The next morning swim fins, snorkels, towels, and masks were waiting for us at the breakfast table.
"Jeep's out in front," said Gladys.
We ate quickly and found the vehicle parked near the fountain. One of those bare-bones, canvas-top models that kids in Beverly Hills and San Marino favor when pretending to be rural. This one was the real thing: clouded plastic windows, rough white paint, no four-figure stereo system.
Just as I started the engine, the Pickers burst out of the house, waving.
"Hitch a ride into town?" Lyman called out. They were in khakis again, with bush hats. Binoculars hung around his neck and a big, yellow smile opened in his beard. "Seeing as this used to be our borrowed vehicle, don't see how you can decently refuse."
"Wouldn't think of it," I said.
They climbed in the back.
"Thanks," said Jo. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mouth looked tight.
From Robin's lap, Spike grumbled.
"Talk about brachycephaly," said Picker. "Is he able to breathe?"
"Apparently," said Robin.
"Where would you like me to drop you?" I said.
"I'll direct you. Terrible shocks on this thing, so watch for potholes."
I drove through the gates, the Jeep gliding on the fresh blacktop, speeding along the palm-lined road. Soon the ocean came into view, true-blue, unperturbed by breakers. As we neared the harbor, the water swooped toward us; driving toward it was like tumbling into a box of sapphires. I remembered Pam's comment about a big, blue slap in the face.
Picker said, "Did you notice the rotary phones in the house? Thank God it's not two cans and a string."
Robin put her hand on my leg and turned back to him, smiling. "If you don't like it, why stay?"
"We do like it," said Jo, quickly.
"Excellent question, Ms. Craftsperson," said her husband. "If it were up to me, we would not be staying. If it were up to me we would not be staying within a thousand miles of this isle. But Dr. Wife's research is urgent. Heard you saw the zoo-ette last night. Rich man's version of firefly in a jar. No systemization. Scientifically, it's a waste of time."
Spike reared his head and stared. Picker tried to pet him but he backed away and curled up in Robin's lap again.
"Male dogs," said Picker, "always go for the femmes."
"That's not true, Ly," said his wife. "When I was little we had a miniature schnauzer and he preferred my father."
"Because, dearest, he'd met your mother."
He didn't mind laughing by himself. "Hormones. Dogs go after women, men go after bitches."
He began humming. Spike growled.
"Not a music fan," said Picker.
"On the contrary," said Robin. "He likes melody but sour notes drive him wild."
At Front Street Picker said, "Go right."
I drove north, parallel to the waterfront. No boats were in dock and the gas station was still closed, a fuel-rationing schedule posted on the pump. A couple of children rode bikes up and down the waterfront, a woman pushed a baby stroller. Men sat with their feet in the water, and one lay stretched out on the dock, sleeping.
"Where's the airfield?"
"Just keep going."
We passed the shops. A saltwater tang hung in the air; the temperature was a perfect eighty. The windows of Auntie Mae's Trading Post were filled with faded T-shirts and souvenirs and signs above the entrance advertising postal service and snacks and check cashing. Next door was the Aruk Market- two open-air stalls of fruit and vegetables. A few women squeezed and bagged the merchandise. As we passed, a couple of them smiled.
The adjoining building was white and shuttered with a Budweiser sign long depleted of neon-SLIM'S ORCHID BAR. Skinny, ragged specimens slouched in front, long-necks in hand. The Chop Suey Palace facade was red with gold lettering, and stone Fu dogs guarded the door. Three outdoor tables were set up in front. A dark-haired man sat at one of them drinking a beer and pushing something around his plate with chopsticks. He looked up but didn't smile.
Next came more stores, all empty, some of the windows boarded, then a freshly whitewashed block structure with several cars parked in front and a sign claiming: MUNICIPAL CENTER.North Beach began as more barrier reef and palms, sand dunes spotted with clumps of white-flowered beach plum. To the right a paved road twisted up the hillside. The stucco houses at the top had been turned to vanilla fudge by the morning sun. I spotted a church steeple and a copper peak below it.
"Is that where the clinic is?"
"Yup," said Picker. "Keep going."
No more outlets appeared as we continued to hug the island's upper shore. No keyhole harbor on the north side, and the water was a little more active. Scattered swimmers stroked lazily and sunbathers offered themselves like bits of cookie batter, but birds outnumbered the human population by far, droves of them searching the water's edge for breakfast.
Front Street ended at a six-slot parking area. To the east was a fifteen-foot wall of untrimmed bamboo. Hand-lettered signs read PRIVATE PROPERTY and DEAD END NO OUTLET.
Picker leaned forward and pointed over my shoulder at a break in the bamboo. "In there."
I turned up a dirt path so narrow that bamboo brushed the sides of the Jeep. A hundred-yard drive brought a house into view.
More Cape Cod than Tahiti, its splintering planks hadn't been white in a long time. The front porch was piled high with junk, and a stovepipe vent spouted from the tar roof.
The property was wide and flat, maybe fifteen acres of red dirt walled by bamboo. The tall plants along the rear border looked puny backed by two hundred feet of sheer black rock.
The western edge of the volcanic range. The mountains hurled shadows so dark and defined they resembled paint splotches.
A smaller house sat fifty feet behind the first. Same construction and condition with a strange-looking doorway- bright white gingerbread molding that didn't fit.
Between the two buildings rested half the fuselage of a propeller plane, its sheet-metal edges sliced cleanly. The rest of the acreage was a grimy sculpture garden peppered with more plane carcasses, heaps of parts, and a few craft left intact.
As I pulled up a man wearing only dirty denim cutoffs came out of the bigger house knuckling his eyes and shoving limp yellow hair out of his face. The younger of the shark butchers we'd seen yesterday.
Picker drew back the Jeep's plastic window flap. "Where's your father, Skip?"
The man rubbed his eyes again. " 'Side." His voice was thick and hoarse and peevish.
"We're renting a plane from him this morning."
Skip tried to digest that. Finally he said, "Yeah."
"Where's the takeoff strip, Ly?" said Jo.
"Anywhere we please; these aren't jumbo jets. Let's get going."
The two of them climbed out of the Jeep, and Picker went up to Skip and began talking. Jo hung back, mouth still busy, hands plucking at her vest.
"Poor thing," said Robin. "She's scared."
As I started to turn the Jeep around, another bare-chested man came out of the house. Flowered boxer shorts. The same wide face as Skip but thirty years older. Sloping shoulders and a monumental gut. What was left of his hair was tan-gray. A two-week beard coated a face made for suspicion.
He pointed at us and approached the Jeep.
"You the doctor's new guests?" Heavy voice, like his son, but not as sleepy. "Amalfi." His tiny blue eyes were bloodshot but alert, his nose so flat it was almost flush. The beard was patchy and ingrown. The skin it didn't cover was a ruin of mounds and puckers.
"What's that you got?"
"French bulldog."
"Never saw nothing like that in France."
Robin stroked Spike, and Harry Amalfi drew back his head. "Having a good time, miss?"
"Very much so."
"Doctor treating you good?"
She nodded.
"Well, don't count on it." He licked a finger and held it to the wind. "Wanna go up in the air, too?"
"No thanks."
He laughed, started coughing, and spat on the ground. "Nervous?"
"Maybe some other time."
"Don't worry, miss, my planes are all greased and tuned. I'm the only way to fly around here."
"Thanks for the offer," I said, and completed the turn. Amalfi put his hands on his hips and watched us, hitching up his shorts. The Pickers had gone inside the house with Skip.
As I drove away, I glanced back and got a closer look at the smaller house. The white molding around the door was a ring of sharks' jaws.
I got on Front Street and drove back toward South Beach. The man with the chopsticks was still in front of the Palace, and this time he stood as we approached and waved his arms, as if hailing a cab.
I pulled over and he trotted to the curb. He was around forty, average height and narrow build, with black hair combed down over his forehead and a black mustache too thin to see from a distance. The rest of his face was sallow and smooth, nearly hairless. He wore wide, black Porsche sunglasses, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt, seersucker pants, and Top-Siders. Back at his table was a stuffed Filofax next to a platter of noodles-and-something, and three empty Sapporos.
He said "Tom Creedman" in a tone that said we should recognize the name. When we didn't, he smiled unhappily and clicked his tongue. "L.A., right?"
"Right."
"New York," he said, pointing to his chest. "Before that, D.C. Used to work in the news business." He paused, then dropped the names of a TV network and two major newspapers.
"Ah," I said, as if all was clear. His smile warmed up.
"Care to join me for a beer?"
I looked at Robin. She nodded.
We got out and went over to his table, Spike in tow. He looked at the dog but didn't say anything. Then he stuck his head in the restaurant's open door. "Jacqui!"
A statuesque woman came out, dishcloth balled in one hand. Her long dark hair was thick and wavy, crowning a full-lipped, golden face. A few lines but young skin. Her age was hard to gauge- anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five.
"The new guests up at Knife Castle," Creedman told her. "A round for everyone."
Jacqui smiled at us. "Welcome to Aruk."
"Something to eat?" said Creedman. "I know it's early but I've found Chinese for breakfast a great pick-me-up. Probably all the soy sauce, gets that blood pressure up."
"No thanks."
"Okay," said Creedman to Jacqui. "Just beers."
She left.
"Knife Castle?" said Robin.
"Local nickname for your lodgings. Didn't you know? The Japanese owned this island; Moreland's manse was their headquarters. They used the locals as slaves to do all the dirty work, imported more. Then MacArthur decided to take over everything from Hawaii to Tokyo and bombed the hell out of them. When the surviving Japanese soldiers were trying to entrench, the slaves grabbed any sharp thing they could find, left their barracks, and finished the job. Knife Island."
I said, "Dr. Moreland said it was because of the shape."
Creedman laughed.
"Sounds like you've done some research," I said.
"Old habits."
Jacqui brought the beers and he threw a dollar tip at her. She looked irritated and left quickly.
Creedman lifted a bottle but instead of drinking rubbed the top of his hand against the glass.
"What brings you here?" I said.
"Little wind-down from reality. Running with the Beltway movers and shakers too long."
"You covered politics?"
"In all its sleazy splendor." He raised his bottle. "To island torpor."
The beer was ice-cold and terrific.
Robin took my hand. Creedman stroked the bottle some more, then the Filofax. "I'm working on a book. Nonfiction novel- life-changes, isolation, internal revolution. The island mystique as it relates to the end-of-the-century zeitgeist." He smiled. "Can't really say more."
"Sounds interesting," I said.
"My publisher hopes so. Got them to pay me enough so they'll break their asses promoting."
"Is Aruk your only subject or have you been to other islands?"
"Been traveling for over a year. Tahiti, Fiji, Tonga, the Marshalls, Guam, rest of the Marianas. Came here last year to start writing because the place is dead, no distractions."
Taking a long swallow, he gave yet another closed-mouth laugh. "So how long will you be here?"
"Probably a couple of months," I said.
"What exactly are you here for?"
"Helping Dr. Moreland organize his data."
"Medical data?"
"Whatever he's got."
"Any specific diseases you're looking at?"
"No, just a general overview."
"For a book?"
"If there's a book in it."
"You're a psychologist, right?"
"Right."
"So he wants you to analyze his patients psychologically?"
"We're still discussing the specifics."
He smiled. "What's that, your version of no comment?"
I smiled back. "My version of we're still discussing the specifics."
He turned to Robin. "And you, Robin? What's your project?"
"I'm on vacation."
"Good for you." He faced me again. "Another beer?"
"No thanks."
"Good stuff, isn't it? Most of the packaged goods that get over here are from Japan. Marked up two, three hundred percent- ultimate revenge."
He drained his bottle and put it down. "I'll have you guys over for dinner."
"Where do you live?" I said.
"Just up there." He tilted his head toward the hillside. "Spent a few days up at Moreland's but couldn't take it. Too intense- he is something, isn't he?"
"He seems very dedicated."
"Easy to be dedicated when you're loaded. Did you know his father was a big San Francisco investment honcho?"
I shook my head.
"Big bucks. Mega. Owned a brokerage house, some banks, ranchland all over wine country. Moreland's an only child, inherited the whole kit and k. How else could he keep that place going? Not that it's going to matter. Lost cause."
"What is?" said Robin.
"Saving this place. I don't want to put a downer on your trip, but Aruk's on the way out. No natural resources, no industry. No industriousness. Talk about your slackers- look at that beach. They don't even have the energy to swim. The smart ones keep leaving. Only a matter of time before it looks like one of those cartoon desert islands, shipwrecked loser under a palm tree."
"I hope not," said Robin. "It's so beautiful."
Creedman inched closer to her. "Maybe so, Robin, but let's face it, ebb and flow is part of the life rhythm- that's a theme of my book."
"How much of the island's decline is due to the Navy's blocking the southern road?" I said.
"Have you been to Stanton?"
"No."
"If that's a base, I'm a sea anemone. The only incoming flights are to feed and clothe the skeleton crew that runs the place. Letting a few sailors come into town to get drunk and laid doesn't create a viable economy."
"What happens to Stanton after the island closes down?"
"Who knows? Maybe the Navy will sell the island. Or maybe they'll just let it sit here."
"The base has no strategic value?"
"Not since the Cold War ended. Main thing is there's no constituency here. Seagulls don't vote."
"So you don't think the Navy's intentionally shutting the island down?"
"Who told you that?"
"A guest up at the estate suggested it."
"Dr. Picker." He chuckled. "Kind of an asshole, isn't he? Couple more weeks in the sun, he'll be spotting Amelia Earhart skinny-dipping in the lagoon with Judge Crater. Sure you don't want another?"
I shook my head.
"Actually," said Robin, petting Spike, "we were going to do some snorkeling."
We stood and I tried to put money on the table.
"On me," said Creedman. "How often do I get to have an intelligent conversation. And your pooch is okay, too. Didn't pee on me."
He walked us back to the Jeep.
"I like to cook. Have you up for dinner sometime."
We got in the car. He leaned into Robin's window and took off his sunglasses. His eyes were small and very dark, scanning slowly.
"There was a good reason for blockading the south road," he said. "Public safety."
"Disease control?" I said.
"If you consider murder a disease. It happened half a year ago. Local girl found on the beach, right where you're headed. Raped and mangled pretty badly. The details never came out. Moreland can give them to you- he did the autopsy. Villagers were sure the murderer was some sailor because that kind of thing just doesn't happen here, right? At least not since they massacred the Japanese." He chuckled. "Some of the young bloods worked themselves up and started hiking up to Stanton for a tÊte-À-tÊte with Captain Ewing. Navy guards stopped them, a little civil unrest resulted. Soon after, the Navy started building that blockade."
He shrugged. "Sorry to darken your day, but one thing I've learned: the only real escape is in your head."
Putting his shades back on, he walked back to his table, scooped up his Filofax, and went inside the restaurant.
I started up the Jeep, shifted into first, and pulled away.
Just as I shifted into second, the sound hit- a giant paper bag being popped. Then a swirling black plume spiraled up from behind the volcano tips, rising high above them, inking the perfect sky.