Free The Web by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

man, pushing his hand through wild, curly hair.
    “His poor wife,” said Robin. “She didn’t want to go.”
    “Asshole said he knew what he was doing,” said Skip.
“You guys come
back
here for something?”
    We returned to the Jeep and I drove toward the bamboo
thatch. Just as I was about to turn onto the dirt path, Jo Picker
came running out, hatless, her big purse flopping against
her thigh.
    Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide and blank.
She kept coming toward us and I jammed the brakes. Slapping
her hands on the Jeep’s hood, she stared at us through the
windshield.
    Robin jumped out and embraced her. Spike wanted to jump
out but I restrained him. He hadn’t relaxed since the
explosion.
    All that remained in the sky were gray wisps.
    Jo said, “No, oh God, no!” She struggled away from
Robin and I saw her mouth contort.
    Off in the distance, Skip and the gray-eyed man watched.
       
    We finally got her in the Jeep and drove home. She cried softly till
we got through the big, open gates and close to the house. Then: “We
had a—I was planning to
go
but I got scared!”
    Ben was already outside, KiKo on his shoulder, along
with Gladys and a crew of men in work clothes. This close, I
could still see hints of smoke. The noise would have been
louder up here.
    Jo had stopped crying and looked stunned. Robin helped
ease her out of the Jeep, and she and Gladys walked her into the
house.
    Ben said, “So it
was
him. I wasn’t sure. He couldn’t
have been up long.”
    “Not long at all.”
    “Did you see the plane?”
    “We saw a bunch of them when we dropped him off.”
    “Junk,” he said. “Whole thing was stupid. No point.”
    “Amalfi’s son said he might have come down on the base.”
    “Or darn close to it.
Forget about retrieving the body.”
    He turned to the house. “Why didn’t she go up with him?
Cold feet?”
    I nodded.
    “Well, she was the smart one,” he said. “You
try to tell people. .   .   . Dr. Bill talked to
Picker this morning. Picker just got rude.”
    “Does Dr. Bill know yet?” said Robin.
    He nodded. “I called him at the clinic.
He’s on his way up.”
    “My first thought was some sort of military maneuver,” I
said. “Does the Navy ever shoot anything in the air?”
    “The only things that fly in and out of there are big
transports. If one of those went down, you’d think the
volcano had erupted.”
    A white subcompact came barreling through the gates and
stopped short, scattering gravel. POLICE was stenciled in
blue on the door. Pam Moreland was in the front passenger seat.
A man was driving.
    They both got out. Pam looked frightened. The man was
good-looking, in his late twenties and huge—six four,
two fifty, with nose-tackle shoulders and enormous hands. His skin
was bronze with islander features, but his hair was light brown
and his eyes pale hazel.
    He had on a short-sleeved sky-blue shirt and razor-creased
blue pants over military lace-ups. A silver badge was
pinned to the breast pocket, but he had no club or gun. Pam matched
his stride.
    “This is terrible,” she said.
    The big man clasped Ben’s hand. “Hey,” he said in a
deep voice.
    Ben said, “Hey, Dennis, some mess. Folks, meet Dennis
Laurent, our chief of police.”
    Laurent shook both our hands, noticed Spike and
suppressed a smile. His gaze was intense.
    “Anyone know how many people were in the plane?” he
said.
    “Just Lyman Picker,” I said. “His wife started to go but
changed her mind. She’s in the house.”
    He shook his head. “Can’t remember anything like this.”
    “Never happened,” said Ben. “Because no one goes up in
Harry’s heaps. You figure it crashed on Stanton?”
    “Either there or right near the eastern border. I
called Ewing, got put on hold. Finally his aide says he’s
busy, will get back to me.”
    “Busy,” said Ben with scorn.
    Laurent said, “The wife’s probably going to want
details.” He put on mirrored sunglasses and looked