What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

“That’s the problem,” Reilly said. “Ventura didn’t leave the apartment the night Mayor Sousa was murdered. Somebody else’s fingerprints were found in the mayor’s car. The whole job was sloppy, unlike the others. Then the FBI tears apart Ventura’s apartment and finds nothing. A week later, he gets stabbed in that same apartment by Menard. Lo and behold, there’s suddenly more evidence than there are pimples on your fourteen-year-old daughter’s face.”

  “Leave Maria out of this.”

  “My point is, none of it adds up,” Reilly said.

  “Ventura got sloppy. They always do.”

  “And then there’s the duffel bag found by the Somerset Police when the bomber destroyed their parking lot. Hair found in that didn’t match Menard’s or Ventura’s. It was long and wavy, probably a woman’s.”

  “You’re a great detective, Samantha, but you have to let this one go. The FBI seems satisfied. They’ve already closed their investigation.”

  “They’re flat-out wrong! Ventura’s a murderer, no doubt about it. His size-eleven Reebok JJ I Insomnia Edition sneakers match the footprints found beside Valerie Page’s body.”

  “You memorized the brand name?”

  “The knife’s proportions match those projected by forensics, and they have Ventura’s own stab wound to compare. Plus, the Samartino boy identified him. I presume that had I had the chance to talk to him, Ventura’s alibi would have been a college class, but he’d already been booted from school by then. Everything looked panicked, spur of the moment, brought about by chance or circumstance. Unfortunately, his panic resulted in her death. He put himself in that situation, so it’s felony-murder no matter how you slice it. But to plan mass murder and multiple bombings takes a certain type of individual, and Kevin Ventura, well, he wasn’t it.”

  “I’m sorry, Samantha, but your orders are to move on. We have plenty of other cases that could use your talents.”

  “Horatio, you don’t have the authority—”

  “They aren’t my orders. They come from the top. It seems even the big cheeses are afraid to tell you no. They sent me in to do their dirty work. I guess they think you’ll listen to me.”

  “Oh yeah? What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them they don’t know you like I do. You don’t listen to anybody,” Sanchez said. “Anyway, the new mayor wants this matter resolved. To use his words, the community needs to feel safe again. If you ask me, you’d have to time warp the community back to 1955 for that.”

  “Fuck! It’s all politics, and you know it. As long as they got someone to stone and the public’s at rest, they don’t give a shit who goes down and who doesn’t. All they need is a scapegoat. It could be you or me next time.”

  “I hear you, Samantha. I wish I had better news.”

  “Detective Reilly,” a desk sergeant interrupted. “There’s someone on the phone for you who says he knows something about one of your cases.”

  “Could you be more vague?” Reilly groaned. “Did you get a name?”

  “Yeah, a Mr. Winter or something like that. The first name began with an F, I think. Or was it an S?”

  Idiots. I’m surrounded by them. “Just put him through to voicemail. I’ll get back to him later.”

  “Yes, sir, uh, ma’am, Detective, sir.”

  “Just go.”

  “Okay. Thank you, sir, um.” The officer bolted from the room.

  “See what we have to work with?” Reilly asked. “What a useless sack of shit. It’s harebrained people like him who are letting killers and psychopaths go free.”

  “Yeah,” Sanchez said, probably just to appease her. He sat on a clean spot at the corner of her desk, sipping his lukewarm coffee, letting the detective vent. “So are we good?” Sanchez asked after a moment.

  “Ventura is only part of the story, Horatio. There’s more to it. And now the man wants to tie my hands.”

  “You know, what you do in your free time is your own damn business.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” she said.

  “It sure is.”

  Reilly smiled. Sanchez was right. She didn’t need to keep those in charge informed of all her daily activities. She would make time for each of her cases, both the official and the ones conducted below the radar. For some, resolution was enough. But Reilly wanted something more. She wanted divulgence.

  CHAPTER 47

  “H

  e knows I’m an electronics expert, so who better than me to go to for this stuff? He wanted me to order some specific parts for him. He told me he was rebuilding a stereo as a surprise gift for a friend and didn’t want the parts coming to his apartment because they might raise her suspicions. He wanted everything to be discreet. As soon as he said ‘her,’ I thought I knew what it was all about. You know, getting pussy. I never imagined something like this.”

  Felix sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor, but Reilly caught him leering out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t flattered.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “I ordered him the parts he asked for, and he gave me the cash. I didn’t think anything more of it. Then I saw his roommate on the news, and I thought, uh-oh. Maybe Clive’s involved too. Don’t get me wrong, Detective. Clive and I are friends, but I’m not going to jail for anybody.”

  “What exactly did he order, Mr. Winters?”

  “All sorts of shit. Most of it was just normal stereo parts, like side panels, fuses, copper wire… some consumable parts. Nothing too advanced.”

  “Show me.”

  “Sure. Let me just…” Felix huddled over his keyboard. He typed with the skill of a proficient illegal downloader and pornographic website surveyor. Before Detective Reilly could say “creepy deviant,” Felix had accessed his account on Discover Card’s webpage and opened a listing of his most recent transactions.

  Reilly read down the list of recent purchases. “Debbie Does Dallas on Beta-Max! And for only nine bucks!”

  “Yeah, and that includes shipping and handling.”

  “But isn’t that a classic on a rare, discontinued medium? It’s got to be worth more than that.”

  “Marry me.”

  “Ewww.”

  “Anyway, if you think that’s good, you should come by my place and see my entire collection,” Felix said. “I have Seymour Butts’s directorial debut and Ron Jeremy’s first interracial orgy on VHS, porn from back when it was still an art form. I’d show you the steal I got those for, but I put them on my Visa card. Not everyone takes Discover.”

  Reilly’s eyes darted left to right as they worked their way down the monitor. She incessantly clicked the mouse like a toddler with a new toy, scrolling down with each press. With every click, Felix flinched beside her.

  “Burster charges! RDX! Do you have any idea what that shit is?”

  “Umm, stereo parts? I’m not sure. Clive told me what to order, so I ordered it.”

  “They’re used in explosives, but not just for any bomb. The navy uses them in torpedoes, mines, warheads, and other shit they use to kill hundreds of enemy combatants all at the same time. You found these parts on the Internet?”

  “Everything is on the Internet.” Felix began to fidget. “Clive told me what he wanted. I found it for him. Am I in trouble here?”

  “I’d say so. But right now, you’re the least of my concerns. Jesus Christ! Look at the names of the sites you bought this stuff from. How could you not have been tipped off by a site called Explosives ’R Us? BlowShitUp.com?”

  “Clive always seemed normal. I didn’t think he’d build bombs out of the crap I bought for him.”

  “Can you get me a screen print of that?”

  “Do I have to? It’s got all my personal information and—”

  “Print it.”

  Felix groaned but did as he was told. Reilly tapped her foot as she waited for the decade-old Hewlett Packard printer to ink out the page and a half of transactions.

  When the ink ribbon recoiled for the last time, Felix snatched the sheets from the printer’s shelf.
He stapled them together and held them out for the detective. When she grabbed them, he wouldn’t let go of the other end.

  “If you ever want to come by for a more private showing of my collection, you have my number.”

  “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?” Reilly rolled her eyes and tore the documents from Felix’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Winters. I’ve got everything I need.”

  Reilly stormed out with her new evidence tucked under her arm. She power-walked from the building and jumped into her car. Once securely in her bucket seat, she threw the screen prints onto the passenger seat beside her. Then she paused.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Morgan wasn’t expecting company. The knock at her door early on a Tuesday morning was neither wanted nor appreciated. The only one who ever showed up unannounced was Clive, and he was sleeping soundly in her bed—which had become their bed, Clive having moved in permanently after his hospital visit.

  As far as Morgan was concerned, Clive was home. He was where he belonged. She babied him, smothered him. She’d always taken care of him since they were little children playing in the schoolyard. Then she protected him from bullies. Now, it was from detectives. No one would come between them.

  Detective Reilly seemingly had other plans. She threatened their stability, the relationship Morgan had always imagined she and Clive would have and had strived so long to obtain. Reilly had no business in their lives or in her home. None. Her case was solved. Kevin was dead. So why was the detective standing on her doorstep?

  I failed you once, she thought as she peeked at Reilly through Venetian blinds. When Kevin attacked, she had run. Clive could have been killed because of it. He deserved better from her. She pledged to be stronger, unfaltering. With silent indignation, she opened the door. I won’t fail you again, Clive.

  “Good morning, Ms. Donnelly. May I come in?” The detective smiled, but Morgan saw through it.

  “Actually, I was just on my way to work.”

  “I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

  Morgan thought long and hard before she answered. Her distaste for Reilly infused the air around her. Still, she kept her wits about her. She saw no reason to raise the detective’s suspicions.

  “Certainly, Detective. Come in.” Morgan showed Reilly to the sofa and offered her a seat. Both women remained standing. “How may I help you?”

  “Is Clive here?” Reilly asked.

  “No. I think he’s at work.”

  “Funny. I just left Harcourt. I must have just missed him.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. Should I tell him you stopped by?”

  “Actually, it’s good he’s not around. I came here to see you.”

  “Me?” Morgan asked. “What for?”

  “To see how much you know about your boyfriend’s crimes.”

  Morgan didn’t respond immediately. At least, she didn’t respond verbally. But she feared her body language would give her away. The comment was obviously intended to evoke a response. It succeeded. She felt Reilly watching her every movement, no matter how slight. Did the detective see her clench her fists and jaw, then release? Did Reilly see her face redden with anger and humiliation? Did Reilly see her body tense with awkward discomfort?

  Morgan didn’t know the answers to those questions. She was more concerned with what Reilly could not have seen—any sign of surprise.

  “Look, Detective. If you’ve come here to spew wild accusations, then I suggest you—”

  “Ms. Donnelly, you can’t bullshit me. You’re either part of it, or you’re not. If you’re protecting him, I’ll find out. If you helped him, I’ll find out. If you so much as told the littlest white lie on his behalf, I’ll make sure you go away with him. And believe me, your boyfriend will be going away for a long, long time.”

  “This is absolutely crazy! Clive and I had nothing to do with the explosions. I already told you he was here with me at the times you told me the explosions took place. He can’t help it if his roommate was a psychopath!”

  “Maybe it was Mr. Ventura who had the psychotic roommate.”

  “Get out! Unless you’re going to arrest me, get the fuck out of this house!”

  “If you cooperate, there still might be a slim chance that you could walk.”

  “I said, get out!”

  “Have it your way. I’ll be seeing you, Ms. Donnelly.”

  The door slammed shut behind Reilly as she showed herself out. Morgan returned to her sofa and plunged into its soft embrace. Her mind raced, but she was strong.

  “We’ll get through this,” she muttered. The words weren’t said in denial. She meant them, and they restored her confidence. “Everything is as it should be.”

  Clive sat listening atop the second-floor stairway. He heard everything, from Reilly’s sordid accusations to Morgan’s insecurity. He processed it all as best he could. His brain wasn’t functioning at peak capacity. He hadn’t been able to sleep but had lain awake beside his guilt-free, comatose girlfriend night after night. His eyes were underlined with deep-purple sacks. Red lines stretched across the length of their whites. His teeth were stained yellow, and his breath was rancid. He wore the same clothes he’d worn the day before and the day before that, and his hair hadn’t been combed in just as long.

  Clive had heard it all, no thanks to Chester. She kept on humming, only stopping for brief intervals when Clive assumed she was resting. When Clive tried to take advantage of the silence, Chester would start up again. She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t leave. Clive didn’t know how much more he could take.

  He crawled into the bedroom. There, he sprawled out on the bed, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. His body was worn down, the muscles too exhausted to exert themselves. His mind was far from tranquil. Chester wouldn’t let up. He lay there, contemplating the ways he could make her stop.

  Outside, Reilly was all worked up as she stampeded back to her car. That bitch knows something. She’s covering for him—I can feel it. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It didn’t work.

  Fine. She wants to do it the hard way. So be it.

  Reilly tore her cell phone from her belt clip. She punched in number five on her speed dial.

  “Hello?”

  “Horatio, get the paperwork ready. We’re putting this in front of the grand jury immediately. I’ve got some new evidence that’s going to blow your mind. It’s all the proof I need. I’m going to arrest the son of a bitch.”

  “Who, Samantha?”

  “Clive Menard.”

  CHAPTER 48

  C hester burrowed deep into Clive’s brain, far beneath the dura mater. In the lost, empty regions between cells, she spun her silk like the mythical Arachne from which her form got its name. Her spinnerets spurted thread until she had quilted herself an intricate tapestry. She relaxed and settled into it, her nest.

  Nerve impulses bridged synaptic gaps, sending their messages to a cerebrum control center. Their signals flashed like lightning outside her dwelling. Inside was quiet, calm, soothing. She had discovered a safe haven in an unused region of the human anatomy, its potential either lost to evolution or not yet realized by it. In there, Clive’s antibodies dared not travel. In there, her womb, she would be protected. In there, she would stay until the time when her host became unsuitable and another called out to her. In there, she hid alongside all of Clive’s dark ambitions, dirty black secrets, and intricate web of lies.

  Her hunger had grown over the past few days to gluttonous extremes. She fed on a portion of Clive’s brain, being careful not to inject him with her venom. Clive wouldn’t miss the bulbous tissue. It served no function. But her taste for blood became an addiction, insatiable. As she fed, she grew plump. Her strong legs became weary. Her body yearned for rest. The time for metamorphosis drew near. She cradled herself in a spiderweb hammock. At last, she hibernated.

  All the while she slumbered, her body resonated like a tuning fork gone haywire. Her vibrations sent a faint hum through the humble
cavity. It grew in magnitude as it echoed outward. To Clive, it must have been deafening. But to Chester, the hum was calming. It put her at peace—a soft ode paying homage to her kind, a lullaby for spiderlings.

  “Clive, what’s going on? We haven’t seen you at work in weeks. Weren’t you supposed to be back already?”

  “Yeah, I know. I just… I haven’t been feeling right lately.”

  Connie sighed. “There’s only so long I can keep covering for you. And today, some detective comes in here asking Felix all these strange questions about you.”

  “Felix? What would she want with Felix?”

  “Talk to me, Clive. Is everything all right?”

  “No, Connie. Nothing’s all right. I think I may be in some serious trouble. I think I may have done some terrible things.”

  “Like what, Clive?”

  “Like killed people. A whole lot of people. I think I’m the guy they’ve been looking for all this time.”

  “What’s happening to you? You do remember that they caught the guy, don’t you? You caught him, Clive. Your roommate killed all those people, not you. You’ve got to pull yourself together. You’re scaring me. I’m worried about you, hon.”

  “You’re scared? I’m practically shitting myself over here. That fucking spider won’t stop chanting. It’s the same song over and over again, like elevator music that can’t be shut off. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore. Could I have been responsible for all those explosions? Could I have slaughtered all those people? And if so, why can’t I remember any of it?”

  “Now you’re really scaring me, Clive.” Connie sighed. She lowered her voice. “I have this friend. He’s a psychiatrist. Maybe you should give him a call. I’ll give you his number. You need help. He can help you.”

  Clive calmed his nerves. “You’re right. I do need help.”

  “Promise me you’ll call.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Morgan shouted, bursting into the bedroom. Clive wondered how long she’d been outside the door, listening.