“How are you?” the analyst said. His voice sounded like a bad connection.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look so good. Hey, is that a bug bite?”
“There’s a spider in my apartment.”
“Ooh, I hate spiders. Why don’t you call the exterminator?”
“Can’t. Allergic to the chemicals.”
As he dried his hands, he could feel the ghostlike analyst observing him with suspicion bordering on schadenfreude. Apparently, he had completely forgotten about his own problems.
“Guess you’ll have to smash it with your shoe.” The analyst’s tone was buoyant.
“Yeah.” He pretended to chuckle and strode quickly to the door.
“Hey, what kind was it?” Brown feigned incomprehension. “The spider.”
“I didn’t get a good look,” he said and slipped out.
As he made his way back to his office, Brown imagined continuing on to the elevators, taking one down to the lobby, crossing the polished marble floor past the guard station to the parking garage elevators, descending to P2, speeding out of the garage and into traffic toward the floating bridge, cutting into the far right lane, and rocketing over the side into the icy gray-green waters of Lake Washington. The vision was serenely satisfying and filled him with a vague, familiar longing.
When they performed the autopsy, they would conclude the spider’s poison had done something to his brain. The whole thing would be ruled an accident—not suicide. Grace, the sole beneficiary of his estate, would come out all right. She could use the money for the kids’ college.
He had been standing by the elevators for some time. No one said anything as they passed. He took out his cell phone and pretended to text someone. He was surprised to see a message from Grace. Love u, it read. He replied with :). He thought she might like it. Who knew what women liked?
That evening, Chao arrived late again. He could never recall where exactly the old man lived and usually ended up driving the wrong way to the other end of town where the stewbums liked to hang out. As he rang the buzzer, he heard a skittering noise inside. He listened for a moment and hit the buzzer again.
“Food’s here!” he said in his command voice. Chao was born in the US and had no trace of an accent, though he spoke fluent Cantonese. “Hey!”
Eventually, the door opened. Inside, it was dark. The smell of dry leaves got up into Chao’s nostrils, and his stomach tightened. Lately, the old man never seemed to come into the light. A pale disfigured hand with purplish-black veins reached out and snatched the brown paper bag. The fingernails too were black, and the hairs on the back of the hand were thick and stiff like a wire brush. Whatever was inside, it didn’t seem human.
Chao waited as the bag was set down on the floor. Fingers reappeared and, in a crazy sleight of hand, revealed a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” a voice said in a parched whisper.
“Thanks.” Chao hesitated. “You okay?” He had been bringing food to the old man for a long time and was genuinely concerned.
“Tired.” The voice was small and far away—a muted trumpet.
“See you next time,” Chao said, trying to sound upbeat.
The door closed, and the deliveryman found himself alone in a carpeted cave. He pocketed the cash and left.
“You notice he always orders the same thing?” Chao said to his grandmother later at the nearly empty two-star restaurant.
“Why you not tell him about the special?”
“Doesn’t want to talk.”
He tried to explain it to her in Cantonese. The old man was lonely and probably needed a friend. His grandmother warned him to stay away from strangers with black fingernails.
“I’m late every time, and he never complains,” Chao said. “And he always leaves me a large tip.”
“You don’t get close to that old man,” she said in English, her voice icy. “He maybe like boys.”
“I don’t think he likes anyone.”
“Next time, tell him the special.”
Later, Chao couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing the deformed hand and hearing a discomfiting skittering in his head. Did the old man have a disease? He felt for the remote on the nightstand and switched on the TV, hoping to find something violent on cable.
Monday. The conference room was already mostly full when Brown walked in and took a seat toward the back. He had no idea what the meeting was about and watched curiously as the intern brought her laptop to the head of the table, connected it to the projector, and displayed a PowerPoint presentation—the one Brown had been working on.
“Since Mr. Brown couldn’t be here today,” she said, “I’ve been asked to show you where we are with the new campaign.”
Had she actually said those words? He almost laughed out loud and looked at the others for confirmation that this was some kind of stupid prank. But they ignored him and remained focused on the familiar images he had approved the previous week.
Every so often someone would stop the intern to ask a question. “Did Ted sign off on the landing page?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re open to suggestions, though.”
“I don’t see a ‘Partner’ tab on the website.”
“We’re waiting for the CMO to send us the final list of approved partners.”
“I don’t think slide twenty-nine is correct. Those look like last year’s market share numbers.”
“They are correct as of Q3.”
Finally, the VP of Product Marketing asked the question Brown was dying to hear an answer to. “Why isn’t Ted here?” he said.
Brown looked around the room, almost giddy at the thought this could be happening. He had been at the firm eleven years and had no enemies he knew of. Wait, what about that bastard, the analyst? No, what reason would he have? Any second, everyone would turn to him and say, “April Fools!” He had an impulse to jump onto the table and perform the tango from one end to the other. Or loudly break into “I Gotta Feeling” like a mental patient.
The silence was unnerving. The intern was visibly stressed, almost to the point of tears. He felt sorry for her.
“We can’t find him,” she said in a voice so soft he could barely hear.
“I see,” the VP said. He glanced at his watch and looked around the room. “Let’s continue.”
“We intend to launch the site with this video case study on the landing page. Over the next twelve months, we will rotate in other videos.”
Brown knew the video well. It was an interview with one of the principal researchers at a large pharmaceutical company that had implemented his company’s flagship software product. But instead of the familiar talking head, he saw a silent security camera-quality image of himself standing near the elevators, pretending to text someone. No one but him thought this was out of order. They watched, rapt, as he put away his phone and purposefully walked off camera. Horizontal bars appeared across the video, making the image appear erratic. When it cleared, the analyst’s head filled the screen, his face grinning hideously into the camera as he dangled a plastic spider on an elastic string.
Dizzy and nauseous, Brown got up awkwardly and slipped out of the room. No one seemed to care. Outside, it was cold. He had forgotten his overcoat and wandered up the street in the rain, oblivious to everything. By the time he reached Starbucks, he was drenched. Sucking back a sob, he slipped inside.
Warming his hands around a cup of black coffee, Brown sat in a chocolate brown leather chair and considered his options. He most certainly was not dead. This had to be a joke. And yet… He looked at his hands; they didn’t belong to him. They looked like the hands of a strangler. He was suddenly very hungry.
It was after eight when Chao arrived in a steady rain. Having secured an excellent parking spot directly across from the manager’s office, he felt lucky. As he approached the door entry system, he didn’t see anyone in the office. He punched in the old man’s extension and waited for the glass door to unlock. Tonight, Cha
o would talk to him, despite what his grandmother had said. It was the decent thing to do. This time he’d remembered the fortune cookies. He thought they would cheer up the old man.
“Food’s here!” he said in the hallway.
The door opened slightly. Mixed with the smell of dry leaves came the odor of carrion. Chao wanted to vomit. He waited for the ghostly hand to appear. Nothing happened. As he tried sliding the bag through the opening, a rake-like claw took his arm. Something with extraordinary strength dragged him into the darkness inside and slammed the door shut.
Like a goat whose throat had been slit, a muffled voice bleated once. Then came crushing silence, except for the buzzing of a failing light bulb at the end of the hallway in an exit sign the residents had frequently complained about.
The rain had stopped.
Wednesday. Brown crouched naked in the middle of the living room floor, watching the sunset through the windows. He could no longer stand. An engorged brownish sac protruded from his lower spine. His limbs were thin and brittle. Instead of fingers, he had two curved claws on each arm.
The bodies of Chao and others who had had the misfortune of knocking on his door were arranged in a circle around him, devoid of fluid—misshapen bags of bones and mortified tissue, the skin on each gray and leathery. Next to one lay a blood-spattered nameplate with the name “Wayne” on it.
Brown no longer thought about his daughter or work or any pleasure he had ever experienced in his former life. His only concern was to feed. He brightened when he realized the fumigators had finished with the apartment building next door. The tent had been removed, and people were coming and going freely. The windows were open, and he watched with pride as thousands of tiny spiders climbed the still curtains onto the hard ledge and poured out of the building.
Thursday. The incinerator in the basement roared to life as the maintenance man fed it old newspapers and piles of trash. A load of black garbage bags lay near the door. One by one he dragged them over, lifted each with a grunt, and tossed it in. One of the bags split open, and a decaying human arm fell out. Ignoring it, he gathered the bag together and tossed it into the fire.
Now he was staring at a gigantic dead spider lying on the cold concrete. A few wisps of gray hair were barely noticeable around the humanlike head. The eyes were black marbles, the smooth, dark mandibles caked with dried blood. He lifted the carcass easily, tossed it into the fire, and slammed the furnace door shut.
“Let’s hope this is the last one,” he said to no one and went off to enjoy a lunch of raw hamburger and beer.
Upstairs, Julie waited for the apartment manager to get off the phone. This was the part of the job she hated most—tracking down errant employees.
“Sorry about the wait,” the young man said. His name was Steve, and he smelled like her ex-husband.
“We were worried and wanted to check on Mr. Brown,” she said. “He hasn’t been to the office for a long time, and we haven’t heard from him. Have you seen him?”
Steve sat in front of the computer and keyed something in. “Which apartment?”
“SE 805.”
After more typing, he brightened. “There was someone in the apartment. A Mr. Brown. But it’s been unoccupied for weeks. We’re having it cleaned soon, and we’ll be putting it back on the market. Are you interested?”
“Weeks? What are you talking about? I want to see for myself.”
The apartment smelled of earth and dry leaves. The late morning light streaming through the windows illuminated the scratches and other imperfections in the pale hardwood floor. The markings reminded Julie of insect tracks. Immediately, she crossed to the living room windows and stared down at the street.
Police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances surrounded the entrance of the neighboring apartment building. She counted seven black body bags lying in a row on the sidewalk. Two EMTs were bringing out another body on a gurney. She shivered as she turned back to the apartment manager.
“I can offer you a very attractive move-in package.”
“I’m not looking for an apartment,” she said impatiently as she inspected the other rooms. “I’m simply trying to determine what happened to this man.”
“Brown. Yes, SE 805. He doesn’t live here anymore.”
She sighed deeply, grateful she no longer carried a hammer in her purse. As they left the apartment, she thought she felt something dance across her foot.
On the way back to the office, Julie tried to think how she would explain to the HR Director that an employee of their firm had simply vanished without a trace, leaving everything behind. As she pulled into the parking garage, she felt a sharp stab and saw something skitter under the passenger-side floor mat. It was brown. She looked at her ankle. A dark reddish swelling was beginning to form. Her heart swam up her throat.
“They don’t pay me enough for this,” she said, her voice like acid, and got out of the car to make her report.
I’ve Been Better
I’ll tell you straight how it was—how I met Reese and what that devil did to me—but you have to promise to listen to the whole thing. Okay? Relax. I’m buying.
I had a dream. It was after one of those late-night dinner meetings. First, there was the wine with dinner, then grappa after. Before I knew it, we were all in the hotel bar with Modelo and Porfidio Silver. Finally, just the añejo. I don’t even remember how I got home. Anyway, the dream.
There are clouds—big, puffy ones, right? I can hear a squeaking noise like, like something needed grease. I turn around to see a huge pulley and a fat rope inching its way over. So, I look closer. Now I can see them—you know, the tips. They were silver.
Angel’s wings.
I got Reese’s number from a friend at work. We decide to try dinner. Reese insists we eat at a place I’ve never heard of called Totentanz in Brentwood. I remember it was cold and very windy. Guys in black vests are running around parking Bentleys, Maseratis, Teslas—you know the kind of place. Fashionably dressed-down people being blown into the restaurant like rich debris. The place stinks of money. I like it.
The valet who’s got my car—his nameplate says “Stuart”—was a little disheveled, to be honest. Smelled kind of sour, too, like he hadn’t bathed in a while. I guess they hire anybody. He looks me over real good and hands me my ticket.
“Try not to scratch it,” I say. I always have to tell these schmucks; they don’t respect other people’s property.
Inside, it’s nice. Huge reproductions of Bosch and Brueghel hang on the walls and also a few engravings I don’t recognize. And here’s the weird part. The restaurant—the whole place—is filled with nothing but couples, one at each table or booth. The lighting is really low. The waiters and the busboys are moving as quiet as ghosts. I see men and women, women and women, men and men. But the thing is, only one person at each table is doing the talking. Like speed dating, sort of. The other is sitting there listening intently. At one table, some guy is crying. I mean, he was actually bawling. What gives?
They lead me to a booth where Reese is already waiting. So, now we’re drinking dirty martinis. Reese looks incredible by the way. Hey, I just noticed, you look a lot like Reese. So, I’m blabbing away, blabbing, drinking my martini, and Reese is hanging on my every word. I mean every word. I feel amazing. I don’t know; maybe it was the alcohol.
“The thing of it is,” I’m saying, “the account came to me by accident. You see, this guy Harlan had a triple bypass. He was supposed to come back to work after six weeks. All rested up. Well, he died instead.”
I don’t know why but I’m laughing like a hyena now. You’re not supposed to laugh when somebody dies, but I couldn’t help it. It was funny.
Then Reese says, “How lucky are you?” There was a tone—I don’t know, it’s hard to describe.
“Hellz yeah!” I say. “I mean, I was broken up and all. But come on. What a break.” So, I keep talking away. I tend to get loud when I drink, I’ll admit. It’s a shortcoming. Reese gives me a look
, and I calm down immediately. It was like hypnotism or something.
“So, anyway,” I say much quieter, “I totally reworked Harlan’s old advertising campaign. Threw a modern angle on it. Added all the social media stuff. The old guy was past it. I’m surprised he lasted this long. I have to give a big presentation to the client tomorrow. I’m nervous as hell, I don’t need to tell you.”
“You’ll do fine,” Reese says. “I know you will.”
Next thing I know, Reese has my hand. Nobody’s ever… It freaked me out a little, if you want to know the truth.
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, so what? This kind of thing is right in my wheelhouse. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Reese says.
The waiter shows up, and I realize that we’ve had dinner already. We’ve been there like three hours. The guy was the kind of server you fear, just saying. He doesn’t talk to me; he talks to Reese. Come to think of it, I never even gave that guy my order. Reese did everything.
“Will there be anything else?” What a prick.
“No thanks, Salvador,” Reese says.
Then, I jump in. “Could you bring the check?”
So, the son of a bitch smiles at Reese—doesn’t even make eye contact with me—and he says, “Certainly, sir.”
“I don’t like that guy.”
Reese says to me, “He’s fine.” I could hear the irritation.
“Don’t tell me he’s fine. He was looking at you the whole time!” Other people are staring at us now. I catch myself. “Sorry.”
We’re outside now, and the wind is blowing hard. What’s with the weather anyway? Reese and I are waiting next to the valet stand. Remember that guy Stuart, the one who smells? Yeah, well, he’s staring hard at Reese as I hand him my ticket. Instinctively, I move in as the valet gets closer.
“Reese?” he says. I can see there are tears in his eyes.
Reese ignores him, and I put myself between them. Now I’m glaring at this idiot in his black vest and ill-fitting pants. He looks ridiculous.
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