Read Online The Web by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online Page A

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.”