23

I went back to Moreland's bungalow. Locked now, and no one answered.

The next time I saw him was at the dinner table that evening. The bandage on his hand was fresh, and he acknowledged me with a smile. Pam stood in a corner of the terrace, hands at her sides. She wore a blood-red Chinese silk dress and red sandals. Her hair was pinned and a yellow orchid rested above her left ear. Forced festivity?

She turned and gave us a wave. Robin looked at me and when I nodded went over to her.

I sat down next to Moreland.

"How's the hand?"

"Fine, thank you. Some juice? Mixed citrus, quite delicious."

I took some. "There's a case I'd like to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"A man named Joseph Cristobal, thirty-year-old file. He complained of visual hallucinations- white worms, white worm people- and then he died in his sleep. You found a blocked coronary artery and gave the cause of death as heart failure. But you also noted an organism called A. Tutalo. I looked it up but couldn't find any mention of it."

He rubbed his crinkled chin. "Ah, yes, Joseph. He worked here, gardening. Looked healthy enough, but his arteries were a mess. Loved coconut, maybe that contributed. He never complained of any cardiac symptoms, but even if he had there wouldn't have been much I could have done. Today, of course, I'd refer him for an angiogram, possible bypass surgery. It's the humbling thing about medicine. Acceptable practice inevitably resembles medieval barbering."

"What about A. Tutalo?"

He smiled. "No, it's not an organism. It's… a bit more complicated than that, son- ah, one second."

Jo had come out, Ben and Claire Romero right behind her. Moreland sprang up, touched Jo's hand briefly, then continued on and gave Claire a hug. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "Shall we continue our discussion after dinner, Alex?"

Jo seemed different- eyes less burdened, voice lighter, almost giddy, praising the food every third bite, informing the table that Lyman's body had reached the States and been picked up by his family. Then, waving off condolences, she changed the subject to her research, pronouncing that everything was "proceeding grandly."

The sky turned deep blue, then black. The rain clouds were gray smudges. They hadn't moved much since morning.

When Jo stopped talking, Moreland strode to the railing where some geckos were racing. When he waved a piece of fruit, they stopped and stared at him; dinnertime was probably a cue. He hand-fed them, then returned to the table and delivered a discourse on interspecies bonding. Avoiding my eyes, I thought.

A bit of small talk followed before the conversation settled upon Claire Romero, the way it often does with a newcomer.

She was well-spoken, but very quiet. The Honolulu-born daughter of two high school teachers, she'd played violin in college and in several chamber groups and had considered a professional career in music.

"Why didn't you?" said Jo, nibbling a croissant.

Claire smiled. "Not enough talent."

"Sometimes we're not our own best judges."

"I am, Dr. Picker."

"She's the only one who feels that way," said Ben. "She was a child prodigy. I married her and took her away from it."

Claire looked at her plate. "Please, Ben-"

"You are immensely talented, dear," said Moreland. "And it's been so long since you played for us- last year, wasn't it? On my birthday, in fact. What a lovely night that was."

"I've barely played since, Dr. Bill." She turned to Robin. "Have you ever built a violin?"

"No, but I've thought of it. I have some old Alpine spruce and Tyrolean maple that would be perfect, but it's a little intimidating."

"Why's that?" said Jo.

"Small scale, subtle gradations. I wouldn't want to ruin old wood."

"Claire's got a terrific old fiddle," said Ben. "French- a Guersan. Over a hundred years old." He winked. "In fact, it just happens to be down in the car."

Claire stared at him.

He smiled back with mock innocence.

She shook her head.

"Well, then," said Moreland, clapping his hands. "You must play for us."

"I'm really rusty, Dr. Bi-"

"I'm willing to assume the risk, dear."

Claire glared at Ben.

"Please, dear. Just a piece or two."

"I'm warning you, get out the earplugs."

"Warning duly noted. Would it be possible to play the piece you did for us last year? The Vivaldi?"

Claire hesitated, glanced at Ben.

"I saw the case," he said. "Just lying there in the closet. It said, "Take me along."'

"If you're hearing voices, perhaps you should have a long talk with Dr. Delaware."

"Dear?" said Moreland, softly.

Claire shook her head. "Sure, Dr. Bill."

She played wonderfully, but she looked tense. Mouth set, shoulders hunched, swaying in time with the music as she filled the terrace with a rich brocade of melody. When she was through, we applauded and she said, "Thanks for your tolerance. Now, I've really got to get going. Science project's due tomorrow."

Moreland walked her and Ben out. Pam nibbled a slice of passion fruit, distracted. Robin took my hand.

"She is good, Alex."

"Fantastic," I said. But I was thinking about A. Tutalo. The other things I'd ask Moreland when he returned.

He didn't.

When Robin said, "Let's go upstairs," I didn't argue.

The moment we closed our suite door we were embracing, and soon we were in bed, kissing deeply, merging hungrily.

Afterward, I sank into a molasses vat of dreamless sleep, a welcome brain-death.

That made waking up in the middle of the night so much more unsettling.

Sitting up, sweating.

Noises… my head was fogged and I struggled to make sense of what I was hearing:

Rapid pounding- footsteps out in the hall…

Someone running?

A tattoo of footsteps; more than one person.

Fast.

Panic…

Then shouts- angry, hurried- someone insisting, "No!"

Spike barked.

Robin sat up, hair in her face. She grabbed my arm.

A door slammed.

"Alex-"

More shouts.

Too far away to make out words.

"No!" again.

A man's voice.

Moreland.

We got up, threw on robes, opened our door carefully.

The chandelier over the entry was on, whitening the landing. My eyes ached, struggling to stay open.

Moreland wasn't there, but Jo was, her broad back to us, hands atop the banister. A door down the hall opened and Pam came running out, wrapped in a silver kimono, her face paper-white. The door stayed open and I had my first look at her room: white satin bedding, peach-colored walls, cut flowers. At the end of the landing, her father's door remained closed.

But I heard him again. Down in the entry.

We hurried next to Jo. She didn't turn, kept looking at Moreland and Dennis Laurent. The police chief stood just inside the front door, in full uniform, hands on his hips. A holstered pistol on his belt.

Moreland faced him, hands clenched. He had on a long white nightshirt, soft slippers. His legs were varicosed stilts, his hands inches from the police chief's impassive face.

"Impossible, Dennis! Insane!"

Dennis held out a palm. Moreland came closer anyway.

"Listen to me, Dennis-"

"I'm just telling you what we-"

"I don't care what you found, it's impossible! How could you of all-"

"Take it easy. Let's just go one step at a time and I'll do what I-"