"Your love for the island and its people seems so strong. Yet you tongue-lash Pam for hanging around Dennis. Not that it's my business- you've devoted your life to Aruk and I'm just a visitor."

He folded his arms across his chest and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

"I know that this situation with Ben is terrible for you," I said, "but if I'm to stay here I need to know a few things."

Looking away, he said, "What else troubles you, son?"

"The fact that Aruk's so cut off from the outside world. That more of your energies haven't been spent opening it up. You say there's hope, but you don't act hopeful. I agree with you that TV's mostly garbage, but how can the people ever develop when their access to information is so limited? They can't even get mail on a regular basis. It's solitary confinement on a cultural level."

His hands started to shake again and spots of color made his cheeks shine.

"Forget it," I said.

"No, no, go on."

"Do you want to respond to what I just said?"

"The people have books. There's a library in the church."

"When's the last time new books came in?"

He used a fingernail to scrape something off the desktop. "What do you suggest?"

"More frequent shipping schedules. The leeward harbor's too narrow for big craft but couldn't the supply boats sail more often? And if the Navy won't allow planes to land on Stanton, why not build an airfield on the west side? If Amalfi won't cooperate, use some of your land."

"And how is all this to be financed?"

"Your personal finances are none of my business, either, but I've heard you're very wealthy."

"Who told you that?"

"Creedman."

His laugh was shrill. "Do you know what Creedman really does for a living?"

"He's not a journalist?"

"He's worked for a few minor papers, done some cable television work. But for the last several years he's written quarterly reports for corporations. His last client was Stasher-Layman. Have you heard of them?"

"No."

"Big construction outfit, based in Texas. Builders of government housing and other tax-financed projects. They put up ticky-tack boxes, sell the management contract for high profits, and walk away. Instant slum. Creedman's scribblings for them made them sound like saints. If I hadn't thrown the reports out, I'd show them to you."

"You researched him?"

"After we caught him snooping I thought it prudent."

"Okay," I said. "So he's a corporate hack. Is he wrong about your wealth?"

He pulled on a long, pale finger till it cracked. Righted his glasses. Brushed nonexistent dust from the desk.

"I won't tell you I'm poor, but family fortunes recede unless the heirs are talented in business. I'm not. Which means I'm in no position to build airports or lease entire fleets of boats. I'm doing all I can."

"Okay," I said. "Sorry for bringing it up, then."

"No apology necessary. You're a passionate young man. Passionate but focused. It's rare when the two go hand in hand: "I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and the life, whose fountains are within'- Coleridge said that. Another great thinker; even narcotics didn't still his genius… Your passion even comes through your scientific writing, son. That's why I asked you to join me."

"And here I thought it was my experience with police cases."

He sat back and let out another shrill laugh. "Passionate and observant. Yes, your experience with criminal behavior was a bonus because to me it means you have a strict sense of right and wrong. I admire your sense of justice."

"What does justice have to do with analyzing medical charts?"

"I was speaking in an abstract sense- doing things ethically."

"Are you sure that's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has the cannibal murder remained on your mind, Bill? Have you been more worried about recurrence than you let on? Because if that's it, you're going to be disappointed. I've gotten involved in a few bloody things, mostly because of my friendship with Milo Sturgis. But he's the detective, not me."

He took time to answer. Staring at his wife's watercolors. Twisting his fingers as if they were knitting needles.

"Worry's too strong a word, son. Let's just say the possibility of recurrence has remained in the back of my mind. AnneMarie's murder was my first real brush with this kind of thing, so I read up on it and learned that recurrence is the norm, not the exception. When I learned you had some experience with murder in addition to your scholarly achievements, I felt a great sense of… appropriateness."

"How similar is Betty's murder to AnneMarie Valdos's?"

"Dennis claims there are… similarities."

"Was Betty cannibalized?"

"Not…" He tapped the desk. The flutter of wings outside a window made us both start. Nightbirds or bats.

"Not yet," he said. "Nothing was missing. She was…" He shook his head. "Decapitated and eviscerated, but nothing had been taken."

"What about the long bones?"

"One leg was broken- hacked but not severed."

"What kind of knife was used?"

He didn't reply.

"Bill?"

"Knives," he said miserably. "A set of surgical tools were found there."

"Ben's?"

Headshake.

"Yours?"

"An old set I'd once owned."

"Did you give it to Ben?"

"No. It was kept here- in the lab. In a drawer of this desk."

"Where Ben had easy access."

He nodded, almost crying. "But you must believe me, Ben would never take anything without permission. Never! I know it sounds bad for him, but please believe me."

"AnneMarie had a drinking problem," I said. "You implied Betty did, too."

"Did I?"

"Back in the house you said she used to smoke and… Then you trailed off and said she'd been taking excellent care of herself during her pregnancy."

"The poor thing's dead. Why besmirch her memory?"

"Because it may be relevant. She's beyond hurt, Bill. Was she an alcoholic?"

"No, not an alcoholic. She was a… friendly girl. She smoked and drank a bit."

"What does friendly have to do with it?"

"Friendly," he said. "To the sailors."

"Like AnneMarie. One of those girls who went up to Victory Park. Was it common knowledge in the village?"

"I don't know what's common knowledge. I heard it from her mother."

"Her mother complained about Betty's promiscuity?"

"Ida brought Betty in to be treated for a venereal infection."

"Gonorrhea?"

He nodded.

"When?"

"A year ago. Before she became engaged. We kept it confidential from Mauricio- her boyfriend. Tested him, too, under a false pretense. Negative. Eventually they married."

"Maybe he found out anyway and reacted."

"This? No, not Mauricio. What was done to her was beyond… no, no, impossible. Mauricio's not a… calculating sort. He'd never have thought to incriminate Ben."

"Not smart enough?"

"He's simple. As was Betty."

I remembered Betty's open manner and easy smile. Trusting me enough after meeting me to talk about herself. No bra under the tank top…

"Simple and trusting," I said. "A drinker, overly friendly with the boys. Sounds like a perfect victim. What was Ben's relationship with her?"

"They knew each other the way everyone on the island knows each other."

"Did Ben know about her gonorrhea?"

He thought. "I didn't discuss it with him."

"But he could have found out- read it in the chart."

"Ben was busy enough without sticking his nose where it didn't belong."

"Maybe he came across it by accident. We both know you're not a compulsive filer."

No answer. He got up and paced, twisting his fingers again, bobbing his neck.

I said, "Learning that, he could have assumed she was easy."

"I didn't record the diagnosis in my notes. I made sure to protect her."