“No,” she said. “If Jo
is
armed, I don’t want you
out there in the dark. What if she mistakes you for an
intruder?”
“Or pretends to.”
“You really suspect her?”
“At the very least she’s working for Stasher-Layman.”
She frowned. “And Pam’s out there with her—let’s
go see if Bill left anything for you.”
“Two targets in the dark? Forget it.” I buttoned my
shirt at the neck and raised the collar. “You go back and
lock yourself in the room, and I’ll dash over. I’ll
circle around from the back and avoid the bug house.”
She grabbed my arm. “No way are you leaving me alone.
Waiting for you to return will drive me batty.”
“I’ll be quick. If I don’t find anything in ten
minutes, I’ll forget about it.”
“No.”
“You’ll get drenched.”
“We’ll get drenched together.”
“Let’s just forget the whole thing, Rob. If Moreland
wanted to send a message, he should have used
Western Union.”
“Alex, please. You know if I wasn’t here, you’d be
running to that bungalow.”
“I don’t know that at all.”
“Come on.”
“The point is you
are
here. Let me go in and out or
forget about it, Nancy.”
“Please, Alex. What if he’s in danger and our not
helping leads to tragedy?”
“There’s already been plenty of tragedy, and what can
Disraeli have to do with helping him?”
“I don’t know. But like you said, he’s got reasons for
everything. He may play games, but they’re serious ones.
Come on, let’s make a quick run for it.”
“You’ll catch a cold, young lady.”
“On the contrary. It’s a warm rain—think of it as
showering together. You always like that.”
We were soaked immediately. I held her arm, and rain-blinded
and slick-footed, concentrated on staying on the
paths.
No worries about the gravel-crunch; the downpour
blocked it out.
Vertical swimming; new Olympic event.
The downpour felt oily as it rolled off our skin.
Slow going till I spotted the yellow light over my
office door. I stopped, looked around. No one in sight, but
an army could have been hiding, and I knew if Moreland was out
there it would be nearly impossible to find him before
morning.
I glanced toward the insectarium. Lights still off. Pam
and Jo hadn’t gotten in.
The rain chopped our necks and our backs.
Deep-tissue massage. I tapped Robin’s shoulder and the two of us made a dash
for the bungalow. The door was unlocked, as I’d left it. I
got Robin inside, then myself, and flipped on the weakest
light in the room—a glass-shaded desk lamp.
Water flooded the hardwood floor. Our clothes clung like
leotards and we sounded like squeegees when we moved.
Books and journals on my desk.
Piles of them that hadn’t been there this afternoon.
Medical texts. But nothing by or about Disraeli.
No references beginning “DISR.”
Then I found it, hefty and blue, on the bottom of the
stack.
The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.
I flipped to page 184. Samples of the wisdom of Benjamin
Disraeli.
Line 18:
Justice is truth in action.
All that for this? The crazy old bastard.
Robin read the quote out loud.
I tried to recall the Auden
quote
. . . naked justice,
justice is truth.
Wanting me to do something to ensure justice?
But what?
Suddenly I felt tired and useless. Dropping a sodden
sleeve onto the desk, I started to close the book, then
noticed a tiny handwritten arrow on the bottom of page
185.
Pointing to the right.
Instruction to turn the page?
I did.
A notation in Moreland’s handwriting parallel to the
spine. I rotated the book:
214: 2
That turned out to be the wisdom of Gustave Flaubert.
Two quotations.
One about growing beards, the other demeaning the value
of books.
More games. . . . Moreland had been reading
Flaubert the day he’d shown me the office.
L’éducation sentimentale.
In the
original French. Sorry, Dr. Bill, I took Latin in high
school . . . tapping the book, I felt something hard
under the righthand leaf.
Ten pages down. Wedged into the spine and taped to the
paper.
A key. Brass, shiny new.
I removed it. Underneath was another handwritten
inscription, the letters so tiny I could barely make them
out:
Thank you for persisting.
Gustave’s girl will be assisting.
“Gustave’s girl?” said Robin.
“Gustave Flaubert,” I said. “The girl who comes to my
mind is Madame Bovary. I told Bill I’d read the book years ago.”
“Meaning what?”
I thought, “Madame Bovary was married to a doctor, got bored, had
affairs, ruined her life, ate poison, and died.”
“A doctor’s wife? Barbara? Is he trying to tell us she
committed suicide?”
“He told me she drowned, but maybe. But why bring that
up now?”
“Could that be what he feels guilty about?”
“Sure, but it still doesn’t make sense, making such a big
deal about that now.”
I
tried to reel the book’s plot through my mind.
Then the truth came at me nastily and unexpectedly, like
a drunk driver.
“No, not his wife,” I said. Dropping the key in a wet
pocket, I shut the book.
Stomach turning.
“What is it, Alex?”
“Another Emma,” I said, “is going to help us. A girl with eight legs.”
Chapter
33
“Something hidden near her cage?” said Robin. “Or in
it?”
“He may have
hidden it in the bug zoo to keep it from Jo. She claimed to be queasy
about bugs, and this afternoon I told him my suspicions of
her.”
“She’s there right now.”
“Holding the ladder for Pam. Be interesting to see if
she actually goes in.”
“What could he be hiding?”
“Something to do with either the murders or Stasher-Layman’s
plan. Ben’s arrest made him realize things are bad
and he has to play whatever cards he’s got.”
The door opened suddenly and Jo and Pam sloshed in. I closed
the book of quotations and tried to look casual. Dropped the
shiny key into my pocket as the two women wiped the water
from their eyes.
Pam shook her head despondently.
Jo fixed her gaze on me and shut the door.
“What are you folks doing out?”
“We wanted to help,” said Robin. “Started looking
around the grounds, but it got to be too much so we ducked in.
Any luck at the insectarium?”
Pam shook her head miserably.
Jo scanned the room. “The windows are bolted shut and
layered with wire mesh. I managed to break the glass
with the flashlight, but the wire wouldn’t bend, so all I could
do was shine it around and look in as best I could. Far as I
could see, he’s not there.”
“He didn’t answer my shouts,” said Pam. “We got a
pretty good look.”
“Can’t break the door, either,” said Jo. “Three locks, plate steel,
and the hinges are inside.”
She removed her hat. Rain had gotten underneath and her
hair was limp.
“I’m going back out,” said Pam.
“Reconsider,” Jo told her. “Even if he is out there,
with this kind of limited visibility, I don’t see how you’d
spot him.”
“I don’t care.”
As she rushed for the door, Jo stared at me. “What
about you?”
“We’ll stay here for a while, then return to the house.
Let us know if you find him.”
Pam left. Jo put her hat back on.
“Are you armed?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you carrying your gun?”
She smiled. “No. Weather like this, it could flood. Why? Think
I need protection?”
“Anyone could be out there. The hostility down in the
village . . . the rain’ll probably keep people away,
but who knows? We’re all pretty vulnerable traipsing around.”
“So?” said Jo.
“So we need to be careful.”
“Fine, I’ll be careful.” She threw the door open and
was gone.
I opened the door a crack and watched as she melted into
the downpour.
“Why’d you do that?” said Robin when I closed it.
“To let her know I was onto her. Maybe it’ll prevent
her from trying something, maybe not.”
We stood there, then I cracked the door again and looked
outside. Nothing, no one. For what that was worth.
“Now what?” said Robin.
“Now we either go back to our room and wait till
daylight or you go back and wait and I use the key and see
what Gustave’s girl can do for us.”
She shook her head. “Third option: we both go visit
Emma.”
“Not again.”
“I’m the one who had the pet tarantula.”
“That’s some qualification.”
“What’s yours?”
“I’m nuts.”
She touched my arm. “Think about it, Alex: where would
you rather I be? With you, or alone with Jo next door?
There’s no reason for her to think we have any way of getting
in there. It’s the last place she’ll look for us, especially
if she really is bug-phobic.”
“Nancy,” I said. “Nancy, Nancy, Nancy.”
“Am I wrong? He’s a strange old man, Alex, but in a crazy way
he’s left a logical trail. Maybe we should see the rest of it,
Mr.
Hardy.
”
I checked again twice. Waited. Checked again. Finally
we snuck out.
Staying out of the path-lights as much as we could, we
took a tortuously slow route to the big building.
Stopping several times to make sure we weren’t being
followed.
The rain kept battering us. I was so wet I forgot about
it.
There, finally.
The three new locks were dead bolts.
The key fit all of them.
One final look around.
I pushed the steel door and we slipped in.
It closed on total darkness—the windowless anteroom.
Safe to turn on the light.
The space was exactly as I recalled: empty, the white
tiles spotless.
And dry.
No one had entered recently.
We squeezed out our clothes. I shut off the lights and
pushed open the door to the main room.
Cold metal handrails.
Robin’s hand even colder.
A softer darkness in the zoo, speckled by pale blue
dots in some of the aquariums.
Muted moonlight struggled through the two windows Jo and
Pam had broken. Each was dead center in the long walls, the
glass punched out but the wire mesh remaining. Water shot
through on both sides, making a
whooshing
noise, hitting the
sill, and running down to the concrete floor, collecting in
shiny blots.
Something else shiny—window shards, sharp and ragged
as ice chips.
We waited, giving our eyes time to adjust.
The same rotten produce odor. Peat moss, overripe
fruit.
Steps down. Thirteen, Moreland had said.
I took in the central aisle, rows of tables on each
side, the work space at the far end where he concocted insect
delicacies.
Movement from some of the tanks, but again, the rain
overpowered the sounds.
Thirteen steps. He’d said it twice, then counted each
one out loud.
Making a point? Knowing this night would eventually come
and preparing us for a descent in the dark?
I took Robin’s hand. What I could see of her expression
was resolute. Step number one.
Now I could hear it. Scurrying and slithering as we got
closer to the tanks.
Even as we searched for Moreland, I knew we wouldn’t
find him. He had something else in mind.
Welcome to my little zoo.
Gustave’s girl will be assisting. . . .
The little glass houses were dark and identical. Where was
the tarantula? . . . On the left side, toward the
back.
As I tried to pinpoint the spot, Robin guided me to it.
The cage was dark, the mulch floor still.
Nothing on the table nearby.
Maybe Moreland had removed the creature and left something
in its place.
I stooped and looked through the glass.
Nothing for a moment. Maybe I’d misunderstood. I
started to hope—Emma shot up out of the moss and leaves, and
I fell back.
Eight bristly legs drummed the glass frantically.
The spider’s body segments pulsed.
Half a foot of body.
Slow, confident movements.
She’s spoiled . . . eats small birds,
lizards . . . immobilizes . . .
crushes.
“Good evening, Emma,” I said.
She kept stroking, then scooted back down and sat in the
mulch. Light from a neighboring tank hit her eyes and turned
them to black currants.
Focused black currants.
Looking at Robin.
Robin put her face up against the glass. The spider’s
lipless mouth compressed, then formed an oval, as if pushing
out a sound.
Robin tickled the glass with one fingertip.
The spider watched.
Robin made a move for the top lid and I held her wrist.
The spider shot up again.
“It’s okay, Alex.”
“No way.”
“Don’t worry. He said she wasn’t venomous.”
“He
said
she wasn’t venomous enough to kill
prey,
so she
crushes.
”
“I’m not worried—I have a good feeling about her.”
“Women’s intuition?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I just don’t think this is the time to test theory.”
“Why you and not me?”
“Who says it has to be anyone?”
“Why would Bill put us in danger?”
“His being reasonable isn’t something I’d
take to the bank.”
“Don’t worry.”
“But your hand—”
“My hand’s fine. Though you’re starting to hurt my wrist.”
I let go and before I could stop her, she nudged the
lid back half an inch and was dangling her fingers in the
tank—that damned dexterity.
The spider watched but didn’t move.
I cursed to myself and kept still. Sweat mixed with the
rain on my skin. I itched.
The spider pulsed faster.
Robin’s entire hand was in the tank now, hanging
limply. The spider compressed its own mouth again.
“Enough. Pull it out.”
Her face expressionless, Robin let her fingers come to
rest near the spider’s abdomen.
Touching tentatively, then with greater confidence.
Stroking.
The tarantula turned languidly, spreading to accept the
caresses.
Nudging up against Robin’s undulating fingers.
Covering them.
Encompassing
Robin’s hand.
Robin let the animal rest there for several moments,
then slowly lifted her hand out of the aquarium.
Wearing the spider like a grotesque hairy glove.
Bending her knees, she placed her palm flat on the
table. The spider extended one leg, then another.
Stretching again . . . testing the surface. Peering
back toward its home, it walked off the hand. Then back on.
Nosing Robin’s fingertips.
Robin smiled. “Hey, fuzzy one. You feel a little like
Spike.”
As if encouraged, the spider continued up Robin’s
forearm and came to rest on her upper sleeve, its weight
pulling down at the fabric.
“My, Emma, you’ve been eating well.”
The spider curled around Robin’s bicep, hugging the arm,
then inched forward, like a steeplejack scaling a pole.
Coming to a stop on Robin’s shoulder.
Nuzzling the side of Robin’s neck.
Stopping right near the jugular. All the while, Robin
talked and stroked.
“See, Alex, we’re buddies. Why don’t you see if there’s
anything in the tank?”
I started to put my hand in, then stopped—was there
another one in there?
Mr.
Emma?
Oh hell, hadn’t I read somewhere that the females were
the tough ones? Removing the glass lid completely, I peered
down, saw nothing, and plunged in. My hand groped leaves and
soil and branches. Then something hard and grainy—lava
rock.
Something underneath. Paper.
I pulled it out. Another folded card.
Too dark to read. I found a tank whose blue light was
strong enough.
Impressive though Emma may be at first sight,
Everything’s relative—size as well as time.
Relative.
Something bigger than the tarantula?
My eyes drifted to the last row of tanks.
One aquarium, larger than the others.
Twice as large.
A big piece of slate resting atop the lid.
What lived there was
twice
Emma’s length.
My brontosaurus . . . significantly more
venomous.
Over a foot of flat-bodied leather whip. Spiked tail,
antennae as thick as linguini.
Scores of legs . . . I remembered how the front
ones had pawed the air furiously as we approached.
The flat, cold hostility.
I haven’t quite trained it to love me.
Sadistic old bastard.
Robin was reading over my shoulder, Emma still resting
on hers.
“Oh,” she said.
Before she could get brave again, I ran to the back of
the zoo.
The centipede was just where it had been the first time, half
out of its cave, the rear quarters concealed.
It saw me before I got there, antennae twitching like
electrified cables.
All the front legs pawing this time.
Battling the air.
Everything’s relative.
Including my willingness to go along with his little
game.
I was about to leave when I noticed another difference
about the large aquarium.
The entire tank was raised off the table.
Resting on something. More pieces of slate.
When I’d seen it a few nights ago, it had sat flush.
I ran my hand along the surface of the table. Dust and
chips.
Moreland remodeling.
Creating a miniature crawlspace—it looked just wide
enough to accommodate my hand.
As I extended my arm, the centipede coiled. As my
fingers touched the edge of the slate platform, the creature
attacked the glass. A cracking sound made me jump back.
The pane was intact, but I could swear I heard the glass
hum.
Robin behind me now.
I tried again, and once more the monster lunged.
Kept lunging.
Using its knobby head to butt the glass while snapping
its body into foot-long curlicues.
Something oily oozed down the glass.
Like that rattler-in-a-jar game in old Westerns; I knew
I was safe, but each blow sent a jolt to my heart.
Robin made a small, high, wordless sound. I turned to
see the spider doing push-ups on her shoulder.
Jammed my hand under the slate and kept it there.
The centipede kept hurling itself. More cracking sounds.
More venomous exudate.
Then something coarse and throaty I could have sworn was
a growl came from inside the aquarium, rising above the rain.
I groped hyperactively. Touched something waxy and
yanked back.
The centipede stopped attacking.
Tired, finally?
It glared and started again.
Crack, crack, crack . . . I was back in. The
waxy thing felt inert, but God
knew
. . . predators . . .
pull it out. Stuck.
Crack.
Right angles . . . more paper? Thicker than the
card.
The centipede continued to tantrum and secrete.
I clawed the wax thing, got a purchase with my nails and
pulled hard enough to feel it in my shoulder.