“We just passed mile marker one twenty-eight.”
He gave her a sour look. “Not geographically. I mean spiritually. Emotionally. Whatever Hallmark category you want to hang on it.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’ve never felt like this before. It’s weird.”
“Maybe you should just focus on the fact that you’re not dead on the side of the road right now.”
“Well, that is a bonus.”
She leaned closer. “Or maybe you’re having an attack of conscience. About your life. About your choices.”
“Please.” He waved her off. “But seriously. You ever wake up one morning and wonder who you are? Wonder if you’re actually the same person you were yesterday, or if maybe you’re a brand-new person who just somehow inherited all these memories from the day before?”
She gave him a long look. “If you mean in a spiritual sense, no.”
“Well, do you believe in karma?”
“I believe in the golden rule. Treat others the way you want to be treated.”
“I mean karma. As in, if you do enough good deeds, purely for selfless reasons, eventually it makes up for some of the mistakes you’ve made. And it all balances out.”
Cleo didn’t look like she was buying it. “If you’re out to score some kind of cosmic forgiveness, it doesn’t sound all that selfless to me.”
“Well, I adopted a stray pooch. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“You’re asking me if adopting a dog makes up for a life of crime?”
“Well, if you want to get all specific about it.”
Cleo sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Forget about obeying the law. Just do enough good deeds and in the end, everything turns to rainbows and unicorns.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Ash said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I know what I am.”
“And what are you, exactly?”
“Good-looking. Charming. Stylish.”
“Humble,” she added.
“Trust me, I’ve got more humble than anyone.”
Cleo’s phone chimed. She pulled it out of her purse, studied it, then started texting.
Ash peered over at her, but he couldn’t make out the screen. “Who’s that?”
“They found my car,” she said absently, still texting.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” She put the phone away. “Remind me later, I want to get a photo of that statue. Have you ever seen anything like it before?”
“Funny you should ask,” Ash said quietly. “But you wouldn’t remember.”
“You don’t think so?” A chuckle crept into her voice. “Believe me. With all the spider stuff I collect, I would’ve noticed a giant gold Aztec tarantula. Pretty sure.”
He couldn’t conceal his shock. “You collect spiders?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She gave him an indignant look. “Hey, my dad collected hawk feathers. Which hobby is weirder?”
“Spiders. Definitely.”
She backhanded him on the shoulder. “Not live spiders. Just, you know, spider-themed things. An autographed copy of Charlotte’s Web. A spider-web dream catcher. Some Anansi statues. Stuff like that. I dated this guy once, for my birthday he gave me a spider trapped in amber. Sixty million years old.” She shrugged. “It’s actually kind of cool.”
He chewed that over, not liking where this was headed. “What’s an Anansi?”
“African spider god,” she said. “Giant spider, lived in a hole in the ground. Mostly he told stories, tricked people.”
The hairs on the back of Ash’s neck stood up. “Tricked people how?”
“Like a con artist.” She gave him a sidelong look. “You know, in legends, there’s always a trickster. Different cultures have different representations. Anansi was a spider.”
“A giant one?”
“He could change his form, look like anyone or anything. One of his favorite tricks was to trap people with their own greed.” She seemed to ponder that. “I bet if Anansi were real, he’d be messing with you right now.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Oh, give me a break. You’ve got a million-dollar gold statue in the trunk. Don’t you find that just a little bit off the wall?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, boo. Scared of the curse of the evil spider god?” She fluttered her fingers at him, then dropped her hands into her lap when he didn’t respond. “Come on, Ash. Get real.”
He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “It was the summer after fifth grade.”
She gave him a perplexed look. “What was?”
“You remember the attic at my parents’ house?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember anything special about it.”
“You, me, and Mauricio were horsing around up there. We found that spider in a wooden box.”
She let out a breath of a laugh, searching his eyes for the punch line. Only there wasn’t one.
He focused on the road ahead. “You don’t remember because you and Mauricio picked up the spider and passed out. It took your memory. When you woke up later, my dad told you that you fell and hit your head. When your parents found out, they were mad as hell.”
She settled back in her seat, clearly thinking it over. “Bullshit,” she said finally. “I did hit my head. The doctor checked me out and I got ice cream. That was it.”
“You remember having a rash on your hands?” He glanced over at her. “You ever have dreams about spiders? Nightmares?”
“So you’re going to try to tell me this is why I collect spider stuff, because I’m a victim of some ancient curse? Really? Try again.”
“Because it’s still inside us.” Ash tapped the side of his head. “The spider’s curse. It’s buried deep in us. You can feel it in your skin, can’t you?”
“Why is this the first time I’ve ever heard this story?”
“My dad made me swear never to tell another soul about the spider. And that night, my mom took it and gave it to the preacher, I guess to try to break the curse.”
Cleo folded her arms and went silent, staring out the window as the foothills slid past. “Whatever happened to the preacher, anyway? He just kind of disappeared. I heard it was drugs.”
A gnawing dread settled on Ash. “It wasn’t drugs.”
*
Mauricio’s nose itched. The inside of the abandoned factory reeked of stale air and old motor oil. The small conference room jammed in the corner of the building had a single huge window covered by sheets of plywood. Cracks of golden sunlight leaked in around the edges.
Mauricio sat at the end of an enormous Formica table with rust-spotted legs. Mismatched plastic chairs had been arranged around the table at some point in past decades and left there, untouched, until now. The only other furniture was a black file cabinet pulled away from the wall, its bottom drawer open a few inches and fringed with cobwebs.
“Hey,” Mauricio said for perhaps the tenth time since last night. “Let me talk to your boss again. Let me talk to Andres.”
Salvador stood outside the only door, with the butt of his assault weapon resting on his toe, holding it by the tip of the barrel. He turned his head, gave Mauricio a threatening glare, then went back to ignoring him.
Mauricio put his arms on the dirty table and laid his head down. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours now, and he couldn’t think straight anymore. His eyes burned for sleep.
An image flashed in his mind: DMT lying on the floor in a pool of blood, the bodies of the other two tangled beside him. That thought kept Mauricio’s eyes open.
Echoing footsteps approached, leather soles slapping on the concrete floor. After the longest time, Andres entered, carrying a zippered leather satchel, like a doctor’s bag. He set it on the far end of the table, then turned and studied Mauricio.
Even in this muted light, he could make out more details about his tìo, Andres, than he’d been able to the night before. Andres wore a trim black suit over a black s
ilk shirt. His polished black shoes had pointy toes and a serious amount of heel. His face was freshly shaved, and his heavy-lidded eyes held a sense of peace.
“You are hungry?” Andres gave him a warm smile. “Lazaro is coming now, with breakfast.”
Mauricio didn’t know how to answer. He sat up and glanced over at Salvador, motionless in the doorway, then back at Andres. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “What do you want from me?”
“Want?” Andres held out his empty hands and then dropped them to his sides. “You are family.” As if that answered it.
Another set of footsteps tromped in, preceded by the scent of fried chicken. Lazaro bustled in through the door, loaded down with white take-out bags full to the point of bursting. In the crook of one elbow, he balanced a cardboard drink holder with four huge cups, straws, and napkins. He set the entire load down on the table with a rustle of plastic, then brushed off his leather vest.
Breathing hard and grinning, Lazaro nodded. “Desayuno.”
Andres’s face transformed into a cold frown. “What is this?”
Lazaro’s grin faded. He traded glances with Salvador, who came into the room slinging his weapon across his back by the strap.
Andres jammed his hand into one of the bags and yanked out a piece of fried chicken, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger with obvious disgust. “What is this? Answer me!”
Lazaro swallowed, his face paling. “But you . . . you love this Chick-Fil-A.”
Andres threw the chicken down on the table. It scattered crumbs. “Are we to live like dogs? Get this out of my sight. I want a real breakfast. ¡Verdadero desayuno!”
Lazaro ducked his head and backed away. Salvador stopped him, putting a brawny arm around his shoulders.
“No, this is true,” Salvador said calmly. He waited until he had the full focus of Andres’s anger, then bowed his head. “You once say that you love the Chick-Fil-A.”
Andres scowled at the two of them, but gradually his eyebrows crept up. “When did I say such a thing?”
“You tell me this once,” Salvador said. “I hear it clearly.”
Andres looked back at Lazaro, who vigorously nodded.
Looking perplexed, Andres turned back to the table. “Perhaps I am thinking of another place with the fry chicken. Yes?”
Salvador shrugged. “Smells very good. And we are all so hungry, especially your sobrino Mauricio.”
Andres nodded, considering the bags, and pursed his lips with satisfaction. “Good, then. We eat.”
Mauricio watched all this happening, waiting for them to turn their backs to him. The moment they did, he shot to his feet and ran. The chair skittered away behind him and fell over, followed by angry shouts. Mauricio flew out the door into the main part of the factory.
The cavernous room stretched away into the distance, lit by grids of filthy windows high on the walls. Square beams of light angled down into the gloom and disappeared between locomotive-sized machines and the metal catwalks that stretched over them.
He ran headlong into the shadows, dodging around metal pipes, ducking under dead conveyor belts and rows of rusted hooks. He tripped on something unseen, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. He stumbled and kept running.
Ahead, Salvador rounded a corner. He spread his arms wide, like a traffic barrier. Mauricio skidded and did a quick about-face. He jumped up onto the lowest rungs of a welded steel ladder and climbed up the side of an oil-stained machine.
Salvador’s rough hands seized his ankles and pulled. Mauricio fought to hold on, yelling with the effort. The ladder’s round rungs were too smooth to grip. Inch by inch, his fingers slipped, until he was clinging by just his fingertips.
He tried to kick, but his feet might as well have been encased in concrete. He struggled to hold on, but it was useless. Salvador plucked him from the ladder like an apple from a tree branch. For a queasy moment, Mauricio felt weightless, then he hit the floor with a nerve-searing crash. His glasses flew off his face.
Salvador rolled him face-down and knelt on his back, crushing him. Mauricio gasped, trying to lift his head up from the dirty concrete floor. Salvador swore at him in Spanish and pinned his arms back until they felt like they’d break.
Andres’s polished shoes closed in, one deliberate step at a time, and stopped close enough that Mauricio could have spit on them. Instead, he turned his head on the cold floor until he could look up at Andres with one blurry eye.
Andres chewed, his jaw working slightly side to side. He swallowed and unfolded a paper napkin, dabbing at the tips of his fingers. “Not so bad, really,” he said, “this fry chicken.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tattoo
“Why would Mauricio stay in a place like this?” Cleo said as they got out of the Galaxie, leaving Moolah behind.
Ash double-checked the address Mauricio had given him the night before. They were at the right place, he was sure. DMT’s apartment was in east Denver, a three-story brick walk-up lined with mismatched windows and dripping air conditioners. The place had most likely been a dump for the past few decades, and it wasn’t improving with age.
Mauricio’s car was parked in the end space. “He’s here,” Ash said.
The temperature difference between the mountains and the city was astonishing. They had gone from shivering in the rain to squinting beneath the hot blast of the summer sun. Ash began to sweat as he led Cleo up the concrete steps.
On the third floor, he followed the crooked brass numbers on the doors until he found the right one. Muffled voices came from the apartment next door, along with dance music. The air smelled like cooked onions.
His toe bumped something. A light bulb rolled away from his foot. The light socket above the door was empty, as if someone had unscrewed the bulb and set it down.
Ash raised his hand to knock. Cleo stepped up opposite him, near the wall, her pistol held low.
“Hey,” he whispered, “you think that’s really necessary?”
“Blinds are drawn,” she whispered back. “Place is quiet.”
She was right, Ash realized. Besides, Mauricio was an early riser. Ash expected him to be sitting here waiting for him, drumming his fingers on an empty Starbucks cup.
He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. The door swung silently inward.
A swaybacked blue couch with a broken arm faced a dark wide-screen TV. The glass coffee table was covered with beer bottles and disassembled pistols. Three bodies lay sprawled on the ground, surrounded by dark bloodstains in the carpet. The unmistakable stench of death hung in the air.
Ash sagged against the door frame. He didn’t want to look at the bodies, but he forced himself to. Three young black guys. No Mauricio.
Cleo put her finger to her lips and then pressed down lightly on Ash’s shoulder. He knew she meant for him to stay there.
“Wait,” he whispered, “don’t go in.”
She crouched, pistol in both hands, and stepped inside without a sound. She vanished around the corner.
Outside, on the street, a car horn blared. Birds chirped. Everything seemed so ordinary. Except for the dead guys on the floor.
Suddenly, one of them made a sucking sound. Ash jumped. He nearly bolted down the stairs before he saw the biggest guy’s chest slowly rise and fall.
Ash stared. The guy’s face was covered in blood, his eyes closed, but he took a strangled breath.
“Oh, God.” Ash stepped into the apartment, around the bloodstains, and knelt next to the guy. He reached out to help, but he didn’t know what to do. “Cleo!”
She came back around the corner instantly. “Rest of the place is empty. There’s a smashed-up video camera in the bedroom. No sign of Mauricio.”
“This guy’s alive.” Ash hovered over the big guy, afraid to touch him but desperate to help. “What do I do?”
“Call 911.” She holstered her pistol and knelt on the carpet, feeling his neck for a pulse. “He might be in shock. But he’s breathing. Help me elevate his legs.
And we need a blanket.” Her eyes met his. “Don’t run.”
Before Ash could respond, his phone rang. He pulled it out. It was Mauricio.
Cleo held out one bloodstained hand. “Ash, don’t—”
He answered it. “Dude, where are you?”
“Ash?” Mauricio said. His voice trembled.
“I can’t talk. I’ve got a situation here.” Ash looked around for a blanket to put on the wounded guy. “You someplace safe?”
“Not exactly,” Mauricio said, distantly. “I’m with my . . . uncle. Andres.”
“Andres?”
Cleo froze, all her attention riveted on Ash. “Ash, give me the phone. Now.”
“Where are you?” Ash demanded. “What happened?”
The phone rustled. “Hello again,” Andres said, his voice thick and breathy.
A surge of fury rose up inside Ash. “If you do anything to hurt him—”
“Quiet. Listen to yourself. He is my nephew. Why would I hurt him?” Andres sighed. “You, however, you are not my family. I know what you want, Ash. You wish to break the curse of La Araña.”
Ash swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not play this game with me. You know the curse. You feel it inside you.” His voice seemed to come closer, through the phone, and fill Ash’s head. “It will not leave you, Ash. Never will you stop running. Always, you have this curse. Unless you bring her to me, the gold spider. Give her to me.”
“Let my brother go.” Ash’s voice shook. “He’s not part of this.”
“He is a part of me. He share my blood. But he also share the blood of your father, the traitor. So we will see whose blood wins out. Yes?” Andres grunted. “There is a factory, all closed up. A rubber factory. You know this place?”
“A rubber factory?” Ash repeated.
“Gates,” Cleo said. Her gaze met Ash’s.
Andres must have overheard her, because he said, “Gates, yes, is what it’s called. Building thirteen. Bring La Araña to me, this minute.” He hung up.
Ash stood there holding the phone, numb.
The Spider Thief Page 8