"I'm not a boy," I said. "And I'm not your son."

The retort bursting out of me, the same way it had out of Dennis Laurent.

The look on his face… I felt like a bad son.

A maddening man.

Mad or on the brink of it.

"No, you're not," he whispered. "Indeed, you're not."

Robin took my hand and we both left the ramp. Moreland watched us, not budging.

After we'd gone a few steps, he turned his back on us.

Robin stopped, tears in her eyes.

"Bill," she said, just as sound came from the top of the ramp.

Moreland looked and almost lost his balance.

Another noise- hollow, metallic- came from above, just as he straightened.

Then rapid, muffled footsteps.

Two figures in black rain slickers barreled down the ramp. One grabbed Moreland. The other stopped for a fraction of a second, then came toward us.

Glossy wet slickers, galoshes. All that rubber buffed brighter by moisture.

Like giant seals.

Anders Haygood splashed water on us as he waved the automatic.

36

His heavy face was calm, the lower half shadowed by stubble. Wide mouth set, gray eyes as dead as pebbles.

"Against the wall." Practiced boredom. Ex-cop's familiarity with rousting suspects.

He frisked me, then Robin. She gave out a high-pitched sound of surprise. Not reacting was agonizing.

From where I was standing I could see Tom Creedman with his grip on Moreland. From the way his fingers hooked, it must have hurt, but Moreland wasn't showing it. Staring at Creedman, as if trying to snag his eyes. Creedman's face was rain specked and sweating, his gun jammed against Moreland's rib cage.

"The boys from Maryland," I said. "Off on a South Seas lark."

Creedman's black mustache arced in surprise. Haygood flipped me around with a surprisingly light touch. His cleft chin looked rough enough to hone a blade.

I smiled. "Why'd you pull me over, officer?"

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

He put his gun against my heart and chucked Robin's chin. His hand dropped lazily onto her chest. Brushing. Squeezing.

Robin's eyes closed. Haygood continued to touch her, studying me.

I looked at Creedman. The water rolling off the top of his hat and into his eyes. He flinched, and Haygood finally let go of Robin.

"Never met a cannibal before," I said. "Who did the surgery? Or was it both of you?"

"Fuck off," said Creedman.

Haygood said, "Chill," but it was unclear who he was addressing.

Creedman frowned but shut up.

The rain, louder; they'd opened some kind of hatch aboveground. Found the tunnel with the help of all the doors I'd had to leave open. The slab sticking out of the laboratory floor.

They'd probably climbed down and walked some distance before figuring out where it led. Unable to broach the webbed door, they'd retraced their steps, made it over the wall, and come in from the other end.

The rain blocked out the music from the game room. I could still hear the nagging drone of the generator.

"The boys from Maryland," I repeated. "Reporter buys information from cop on a murder case, gets them both fired. Reporter finds a job with Stasher-Layman and procures cop a position there, too. Must be a close friendship."

Creedman wanted to say something, but a look from Haygood silenced him. Haygood the pro… he kept his gun steady while examining the cavern with all the passion of a camera.

"You've done lots of cute things for the company," I said, "so now you get a sun-and-fun assignment. But does the home office have any idea you handled it by replicating the murder that got you into trouble in the first place? Slicing up women and pretending to eat them? Or maybe you didn't pretend. You did say you were a gourmet cook, Tom."

"What is this?" said Haygood, "a bomb shelter or something?"

"If I know about Maryland, don't you think others do?"

Creedman looked at Haygood.

Haygood continued to inspect the cavern.

"What they don't know," I said, "is the part of it that's wishful thinking, Tom. Telling me it was a rape-murder when it wasn't. A few problems in the potency area?"

Creedman turned red and tightened his grip on Moreland.

Haygood repeated, "A bomb shelter?"

"Japanese supply tunnel," said Moreland. "My little sanctuary."

Keeping his eyes away from the game room.

"What do you have down here?"

"Old furniture, clothes, a few books."

"Let's take a look."

"There's nothing interesting, Anders."

"Let's take a look, anyway." Haygood waved us forward with the gun and told Creedman: "Bring him over."

Creedman poked Moreland and the old man tripped forward.

"You two, out," said Haygood, when they'd passed. He looked down the narrow opening and frowned. "Don't surprise me, doctor. You go in front, Tom. Anything happens, kill the girl."

Creedman didn't argue. I'd have pegged him as the one in charge. Class snobbery. Haygood's police experience gave him the edge.

I thought back to the day we'd arrived. Haygood on the dock, butchering the shark with quiet authority.

Haygood and Skip Amalfi.

Was Skip just a cover, allowing Haygood to come across as the aimless beachbum? All along, Haygood's attitude toward him had been a mixture of patience and contempt. Watching, amused, as Skip peed on the sand. Remaining in the background as Skip harangued the villagers.

Tolerating him the way you tolerate a dull sibling.

Skip, stupid enough to get sucked into a fantasy of running a resort. The dream probably planted by Haygood.

Skip peeing in front of women… Had he also been involved in the cannibal murders? Probably not; too unstable.

But he had served his purpose the night of Betty Aguilar's killing: fishing on the docks, as Haygood knew he did most every night. There to hear Bernardo Rijks's cries of alarm, rushing over to subdue Ben.

Haygood and Creedman had murdered both girls. First, AnneMarie Valdos on the beach, a rehearsal for Betty and setting up Ben. And the stimulus to local unrest that had justified the blockade.

Then, Betty in Victory Park- what had they used to lure her? Dope? Money? One last fling before motherhood?

Cutting her throat and carrying out the mutilation. Drawing Ben out with a bogus emergency call, then choking him out, pouring vodka down his throat, and positioning him with the corpse.

An ex-cop would know how to pull off a perfect choke hold.

An ex-cop would know about positioning corpses.

The park because it was secluded and a common spot for partying. And because Rijks the insomniac walked by every night.

Even if Rijks hadn't heard the moans, he could have been led by a night-strolling Creedman. Not as neat, but no reason for anyone to catch on.

Because Ben came from trash and Betty had been promiscuous.

Ben lying asleep on the carnage. An absurd alibi.

Skip's outrage, genuine. Hostile to Moreland because his father resented the old man, he'd eagerly whipped up the villagers' anger.

Framing Ben had killed three birds with one stone: damaging Moreland irreparably, getting rid of his protÉgÉ, and causing another deep rip in Aruk's social fabric.

Hastening the exodus from the island.

Hoffman and Stasher-Layman's war of attrition. Perhaps Hoffman had decided to speed things up after coming face to face with the old man, his stubbornness…

Believing Moreland cared about the island, when all he really wanted was a few years of peace for the kids.

Moreland willing to do anything to prevent Hoffman from finding out about the kids. Willing to let Aruk die, buying time.

The two of them circling like wrestlers, waiting for an opening.

Still, the same thing bothered me: if Moreland had that kind of power over Hoffman, why not bargain harder?