preoccupied. He started the car and gave it gas, and a moment later the little red MG sped up and screeched to a halt. Pam jumped out, flushed and breathless.

'Sorry.' She ran into the house.

Moreland frowned and looked at his watch. The first hint of paternal disapproval I'd seen. I hadn't noticed any closeness, either.

He checked the watch again. An old Timex. Milo would have approved. 'You look lovely, dear,' he said to Robin. 'As soon as she's ready, we'll get going. Mrs. Picker's not coming, understandably.'

A few minutes later, Pam sprinted out, perfectly composed in a blazing white trouser suit, her hair loose and shining, her cheeks flushed.

'Onward,' said Moreland. When she kissed his cheek he didn't acknowledge it.

***

He drove the way he walked, maneuvering the Jeep slowly and awkwardly down toward the harbor, veering close to the edge of the road as he pointed out plants and trees.

At the bottom of the road, he turned south. The sun had been subdued all day, and now it was retiring; the beach was oyster-gray, the water old nickel.

So quiet. I thought of AnneMarie Valdos sectioned like a side of meat on the flat rocks.

We got out and waited silently near the edge of the road.

'How long of a copter ride is it?' I said.

'Short,' said Moreland.

A scuffing sound came from the top of the coastal road.

A man emerged from the shadow of the barrier and came toward us.

Tom Creedman, waving. He wore a blue pinstripe suit, white button-down shirt, yellow paisley tie, tasseled loafers. His black hair was slicked down and his mustache smiled in harmony with his mouth.

Moreland's eyes were furious. 'Tom.'