The Spider Bites
THE
SPIDER
BITES
MEDORA SALE
Copyright © 2010 Medora Sale
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Sale, Medora
The spider bites / written by Medora Sale.
(Rapid reads)
ISBN
978-1-55469-282-8
I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads
PS
8587.
A
35387
S
65 2010Â Â Â Â
C
813'.54Â Â Â Â
C
2009-907250-5
First published in the United States, 2010
Library of Congress Control Number:
2009942218
Summary
: Detective Rick Montoya must find out who firebombed his apartment before he can clear his name of a bribery charge.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty
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For Harry,
as always
CONTENTS
Chapter One: The Spider Comes Home
Chapter Four: The Man in the Basement
Chapter Seven: The Crime Scene
Chapter Eleven: New Directions
Chapter Thirteen: Spinning the Web
Chapter Fourteen: Collateral Damage
Chapter Seventeen: The Fourth Day
Chapter Eighteen: Death Insurance
Chapter Nineteen: The Price of a Life
Chapter Twenty-One: Angela: Once More
CHAPTER ONE
THE SPIDER COMES HOME
M
y name is Rick Montoya. Some people call me the Spider. But you don't have to. If you don't like spiders, you can call me Rick. I answer to both names.
It all started at sunset one day near the end of October. We had just come to the end of the late apple harvest. I had no reason to stay at the farm any longer. My boss, Scott, handed me a stack of fifty-dollar bills.
“Your pay, five months' worth. I deducted room rent and put the rest away. Just like you asked. Count it,” he said. He tapped his finger on the pile of money. “Go on.
Count it.”
Scott's a nice guy. But not very friendly, if you know what I mean. I counted the money and divided it into four piles. I stuffed them into the pockets of my jeans. There was room for them all. With space for more. When I got home I was going to have to buy a new pair of jeans. These were much too big. I had already punched two more holes in my belt and it was still loose. I was a lot thinner than I had been when I started this job.
“I'm going into town if you want a ride,” Scott said. “I can take you as far as the turnoff to the produce terminal.”
I grabbed my backpack and climbed into the truck. It was time to get back to the city.
* * *
We didn't talk much on the trip in. I've known Scott all my life and he never did talk much, even as a kid. My father worked for his father. I grew up in a little house on the farm. When I was old enough, I worked for his father in the summers. So we knew each other. We didn't need words, most of the time.
“Where are you going?” he asked suddenly.
“Home,” I said.
“Where's that?” asked Scott. “Angela's? Or your old apartment?”
“The old apartment.”
“Why? What's there for you?”
I couldn't think of an answer to that.
“Look, if you're not going back to Angela, we'll just pick up your stuff. Then you can come back to the farm. I can always use you. It really helps to have someone in the crew who can speak Spanish. The workers seem to trust you.”
“Thanks, Scott. I might need a job. But that'll be later.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm in a tight spot right now. You already know I'm under suspension until they wrap up this investigation. My lawyer says there's a good chance I'll be cleared. But then, he's paid to make me feel good, isn't he?”
“I hope he knows what he's doing,” said Scott. And I think he meant it.
“So do I,” I said. “Anyway, I've got something important to do first.”
“What's that?”
“I have to find this guy, Freddie.”
“Who's Freddie?”
“Just a guy.”
He shook his head like he thought I was a little bit crazy, but he let it go.
Maybe I should have accepted his offer.
* * *
He dropped me off. I waved goodbye and started walking. It was three miles to the apartment, but that was nothing. Not after five months of hard physical work.
The long walk gave me time to think. It looked like I was through as a cop. Suspended from the force. Under investigation for corruption. Even if I got off on that charge, the slime would stick to me. I'd be fired and no one would hire me, even as a security guard. I had to face that, no matter how confident my lawyer was.
It was dark and cold out on the streets. It had been raining earlier. The sidewalks were wet and slippery, covered with fallen leaves. Even so, I reached West Central Avenue in under an hour.
Home was nearby. In an old house across from a park in a crowded, friendly neighborhood. The house had three stories and a basement, and had been divided into three apartments. I rented the basement. It had its own entrance at the side. I liked that. And it was quiet. It felt safe and private. A fox or a rabbit would be happy hiding down there. Or a spider.
The apartment was supposed to be empty. Before I left, I had paid my landlady, Cheryl, the rent for six months. But there were lights on in the kitchen and the living room.
The street was deserted because of the rain and the cold. I walked cautiously down the driveway between the house and its next-door neighbor. The automatic security light went on. That didn't bother me. It goes on when a cat walks by. Or a raccoon.
I stopped and listened for signs of movement. Everything was quiet. I went around to the back window. I could see into the brightly lit kitchen. It was empty. Then I bent down and looked around. There were dirty pots on the stove and dishes stacked in the sink. Through the kitchen door, I saw a shadow move. The hall light went out. Then a hand reached into the kitchen and turned out the light.
I
took a step sideways from the window. For a minute I stood still, listening. The person in my apartment didn't move. He hadn't broken in. He was living in my apartment. At least he was cooking and eating there. I took out my key and went back to the side door. The key didn't work. Cheryl had rented my apartment to someone else, and I had scared the hell out of him. Or her. I swore under my breath.
The last thing I wanted tonight was a fight over the apartment. I wanted a bed and a shower and a little peace and quiet. I'd sort it out tomorrow.
I walked back up to West Central and took a room at the nearest hotel.
* * *
I crawled into bed and slept until six the next morning. Hunger woke me up. I hadn't eaten since lunch the day before.
It was too early for breakfast. The closest place for a decent breakfast was the Coffee Corner. It opened at seven. My landlady worked the morning shift there. Naturally I wanted to talk to her about who was living in my apartment. But I really didn't want to argue about it over my pancakes and coffee.
I took a long shower to fill the time. Then I went out. One of those coffee franchises had moved in right across the street from the Coffee Corner. It was already open. So there I was, sitting on an uncomfortable stool, eating a stale muffin and drinking warm, flavored water. I thought of Cheryl's pancakes and strong, hot coffee. What else could I do? I'd go back and talk to Cheryl after she got off work. Anyway, I had other things to look after.
I had left town in mid-May. I stopped shaving in June and let my hair grow. Seeing myself in the bathroom mirror after my shower that morning, I realized I now looked like the Wild Man of the Woods. I needed a major cleanup. Then I needed some clothes that fit me.
* * *
“Why not keep the beard, Rick?” asked my barber. “I'll trim it for you. See how you like it.”
I nodded. “Whatever you think, Vito,” I said. I didn't care how I looked right now. Up to a point. But I had to look respectable and clean. I closed my eyes and let Vito wash and cut and trim. My mind was on what I was doing back in town.
Getting into my apartment was the least of my problems. I wondered if it was possible to get my job back. After all, right now, I was only suspended. I hadn't been fired. Yet. Did I want my job back? I had to decide if I wanted to face the guys I used to work with. Especially since most of them believed I was on Rodriguez's payroll. That had nothing to do with the way my hair looked.
“What do you think, Rick?”
I opened my eyes. “About what, Vito?”
“The beard. If I shave it off, your chin will look pretty funny. You've got a real dark tan on the rest of your face. Your chin will be white.”
“Leave it then,” I said. “It doesn't matter.”
I left Vito's, feeling much neater, and strolled along West Central to George's Menswear. It had good stuff. Nothing fancy and nothing too expensive.
I was looking through a rack of trousers a little smaller than my old ones.
“Those trousers are going to be too large for you, sir,” said the salesman. “Try these.” He handed me an impossibly small pair.
“I won't get into those,” I said.
“Try them on, sir,” he insisted.
I came out of the dressing room and looked in the mirror. A bearded stranger looked back at me. I hadn't been that thin for fifteen years. Not since I was twenty. The sun had turned my face into leather. But the pants fit.
“I'm in a hurry,” I said. “I need these right away.”
“Can you give us an hour to do the cuffs?”
“I can if you can find me a pair of jeans to wear right now,” I said. “And I'll come back for these after lunch.”
I needed to look good enough to buy a decent lunch. And maybe even go and see my lawyer. I was hungry, dammit. I wanted food. I wanted a place to live and a job. And my good name back. Maybe that would even give meâ¦What? What else had I lost?
My wife. She wasn't going to be as easy to replace as a pair of pants.
* * *
It was four o'clock before I was walking back down the street toward my apartment. I was ready to have a talk with Cheryl.
A siren screamed behind me. Then another one. First a fire truck tore past, then an ambulance and two police cars. Another fire truck followed them. Not a routine call, I thought automatically. Something big had happened.
Then I saw the flashing lights. There were already cars parked down the street. The vehicles that had passed me were second and third backup units. There were too many emergency vehicles to fit on the street. The air was full of smoke.
