Free The Web by Jonathan Kellerman

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