Synopsis
Psychologist-detective Dr. Alex Delaware finds terror in the heart of paradise in this relentlessly sinister novel by America's premier writer of psychological suspense, the author of ten successive New York Times bestsellers. Three months in paradise, all expenses paid. It's an invitation Alex Delaware can't refuse. Dr. Woodrow Wilson Moreland, a revered scientist and philanthropist on the tiny Pacific island of Aruk, has invited Alex to his home to help him organize his papers for publication-- a light workload leaving Alex plenty of time to enjoy a romantic interlude with Robin Castagna.
Quickly, however, secretive houseguests, frightening nocturnal visitors, and the elusive Dr. Moreland himself dim the pleasures of deep blue water and white
sand.
The cases Moreland chooses to share--a patient driven to madness by a cruel, unspeakable act; a man who succumbed forty years ago to radiation poisoning after a nuclear blast; a young woman, brutally murdered, whose mutilated body was found on the beach just six months before-- seem unconnected. And yet Alex can't help wondering what the good doctor is trying to tell him...and what Moreland's real reason for inviting him to Aruk is.
As Alex probes--with a little long-distance help from his friend LAPD detective Milo Sturgis--he comes to believe the answer lies hidden somewhere on Moreland's vast estate. Yet when he finally discovers the truth, the revelation will be more shocking than he could have imagined. And it will come too late to stem the tide of violence that threatens guilty and innocent alike on the lovely lost island of Aruk.
Once again, with his brilliant characterizations and rapid-fire pace, Jonathan Kellerman has redefined the boundaries of suspense, probing real-life horrors and innermost fears in a novel that transfixes from first page to last.
Also available on BDD Audio Cassette.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
He led us past the first two rows and stopped at the third. "Some sort of classification system would have been clever, but I know where everyone is and I'm the one who feeds them."
Turning left, he stopped at a dark tank. Inside was a floor of mulch and leaves, above it a tangle of bare branches. Nothing else that I could see.
He pulled something out of his pocket and held it between his fingers. A pellet, not unlike Spike's kibble.
The wire lid was clamped; he loosened it and pushed, exposing a comer. Inserting two fingers, he dangled the pellet.
At first, nothing happened. Then, quicker than I believed possible, the mulch heaved, as if in the grip of a tiny earthquake, and something shot up.
A second later, the food was gone.
Robin pressed herself against me.
Moreland hadn't moved. Whatever had taken the pellet had disappeared.
"Australian garden wolf," said Moreland, securing the top. "Cousin of your Italian friend. Like tarantula, they burrow and wait."
"Looks as if you know what it likes," said Robin. I heard the difference in her voice, but a stranger might not have.
"What she likes--this one's quite the lady--is animal protein. Preferably in liquid form. Spiders always liquefy their food. I combine insects, worms, mice, whatever, and create a broth that I freeze and defrost. This is the same stuff, compressed and freeze-dried. I did it to see if they'd adapt to solids. Luckily, many of them did."
He smiled. "Strange avocation for a vegetarian, right? But what's the choice? She's my responsibility....Come with me, perhaps we can bring back some memories."
He opened another aquarium at the end of the row, but this time he shoved his arm in, drew out something, and placed it on his forearm. One of the vertical bulbs was close enough to highlight its forrn on his pale flesh. A spider, dark, hairy, just over an inch long. It crawled slowly up toward his shoulder.
"Is that what your mother found, dear?"
Robin licked her lips. "Yes."
"Her name is Gina." To the spider, now at his collar: "Good evening, senora." Then to Robin: "Would you like to hold her, dear?"
"I guess."
"A new friend, Gina." As if understanding, the spider stopped. Moreland lifted it tenderly and placed it in Robin's palm.
It didn't budge, then it lifted its head and seemed to study her. Its mouth moved, an eerie lipsynch.
"You're cute, Gina."
"We can send one just like her to your mother," I said. "For old time's sake."
She laughed and the spider stopped again. Then, moving with mechanical precision, it walked to the edge of her palm- and peered over the edge.
"Nothing down there but floor," said Robin. "Guess you'd like to go back to Daddy."
Moreland removed it, stroked its belly, placed it back in its home, walked on.
Pulling out his doctors' penlight, he pointed out specimens, illuminated details.
Colorless spiders the size of ants. Spiders that looked like ants. A delicate green thing with translucent, lime-colored legs. A sticklike Australian hygropoda. ("Marvel of energy conservation. The slender build prevents it from overheating.") A huge-fanged arachnid whose brick-red carapace and lemon-yellow abdomen were so vivid they resembled costume jewelry. A Bomean jumper whose big black eyes and hairy face gave it the look of a wise old man.
"Look at this," he said. "I'm sure you've never seen a web like this."
Pointing to a zigzag construction, like crimped paper.
"Argiope, an orb spinner. Custom-tailored to attract the bee it loves to eat. That central 'X' reflects ultraviolet light in a manner that brings the bees to it. All webs are highly specific, with incredible tensile strength. Many use several types of silk; many are pigmented with an eye toward particular prey. Most are modified daily to adapt to varying circumstances. Some are used as mating beds. All in all, a beautiful deceit."
His hands flew and his head bobbed. With each sentence, he grew more animated. I knew I was anthropomorphizing, but the creatures seemed excited, too. Moving more, emerging from the shadows to show themselves, wiggling and . . . waving?
Not the panic I'd heard before. Smooth, almost leisurely motions. A dance of mutual interest?
". . . why I concentrate on predators," Moreland was saying. "Why I'm so concerned with keeping them fit and well fed."
A brilliant pink, crablike thing rested atop his bony hand. "Of course, natural predation is nothing new. Back in nineteen twenty-five, levuana moths threatened the entire coconut crop on Fiji. Tachinid parasites were brought in and they did the job beautifully. The following year, a particularly voracious destructor scale was done in by the coccinellid beetle. And I'm sure you know gardeners have used ladybugs on aphids for years. I breed them to protect my citrus trees, as a matter of fact." He pointed to an aquarium that seemed to be red carpeted. A finger against the glass made the carpet move. Thousands of miniature Volkswagens, a ladybug traffic jam. "So simple, so practical. But the key is keeping them nutritionally robust."
We moved further up the row and he stopped and breathed deeply. "If it weren't for public prejudice, this beauty and her compatriots could be trained to clear homes of rats."
Shining the penlight into a dark tank, he revealed something half covered by leaves.
It crawled out slowly and my stomach lurched.
Three inches wide and more than twice that length, legs as thick as pencils, hairs as coarse as boar bristle. It remained inert as the light washed over it. Then it opened its mouth wide--yawning?--and stroked the orifice with clawlike pincers.
As Moreland undid the mesh I found myself stepping back. In went his hand; another pellet dangled.
Unlike the Australian wolf, this one took the food lazily, almost coyly.
"This is Emma and she's spoiled." One of the spider's legs nudged his finger, rubbing it. "This is the tarantula of B-movies, but she's really a Grammostola, from the Amazon. In her natural habitat, she eats small birds, lizards, mice, even venomous snakes, which she immobilizes, then crushes. Can you see the advantages for pest control?"
"Why not use her own venom?" I said.
"Most spider venom can't do harm except to very small prey. You can be sure spoiled Madame Emma wouldn't have the patience to wait for the toxin to take effect. But despite her apparent indolence, she's quite an impatient lady when she gets hungry. All wolves are; they got their name because they chase their prey down. I must confess they're my favorite. So bright. They quickly recognize individuals. And they respond to kindness. All tarantulae do. That's why your little Lycosa made such a good pet, Robin."
Robin's eyes remained on the monster.
Moreland said, "She likes you."
"I sure hope so."
"Oh yes, she definitely does. When she doesn't care for someone, she turns her head away--quite the debutante. Not that I bring people in here very often. The residents need their peace."
He petted the huge spider, removed his hand, and covered the aquarium. "Insects and arachnids are magnificent, structurally and functionally. I'm sure you've heard all the cliches about how they're competing with us, will eventually drive us to extinction. Nonsense. Some species become quite successful but many others hover on the brink of dying out, and many are fragile and do not survive. For years entomologists have been trying to figure out what leads to success. The popular academic model is Monomorium pharaonis--the common ant. Many tenures have been granted on studies of what makes Monomorium tick. The conventional wisdom is that there are three important criteria: resistance to dehydration, cooperative colonies with multiple fertile queens, and the ability to relocate the colony quickly and efficiently. But there are insects with those exact traits who fail and others, like the carpenter ant, who've done quite well despite having none of them."
He shrugged.
"A puzzle. Another component of their appeal."
He resumed the tour, pointing out waIking stick bugs, mantises with serrated jaws, giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches topped with chitinous armor, dung beetles rolling their fetid treasures like giant medicine balls, stout, black carrion beetles, whose special love is dead flesh ("Imagine what they could do to solve the landfill problems you've got over on the mainland"). Tank after tank of crawling, climbing, darting, crackling, slithering things.
"I stay away from butterflies and moths. Too short-lived and they need flying room to be truly happy. All...
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