Say Goodbye (15 page)

TWENTY-ONE

“Recluse spiders are six-eyed; their legs do not extend sideways. They weave a sheet of sticky silk in which they entangle insects.”

FROM
Spiders and Their Kin,
BY HERBERT W. AND LORNA R. LEVI, A GOLDEN GUIDE FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS,
2002

HENRIETTA WASN’T DOING WELL. LAST NIGHT, HE had squashed a cricket between his finger and thumb, exposing its internal organs, then placed it in the dark shelter of the ICU next to Henrietta’s fangs. He had checked first thing this morning. The mashed insect remained in plain sight. Henrietta herself had retreated an inch, laborious progress given her mangled legs.

He reminded himself that older tarantulas often went weeks without eating after molting. Once, he’d heard a story of a tarantula that had gone an entire year without food and still recovered.

Starvation was not the danger. Dehydration was.

He would help her. They had come this far together. He would see her to the bitter end.

He didn’t turn on the light. Instead, he moved around the darkened master bath with the practice of a man used to adjusting his eyesight to the gloom. He’d already brought up a saucer from the kitchen, sterilized in boiling water. Now he filled it with a few drops of water, then propped up an edge on two cotton balls, tilting the saucer enough to pool the water at one end while forming a slight incline. Perfect.

Now the tricky part. Contrary to what people thought, spiders were notoriously fragile. Even the most impressive-looking tarantula was really a relatively small, poor-sighted creature of limited speed. They were easily crushed if improperly handled. Let alone the dangers inherent in molting, pesticides, parasites, and spider-eating wasps. No wonder tarantulas preferred to live in small, dark places all alone.

But Henrietta couldn’t hide anymore. She needed water.

Reaching into the container, he cupped his hand over her body as if she were an egg, careful not to squeeze too hard in order to protect his skin from the discomfort of the urticating bristles. His fingers enclosed the legs on one side of her body, while his thumb covered the legs on the other side and his index finger came down and over the top of the chelicerae. In one smooth motion, he turned his hand palm up, with Henrietta nestled lightly inside.

He swung her over to the prepared water dish, where he positioned her with her chelicerae and fangs immersed in the water and the rest of her body uphill. He let go, studying her closely to ensure she didn’t slide down into the shallow pool and drown.

After a few minutes, when she remained firmly in place, he rocked back on his heels with a satisfied nod and glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes ought to do it. Then he’d move her back to the ICU with a freshly disemboweled cricket. Hopefully, that would do the trick.

Now he had other pets to tend.

The master bedroom was large. Two sides of huge bay windows, a charmingly vaulted ceiling. Once upon a time, this would have been the sunny crown jewel of the expansive summer home. Covered farmer’s porch that wrapped around two sides. A front parlor with stained glass. Three chimneys, six bedrooms, a sunroom.

Time had faded the heavily flowered wallpaper just as years of neglect had led to peeling paint, broken boards, sagging foundation. In the downstairs, certain windows wouldn’t close. Other doors wouldn’t open. The entire house tilted to the right, giving the place a drunken feel.

And yet, it was perfect. Filled with nooks and crannies, twisting staircases, old cupboards, exposed rafters. When the man had first seen the abandoned property, the ceiling of the entire master bedroom had been a tangle of cobwebs. In the course of his walk-through, not one but two spiders had dropped from the rafters onto the shoulder of the startled real estate agent. She had screamed both times. And he had known instantly he would take it.

He had divided his collection among the rooms upstairs. Tarantulas in the master bedroom, recluses in the adjoining nursery, combfooted spiders down the hall. They lived in terrariums or cobweb frames, cleaned once a month and refilled with adequate water. Room-darkening shades kept the sun at bay. Humidifiers kept the spaces at proper levels of moisture. In some of the rooms, he had brought in soil to cover the floors. Good old-fashioned dirt, filled with leaves and detritus and night crawlers. The earthen layer helped insulate the drafty floors and provide a whiff of death and decay. Ambience for arachnids.

The man himself hated dirt. The smell of it. The feel of it sliding between his fingers, sifting between his toes. He might say he was afraid of it, except he did not allow himself to feel fear. Instead, he surrounded himself with the very substance whose smell sometimes roiled his stomach and sent him to the bad place in his mind.

He respected these spiders. He studied them, nurtured them, used them to find the spider in himself.

In return, his collection provided him with sanctuary. A place where he came to brood when the bad spells hit and everyone knew better than to make eye contact. He would lie on the dirt-covered floor, remembering all the things he wanted to forget until his rage bubbled to the surface. Then he would strip off his clothes and open the tops of the fish-tank terrariums, watching colonies of brown recluses pour out. He would dare them to do their worst. He would beg them to do their worst.

But spiders remained shy creatures at heart. The brown recluses might walk across his feet, climb up his hairy legs, explore the veins on his arm. But mostly, they disappeared into the cracks and crevices of the old house, until he was forced to put out glue sheets to capture them.

The glue sheets killed them, of course. Because that’s what he did best—destroy, even the things he loved.

He started with the tarantulas now, moving methodically from rectangular glass enclosure to rectangular glass enclosure, lined up neatly on the metal shelves along the walls. Each terrarium was labeled with the species of spider and an index card where he recorded the day’s feeding. A new captive might eat a dozen crickets a week, while the average was six to eight crickets a month. Before and after molting, some tarantulas wouldn’t eat anything at all.

There was also the matter of variety. Some tarantulas ate only crickets and mealworms. The larger species, however, preferred baby mice and rats, dead but at room temperature (he bought them frozen and ran them under warm tap water; he had learned the hard way never to nuke a dead mouse; it had taken him forever to get the smell out of the kitchen). When he had first started out, he had caught insects in the garden—grasshoppers, cicadas, cockroaches, moths, caterpillars, earthworms. Wild insects, however, were an unsafe food choice—they could be contaminated with pesticides, inadvertently poisoning his pets. Now he bought most of his food from online pet stores, dividing his purchases among several different establishments so as not to call attention to himself.

His collection contained over one hundred and twenty specimens now, not counting the brown recluses whose delicate brown bodies probably numbered close to a thousand. He had spiders he’d caught in the garden, spiders he’d purchased abroad, spiders he’d bred himself, and, of course, a nursery filled with young spiderlings.

And like any proper enthusiast, he was still adding to the collection.

He was at the last terrarium. Even in the half-dark, he could feel the eyes watching him, feral, calculating, predatory.

It made him smile.

Theraphosa blondi.
The world’s largest spider, with a leg span in excess of ten inches. He had imported this male just last week from South America. The tarantula had arrived, rearing back on its hind legs and hissing loud enough to be heard across the room. With extremely large fangs and a body covered in irritating bristles, it was a lean, mean fighting machine, known to take on anything from rodents to small birds.

The majority of tarantulas were gentle giants. The
T. blondi,
on the other hand, was famous for its bad attitude, with a bite capable of costing the unwary collector a finger, or even a hand.

He could feel the spider watching him late at night. Had watched it in turn as it roamed its new home, delicately tapping on the glass as if testing for possible weaknesses. He had the impression of a wild, churning intelligence. The spider was studying, waiting, plotting.

If the man presented the opportunity, the tarantula would strike.

The man bent over now, studying the dark mottled spider, crouched in the far corner of its cage.

“Hey,” the man said. “Want a mouse?”

He dangled the dead white mouse, waited to see what the spider would do. A few legs arched out, tested the air.

“Here’s the deal,” the man said. “Behave, get breakfast. Attack, and starve. Got it?”

He waited a heartbeat more. When the tarantula did not rush the glass, or rear up in a hostile display, the man straightened, put his hand on the top of the weighted mesh-screen lid and readied himself.

One, two, three. He popped up the corner, dropped the mouse, and watched as ten inches of tarantula sprang from the corner and caught the corpse midair. Both dead mouse and spider landed with a thud, the mottled dark body already wrapped fiercely around its new treasure. Then the tarantula’s head came up, fangs exposed…

The man dropped the top more hastily than he intended, falling back.

He caught himself at the last minute, steadying his pulse, eyeing the
T. blondi
with fresh respect.

He rapped a knuckle against the glass.

“Welcome to the collection,” he said, then, feeling that he’d had the last word on the subject, sauntered downstairs.

Boy was in the living room, playing video games. Boy was always holding a remote, eyes glazed over, sullen look on his face. Teenagers.

The man watched him from the doorway, contemplating.

Time was winding down now. A week, maybe more. It surprised him to feel a rush of nostalgia, a teacher for a student, a father for a son.

He walked in the room, shut off the TV. Boy opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. The boy hunkered down, waiting.

“Can’t you say good morning?” the man demanded, standing next to the sofa.

“Good morning.”

“Hell, think a few manners wouldn’t hurt. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Boy looked up now, eyes hot, sulky. “I said good morning!”

“Yeah, but we both know you didn’t mean it.” The man backed off, making some calculations of his own. “You heard from her?” he asked abruptly.

Boy looked away. “Not yet.”

“Think she’ll do it?”

Boy shrugged.

“That’s about right,” the man agreed. “Nothin’ good ever came from trusting a woman. So, you gettin’ excited, boy? Come on, we’re talking graduation! That doesn’t happen every day.”

Boy shrugged again. The man wasn’t fooled.

He grinned, but it wasn’t a pleasant look on his face. “Tell me the truth, son. You think she loves you, don’t you? You and Ginny, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Gonna get married? Raise the baby? Live in a house with a white picket fence?” Man waved his hand. “Pretend none of this ever happened?”

Boy said nothing.

“I’ll tell you, son, I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna graduate, I’m gonna offer you a big hunk-o-cash, and you’re gonna want to throw it in my face. But you’ll swallow your pride. You’ll take my money. You’ll tell yourself you’re gonna pay it back later. When you’re what? Gainfully employed as a male hooker, a pimp, a drug runner? ’Cause, you know, elementary-school dropouts don’t exactly go to college, or qualify as electricians, or auto mechanics.

“But you haven’t figured that out yet. You think freedom is only days away and anything’s gotta be better than this.

“Yeah, I give you two months, tops. Then you’ll be living on the street, giving blow jobs for five dollars a pop to dirty old men, or shooting anything you can find into your veins. And you’ll start to wonder. Was it really so bad here? Big ol’ house. Free food. Video games. Cable TV.

“I treated you right, boy. You’ll find out soon enough. I treated you good.”

The man headed toward the kitchen. Time for breakfast, then he needed to sit his sorry ass down in front of the computer. Cash reserves were getting low. Had to do some work.

At the last moment, however, the boy spoke up.

“How much?” the boy asked from the sofa, clearing his throat. “How much cash?”

“Why? Why do you care? You gotta graduate first.”

“I want to know,” the boy said. He had that look about him again, eyes flat, watchful. Like the
T. blondi
upstairs. The boy was growing up. He was also now one inch taller than the man and they both knew it. “I want to know,” the boy said, “exactly how much my life is worth.”

The man considered the matter. He turned on his heel, returning to the sofa, and was rewarded by watching the boy brace himself, as if preparing for a blow. But the man didn’t strike out. Instead, he leaned down. He said the words almost tenderly, whispering them next to the boy’s ear. “Dipshit, you ain’t worth the broken condom your parents used the night you were conceived. But I’ll take pity on you. I’ll give you a hundred bucks. Ten dollars for each year of service. Be grateful.”

Boy looked at him. “I want ten thousand.”

“Honey, you weren’t that good a fuck.”

“I want ten thousand,” the boy insisted again, and the very emptiness of his eyes spooked the man a little, tingled the fine hairs on the back of his neck, though he was careful not to show it.

He regarded the boy thoughtfully. “Ten grand? You’re serious?”

“I
deserve
it.”

The man laughed abruptly, ruffling the boy’s hair. “You want some extra money, son? Then you’d better earn it. Let me tell you about this new spider I got upstairs…”

TWENTY-TWO

“The brown recluse hunts at night seeking insect prey, either alive or dead.”

FROM
Brown Recluse Spider,
BY MICHAEL F. POTTER, URBAN ENTOMOLOGIST, UNIVERSITY OF KENTUCKY COLLEGE OF AGRICULTURE

“THERE ARE THIRTY-FIVE
THOUSAND
KNOWN SPECIES of spiders in the world,” Sal was saying. “According to what I read, experts believe that’s only one-fifth of the total. Better yet, they are the most popular ‘nontraditional’ pet in the United States. Jeez, and I thought all the freaks collected pythons.”

“Pythons grow too big,” Kimberly informed him. “Wind up released in the Florida Everglades, where they’re devouring everything that moves. I don’t think the alligators are very happy about it.”

Sal and Kimberly were sitting inside the cargo area of a white van, vaguely disguised to appear like a utility vehicle, while actually belonging to GBI’s tech department. It was night four of operation Fly Trap. Ginny was somewhere inside the Foxy Lady, wired up and waiting to see if Dinchara would show. Sal and Kimberly were holding down the fort in the tech van, floor littered with empty coffee cups (Sal) and water bottles (Kimberly). Assisting them was an audio technician, Greg Moffatt, and an undercover female special agent, Jackie Sparks. Moffatt sat way in the back, watching a glowing panel of audio bars while mumbling a litany of technical jargon only he could understand. Sparks, playing the role of a girl who just wanted to have fun, was somewhere in the club, keeping tabs on Ginny.

Ginny knew about Moffatt, but not about Sparks. Just because Ginny was risking her life by wearing a wire, after all, was no reason to tell her everything. They’d gone over the audio setup. They’d devised a cover story. They’d turned her loose.

Ginny’s assignment: Get Dinchara to admit shooting Tommy Mark Evans, or tie him to any of the six girls from the collection of driver’s licenses. That would provide the corroboration Sal needed to formally assemble a task force to pursue Dinchara in earnest.

Four nights later, however, Dinchara remained a no-show, which was starting to make the team anxious. Sal had had to practically beg, borrow, and steal to get this level of GBI resource. In another night, two if the operation didn’t deliver results, that would be that.

“Turns out,” Sal continued, headset connecting him to Ginny held against his left ear, tiny black earpiece connecting him to Special Agent Sparks in his right, “spider collecting isn’t as small a niche market as I thought. There are hundreds of Internet dealers offering everything from a spiderling for a few bucks to an adult female
Brachypelma baumgarteni
for eight hundred dollars.”

“Eight hundred dollars?”
Kimberly asked incredulously.

“Yeah. Females are expensive. They live two to three times as long as the males, plus can be used for breeding. Which was the other education I received—you have no idea how many articles exist on how to sex a tarantula.”

Kimberly stared at him.

“It’s a big deal,” he assured her. “How’d you like to fork out the extra money for a female, only to get sent a male by mistake?”

“I can honestly say I hope never to have that problem.”

“Then there are the various spider societies,” he continued. “Plus ArachnoCon, the annual gathering of arachnid enthusiasts. I mean, do a Google search for ‘tarantula’ and what
doesn’t
come up? Spiders are everywhere.”

“No kidding.”

“I also turned up allusions to illegal imports of spiders,” Sal supplied briskly. “The really exotic specimens aren’t widely available for enthusiasts, and some guys—or gals—don’t like to wait. Hey, as long as a Colombian is importing drugs why not also throw in a
Xenesthis immanis
as well and make a quick extra grand?”

“A xenthis whatis?”

“
Xenesthis immanis.
It’s a kind of tarantula, has purple markings at the leg joints, ending in silver tips. Gotta say, online photo looked very pretty. Not that I’m in the market. Point is, that particular species isn’t available due to the current ban on Colombian imports. So the rabid collector might resort to a backdoor deal instead. Spider gets shipped to Mexico, from Mexico to Texas, from Texas to rabid collector, with lots of palms greased in between. Happens more often than you think.”

“Given that I haven’t thought about it at all,” Kimberly muttered, “that’s probably true.”

“It gives us another angle,” Sal stated. “Say Dinchara shows up and we get enough on tape to have probable cause for a warrant. Well, unless he leaves his bloody gloves out in the open, chances are we aren’t making an arrest that afternoon. On the other hand, the Department of Wildlife or the USDA or whoever the hell it is that has jurisdiction over creepy crawlies might be able to hold him on charges of illegal arachnid import. And that gives us more time and excuses to dig into his affairs.”

“Nice thinking,” Kimberly said, impressed.

“Well, that is plan B,” Sal replied modestly. “Originally, I was thinking we could use the spider angle to track him down, but once I realized a third of Atlanta has an arachnid fetish, I had to change gears.”

“I wonder about the tattoos,” Kimberly murmured. “That’s an impressive tat climbing up Ginny’s neck. What do you want to bet Dinchara took her to the tattoo parlor himself, a place he knew because he had work done there as well?”

“We should photograph her neck,” Sal agreed. “Get the picture into circulation; see if someone recognizes the artist. Oh, what I’d give to have a real task force at my disposal.”

“You mean, with officers other than our current overworked duo, one of whom may have to abandon the investigation in order to give birth?”

“It’s a complication.”

“Story of my life,” Kimberly said drily. “Complicated.”

She sighed, staring out the front windshield of the van. She didn’t want to think about her personal life. The tenuous détente that marked her day-to-day interactions with Mac. That fact that they had one week to figure out the rest of their lives, and here they were, day four and she was once again working late.

Mac didn’t ask her anymore. Didn’t pry. He just waited, and she found his silence more unnerving than his sales pitch.

He should take the supervisory position in Savannah. It would be stupid not to. He was right; their lives were changing. Might as well focus on his career because one way or another, hers was slipping into low gear. What the hell. She would stay at home. Nurse the baby. Watch Oprah. Read self-help books.

Except that didn’t sound like her. She was selfish, emotionally stunted, and obsessed with work. And, in her own way, she was happy.

“We got conversation.” Moffatt, the technician, spoke up.

Sal and Kimberly snapped to attention, obediently tuning in to their headphones. So far, Ginny had been propositioned about half a dozen times. If they’d been working a prostitution sting, they would’ve done good business.

This, however, appeared more serious.

“
We need to talk
,” Ginny was saying in an urgent voice. The hooker sounded strung out, anxious.

“Why aren’t you working?”
a man was asking. “
Get out there and shake that moneymaker, honey
.”

“
First, we need to talk
,” Ginny tried again.

Sal lifted the black handheld radio from his lap, broadcasting to Special Agent Sparks: “We need a visual: unidentified male, currently speaking with Miss Jones.”

“Roger that” came the crackling reply, then a short pause as Sparks made her way through the club.

“I want a blood test,”
Ginny was saying, voice more strident.
“I’ve been reading about tattoos and the risk of hepatitis.”
This had been Kimberly’s idea.
“How do I know I don’t have anything? What about my baby? What if it gets sick, too? You need to help me.”

“I have a visual,” Special Agents Sparks reported in a low murmur. “I see a white male, approximately mid thirties, five foot ten, one hundred sixty, one hundred seventy pounds. Wearing dark brown workman’s boots, blue denim, and long-sleeved green shirt, rolled up to the forearms. Has a worn red baseball cap pulled down low over his face, obscuring his features.”

“What the fuck?”
the man was grumbling harshly.
“You called me down here for a blood test? What’d I look like to you, an HMO?”

“I need money—”

“Then get back to work!”

“I can’t work,”
Ginny whined.
“I’m tired all the time, guys don’t want me. Creeps ’em out, you know, a pregnant hooker.”

“Shoulda thought of that four months ago. You wanna eat, I suggest you find a bleeding heart who pays extra for a hard-luck fuck.”

Kimberly heard the swish of denim. The man turning to leave? Then, a quick slap as Ginny grabbed the man’s arm.

“I wanna negotiate,”
the girl said desperately.
“Hear me out. I got something to say.”

Kimberly and Sal exchanged glances.

“What do you mean negotiate?”
the man asked suspiciously.

“Not here,”
Ginny said.
“Privately.”

“Ah shit,” Sal said.

“She’s going AWOL,” Kimberly seconded. Ginny was under strict orders to remain in public view. They should’ve known better.

“Jackie…” Sal rumbled into the radio.

“I’m on it,” the special agent replied.

“Don’t fuck with me,”
the man was saying now, voice ominous.

“I just wanna talk. All right? We’ll go to your car. Fool around. It’ll be like old times.”

The man didn’t reply. Kimberly had a mental image of Ginny pulling him through the churning crowds.

“Subject approaching the front doors,” Special Agent Sparks intoned over the radio. “Exiting in three, two, one…”

The front doors opened. Ginny stumbled out first, looking shaky and agitated. She wore the customary micro mini, but a longer top to help conceal the hardware they’d tucked inside her push-up bra. She fiddled with the bra now, jiggling the cups a little, and a rush of static flooded the headphones.

“Tell me she didn’t just—” Sal started, but then audio returned. He breathed a sigh of relief, but Kimberly didn’t think they were out of the woods yet.

A man had appeared behind Ginny. Trim, wiry build. Brown hair, tanned forearms. Jeans and shirt were nicer than she expected. Less chicken farmer, more Eddie Bauer. The brim of a faded red baseball cap was pulled low over his face, leaving behind the impression of a hat, instead of a person. Now you see him, now you don’t.

The man headed down the street, Ginny no longer talking but hanging on to his arm. A moment later, the front door opened and Sparks appeared, making a show of lighting up a cigarette, then strolling off in the same direction as the happy couple, cigarette dangling from her fingertips.

Sal and Kimberly exchanged another glance.

“What the hell is Ginny doing?” Sal whispered in agitation.

“I don’t know.”

“We’re FUBAR.”

“Wanna tell Sparks to abort?”

“Nah,” Sal said nervously. “Not yet.”

They went back to their headsets, listening for Ginny in one ear and Special Agent Sparks in the other.

From the left, the sound of a car door opening, slamming shut.
Ginny’s high-pitched giggle. “So you really are happy to see me
…”

From the right, Sparks’s clipped tones. “Subject and Miss Jones have entered a black Toyota FourRunner with silver trim. Vehicle coated with mud; can’t read license plate.”

“We can have him picked up on a minor infraction,” Sal whispered.

“Shhhh.” Kimberly held a finger to her lips.

“So what’s it gonna be, big boy,”
Ginny was saying.
“Suck or fuck?”

“Talk, you little bitch. I didn’t come all the way down here to get played by some hooker. Asking me to pay for a goddamn blood test. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It wasn’t my idea,”
Ginny said hastily.
“I mean, I couldn’t think of any other way to get your attention.”

Long pause.

“Ginny, you’d better start talking, or so help me God, you won’t be worrying about hepatitis no more.”

“They’re asking about me.”

“Who?”

“Special agents. From the GBI. They claim that working girls are disappearing. They wanna know what’s going on. They keep asking for Ginny Jones.”

“What’d you tell ’em?”

“Nothin’! I mean, girls head to Texas all the time, right? I said maybe they should try there.”

“Other names they mentioned?”
the man pressed.

“Dunno.”

He slapped her. The sharp crack of the blow caught Kimberly off guard, made her flinch.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t—”

Another
thwack
of skin connecting with skin. Sal’s knuckles had gone white on the headphones. His face was grim.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!”

“I don’t remember! I’m sorry, they were talking, there were so many names and I was trying to be quiet, not call attention. No, don’t hit me, I’m not lying, I swear, I swear, I swear, I swear.”

Another blow. More screaming.

“Abort,” Kimberly said, looking at Sal, the lines etching his face. “She’s done. We gotta get her out.”

But Sal shook his head. “No, he’s just messing with her. He’s not serious yet. That’s what’s so crappy about it. He doesn’t even mean it yet.”

And maybe Sal was right, because the other end of the headphones finally grew quiet.

“You got thirty seconds, girl. What the hell do you really want?”

The silence again, long and taut. Then Ginny exclaimed in a rush:
“I want to see my mother, okay? I just wanna…see her.”

“What?”

“Holy mother of God,” Sal intoned.

“She’s going for it,” Kimberly agreed, and found herself on the edge of her seat. Ginny had given up trying to get Dinchara to mention the names of the missing girls. She was attempting to tie him to her mother’s murder instead. Kimberly was torn between wanting to hear what Ginny was going to say next, and wanting to bolt down the street straight to the mud-covered SUV, because this wasn’t going to end well.