Say Goodbye (29 page)

FORTY-ONE

“Experiments with the venom of the brown recluse have shown that both sexes are capable of inflicting poisonous bites to mammals.”

FROM
Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider,
BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY
1966

THE RAIN STOPPED, THE SUN BREAKING THROUGH briefly before once more being replaced by the gray pall of dusk. By mutual agreement, Rita and the boy didn’t turn on any lights. They maintained their vigil from the relative sanctuary of the shadowed kitchen, supping on cheese and crackers, the occasional sip of orange juice.

Together, they had wrestled an old armoire through the house, propping it against the back door, which Rita perceived as the weakest point in their line of defense. Next, Rita had brought down old linens, holding them in place while the boy tacked them over the lower-level windows. She didn’t want the man peering in, watching their movements, planning his attack. And if he did break the glass, she hoped the tangle of old fabric would buy them precious minutes. Three, four? She wasn’t sure, and as she and the boy went from room to room, reinforcing and reconfiguring, it occurred to her that their hastily erected defenses, geared at keeping one man out, inevitably trapped both of them in.

She did not tell the boy this. He had his knife strapped to his thigh with a strip of cloth he’d torn off an old pillowcase. She thought he had enough on his mind.

She didn’t dial 911, or bother to contact the local sheriff. Mostly because she knew the boy would bolt before talking to men in uniforms. Also, what was there to say? She and the boy were at war. They knew their enemy. They understood the battle that must be fought. But in practical terms, she had nothing to report.

She had never met the man who lived in the old Victorian. She had never spoken with him, never looked him in the eye. She feared now her first glimpse of him would be her last. But she was tough, she had her Colt pistol. She liked to believe that she and the boy would have the last laugh yet.

By five p.m., as the sun sank and the shadows grew long, she yawned conspicuously. It had been a long night, followed by a longer day. She yearned to stretch out on the parlor loveseat, rest her tired bones.

They should sleep in shifts. Isn’t that what sentinels were supposed to do? She wished Joseph’s ghost could talk, because she’d never been at war before and she could use some advice.

The boy was studying her, waiting to see what she would do next.

She said, “You should take a nap. Sleep until midnight, then we both must look sharp.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nonsense, child. Even soldiers rest. What’re we gonna do tomorrow if neither of us sleep tonight?”

“He’ll come.”

“But he’s not here yet. So sleep, child. While you can.”

He scowled, but her words must’ve made some sense, or he was even more tired than she had guessed, for he nodded reluctantly and dragged himself toward the stairs.

“I’ll set a timer,” she called out softly behind him. “Wake you in six hours.”

“Three,” he said stubbornly. “Then it’s your turn.”

“Six. At my age, there is no such thing as sleep. The body seems to know that eternal rest is coming soon enough.”

The boy didn’t argue anymore. She thought his shoulders were more hunched than she remembered, his feet scuffing across the floor like a dead man walking. He expected the worst, she realized. Every night, when he went to bed, he expected not to wake up again.

She wondered how long it had been like that for him. And even if they made it through tonight, what did morning really mean for a boy like him? She thought if he ever chose to talk, he would tell stories not even Joseph could have imagined.

And she wished she were younger, because, Lord help her, she would like to keep this child. She would hold him close, smooth his hair when he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, take his hand on the bad days, when all his memories were dark and he forgot that he was still innocent and loveable and good. That the bad things were not his fault. That there were people in the world, people like her, who were proud to know him.

She had never been much for prayer. In Rita’s world, if you wanted something, you set out yourself to get it done. But she prayed now. Because night was falling. Because she loved this child. And because she knew, from the bottom of her heart, that an almost ninety-year-old woman did not stand a chance against someone like the man on the hill.

Fate was coming for her. She prayed to be strong and mostly, to save the boy.

Rita dozed off. She didn’t mean to, but she must’ve, because next thing she knew, the doorbell rang, and she startled upright, almost falling out of her little wooden chair next to the kitchen table.

The doorbell was followed by a light knock, so Rita planted her hands against the table and struggled to her feet. Curiosity, more than anything, led her to the front parlor, Colt tucked in the waistband of Joseph’s old pants, hidden by the encompassing shape of his favorite green flannel shirt.

Would the bad man be so audacious as to simply show up and knock? Maybe for all her strategizing, she had missed the most important piece of the puzzle—the boy did not belong to her, and if the man appeared with police officers demanding the boy’s return, there was nothing she could do.

She was wrestling with that piece of knowledge when she arrived at the front door, gingerly pulling back one corner of a draped sheet to peer out the side window. Not a hulking, scary man after all. Just the girl from down the street, chomping away on a wad of gum while holding the neighbor’s big ol’ black tomcat by the scruff of its neck.

Midnight must’ve done something in the girl’s yard. Maybe buried a few presents in the garden, or eaten her favorite chipmunk. Rita didn’t see what the girl could complain about, given that she lived in a double-wide and most of her front yard consisted of crabgrass. Rita had never really spoken to the girl, just seen her come and go during the odd hours of the night, probably working at a local bar doing God knows what.

The girl knocked again, looking impatient now, so Rita went to work on the locks.

She’d barely opened the door before the girl thrust the cat at her. The tomcat yowled. The girl shook him impatiently.

“This your cat?”

“That’s Midnight. He belongs next door.”

“If he belongs next door, then what the hell was he doing sitting on your patio? Looks to me like he feels mighty comfy here.”

“Midnight’s a tomcat. He feels comfortable anywhere.”

The girl scowled as if she didn’t believe Rita, taking a step into the house, still wielding the cat.

“I’m telling you now, I’ve had it to here with this damn cat. You like him at all, you’d better start keeping him inside, ’cause the next time I catch him digging up my yard, I’m filling his backside with buckshot.”

“For the last time—”

“Rita.”

The voice came from behind her, so quiet she barely heard it. Rita half-turned, saw the boy standing in the doorway. And she could tell from the look on his face that she’d made a mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake.

“Hey, Scott,” the girl said flatly. “Burgerman says hi.”

The girl flung the tomcat at Rita. Rita fell back, her feet tangling in Joseph’s baggy pants. The next instant, she crashed to the ground, her old brittle hip giving with a
crack
as Midnight raked his claws over her forearm, then went springing across the parlor.

“Run,” Rita cried feebly to the boy. “Run!”

The boy took off. The girl paused long enough to slap Rita across the face and produce a fistful of zip ties.

“I’ll deal with him, soon enough.” The girl dispassionately looped one tie around Rita’s tiny wrists and yanked it tight. “That’ll keep you busy for a bit, old lady.”

Then the girl slammed the front door shut and set out after the boy.

Rita remained on the floor, the pain in her hip spreading steadily down her body, rooting her in place. She could not move her legs. She could not move her hands. Her first confrontation with evil and she hadn’t even made it thirty seconds.

Her eyes stung. She thought she might cry and that bothered her so much, she rolled onto her stomach, gritted her teeth against the dizzying pain, and started to crawl.

“Joseph,” she whispered. “Be patient for my soul, brother dear. Help me tonight. One last night. Then I will be with you soon enough.”

FORTY-TWO

“Spider evolution, though, has mostly murderous ends.”

FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER,
New Yorker,
MARCH
5, 2007

GUNFIRE. LOTS OF IT. IN ALL DIRECTIONS.

The deputies had spooked. Maybe the federal agents, as well. Most had drawn their handguns and were firing wildly into the trees, trying to provide enough cover for Sal to drag Harold out of the clearing, toward the massive boulder that sheltered Kimberly, Rainie, and Quincy.

Rachel Childs was fifteen feet away, hunkered down behind a tree, Glock in one hand, radio in the other. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Officer down, officer down. We are under fire. I repeat, we need immediate backup and medical assistance. I want choppers, SWAT, National Guard, I don’t fucking care, just get me armed choppers and a medical evac now, now,
now.
We are on Blood Mountain. Requesting
immediate
assistance.”

Kimberly had her Glock drawn, mentally urging Sal on as she scanned the surrounding woods for sign of the gunman. Sal made it two feet. Three. Another rifle shot cracked in the distance. Sal dropped on top of Harold’s body, shielding the fallen agent’s face with his arms as bark exploded off the tree beside him.

“There,” Quincy breathed. “Over there. To the left.”

He pointed with his finger and Kimberly obediently opened fire, allowing Sal to dart up again, grab Harold under the armpits, and heave. He wasn’t going to make it. Not one man pulling one hundred and eighty pounds of deadweight across such an expanse. Someone needed to help him.

She tensed her legs immediately, ready to leap out, and then…

She stopped.

She wasn’t going to go out there. She couldn’t go out there.

She was pregnant. She could risk herself, but she had no right to risk her child. Oh God, she was going to become a mom and one of her first acts of motherhood was going to be staying behind this damn boulder, watching as her own teammate was gunned down.

The rifle cracked again, a distant boom with local consequences. Sal dropped. Kimberly opened fire. Her teammates joined in, a last-ditch effort against an enemy they couldn’t see.

Beside her, Quincy was breathing hard, one hand on Rainie’s shoulder, his other on Kimberly’s arm as he scanned the trees with an intent look.

“Kimberly,” he started.

“Go,” she gritted out. “Help him, dammit. Someone has to help him.”

Quincy dashed out. And Kimberly resumed cover fire, aware of Rainie’s taut form beside her and the tears now pouring down both of their cheeks.

Another shot rang out, just as Quincy reached Sal’s side. The GBI agent flinched, but did not go down. Quincy grabbed Harold’s right arm. Sal grabbed his left. They started to run, Harold’s limp body crashing across the bumpy ground.

Just as Kimberly thought they might make it, that heroism would indeed persevere, another shot rang out, and Sal lurched to his left and tumbled down.

Vaguely, she was aware of Sheriff Duffy rising from behind a dead tree fall. Rifle butt against his shoulder, sighting a light that had flashed in the distance, pulling the trigger. The crack of the rifle, the jerk of his solid body, absorbing the recoil.

Then Quincy had dragged Harold to safety, and Rainie had her arm around Sal’s shoulders, guiding him behind the rock.

Duff ducked back down.

The forest finally, eerily, fell silent.

Harold’s shoulder looked bad. Kimberly ripped open his shirt, trying to clear dirt and debris from the pulpy mess. Harold’s pulse was erratic, his eyes rolled back into his head. If he didn’t get immediate medical attention, he wasn’t going to make it.

Sal propped himself up against the boulder, holding his side. Rainie had tugged away his white dress shirt to reveal a deep furrow along his left rib cage. The wound appeared painful, but on a relative scale, he was in good shape and knew it.

“We need first-aid supplies,” Kimberly murmured. “Bandages, saline flush, an antiseptic solution. It’s all in the packs.”

“Where are the packs?” her father asked promptly.

Kimberly jerked her head toward the other side of the boulder, and her father peered around long enough to wince.

“That’s not going to be easy,” he observed. Most of the packs were still in the clearing, a good twenty feet of exposed space away.

“Gotta do something because Harold’s going from bad to worse and it’s not like an ambulance is gonna come crashing through those woods.”

“I’ll do it,” Sal said, already struggling to his feet.

“Oh, shut up and sit down. You’ve earned enough glory for one afternoon. Time to share the wealth.”

Sal tried to appear offended, but as testimony to his level of pain, stayed seated. “You’re not going to…”

“Nope, I’m playing the role of Florence Nightingale. Which means Dad or Rainie can go for the John Wayne number.”

“We’ll both go,” Rainie decided. “With any luck, the guy is indecisive and two targets will slow him down.”

Kimberly arched a brow to show what she thought of that logic, but didn’t argue. She rolled up her rain jacket as a pillow and placed it under Harold’s feet, then put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Rachel’s head obediently appeared from around the tree. Kimberly communicated their game plan in a series of silent hand motions. Rachel nodded, and bit by bit, the plan was communicated down the line.

When Rachel reappeared, Kimberly counted down from five on one hand. As she folded her fingers into a fist, Quincy and Rainie dashed out and the agents in the forest once again opened fire.

Five, six, seven, eight
. Rainie and Quincy arrived at the packs. Grabbed one for each hand.
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen
. Scrambled for the safety of the boulder, shoulders hunched, legs bent, trying to form a smaller target.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen
…

Rainie and Quincy careened around the boulder, dropped to the ground, and the woods once again fell silent.

Kimberly resumed breathing just in time to realize that Sal had passed out cold. So she ripped open an antiseptic towelette from the first-aid kit and placed it against his bloody side.

Sal awoke with a scream, and from somewhere far away Kimberly could swear she heard a man laugh.

“I gotta get moving,” Sal was muttering over and over again. “Gotta get down the mountain. Owe it to my mother…Isn’t fair.”

Rachel had made it behind the boulder. She had taken over Harold’s care, bathing the agent’s wound in saline solution before covering it with sterile gauze. She glanced up now, and frowned at Sal’s sweat-slicked face.

“Shock?” she murmured to Kimberly.

“No,” Sal answered the senior team leader, wincing through clenched teeth. “Just…being practical. Losing one son…hard enough.”

He had himself to sitting now, back against the boulder, breathing hard.

“Stop moving,” Kimberly barked at him, voice low. “You’re a terrible patient.”

“Think he’s…still around?”

“Let’s put it this way—when the choppers show up with their big guns, I’ll feel better about things.”

She kept her tone light, but both she and Rachel exchanged glances. The radio had continued crackling until Rachel had finally turned it down, fearing it would draw the shooter to them. Ten minutes had gone by without fresh activity, but it was hard to know if that was a good sign or not. Had the shooter given up, or was he circling through the woods, due to pop up at any time, right behind them?

Quincy had taken over Kimberly’s Glock .40 and between him and Rainie were doing their best to keep watch. But there was no mistaking the vulnerability that came from knowing they were on the shooter’s home turf, not their own.

Out on the tarp, the decomposed body had finally stopped moving. Even the spiders had fled and now only the partially mummified corpse remained, a silent reminder of just what Dinchara could do.

Kimberly returned her attention to Sal, bringing a small bottle of water to his lips. He looked worse than she would expect from such a wound, but Rachel was right, that could be the shock of the incident, followed by the adrenaline dump of remaining in perilous circumstances.

“Your mother still alive?” she asked Sal now, wanting to keep him talking while she mopped at his forehead and inspected his side.

“Yes.” She pressed the jagged flesh a little too hard and he sucked in a breath. “Hey—”

“Sorry, grass. Your father?”

“Don’t…know.” She removed a fresh piece of dirt, he gritted his teeth. “She kicked him out…years ago. Finally…got wise…it wasn’t her fault.”

“What wasn’t her fault?”

“My brother’s disappearance.”

“He ran away?”

Sal shook his head. “Abducted. He was only nine. Too young…for life on the street.”

Kimberly regarded him. She had a vague memory of talking to Sal about his family once before. “Then again,” she countered softly, “you implied once that your father was pretty quick with his fists…”

Sal shook his head again, shifting restlessly as he struggled to ease the pain in his side. “Got worse…afterward. Old man couldn’t find his son…drank more.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, these things…happen. Been a long time now. You feel the scar…don’t think about the wound underneath. Then little things will tug it open. Line from a movie. Picture of a boy on an old Huffy bike. That damn photo of Aaron Johnson in Ginny’s purse.”

“Why the photo of Aaron Johnson?”

“You kiddin’? The dark hair, pointy face, sunken eyes? Could be a family photo, don’t you think?”

Kimberly shrugged. She had never truly contemplated the picture of Aaron Johnson alive. She was too busy seeing him dead on her hotel room floor.

“You wanna hear something funny?” Sal was saying, looking a little better now, some of the color returning to his face. “My brother’s abduction—that’s why I became a cop. The lead detective, Ron Mercer, seemed tough, you know? Cool, calm, and collected. Figured if I could be as tough as a cop, bad things wouldn’t happen anymore.” He smiled, winced through the pain, and added with an ironic smile, “Oops.”

Quincy had hunkered down beside them, an intent look on his face. “Sal, are you sure you don’t know what happened to your brother?”

“Thirty years later, yeah, my mom and me are pretty sure we know my brother’s fate.”

“No,” said Quincy softly. “I don’t think that you do.”

Then, finally, blessedly, they all heard the wash of rotors beating overhead as the first of the choppers crested Blood Mountain.

Tense moments followed. The SWAT chopper trying to drop down a litter, then several armed guards, from lines overhead. Duff and the rest of them looking sharp as they sought to fend off an attack that could come from any direction.

Then, when it seemed that the shooter had forsaken his hunt, everyone rushing to get Harold onto the litter and off the mountain. Then waiting thirty minutes more for the next chopper, bearing a litter for Sal, who agreed only reluctantly to be strapped in. Kimberly was loaded up with him, an unspoken courtesy to a pregnant agent that left her feeling relieved and guilt-stricken all at once.

Her father and Rainie made the third chopper, as person by person, each federal agent and county law enforcement officer was plucked from the clearing and flown down to the command post.

Kimberly’s first sight was Mac, standing on the perimeter, his face pale and concerned. Then, when he caught sight of her, a grin transformed his face, and even thirty yards away, she could feel the impact of that smile straight in her heart.

She looked down once at Sal, still strapped into the litter. He raised his hand in parting.

“Go to him,” he mouthed.

And she did. She ran without hesitation, leaping into her husband’s arms, feeling his arms close around her and their baby, and he whispered in her ear that he loved her, and for the moment, at least, it was enough.

Night finally closed around them, and from far away came the sound of sirens as the ambulance whisked Harold away.

Rita made it to the kitchen. She was breathing hard, panting really, like a dog she’d once seen trying to pick itself off the road after being struck by a speeding truck. That animal had made it five feet before dropping dead.

She had to make it four more.

She had a target in mind. The telephone. She could claim a break-in, fire, rape, it didn’t matter. If she could just knock the phone down and dial 911…She was an old woman. They would come for her.

And maybe they could save the boy.

No noise above her. Just the occasional creak of an old floorboard, groaning under stealthy footsteps. The girl stalking, Rita figured, the boy tucked away someplace safe. She hoped he’d picked a good spot, one that would buy time.

She made it six painful inches, squirming on her belly, her good leg kicking her awkwardly forward, her injured side useless. She could feel the weight of the Colt digging into her thigh. At the rate she was going, she’d probably shoot herself. But her fingers had long since turned blue, deprived of blood by the girl’s efficient bindings. Nothing she could do with the gun now.

So she wriggled, inch by inch, eye on the prize.

She’d just reached the edge of the kitchen counter, phone dangling tantalizing above her. If she could just find a chair, maybe prop herself up on her elbows, then whack at it with her bound hands…

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” the male voice boomed behind her.

Rita startled, turning awkwardly toward the noise. She wanted to believe it was a neighbor coming to help her. She already figured she wasn’t gonna get that lucky.

The man stood before her, holding a flashlight. And as he pushed up the brim of his red baseball cap, she spotted his forehead, covered with row after row of glowing yellow eyes.