The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  EIGHT

  “Spiders are exclusively carnivorous.”

  FROM How to Know the Spiders,

  THIRD EDITION, BY B. J. KASTON, 1978

  Henrietta was not doing well. She had been on her back for nearly three days, but wasn’t showing any sign of progress. He was careful not to touch her, understanding that even the most delicate examination could lead to disaster at a time like this.

  She was old, nearly fifteen, which of course exacerbated the situation. At the first signs of pre-molt, he’d taken preemptive action, moving her to the ICU, where she could rest in dark, humid conditions. Using a small artist’s brush, he’d even dabbed her legs with glycerin, paying special attention to the femur-patellar and the patella-tibial joints. In theory, the glycerin would help soften the rings of the exoskeleton, making it easier for Henrietta to pull free.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t do the trick. Now he stood in front of her, contemplating more drastic action. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice a leg.

  Molting was an extremely dangerous time for a tarantula. Once a year, in order for the tarantula to grow, the old exoskeleton had to be shed, the tarantula climbing free from its outgrown exuvium with a fresh, larger suit of armor ready to go. For most of the year, in fact, the tarantula was in a state of inter-molt, slowly growing a new exoskeleton beneath the old. At around the twelve-month mark, in preparation for the transition, the spider entered pre-molt, excreting exuvium fluid between the old and new exoskeletons. This digestive juice began dissolving one layer of the old exoskeleton, the endocuticle, while bristles grown on the new exoskeleton started pushing the old covering away.

  The bald patch on the tarantula changed from tan to black, signaling the pre-molt state. Shortly thereafter, the tarantula would roll over on her back to begin the molting process. And anywhere from twenty minutes to two or three days later, the molting process would be complete.

  Unless the spider died.

  Already he could see signs of distress. In Henrietta’s age-weakened condition, she hadn’t the strength to pull her legs free. As hours passed, her new exoskeleton started hardening inside her old exuvium, making it impossible for her to pull free from her shedding skin.

  He either did something soon, or she would die trapped inside a prison of her own making.

  He could amputate a leg or two. Quick tug and twist of the femur, and that would be that. It didn’t sound pleasant, but a spider could lose a leg with relatively little harm.

  Or, he could operate.

  He’d never done it before, just read about it in various collectors’ chat rooms. Little was understood about medical care for tarantulas. After all, dead spiders were rarely autopsied or studied for cause of death. A true enthusiast buried or mounted his or her pet. The vast majority of collectors, however, tossed the carcass away.

  Some basics had been established over the years. For the ICU, he used a plastic yogurt container he’d thoroughly cleaned with a bleach solution, then lined with a paper towel he had sterilized in the oven, then soaked in cooled boiled water. He let both container and wet paper towel achieve room temperature before placing Henrietta on the paper towel and sealing the ICU with the original yogurt lid, now punched with three airholes.

  He hated the plastic containers, preferring to watch his pets, but tarantulas—like most spiders—were shy by nature. They preferred the dark, particularly when in distress.

  Even now, he worked upstairs in the gloomy master bath, room-darkening shades pulled, the air musty with the scent of fresh earth and faint decay. A nightlight offered a subdued glow, just enough for him to see Henrietta, without further traumatizing her system.

  She wasn’t moving anymore. Not even trying to pull her legs free. Dead?

  He didn’t think so. Not yet. But it was coming and the thought of losing her was nearly unbearable. She was his very first pet and while he had collected many more specimens in the years since—rarer spiders, more exotic colors—she would always be special. After all, once, a long time ago, she had set him free.

  No doubt about it, he would operate.

  He started by gathering supplies. A stiff piece of cardboard to serve as the operating table. Tweezers, magnifying glass, eyedropper, Q-tip. He returned downstairs to boil the tweezers and soak another piece of sterilized paper towel.

  Boy was on the couch. He didn’t make eye contact when the man appeared, but kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the TV. Smart boy.

  While the tweezers cooled, the man set another damp paper towel on top of the back panel of a Cheerios box. Next, he dissolved two drops of Ivory dish soap in one cup of boiled water, cooled to room temperature.

  He headed back upstairs, once more passing by the living room. This time, at the sound of his approaching footsteps, the boy flinched.

  The man smiled.

  Upstairs, he had to extract Henrietta from the ICU, careful not to jog her, given her delicate state. Once he’d slid her onto the hospital bed/piece of cardboard, he moved her closer to the nightlight and pulled out the magnifying glass.

  Upon closer inspection, she appeared hopelessly stuck, her old exoskeleton barely cracked, not a single leg peeking through. It was much worse than he thought and he took a moment to draw in a ragged, pained breath.

  Then he steadied himself. With the Q-tip, he dabbed the soap solution on the exuvium, careful to not drip any fluid that might get into Henrietta’s book lungs and drown her.

  While he waited thirty minutes for the solution to soften the exoskeleton, he decided to take his intervention a step further and fully remove the sternum piece of the old, molting shell. The plates were connected by a thin membrane, and were very easy to extract using the sterilized tweezers.

  This process went smoother than anticipated and soon he’d removed most of the carapace and sternum plates.

  Henrietta’s legs remained trapped, however. Long, delicate new legs held prisoner by the hard rings of her old skin. Without use of her legs to work herself out of her old exoskeleton, she still wasn’t going anyplace.

  He got back out his magnifiying glass and considered his options.

  Downstairs came the sound of the front door opening and closing. Hushed voices murmuring. Debating, no doubt. To disturb or not to disturb. Upstairs was his sanctuary, filled with his own special guests. None of them liked to come up here. At least, not any more than they had to.

  Finally, however, the sound of footsteps, creaking up the old stairs, hitting the landing, approaching his room.

  The door opened, flooding the room with unexpected daylight.

  “Close it!” he snarled.

  The door closed.

  “Stand. Don’t say a word.”

  The intruder stood, didn’t say a word.

  Better.

  He would have to break the heavy rings articulating each leg. If he could chip away that part of the hardened exoskeleton without damaging the soft, unprotected leg beneath, Henrietta might have a chance. Four joints each leg. Eight legs.

  He settled in for the painstaking work, still aware of the presence behind him, the girl who did not move, would not move, until he spoke again.

  Five minutes rolled into ten, thirty, forty-five minutes. An hour. He chipped away at the hardened exoskeleton on each leg, slowly, carefully, ring by ring.

  When he finally looked up, he was surprised to find that perspiration stuck his shirt to his skin and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been hiking for hours, and not just hunched over a table in a pool of dim light.

  He had all eight legs free, though several were bent awkwardly, clearly damaged. As he watched, however, one leg moved, then another. Henrietta was still with him, fighting to pull through.

  “You are so beautiful,” he crooned to his favorite pet. “That’s my girl. That’s my girl.”

  “Is … is she all right?” a tentative voice finally came behind him.

  He didn’t turn around, his voice clipped as he set aside the tweezers. “I don’t know. Molt this b
ad, she probably has trouble with her mouth, pharynx, and stomach. Odds are she’ll be dead by morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “But at least this gives her a chance.” He took grim satisfaction in that, snapping off the light, leaving Henrietta to fight her own war the way she would prefer—alone in the dark.

  He finally turned, his eyes adjusting rapidly to the gloom and taking in the girl standing in the doorway. She had her chin up, a small show of defiance that showed off the spider tattoo on her neck, but didn’t fool either one of them.

  “Did you get it?” he asked without preamble.

  Wordlessly, she held out the business card.

  He snatched it up, turned it over, read the cell phone number scrawled on the back. For the first time all morning, the man smiled.

  “Tell me exactly what you did.”

  And the girl, being well-trained by now, did.

  NINE

  “For laypersons the most distinguishing feature of a brown recluse is a dark violin-shaped mark on its back, with the neck of the violin pointing toward the rear (abdomen) of the spider.”

  FROM Brown Recluse Spider,

  BY MICHAEL F. POTTER, URBAN ENTOMOLOGIST, UNIVERSITY OF KENTUCKY COLLEGE OF AGRICULTURE

  The call came three nights later. Kimberly’s team had finally wrapped up the crash scene and she and Mac were celebrating by eating dinner together. He’d brought home a honey-baked ham, accompanied with coleslaw and biscuits.

  He ate the ham, she ate the biscuits.

  “So once I had the ring all cleaned up,” she was reporting excitedly, “you wouldn’t believe the level of detail. Alpharetta High School is engraved around the center stone. Then on the right side, the word ‘Raiders’—their mascot—with a picture of a football, engraved with a number eighty-six and beneath that the initials QB.”

  “Really?” Mac said, helping himself to a fresh beer. “You have the name of the kid’s high school, plus the fact that he’s the quarterback with jersey number eighty-six?”

  “Oh, it gets even better. On the other side of the ring is a name: Tommy, with an emblem, Class of 2006.”

  “I don’t have any of that on my class ring,” Mac said.

  “You have a high school ring?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear it.”

  “Well, if my ring were as cool as Tommy’s, maybe you would.”

  Kimberly rolled her eyes at him, decided a fourth biscuit probably wasn’t healthy for her or the baby, and went with some coleslaw. “So now I have a first name, high school, and graduating class. I figure, okay, some afternoon when I’m in the area, I’ll swing by Alpharetta High School, talk to a guidance counselor, and, ding, ding, ding, mystery will be solved. But then I have a better idea.”

  “Of course.”

  “I log on to the Internet. Figure I’ll see what I can learn about Alpharetta High School.”

  “And what did you learn about Alpharetta High School, my dear?”

  “Hey, sarcasm is only going to earn you more middle-of-the-night diaper changes.”

  “Point taken.”

  She gave him a look.

  He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m interested. I spent the whole day sitting in a van, listening to two alleged drug dealers carry on a highly serious discussion of how Keanu Reeves is the most underappreciated actor of our time.”

  “Was it his performance in Speed?”

  “More like his decision not to make Speed 2.”

  “So true.”

  “All right, all right. Back to the ring …”

  “Well,” she started again, mollified, “Alpharetta High School is frighteningly large.”

  “Alpharetta is frighteningly large.” They had originally looked at buying a home there. It was a booming, upwardly mobile, decidedly professional community just south of them. In the end, it was the booming that concerned them. From three thousand residents in 1980 to over fifty thousand now, the town was bursting at the seams, with all the public resource strains and traffic woes that generally came of such things.

  “Nearly two thousand kids,” Kimberly reported. “That worried me a little. School of that size, one kid could be hard to find. But then it occurred to me, check the sports page. And you’ll never believe what I found.”

  “Delilah Rose?” he guessed helpfully.

  “No. Tommy Mark Evans. Varsity QB of 2006. His photo, game stats, everything, right there on the information superhighway. For that matter, I found pictures and names of all the cheerleaders, JV sports teams, drama club, chess club—you name the kid, his or her information is all there online. I tell you, it’s not enough to monitor MySpace or YouTube anymore. Every public organization has a website that is freely giving away information and photos of America’s kids. Think about it: I didn’t even leave my desk and from one class ring, I surfed the Internet straight to Tommy Mark Evans’s front step.”

  “Our son will never be allowed a computer in his room,” Mac announced. “Any portal out is a portal in, and I want to know what or who is coming into our home at all times.”

  “Our daughter will probably never use a computer,” Kimberly countered. “By the time she can type, it’ll all be done on a cell phone and how the hell are we supposed to control that?”

  “No phone privileges works for me.”

  “So you’re gonna be the Draconian daddy with a curfew and a shotgun?”

  “Absolutely. But I’ll also buy her a pony. I mean, er, I’ll buy him a baseball bat.”

  But Kimberly had caught the slip and was already grinning at him. “I heard that. You’re thinking about a little girl …”

  “Any healthy, happy baby will be fine—”

  “You want to buy pretty pink dresses …”

  “Hey, can I help it if the clothes in the baby girls’ section are much cuter?”

  Kimberly was laughing now, mostly at the thought of her tall, dark, manly man husband going through the girls’ clothing rack. But he probably did like the little pink dresses. And he probably would buy their child a pony. As well as a handgun with basic firearms safety lessons.

  “Well, if you’re done mocking me,” he said, making a show of hurt dignity as he stood and started clearing paper plates, “what are you going to do now?”

  “You mean because so far I’ve processed evidence and pursued a lead in a case where I don’t actually have a case?”

  “That was my thought.”

  Kimberly didn’t have a good answer for that one. “What do you think of Sal?”

  “Good guy. Reputation for digging his heels in and getting the job done.”

  “Is he a renegade, works best by himself, alienates those in authority?”

  “Actually, that would be you, dear.”

  Kimberly nodded. “True.”

  Cell phone rang.

  Mac glanced up. “Yours, not mine.”

  She got to her feet, sighing. “Knew talking about work was a bad idea. It’s like conjuring the beast into your presence.”

  Second ring.

  Her stomach felt a little too full. She rubbed it absently, asking Baby McCormack to please stop kicking the daylights out of the biscuits, as she crossed to her leather bag, dug around in the depths.

  Third ring.

  She finally found it, glancing at the screen: It was the 1-800 number for the Atlanta Field Office, which, at first blush, didn’t make sense. She received calls from her supervisor or from her fellow agents, not the duty desk. She shrugged, flipped it open. “Special Agent Quincy.”

  And then …

  Far away, very quiet, like a whisper in the dark, “Help me.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “Help … me …”

  Kimberly glanced sharply at Mac, made an urgent motion for paper and pen. He scrambled at the kitchen desk.

  “You have reached a federal agent. Please state your name and I’ll do my best to assist you.”

  “I don’t remember … He took it from m
e. Maybe … if I could just find it again …”

  “Who took it from you? Talk to me.”

  Mac, paper and pen in hand, arriving at her side, regarding her questioningly.

  The whisper again: “Soon you will understand.”

  The connection broke. Kimberly attempted dialing back, but the number was blocked.

  She set down her cell phone, deeply perplexed. Mac still stood there, waiting to write up notes on a caller who hadn’t provided any information.

  “Delilah Rose?” he asked at last.

  “Don’t think so,” she said. “It sounded like a boy.”

  The phone rang again shortly after two a.m. Kimberly wasn’t sleeping well, as if some part of her was expecting this moment. Beside her, she felt Mac tense at the first shrill note, and knew he’d been waiting, too.

  She sat up and flipped on a lamp. On the bedside table, she had positioned her cell phone, notepad, pen, and mini-recorder. Once again the display screen registered the toll-free number for the Atlanta FBI. This time, Kimberly wasn’t fooled.

  She gave Mac a slow nod of acknowledgment, then snapped on the mini-recorder. She answered her phone in the hands-free mode, so they could both hear.

  “Special Agent Quincy.”

  Nothing at first. No greeting, or crackle of a bad connection. Then, somewhere distant, as if in the background, that faint whisper again: “Shhhh …”

  Kimberly glanced at Mac. She brought the phone up between them, and with her ear closer, suddenly she could hear.

  Moaning. Panting. The slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh. A muffled cry of distress.

  “Do you like that? Is that good for you? Answer me!”

  A small, whimpered plea.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Kimberly put her hand over her mouth to stifle her automatic cry of protest. Beside her, Mac had gone still. He’d heard it, too, and understood what it meant. They were eavesdropping on a sexual assault. Kimberly knew, because she had heard such tapes before, part of the work her father used to bring home before he realized his young daughters had taken to sneaking into his office and going through his things.

  Recorded? Live? She didn’t know, but she had seen the visuals that went with such sounds and already her stomach roiled.…