The Spider Bites

by Medora Sale

  THE

  SPIDER

  BITES

  MEDORA SALE

  Copyright © 2010 Medora Sale

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sale, Medora

  The spider bites / written by Medora Sale.

  (Rapid reads)

  ISBN 978-1-55469-282-8

  I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads

  PS8587.A35387S65 2010 C813’.54 C2009-907250-5

  First published in the United States, 2010

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009942218

  Summary: Detective Rick Montoya must find out who firebombed his apartment before he can clear his name of a bribery charge.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1

  For Harry,

  as always

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: The Spider Comes Home

  Chapter Two: Fire

  Chapter Three: Susanna

  Chapter Four: The Man in the Basement

  Chapter Five: Alone

  Chapter Six: Looking Back

  Chapter Seven: The Crime Scene

  Chapter Eight: Angela

  Chapter Nine: Greg

  Chapter Ten: Attack

  Chapter Eleven: New Directions

  Chapter Twelve: The Apartment

  Chapter Thirteen: Spinning the Web

  Chapter Fourteen: Collateral Damage

  Chapter Fifteen: Tony

  Chapter Sixteen: The Web

  Chapter Seventeen: The Fourth Day

  Chapter Eighteen: Death Insurance

  Chapter Nineteen: The Price of a Life

  Chapter Twenty: The Mistake

  Chapter Twenty-One: Angela: Once More

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SPIDER COMES HOME

  My name is Rick Montoya. Some people call me the Spider. But you don’t have to. If you don’t like spiders, you can call me Rick. I answer to both names.

  It all started at sunset one day near the end of October. We had just come to the end of the late apple harvest. I had no reason to stay at the farm any longer. My boss, Scott, handed me a stack of fifty-dollar bills.

  “Your pay, five months’ worth. I deducted room rent and put the rest away. Just like you asked. Count it,” he said. He tapped his finger on the pile of money. “Go on.

  Count it.”

  Scott’s a nice guy. But not very friendly, if you know what I mean. I counted the money and divided it into four piles. I stuffed them into the pockets of my jeans. There was room for them all. With space for more. When I got home I was going to have to buy a new pair of jeans. These were much too big. I had already punched two more holes in my belt and it was still loose. I was a lot thinner than I had been when I started this job.

  “I’m going into town if you want a ride,” Scott said. “I can take you as far as the turnoff to the produce terminal.”

  I grabbed my backpack and climbed into the truck. It was time to get back to the city.

  * * *

  We didn’t talk much on the trip in. I’ve known Scott all my life and he never did talk much, even as a kid. My father worked for his father. I grew up in a little house on the farm. When I was old enough, I worked for his father in the summers. So we knew each other. We didn’t need words, most of the time.

  “Where are you going?” he asked suddenly.

  “Home,” I said.

  “Where’s that?” asked Scott. “Angela’s? Or your old apartment?”

  “The old apartment.”

  “Why? What’s there for you?”

  I couldn’t think of an answer to that.

  “Look, if you’re not going back to Angela, we’ll just pick up your stuff. Then you can come back to the farm. I can always use you. It really helps to have someone in the crew who can speak Spanish. The workers seem to trust you.”

  “Thanks, Scott. I might need a job. But that’ll be later.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in a tight spot right now. You already know I’m under suspension until they wrap up this investigation. My lawyer says there’s a good chance I’ll be cleared. But then, he’s paid to make me feel good, isn’t he?”

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” said Scott. And I think he meant it.

  “So do I,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got something important to do first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have to find this guy, Freddie.”

  “Who’s Freddie?”

  “Just a guy.”

  He shook his head like he thought I was a little bit crazy, but he let it go.

  Maybe I should have accepted his offer.

  * * *

  He dropped me off. I waved goodbye and started walking. It was three miles to the apartment, but that was nothing. Not after five months of hard physical work.

  The long walk gave me time to think. It looked like I was through as a cop. Suspended from the force. Under investigation for corruption. Even if I got off on that charge, the slime would stick to me. I’d be fired and no one would hire me, even as a security guard. I had to face that, no matter how confident my lawyer was.

  It was dark and cold out on the streets. It had been raining earlier. The sidewalks were wet and slippery, covered with fallen leaves. Even so, I reached West Central Avenue in under an hour.

  Home was nearby. In an old house across from a park in a crowded, friendly neighborhood. The house had three stories and a basement, and had been divided into three apartments. I rented the basement. It had its own entrance at the side. I liked that. And it was quiet. It felt safe and private. A fox or a rabbit would be happy hiding down there. Or a spider.

  The apartment was supposed to be empty. Before I left, I had paid my landlady, Cheryl, the rent for six months. But there were lights on in the kitchen and the living room.

  The street was deserted because of the rain and the cold. I walked cautiously down the driveway between the house and its next-door neighbor. The automatic security light went on. That didn’t bother me. It goes on when a cat walks by. Or a raccoon.

  I stopped and listened for signs of movement. Everything was quiet. I went around to the back window. I could see into the brightly lit kitchen. It was empty. Then I bent down and looked around. There were dirty pots on the stove and dishes stacked in the sink. Through the kitchen door, I saw a shadow move. The hall light went out. Then a hand reached into the kitchen and turned out the light.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FIRE

  I took a step sideways from the window. For a minute I stood still, listening. The person in my apartment didn’t move. He hadn’t broken in. He was living in my apartment. At least he was cooking and eating there. I took out my key and went back to the side door. The key didn’t work. Cheryl had rented my apa
rtment to someone else, and I had scared the hell out of him. Or her. I swore under my breath.

  The last thing I wanted tonight was a fight over the apartment. I wanted a bed and a shower and a little peace and quiet. I’d sort it out tomorrow.

  I walked back up to West Central and took a room at the nearest hotel.

  * * *

  I crawled into bed and slept until six the next morning. Hunger woke me up. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before.

  It was too early for breakfast. The closest place for a decent breakfast was the Coffee Corner. It opened at seven. My landlady worked the morning shift there. Naturally I wanted to talk to her about who was living in my apartment. But I really didn’t want to argue about it over my pancakes and coffee.

  I took a long shower to fill the time. Then I went out. One of those coffee franchises had moved in right across the street from the Coffee Corner. It was already open. So there I was, sitting on an uncomfortable stool, eating a stale muffin and drinking warm, flavored water. I thought of Cheryl’s pancakes and strong, hot coffee. What else could I do? I’d go back and talk to Cheryl after she got off work. Anyway, I had other things to look after.

  I had left town in mid-May. I stopped shaving in June and let my hair grow. Seeing myself in the bathroom mirror after my shower that morning, I realized I now looked like the Wild Man of the Woods. I needed a major cleanup. Then I needed some clothes that fit me.

  * * *

  “Why not keep the beard, Rick?” asked my barber. “I’ll trim it for you. See how you like it.”

  I nodded. “Whatever you think, Vito,” I said. I didn’t care how I looked right now. Up to a point. But I had to look respectable and clean. I closed my eyes and let Vito wash and cut and trim. My mind was on what I was doing back in town.

  Getting into my apartment was the least of my problems. I wondered if it was possible to get my job back. After all, right now, I was only suspended. I hadn’t been fired. Yet. Did I want my job back? I had to decide if I wanted to face the guys I used to work with. Especially since most of them believed I was on Rodriguez’s payroll. That had nothing to do with the way my hair looked.

  “What do you think, Rick?”

  I opened my eyes. “About what, Vito?”

  “The beard. If I shave it off, your chin will look pretty funny. You’ve got a real dark tan on the rest of your face. Your chin will be white.”

  “Leave it then,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I left Vito’s, feeling much neater, and strolled along West Central to George’s Menswear. It had good stuff. Nothing fancy and nothing too expensive.

  I was looking through a rack of trousers a little smaller than my old ones.

  “Those trousers are going to be too large for you, sir,” said the salesman. “Try these.” He handed me an impossibly small pair.

  “I won’t get into those,” I said.

  “Try them on, sir,” he insisted.

  I came out of the dressing room and looked in the mirror. A bearded stranger looked back at me. I hadn’t been that thin for fifteen years. Not since I was twenty. The sun had turned my face into leather. But the pants fit.

  “I’m in a hurry,” I said. “I need these right away.”

  “Can you give us an hour to do the cuffs?”

  “I can if you can find me a pair of jeans to wear right now,” I said. “And I’ll come back for these after lunch.”

  I needed to look good enough to buy a decent lunch. And maybe even go and see my lawyer. I was hungry, dammit. I wanted food. I wanted a place to live and a job. And my good name back. Maybe that would even give me…What? What else had I lost?

  My wife. She wasn’t going to be as easy to replace as a pair of pants.

  * * *

  It was four o’clock before I was walking back down the street toward my apartment. I was ready to have a talk with Cheryl.

  A siren screamed behind me. Then another one. First a fire truck tore past, then an ambulance and two police cars. Another fire truck followed them. Not a routine call, I thought automatically. Something big had happened.

  Then I saw the flashing lights. There were already cars parked down the street. The vehicles that had passed me were second and third backup units. There were too many emergency vehicles to fit on the street. The air was full of smoke.

  There was a crowd on the sidewalk ahead of me. Two men in uniform were trying to hold it back. I crossed the street to the park and stood beside a tree. The air stank of burning furniture and water on charred wood. And worse things.

  The wind rose and blew some of the smoke away. I could see what was going on. Across the street was my old house. I’d lived there for three happy years. Then I’d gone back to it in December, when Angela threw me out. To hide and lick my wounds. It was the closest thing I had to a home.

  Two paramedics were carrying a body bag on a stretcher. Someone had died in the fire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SUSANNA

  The paramedics pushed the stretcher into an ambulance. The driver yelled at someone. I could see his problem. He was stuck. There was a fire truck in front of him and three police cars beside him. Men in uniform were standing around, doing nothing. He walked from group to group. At each one he pointed at his vehicle. It was almost funny, but it wasn’t.

  Five minutes later the fire truck left. The cops in uniform climbed into their cars. They turned around and left. Things were winding down.

  The ambulance made its way around the remaining vehicles. It drove off at a slow, steady pace. Its emergency lights and siren were off. There was no need to hurry. It was going to the morgue, not the hospital. The streetlights came on. It was beginning to get dark. The crowd started drifting away. Only a handful of curiosity seekers were left. What were they hoping to see? More bodies?

  A woman came running up the street toward the house. Her black coat flapped behind her in the wind. Her hair was blowing across her face, getting in her eyes. She saw the little crowd of people and slowed down, gasping for breath. She pushed back her hair and bent over. Someone from the emergency team walked over to her and patted her shoulder. She straightened up and said something. He shook his head.

  The streetlight was shining full on her face now. It was Susanna, Cheryl’s daughter. But where was Cheryl? I hadn’t seen her in the crowd. She should have been home by now. Maybe she was next door. Susanna buried her face in her hands. The man patted her shoulder again. She moved away from his touch and reached into her pocket for a tissue. Then she turned and stared at the remains of the house.

  What she was thinking? Poor Susanna. The building had been her home for all twenty-six years of her life. There wasn’t much left of it now. I started walking toward her. I needed to find out what had happened. But I stopped. What she needed was someone to comfort her. This was not a good time for asking questions.

  I slipped away before she saw me.

  * * *

  I walked into the hotel and headed for the elevator. But what was I supposed to do in my room? Sit on the bed and watch television? I turned and went into the bar. In this neighborhood late afternoon was a dead time for selling beer. The bar was almost empty. Four men were sitting at a round table whispering to each other. Setting up a deal, I thought. But it wasn’t my business. Not at the moment. The waitress came by carrying a jug of cold draft and four glasses on a tray. It looked good.

  “Coffee,” I said. “And a glass of water.” I wanted to keep a clear head.

  The television above the bar was set to the local news channel. Half the screen flashed pictures. Another section was giving the local traffic report. But with no sound, none of it made any sense. The waitress set down my coffee and glass of water.

  “Two-fifty,” she said.

  I dropped a five on her tray. She reached for change.

  “It’s yours,” I said. “And could you turn up the sound?”

  “Those guys asked me to turn it down,” she said.

  “I’ll move
closer. Just turn it up a bit.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said.

  I moved to the table next to the bar. I was just in time for a Breaking News flash. An excited-looking young reporter was standing on the street outside Cheryl’s house. She pointed at the ruins and told us the house was beyond saving. Then she tried to get the neighbors to talk.

  “It’s terrible,” said one.

  “Was there someone in the house?” asked the reporter, looking around.

  “Dunno,” said the first neighbor.

  “The owner,” said someone else. “Poor woman.”

  “Did you know her?” asked the reporter.

  “Everyone knew Cheryl,” said another. “Sort of.”

  The reporter smiled, nodded and turned to the camera. “The fire that may have killed the popular woman who lived in this house started between two thirty and three this afternoon. One neighbor has told me that she heard an explosion. Whatever might have caused the fire, the house is beyond repair. We know that at least two bodies have been recovered from the ruins. Their identities are being withheld until their families can be notified. The owner of the house is believed to be one of the dead. The second victim may be a tenant who lived in the basement apartment.”

  “Thanks,” I said to the waitress and stood up. “You can turn the sound off again if you want.”

  * * *

  I figured Susanna would still be somewhere around the old neighborhood. One of her friends or her mother’s friends would have taken her in. I headed back to the site of the fire.

  I stopped on the sidewalk to check things out. Three men were setting up huge outdoor lights. New teams of firemen and police were poking through the rubble. Susanna was standing on the porch of a house two doors away. She was clutching the porch railing. She was so still she looked like a statue. Her eyes were fixed on the men working in the ruins. I walked over to the porch stairs.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She turned her head and looked straight at me. There was no expression at all on her face. I don’t think she even saw me standing down there.

  “Susanna,” I said. “It’s me, Rick. I just heard about the fire. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”