"Vaguely. A sect that equates material goods with spiritual salvation."

"A spontaneous sect spurred by a self-styled prophet. Cargo cults develop when native people have been converted to a Western religion but have held on to some of their old beliefs. The link between acquiring goods and receiving salvation occurs because basic missionary technique combines gifts with doctrine. The islander believes the missionary holds the key to eternal afterlife and that everything associated with him is sacred: white skin, Caucasian features, Western dress. The wonderful kahgo. The cults are rarer and rarer, but as late as the sixties there was a cult that worshiped Lyndon Johnson because someone got the notion he was the source of the cargo."

"Correlation confused with causation," I said. "The same way all superstitions are learned. A tribe goes fishing the night of the full moon and brings in a record catch: the moon acquires magical properties. An actor wears a red shirt the night he gets rave reviews: the shirt becomes sacred."

"Exactly. Groundless rituals provide comfort, but if the belief system is shaken up- the missionary leaves and the cargo stops- the islander may view it as the beginning of the apocalypse. Stick a charismatic prophet into the picture and- years ago I was sent to Pangia, in Southern Highlands Province, to survey infectious diseases. Fifty-five, right after the war. In the course of my research, I learned of a minor government clerk who suddenly quit his job and started reading the Bible aloud twenty hours a day in the village square. Handsome, intelligent young fellow. His association with the ruling class had lent additional status. A small group formed around him, and his delusions grew more florid. And bloody. He ended up slaughtering and eating his own infant son, sharing the meal with his followers in an attempt to bring in plane loads of goods. The morning of the murder he'd been preaching from Genesis. The story of Abraham binding Isaac for sacrifice."

"Abraham never went through with it."

"In his view that was because Abraham didn't merit true fulfillment. He, of course, was quite another story."

Telling the story had turned him pale.

"I can still see his face. Smiling, tranquil."

"Any similarities to this murder?"

"Several."

"And some of the factors you've just mentioned are present here, too. Dependence upon the white man, then abandonment."

"But still," he said, bending forward, "it doesn't make sense. Because other factors are absent."

"No pre-Christian culture."

"And absolutely no history of cults on Aruk!"

He rapped his knuckle against the file. "I continue to insist that this hideousness was the work of a single, sick person."

"Someone who'd read up on cannibalism and was trying to simulate a cult murder?"

"Perhaps. And most important, someone who's moved on."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it hasn't happened again."

He was ashen. I lacked the heart for debate.

"For a while, son, I couldn't stop thinking that he'd simply gone off to do it somewhere else. But Dennis has been checking international reports for similar crimes in the region and none have come up. Now, what say we put aside this ghastly stuff and move on?"

12

For the next hour and a half, we were dispassionate scientists, discussing cases, suggesting different ways to organize the data.

Moreland looked at his watch. "Feeding time for Emma and her friends. Thank you for a stimulating afternoon. It's not often I get to engage in collegial discussions."

I thought of his daughter the physician, trained in public health. "My pleasure, Bill."

He strode to the door. "It'll be dark soon, don't work too hard," he said. "I didn't bring you over here to enslave you."

Alone, I sat back and looked out the window at the fountain spitting jewels.

My mind's eye kept focusing on the photos of AnneMarie Valdos's murder scene.

White body on dark rock; the details Moreland and Laurent had withheld.

Probably what Creedman had been after when Ben caught him snooping: ace reporter comes to islands to find himself, finds a gore-fest instead, and phones his agent ("What a concept, Mel!").

Then he came up against Moreland and was cut off from the information. And resented it.

Moreland had concealed the whole truth from his beloved islanders but offered them to me after a forty-eight-hour acquaintance.

Wanting input from me… about human motivation.

More worried about recurrence than he'd admitted?

Couching it in collegiality-a couple of guys with doctorates having a clubby chat about two-legged supper.

A brilliantly colored bird flew past the window. The sky was still a peacock blue I'd seen only on crayons.

I got up and headed for Robin's studio. What would I tell her?

By the time I reached the door, I'd decided on limited honesty: letting her know I'd discussed the murder with Moreland and that he believed it an isolated crime, but leaving out the details.

She wasn't there. Bits of shell were laid out neatly atop the flat file along with a billet of koa and two small chisels.

No dust. Wishful thinking.

I went looking for her, finally spotted her down by the fruit groves, a white butterfly flitting among the citrus trees, Spike a wiggly, dark shadow at her feet.

I jogged to her side, she put her arm in mine, and we walked together.

"So how did work go?" she said.

"Very scholarly. What'd you do?"

"Played around in the studio, but it was a little frustrating not being able to work, so Mr. Handsome and I decided to stroll. The estate's wonderful, Alex. Huge. We made it all the way to the edge of the banyan jungle. Bill must have sunk a fortune into landscaping; there are some beautiful plantings along the way- herbs, wildflowers, a greenhouse, orchids growing on tree trunks. Even the walls are pretty. He's got different kinds of vines trailing down them. The only thing that spoils it is the barbed wire."

She stopped to pick up an orange that had dropped, peeled it surgically as we continued.

"How much of the jungle can you see over the walls?"

"Treetops. And those aerial roots. There's a coolness that seems to make its way over. Not a breeze. Even milder. A subtle current. I'd take you there but Spikey didn't like it, kept pulling away."

"Our little mine detector."

"Or some kind of animal on the other side. I couldn't hear anything, but you know him."

I bent and rubbed behind the dog's bat ears. His flat face looked up at me, comically grave.

"With those radar detectors, it's no wonder," I said. "Finally style and substance merge."

She laughed. "Umm, smell those orange blossoms? This is great, Alex."

I kept my mouth shut.

We decided to dive the following morning and got up for an early breakfast. Jo Picker was already on the terrace dressed in a black T-shirt and loose pants, her hair tied back carelessly, sooty shadows under her eyes. She kept both hands on her coffee cup and stared down into it. The food on her plate was untouched.

When Robin touched her shoulder, she smiled weakly. Spike's licking her hand sparked another smile.

As we sat down, she said, "Ly never liked dogs… too much maintenance."

Her lips tightened, then trembled. She stood abruptly and marched into the house.