Free The Web by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

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.

Chapter
    9
    Spike’s neck was bow-tight. He growled and sniffed the
air and began to bark. The people on the dock pointed up at
the explosion.
    Robin’s hand was clamped around my wrist.
    “Navy maneuvers?” I said.
    “At a nonfunctional base?”
    I reversed the Jeep quickly. As I passed the Chop Suey
Palace, Jacqui stepped out, still holding her dishtowel. Her
curiosity and fear stayed in my head as I sped back to the
airfield.
    Harry Amalfi stood near his house, looking dazed.
Studying the black smoke as if it bore a message.
    We drove up right behind him and got out, but he didn’t
move. Shouts made all three of us pivot.
    Skip Amalfi and the other shark carver were running toward us.
The older man wore bathing trunks too long for his stocky legs.
    Harry Amalfi said, “It’s a good craft.”
    “Was,” said Skip Amalfi’s companion. His voice was soft, his
eyes rainwater gray, very close-set.
    Skip said, “Maybe he fucked up and flooded the engine or
something, Dad.”
    Amalfi turned back to the sky. The smoke was thinning
and curling.
    The other man shaded his eyes and looked upward, too.
“Looks like it might have gone down right over Stanton.”
    “Probably,” said Skip. “Probably right on the fucking
tarmac.”
    His father started to say something, then shuffled back
toward his front porch.
    “Want me to call over there?” said Skip. “See if it
went down there?”
    Amalfi didn’t answer. Pulling a bandana out of his
pocket, he wiped his face and kept trudging.
    “Shit deal,” said Skip’s companion. The gray eyes
washed over Robin, then checked to see if I was watching.
I was. He nodded.
    “Major shit,” said Skip.
    “He probably did flood it.”
    Skip turned to us. “Dumb fuck said he knew how to fly.
Did he?”
    “Just met him yesterday,” I said.
    He shook his head disgustedly.
    “Probably got it up there and flooded it first thing,”
said the gray-eyed