A job in Grantwood researching spiders? She found herself studying his expression, suspicious of the coincidence.
“But even turning it down was no escape. Every time one of you kids was born, she just had to call me. Like rubbing salt in the wound. Do you know how much that hurts? What am I supposed to do about that? Just be friends again, like old times?” He laughed a hate-filled laugh. “Damn, that job could’ve been a good stepping stone. Now here I am reviewing the fucking JOA in my spare time while barely making ends meet teaching. Shit, even my wife left me because of her.” He stopped for a second. “I mean, that’s one way to put it, I guess. Don’t know if I ever really did love her, but she just couldn’t fill that void. Feel so pathetic admitting this shit.” He gave a sad sigh. “Well, there you go. Want to know why I’m such a bitter asshole, there you have it. I can’t forget. No matter what happens, I can’t forget. Happy?”
Spinneretta looked at him, unable to believe the things he was saying. He clearly had deep-seated issues, but that he could blame her mom for his wife leaving him disgusted her. Though she felt not an iota of pity for the man, she swallowed her resentment and just opened a fresh can of store-brand stock response. “I’m sorry.”
Kyle’s mood lightened just a little, and he chuckled. “Why are you apologizing? If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me.”
The comment struck her as odd given his demeanor, and at once she resumed eying him with suspicion. “Why?”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. No such thing as ancestral sin in my book. Besides, it’s not like I had to go through life with a fucked up name on your account.”
“What? Name?”
There was a beat of silence. That silence suggested in deafening volume that he had said too much. “Uhh, I . . . ”
Every time one of you kids was born, he had said, she just had to call me. Spinneretta blinked at him, mouth drifting open in disbelief as the remark’s meaning dawned on her. “You’re shitting me.”
His hand began to shake, clattering the ice in his glass. “Okay, listen, you need to understand that—”
“You’re shitting me!” She leapt to her feet. “It was you? Spinneretta was your doing!?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. But, but what was I supposed to do? I thought she was drunk, or high, or something! She asked for a goddamn pun-name. How was I supposed to know that she was being serious? I swear, I didn’t know, if I had known I wouldn’t have . . . It’s not my fault.”
Spinneretta stared at him, spider legs shaking with a restrained fury. All the hatred she’d ever felt toward her name mutated into tentacles. Those tentacles wanted more than anything to strangle him, to choke him to the brink of death and then barter with God to change her name in exchange for sparing him. “Of course it’s not your fault,” she hissed. “Nothing’s your fault, is it? It’s everyone else out to get you.” She sighed through her teeth, closed her eyes and began to count. One-two-three, four-five, six hundred sixty-six. “Whatever. Guess it can’t be helped now.” Spinneretta stomped past the desk and chair, and into the darkened hall.
“H-hey, wait,” he called behind her, but it was too late.
She slammed the door and headed toward the balcony to cool off. It’s just one thing after another, isn’t it? A hot breath that felt like fire spilled from her lips. Just three hundred sixty-four days to go. Sarah Warren, here I come.
Chapter 30
Norwegian Killer
Edgar couldn’t breathe. The automatic rifle strapped to his back ground against his shoulder blades, and the damned yellow coat was choking his skin. The air filtration system overhead hummed and clattered as he stepped off the elevator and into C Block. He could remember when the barracks was lively and filled with the sounds of laughter and spirited arguments. But now the halls had gone deathly silent. He made his way to C-45 and prodded the mechanical door open with a thumb to the keypad.
Four other Marauders were inside, but none paid him any mind as he entered. He slipped his gun from his shoulder, making his cramped muscles sing in relief. He carelessly set the rifle against the steel rail of his bunk and peeled his puke-yellow coat off.
“That gun cleaned?” shouted Carl from across the room.
Edgar’s molars ground together. “I’ll clean it in a minute.”
“You’ll clean it now,” Carl barked, making his way over toward him. “Get your arms locked up. I won’t have this place turn into a sty under my damn nose.”
“Worried about image now?” Edgar folded his coat in half and tossed it onto the unoccupied bunk beside his, and then flopped onto his back. “Hardass until the end, ain’t ya?”
Carl appeared, standing over the bunk, his mustache flaring. “You must be one privileged little fuck if you think I’m going to permit that kind of behavior. I’m block captain, so when I say you clean your damn equipment you’d better do just that.”
“Block captain.” Edgar snickered. “Let me guess, you inherited the position when Quinn vanished. And you think that somewhere out there, somebody gives a shit about your job performance.”
Carl glared at him. “You got quite a mouth on you. Think that attitude would fly in the marines?”
Spittle landed on Edgar’s face, and he grimaced. “Why is that always the question you idiots fall back on? Love the marines so damn much, go sign up.”
Two hands flew down and seized Edgar by the collar. Carl pulled him up to eye level, his face inches from Edgar’s. His seething breath smelled like death. “Goddammit, soldier, like it or not, there’s a hierarchy down here. You will address me as sir when I speak to you.”
“Sir, fuck off, sir.”
Carl’s face went red. One hand left Edgar’s collar and flew toward his face. Edgar twisted his body to the side and grabbed Carl’s wrist as it flew by. He reversed the wheel, pulling Carl’s arm behind his back and toward his shoulder. The man cringed and yelped. Edgar slid forward, slamming the man’s body against the corner post of the bunk and pinning him in place with his knees.
“Fuck, fuck!” Carl shouted. “Let me go!”
Edgar tightened his joint lock and leaned close to the man’s face. “What squad were you in, jackass?”
“I-I was in Eta.”
“Eta. No wonder. Must’ve been pretty nice, keeping watch over vats and crates, where the only thing you’ve gotta worry about is that ass itch being more than just flea bites. I watched everybody else in my squad die in a single day. And one was even killed by one of those goddamn robes. And as if that’s not bad enough, I’ve had to watch some of my closest comrades in this shithole go missing for no stated reason. All of Phi is gone. We’re down to a goddamn skeleton crew here, and I’m probably the only one of you morons that’s figured out why. Today on patrol, I watched Rodriguez make a break for it and get gunned down by the others. They left his body in the damn street. I am in no mood to let some power freak like you talk down to me as if you know shit about what’s going on. Are we clear?”
“Y-yes, yes!” Carl shouted, his whole body contorting in pain. “Let me go!”
Edgar briefly considered breaking his shoulder. But it wouldn’t make him feel much better, and he’d still have to bunk with the consequences. He tightened his grip for a moment, and then released Carl, who fell to the floor and clutched the bed frame with one hand.
Face still blazing bright, Carl stood up and straightened his coat, favoring his now-untwisted arm. He cleared his throat. “You say you think you know what’s been happening to everyone. So, what is it? They getting put on some secret project or . . . ?”
Edgar chuckled and lay back upon the bed. “Secret project. Easy to believe, huh. Afraid not. Those robes. I think they’re eating them.”
Carl’s eyes bulged. “What?”
“I can’t prove it. But that’s what I heard from one of the scientists down in the labs. Even they aren’t being spared. Last I heard, there was only one or two of them left, and only on whatever their most recent
project is. Number Eleven, I think. Seems they figured everybody else was unnecessary. And if that’s true, then it seems their taste for flesh has grown to include us.”
The red in Carl’s face vanished, and he went a deathly pale. “E-eating? Th-that can’t . . . You’re lying. You’re trying to fuck with me.”
Edgar closed his eyes, wishing that he was. “Believe it or not, it doesn’t matter. Things have gone to hell. We’re already dead. If there was any hope of getting out of this shit before, it’s gone now.”
Carl didn’t answer, and Edgar forgot that he was there until he heard footsteps scraping away toward the other side of the room, where a couple other Marauders were listening to the radio. A deep breath, but not too deep. The air tasted too much like refrigerant. The churning of the ventilation systems overhead kept grinding at his temples. Yes. They were all already dead.
“Welcome back to Channel Six news,” the reporter said, “and as promised, we are bringing an update on the victims of the crime spree that launched the lockdown of Grantwood. Reports of slayings from Mount Hedera and Widow’s Creek are up three from last night. Early today we received word that Earl Fischer, Thomas Manila, and Xavier Blackburn are among the victims of the killing spree. This brings the total number of released names to fourteen, with others still forthcoming as the lockdown shows no sign of letting up.”
Amanda scratched the three names into the list of the dead she’d kept since the release started, but her pen had difficulty forming the large B of the final name. “Xavier Blackburn,” she muttered. “Blackburn. Why do I know that name?”
Over on her bed, Chelsea looked up from her phone. “Blackburn? Isn’t that the last name of that Will kid that Spins was into way back when?”
Amanda was about to automatically reply in the negative, but a spark of memory blazed into a wild inferno. Will Blackburn. Holy crap, Chelsea was right. But what did that mean? It could’ve been a coincidence, but it was unlikely in an area with their population.
“What do you think you’re doing with that list, anyway?” Chelsea asked.
Amanda put her chin in her hand and stared into the scan lines on the TV, still mulling the name. “Trying to find some explanation for what’s going on. All these people who died, there has to be a pattern, right? And if I find out what that pattern is, then maybe this whole thing will make sense to me.”
“Isn’t that the police’s job?”
“Don’t think the police are doing much. You remember the way the chief was acting in that press conference? Well, it’s not just him. A couple police interviews they aired were similar. Different people, but talking weird, standing weird, not blinking . . . It’s like they were mind controlled, or . . . ”
Chelsea yawned. “So, what? You think it’s a conspiracy? Lizard people from the stars? Which of those crazy theories are you blaming this on?”
Amanda ignored the jab and took a swig of her long-flat energy drink. She grimaced. The lack of carbonation left it sickly sweet. “Say what you want, but you know just as well as I do that something fucking weird is going on. Just ask that robed thing that appeared out of nowhere.”
Chelsea grew quiet. She grabbed at the half-blanket wrapped about her shoulders and pulled it tight. “No thanks. Never want to think about it again.”
“Notice how they only played the video once, as well. Somebody got it pulled from the air, I’m sure of it. And whoever did it is involved with this lockdown.”
“How can you be so sure? Just because several weird things happen doesn’t mean they’re all connected. You’re the one always telling me that, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But this is different. When Mom and I went out to get food during the recess today, I swear to God I saw three of those yellow-coated weirdos skulking about on the edge of the old lot next to Lalo’s. It’s like they were looking for something.”
“Looking?” Chelsea shifted about until she was leaning off the bed, her expression at once grave. “What could they’ve been looking for?”
“Call it a funny feeling,” she said, unable to shake the certainty that rose at the thought, “but I think they might’ve been looking for Spins. Why else would they have been at her house?”
Chelsea again became quiet and returned to her previous position on the bed. With the conversation at an apparent dead end, Amanda turned her focus back to the bickering reporters on TV.
“Who says anything about a ghost?” the superstitious anchor was saying. “You need to do some fact-checking, because the fact of the matter is that nobody knows what happened to him. Look at the old newspaper reports from the day, and you’ll see that they can’t even agree on what his name was. There are discrepancies everywhere in the story that we’re fed!”
“Journalistic incompetence does not a conspiracy make, Tom.”
“All I’m saying is: look at the evidence. We have two strings of murders, performed in the exact same way with what appears to be the exact same MO. The Norwegian Killer, let’s just come out and say it, could still be alive somewhere. We don’t even know if the police captured the right guy! He could still be alive, and he could be killing again—the police obviously think so, or we wouldn’t be under martial law.”
“And let’s not let speculation get in the way of the facts. We have two strings of murders, but this time we have little information aside from names and hearsay. I think it’s a little early to say these murders fit the parameters of the Norwegian Killer, no matter how eager the police are to claim this is his doing.”
“Hey Mandy,” Chelsea said. “Your grandfather was one of the original victims, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then maybe your dad would know something about it. Like, maybe he’d have some ideas about the pattern or whatever. Assuming there is one.”
Amanda almost snapped her pen in half as her hand clenched into a fist. “Shit, Chels, that’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I dunno. I think those conspiracy sites are rotting your brain.”
“I’ll give you a pass on the comment this time,” she said as she leapt from her chair and made for the hallway. “Be right back.”
She headed down the hall toward the living room, where she heard the sound of late night sitcoms. Sure enough, her dad was lounging in his recliner, watching a decades-old rerun of some dumb show. He looked up at her as she entered, a meager smile automatically drawing itself across his face.
“Hey Dad,” she said, her breath already short. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” He grabbed the remote and muted the audio of the show. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just that there’s something that’s been bothering me.”
“Just one thing? Must have some thick skin.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About the Norwegian Killer.”
Her father’s humor vanished. “Yeah?”
Amanda hesitated. “I remember you telling me as a kid that Grandpa was one of the, uhh, victims.” Calling him that felt somehow disrespectful. “And, you know, growing up around here it’s hard not to hear some of the conspiracy theories that make the rounds. And now this whole thing happens and there’s supposedly some connection . . . I was just wondering if maybe you knew something. Since he was your dad and all, I thought that maybe . . . ”
Her father leaned back and stared at the old sitcom playing out on mute. Without the audio, the hyper-exaggerated reactions of the lead character looked like something out of a horror film. “There isn’t anything to tell you. Nothing happened.”
“What do you mean nothing? Didn’t you say that—”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mandy,” he said. “But . . . I kinda lied to you.”
Her heart thudded to a stop. “What?”
“Your grandfather wasn’t killed. He was one of the twenty-four.”
“Th-the missing twenty-four? Wait, you’re not serious, right? You told me that Grandpa was found dead in his house!”
He nodded sadly. “Yes. I did. And for that I am sorry. The truth is, he went missing at the same time the others did. As for him being found dead. It’s just not true.”
“You’re telling me that Grandpa was . . . that he might still be alive somewhere?”
A dark chuckle. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”
“But why? Why would you lie to me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to make the same mistake I did. I didn’t want the question to always hang over your head, making you wonder, making you doubt. I’ve often thought, how much easier it would’ve been if he’d been found, but . . . As bad as it would have been to have him die, having his fate unknown is far worse. And I just thought I could spare you that small discomfort. Not to mention . . . ”
“Not to mention what?”
“That if you knew the truth, you might go digging, trying to find the answers. And if you did that, all you’d find is more questions. Like I did.”
“Questions?”
Her dad sighed and turned the sitcom off. “Surely you know from hearing the conspiracy theories. All the inconsistencies in the story. The documents leaked in the nineties that cast doubt over the whole thing. I lived through those uncertainties, through the public’s brief re-fascination with the story. And I looked deeper. Tried to find the truth, or at least some evidence that any of those conspiracy theories were true. I found some interesting stuff, but nothing that even approached an answer about what really happened to Dad. All I know is he wasn’t among the dead. He just vanished, like so many others the Norwegian Killer took credit for. That’s all. For a while, I thought one of his enemies must’ve come looking for him, but . . . All I know is they eventually caught someone. Two alleged witnesses, who I’ve never been able to find any trace of before or after that, testified and put him away. Court records were sealed. Depending on who you listen to, the judge either issued a gag order or the trial was never open to the public. The guy they caught was sent to prison in San Solano before they closed it down.”
Helixweaver (The Warren Brood Book 2) Page 37