Gray Widow Trilogy 1: Gray Widow's Walk

by Dan Jolley

  “What she’s doing is illegal,” Feygen said after a few moments. “I can’t even count all the laws she’s broken. I’ve got to bring her in. She’s a vigilante. A criminal.”

  Heather took a breath as if to speak, and Feygen thought he knew what she was thinking. If not for that vigilante, there’d be no more Zach Feygen, would there?

  “We both know what she’s doing is illegal,” Heather finally said, her breath hot against his neck. “But is it wrong?”

  He pulled her more tightly to him and shut his eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the control booth, Ted Swit watched Sheree, his eyes glazed. After the call from ABC they’d gone back to his place, and she’d worked him over mercilessly. He’d heard of sex hangovers before, but this was the first time he’d actually had one.

  Sheree Baker’s smile soared to maximum wattage as the theme music ended. Camera One stayed tight on her as she gazed out over the studio audience.

  “Good morning, Atlanta!” she shouted, and the crowd bellowed right back at her. “Well, folks, I read the news today, and it looks like the Gray Widow actually took last night off!”

  The audience laughed, probably would have even if the LAUGHTER sign hadn’t lit. Sheree had ridden the unexpected wave of the Widow’s popularity with tremendous grace, and late yesterday afternoon her agent got a call from ABC. Her smile this morning wouldn’t have been any dimmer had her guest been the treasurer of a high school math club. She glowed, and the crowd picked up on it.

  “That’s right,” she said after the laughter died down. “Not a single report of a foiled burglary, or a prevented assault—not even any gang members with broken arms.”

  More laughter.

  “But hey, even masked vigilantes have to take vacations, don’t they? So we’re going to change pace here, too, and try to remember what we used to do before this became the Good Morning Gray Widow show.”

  Laughter laughter laughter.

  In the control booth, the phone buzzed. He grabbed it up. “Swit, hello.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just listened, and felt the blood drain from his face. Swit finally said, “Thanks,” in a small voice, and dropped the handset back on the cradle. His eyes, which bulged hugely, never left the set.

  “What was that?” the sound tech asked.

  “Wuh,” Swit said. He swallowed hard. “The. Um.” He picked up his headset and spoke to the crew. “Guys? I, uh, don’t know for sure, but—uh, something is about to happen, I think. Just...stay alert, okay?”

  Sheree, still with the thousand-watt smile, said, “With us this morning is the proverbial local boy done well, recent country music sensation Chad McNabb.” A young man of about twenty-three sat in one of the guest chairs, wearing a white shirt and jeans and a cowboy hat. His polished boots shined brightly as he smiled and waved at the cameras.

  Sheree turned to make her way to the guest platform.

  All sound from the audience died.

  The Gray Widow walked out from behind the curtains that covered the back wall of the studio. With her left hand she pushed along a small podium on wheels, a set piece used when a local minister recorded his TV spots. It had a goose-neck microphone stand built into it.

  No longer was the Widow’s segmented armor solid gray. Now a pattern in black adorned her torso and sections of her arms and legs—eerie, symmetrical markings echoing something from an actual spider’s body—and she had added six more black spots to her mask, to mimic a spider’s eight eyes.

  Before these decorations, the Gray Widow had been a strange, intimidating figure. Now, striding slowly out into the studio lights, she became menacing. Alien.

  Terrifying.

  Sheree glanced at the booth. “Is this a bit?” She giggled nervously when no one answered her.

  The Widow kept walking, pushing the podium along beside her, until she stood in the middle of the set. Her eyes remained hidden behind the spots of black mesh, but wherever she looked, people felt it.

  The Widow slowly swiveled her head, took in the people in the control booth, the audience, the floor crew, and lastly Sheree and Chad McNabb. McNabb, petrified, made as though to rise from his seat, but the she motioned for him to stay where he was, the smallest gesture with one gauntleted hand. McNabb sank back down obediently.

  The crew only needed about two seconds to realize what they had, and immediately the Widow filled every monitor in the station. Finally she moved, stepped back behind the podium, and with her foot pushed down a lever that lowered the podium’s rubber-tipped feet to the floor. With the podium secured, she leaned forward slightly and stared into the cameras.

  The director took a step backward and clutched her clipboard convulsively with one hand.

  Sheree Baker almost dropped her handheld when the Gray Widow turned and beckoned to her. Sheree went to her without question, and when the Widow held out her hand Sheree silently handed over her microphone. Quietly, the Gray Widow said, “Thank you.” As Sheree backed away, the Widow calmly fitted the microphone onto the end of the podium’s flexible neck, and clipped a small, square box onto it. A red light lit up on the box.

  Straightening, the Widow pulled a 3 by 5 card out of the gauntlet on her forearm and let it drop onto the podium. She glanced down at it briefly and began to talk, in a voice that came through the speakers like frozen rainwater. Swit realized the small black box was some kind of sophisticated voice modulator.

  Very slowly, the Gray Widow said, “Since I...began...I’ve been accused of many crimes.”

  A gofer named Louis skidded to a stop outside the control booth door. Swit whirled around to face him. “Well?”

  “No good, man,” Louis said. “Every door I tried is locked. I think they’re chained.” Swit cursed and turned back to watch the woman at the podium. “The cops are already pulling up outside, and a bunch of reporters, too.”

  On camera, the Widow continued talking. The studio audience could have been a collection of plywood props for all the movement they made.

  “People have called me a racist. People have called me a terrorist. People have said that I am a negative influence on America’s youth. I have a few things of my own to say about all of this.”

  Swit, on the verge of babbling, said, “This is going out, right? It’s going out, right?”

  Another technician said, “Relax. We’re streaming.” He chuckled. “Man, this is cool as hell.”

  The Gray Widow continued: “First of all, and for the record, I am no racist. I’m not black. I’m not white. As far as any of you need to be concerned, I’m not even human. The color of a person’s skin makes no difference whatsoever in how I see him or her, or in what steps I take. Actions concern me, and actions only. I am motivated solely by behavior.

  “Second, concerning the charge of terrorism. I think, depending on what definition you decide to use, I will accept that. What I’m doing...the reason for my existence...is the modification of behavior. I want the people of this city to behave. And I’ll resort to terror if necessary to see that they do.

  “If you—and I address every single person in this city—if you engage in criminal activity... If you sell drugs to minors. If you assault someone. If you forcibly take what does not belong to you...I have something for you, something that I promise I will give you in abundance. I will give you pain.”

  Several members of the audience gasped.

  * * *

  In his apartment, his toothbrush in his mouth, Tim wandered out of the bathroom and glanced at his TV. He was going to be late getting to the office if he didn’t hurry, but he thought he’d heard something strange on whatever show was playing, and he paused in his brushing to look.

  The news had broken in live, and Janey filled the screen in full-blown costume. Tim yelped, and gagged on toothpaste.

  * * *

  In the off-white two
-story house, Brenda Jorden and Ned Fields watched as the Gray Widow spoke.

  “It’s nothing more complicated than classical conditioning,” the Gray Widow continued. “You commit a crime, I find you, and I cause you pain. No matter where you are, no matter who you are, if you are a criminal, I will gift you with intense physical agony. I will make it so that everyone, every single human being in this city, directly associates crime with pain.”

  “This is unreal,” Fields said. “Can you believe that bitch?”

  Brenda Jorden didn’t say anything. She only watched, and hoped more than ever that they could subdue the vigilante. Brenda knew her name—Sinclair, both Scott and Simon had confirmed that—but Fields didn’t, and neither did Stamford. They didn’t need to. Not yet.

  * * *

  In his hospital room, propped up on pillows and listening to the Gray Widow speak, Nathan Pittman grinned and shook his head in amazement.

  The audience still sat, transfixed, as the Gray Widow went on. “Now, a good number of you have made the claim that I caused the injury of Nathan Pittman. I deeply regret what happened to Nathan Pittman, and if it were within my power I would heal his wounds. But it isn’t. So I will say this: from now on, I will consider anyone else in this city who puts on a mask and tries to fight crime outside the law just as much a criminal as the most depraved murderer. I’ll repeat that, so there’s no confusion. If anyone in this city tries to imitate me, I will deal with that person even more harshly than I would an ordinary criminal. This is my job. My niche in this society. My link in the food chain. Only I will fill it. So if anyone else has the desire to become what I am, put it out of your mind. Because if I find you, I’ll break you off at the knees.”

  A nurse stood beside Nathan with a tray of medication on a rolling cart. She gestured at the TV and said, “This is that vigilante you wanted to be like? But she’s totally slamming you.”

  “Hey.” Nathan waved one hand weakly. “She can have the job.”

  * * *

  The Widow’s voice had grown harsher and harsher, until her last seven words—“I’ll break you off at the knees”—sounded like razor blades scraping across rock. The hairs on the back of Ted Swit’s neck stood up. From the front of the building came the faint sound of police trying to break the doors down.

  “The general public has also branded me a criminal. I can’t argue with that. What I’m doing is illegal. However—and I say this with the utmost respect for the law enforcement community—I don’t care. No one can stop me. No cell can hold me. Atlanta belongs to me, and I will see that it stays protected.” She held up the 3x5 card. On the back was a symbol that mirrored the black eye spots on her mask.

  “Take a good look at this. I call it ‘the Eyes of the Widow.’ Soon you will begin to find the Eyes of the Widow around the city. On buildings…at bus stops…carved into sidewalks and telephone poles. And when you see it, you will know that I am nearby. I am watching. And I will act.”

  The Widow put the card back down and tilted her head from side to side, cracking her neck. “Someone recently told me that the only thing any of us can truly control is ourselves. That may be true. It may be that my actions will change no one’s minds or hearts. But I am in control of myself. I will protect this city. And I will not stop. Ever.”

  The Gray Widow lifted her arms out to her sides for a moment. “One last thing. As you can see, I do not carry guns. I never have. I never will. I do not believe private citizens need to hold in their hands the power to take another human being’s life. To pull a trigger and end someone, instantly, with no planning, no skill, and no effort. I take a dim view of guns. And if I find someone out there using one in the commission of a crime, I will go hard on that person. Very, very hard.”

  She leaned forward, raking her gaze across the audience. “There is a new law in Atlanta. The Gray Widow’s Law. It’s easy to remember: do unto others as you would have them do unto you…or else. Please. Quote me on that.”

  The Widow plucked the card off the podium, disconnected the voice modulator, and strode back to the curtain at the rear of the studio. She turned to face the audience, gathered great folds of the curtain in both hands, and jerked violently downward, tearing it off the thin metal support rail. Multiple tiny, metallic pings sounded as the hooks popped loose, and the material billowed down and forward, hiding her in its folds.

  It settled to the floor and flattened out, empty.

  Someone in the audience screamed.

  Ted Swit came out of the booth and crossed the studio before he realized what he was doing. He pulled and tugged at the curtain, which was hot to the touch and smelled faintly singed, but it was obvious even before he grabbed it that nothing hid underneath. The Gray Widow had gone, just as she’d arrived—out of and into thin air.

  * * *

  Simon slowly emerged from his room that evening and approached Brenda. She’d moved to a chair in the living room, but was still reading the same book. Brenda glanced up as he came in, and her lips curled as she took in the look on his face.

  Brenda put the book down, uncoiled from the chair, allowing her skirt to ride high up her thighs as she rose, and moved into Simon’s arms before he realized what she was doing. Her kiss felt cool and silky. Simon’s hands moved down her back, then lower, but she smiled and chuckled and pulled away from him.

  “No no, remember yourself.”

  He’d already started to react to her, a sexual ache he’d actually begun to get used to, and he frowned resignedly. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve got another favor to ask of you,” she said, and took his hand. He let himself be led, and she pulled him to a small utility room off the kitchen and put her hand on the knob. “Tonight I want you to do something...decisive for me. But first...”

  She opened the door, and Simon’s eyes flickered and changed at what lay inside.

  “You’re still a growing boy. You can have your meal.” Brenda lowered her eyelids and traced one finger along the bulging line of his crotch. “And after that, maybe you can have dessert.”

  She left him standing in front of the utility room door. He didn’t move for several seconds, only watched.

  Another teenage girl lay on the floor of the room, slumped against the wall, barely conscious. A thin silvering line ran from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes rolled back in her head. Several sheets of thick plastic covered the floor of the room and curved up at the walls.

  Rail-thin, the girl wore only a ragged pair of jeans with the knees worn out of them and a dirty blue bra. Fine blond hair fell down just past her shoulders, and tracks like a miniature railroad ran up the insides of both arms. No-name junkies Brenda brought to him, junkies looking for a fix, all of them, no lives to leave behind, nothing. Wasting themselves on synthetic peace. He could always feel the drugs as they came through. Simon found himself sneering as the urge built up.

  He did nothing to hold it back. His jaw unhinged and stretched, popping and sliding, his fingers lengthened and waved through the air around him.

  Without taking the hard white pinpoints of his eyes off the girl’s semi-unconscious body, he entered the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Later, Simon walked out of the utility room, coated and dripping red.

  Brenda had put down a plastic runner for him, and wordlessly he padded along it to the bathroom, where he stripped and got in the shower. Before he closed the bathroom door he glanced out at Brenda, where she sat at her usual place on the couch, curled up with her book. She hadn’t even looked up at him.

  He thought of Scott Charles. The kid hadn’t left his room in a couple of days. What had Brenda said? “I think Scott’s had too much, for too long. He might be broken.” What did that mean? He didn’t know. Not that it mattered.

  Simon took his time in the shower, let the scalding water soak into him.

  He didn�
�t worry about the mess he’d left. Fields always took care of that. A small, scratchy thought popped up, and Simon took a moment to examine it: he was pretty sure that Brenda touched Ned Fields in the same way she had just touched him, gave him the same feelings...even let him go all the way with her.

  He paused, a bar of soap in his hand, and the water ran off the tip of his nose in a stream while he considered that. Finally he decided that that didn’t matter either, and finished his shower.

  Simon came back out into the living room with one towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another. He wore nothing under the towel. He flopped down on the couch beside her and said, “So. You mentioned I might get dessert tonight.”

  Brenda put her book on the floor and stretched mightily, arching her back, so that her heavy breasts pushed against the material of her dress. Simon immediately responded, and she smiled playfully and tugged at one edge of his towel.

  “You’re right. I did. I’m in the mood for a little dessert myself.” Tenderly she touched his face. “But I also said there’s a favor I want you to do for me.”

  Simon trembled. “Sure. Anything.”

  “Anything? You’ll do whatever I ask you to?”

  He cupped one of her breasts, and she let him. He’d wanted her for so long... “Yeah...yeah, whatever you say. Just...just...”

  “I believe you. I believe you will do whatever I ask you. But this is a very important thing, and I want to be sure I have your full attention.”

  “Yes, yes! Please...”

  She smiled. He thought, maybe, that it was all a game for her, the way she teased him and tortured him. He didn’t care. She moved over and straddled his hips, and he realized she’d removed her own underwear. He hurriedly unfastened the buttons of the dress, but she had already opened his towel and begun moving against him. His breath caught as he realized she was as ready as he was.

  They moved onto the floor in a sort of crablike motion, Brenda straddling him the entire time. Once Simon lay flat on his back, she positioned herself, and his breath came in shudders as they joined.