“One week to do what?”
“Well . . . I’m not totally sure. But my partner is right. Always has been.” He glanced at Baxter out the corner of his eye. “And now we’re going to prove it.”
Chapter
26
Christina was impressed to see that James Wesley had a house—and a nice-size one at that. After all, he was a single young man, and as far as she knew, he wasn’t the heir to a fortune. The house was nothing fancy—a two-story Federal just north of Fifteenth. But to Christina—who had lived in a two-room apartment for more than a decade—it looked pretty darn good.
She rang the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately—by Michael Palmetto.
“Dr. Palmetto,” Christina said. She extended her hand. “Christina McCall. I interviewed you. With Ben Kincaid. About Erin Faulkner’s death.”
“Of course. You visited shortly after I spoke with the police officers.”
She nodded. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Especially since I heard that there was some bad blood between you and James.
“Well, I’ve only been here a moment.” Was he distracted, or was it her imagination? His eyes kept moving toward the door. “Even though James doesn’t work at the organ clinic anymore, he still does some occasional freelance work.”
“I see.”
“He’s in the basement. You can go on down.”
“In the basement?”
“Yes. He’s always in the basement.”
Visions of Dracula’s coffin flickered through Christina’s brain. “May I ask why?”
“Well, that’s where he does his work.”
“And what work would that be?”
A smile flashed across the Palmetto’s face. “You don’t know?”
“Sorry. I don’t.”
“Well . . . then you’re in for a big surprise.”
Christina didn’t much care for the sound of that.
“Let me ask you a question. How do you feel about spiders?”
Her face twisted up. “I hate them. Why?”
Palmetto placed his hand on her shoulder. “Ms. McCall, this is going to be the worst interview of your life.”
“Jones is so going to pay for this,” Christina kept muttering. That was the only comfort she could give herself, right at the moment. He was going to pay dearly.
As Christina descended into James Wesley’s basement, she found herself surrounded by more than forty thousand spiders. Yes, forty thousand. All alphabetized and secure in lidded plastic cups, neatly arranged on rows and rows of portable shelving.
“It’s my life’s work,” the handsome black man said proudly as he twirled around the center of the basement. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”
Christina was working hard to comprehend. Not just why anyone would want to be surrounded by these horrible creatures. But how she was going to get through the next two minutes without fainting. “But . . . why?”
“I studied entomology in college, at OSU. Of course I loved all the insects, but I always felt . . . I don’t know. A special connection to the arachnids.”
“You felt a connection to spiders?”
“Oh yes. I’ve been an arachnophile since I was a boy. They’re wonderful creatures. Diverse. Amazing. I don’t know why they’ve gotten such a bad rap.”
“Could it be . . . because they’re creepy and they kill people?”
“Well, there is that. But it rarely happens. And there’s so much to study. So much to admire. The web making. The sophisticated strategies for catching insects. The complex mating rituals. And the venoms, of course.”
Christina felt a chill run up her spine at the word venom. “Of course . . . heh . . . none of these spiders are poisonous. Right?”
“Well . . . actually . . . they all are. To varying degrees.”
Christina felt her knees wobbling. “Could I . . . possibly . . . sit down somewhere?”
“Is something wrong?”
“I just . . . don’t much care for your pets. It’s quite a surprise.”
“But I warned that man about them. Jones. When I called.”
So he had known. This was a put-up job. “If I could just sit . . .”
Wesley quickly pulled out a chair. “They’re all safely tucked away. There’s no reason to be frightened.”
“Frightened? Me? Don’t be silly.” She lowered herself into the chair. “I’m not frightened.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’m terrified.”
Wesley brought her a cup of tea and a slice of cinnamon toast. Comfort foods. Although Christina thought a couple shots of tequila were more likely to be effective. Eventually, she felt her stomach settle somewhat and the trembling in her legs subsided. Especially when she stared at the floor and didn’t look up at the . . . creatures. All forty thousand of them.
Despite her desire to pretend she was ice skating on Lake Banff, Wesley seemed determined to give her the full tour. “Now this little thing is the Gramostola spatulata,” he said, pointing at some black beast Christina never came close to looking at. “It comes from Chile. And I have a wide variety of tarantulas—but who doesn’t? This light brown number is the ultrarare African king baboon tarantula. And these slick glistening numbers are the western black widows.”
“But—why?” Christina managed to say. “Why do you have these . . . things?” She was proud of herself for leaving out the word hideous.
“It’s a farm, basically,” he answered. “I milk them for their venom.”
“You want spider venom?”
“Oh yes. It’s in great demand. Pharmacologists pay big bucks for the stuff.”
“In God’s name why?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain without getting too technical. Basically, the active compounds in spider venom bind with molecules on the surfaces of living cells. And they do so with great specificity. Because of this selective quality, researchers can use it to develop new medicines and to help them better understand how living cells function. They’re used routinely by the National Institute of Health. Most university schools of medicine.”
“How do you get the stuff? Do you just ship them the spiders?”
“Oh no. I extract the venom right here. Want me to show you how?”
She didn’t, but as bad as she felt, she didn’t have the heart to smother his unbridled enthusiasm. He removed a small spider from a plastic cup and took him to the worktable beside a large microscope.
“First, you tranquilize the little beastie with a whiff of carbon-dioxide gas. Once he’s groggy—which doesn’t take long—you pick him up with these metal tweezers.”
Christina noticed that the tweezers were attached to an electrical cord. “What’s the juice for?”
“You’ll see.” He pressed his eye to the microscope while holding the spider beneath the lens. “By pushing this button, I send a mild shock into his system, via the tweezers. And watch what happens.”
He pushed the button. Christina forced herself to look—just in time to see the spider spew.
“That’s basically everything liquid inside the little guy,” Wesley explained. “Venom, and also his stomach’s digestive enzymes. I’ve got a serum that separates the two. Then I freeze-dry the venom and pack it off to the drug companies.”
“That’s just . . . amazing,” Christina said, trying to be kind. “I notice you didn’t get that much, though.”
“True. It usually takes hundreds of spiders to fill a single order—which explains why I have so many on hand.”
“And you actually make a living selling this stuff?”
Wesley beamed. “Sure do. Not a fortune, perhaps. But enough to pay the mortgage. Heck of a lot more than I made working at the pawnshop.”
“Pawnshop? I thought you worked at the organ clinic. With Erin.”
“That came later. I first met her at the pawnshop. She recommended me to Palmetto at the organ clinic.”
“Erin hung out in pawnshops?”
“Not on a regular basis. But she came in on this occasion.”
“Why?”
Wesley pulled his chair close. “That why I called. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” He hesitated for a moment. “She came in to buy a gun.”
In the space of a sentence, Christina had forgotten all about the fear and sickness that had consumed her since she first stumbled into this house of horrors. Now her mind was focused on one subject alone—a firsthand account of how Erin Faulkner got a gun.
“Did she give you any idea why she wanted a gun?”
“Oh yeah. I’ll never forget that. I mean, normally I wasn’t that chatty with the customers. Frankly, most of them were the scum of the earth, which is why I eventually left the place. But Erin was different. She was not poor, not poorly groomed, not stupider than dirt. She walked with a limp, sure, but that was intriguing, given her age. And she was extremely attractive, which didn’t hurt any.”
“So what did she say?” Christina tried to herd him back on topic. “When you asked her why she wanted a gun.”
“She said—and get this—she said she was ‘haunted by demons.’ That’s a quote.”
“Demons.” Christina ruminated for a moment. That sounded uncomfortably like a woman contemplating suicide. She knew Weintraub would see it that way. “Did she specify what kind of demons?”
“No. But later in the conversation, I got her talking about her work. At the organ clinic, you know.”
“Right. And?”
“I gathered she was having a bad time. Not only that day, but later, when I worked there. She was not happy at work.”
“Then why did she stay? She had options.”
Wesley tapped his electric tweezers on the desktop. “I’m filling in a lot of blanks here, but I think she was very conflicted about her job. She believed her work was important—helping sick and injured people find the transplant organs they needed. But there was some other aspect of the job that bothered her.”
“Did she ever name any names?”
“Not that I recall. Well, Palmetto.”
“Dr. Michael Palmetto? The man I met upstairs?”
“Right. I think she had some problems with him.”
“I heard you did, too.”
James nodded. “I suspected he was causing Erin unhappiness. Pain. I couldn’t work for someone like that.”
“What was he doing?”
“Well, he tried to hit on her.”
“Was there more?”
“I don’t know.” He paused. “Maybe.”
Christina bit her lip in frustration. She had the unmistakable feeling that she had something on the hook. She just couldn’t reel it in. “And so you sold her the gun?”
“Yeah. She wasn’t old enough, but . . . well, I falsified the license. And showed her how to use it. I’m quite good with firearms—comes from working in that place so long. Gave her some ammunition.”
“And sent her on her way?”
He smiled a little. “And took her to the coffee shop next door. I didn’t think she’d go, even as I asked her. But to my surprise, she agreed.”
“And you went out a few more times?”
“Right. After I left the clinic. But we never really connected. There was always something between us. Between her and everyone, actually. Something intangible . . . but nonetheless real.”
“But you don’t know what that was.”
“I’m afraid not. I never got to know her well enough. I wanted to.” He bowed his head. “It seems as though tragedy strikes everyone I try to get close to.”
That triggered a memory. “I understand you were also dating Sheila Knight. Before her . . . untimely death.”
“You mean, before her suicide? That’s what they say it was, right? Once again, someone I wanted to know, wanted to get close to, finds it preferable to take their own life. You can imagine how that makes me feel.”
“I’m sorry,” Christina said quietly.
“Oh, don’t be. I’m very lucky, really.” A smile crossed his face, but Christina found it far from convincing. “After all, I’ve still got my spiders.”
Every time Ben had spoken to Ray during the last seven years, he had done so through an acrylic wall. But the glass had never seemed so thick as it did today. The distance between them had never been so great.
“So that’s it, then,” Ray said, with a pronounced note of finality. “It’s over.”
He was doing an amazing job of controlling his face, Ben thought, of masking what must be his true feelings. He barely twitched. But as Ben gazed into his eyes, he could see all the hurt, all the anguish, all the sunken hopes. The dim light was fading to a dull and ashen gray.
“It isn’t over,” Ben said firmly. “I won’t stop trying.”
“Sounds like there’s nothing left to try.”
“I won’t accept that. And I won’t give up.”
Ray pressed his lips together. “Well . . . four days from now . . . you won’t have any choice.”
Ben felt a churning in his gut. “Four days is a long time, Ray. We’re doing everything imaginable. Talking to everyone. Filing every kind of motion. We won’t stop—”
Ray interrupted. “Did you talk to Carrie?”
Ben’s heart skipped a beat. “Well . . . yes.” Would he want to talk about . . . the incident?
“How does she look?”
“She looks pretty much as she always did.”
Ray’s eyes softened. “Beautiful, huh?”
“Very.”
“I haven’t seen her for years, you know. But I’ve never stopped thinking about her. Not for a single day.”
Ben felt an aching in his heart so intense he wasn’t sure he could finish the conversation. “Ray . . . if there’s any message you’d like me to take to her . . .”
“There is, actually. The same one I sent before. I’d like her to be here.”
“You mean, at . . . at . . .”
“I know it sounds crazy. Gruesome. And I know she won’t want to do it. But it would make me feel so much better, just knowing there was someone here, someone who likes me. Or once did, anyway.”
“I—I can ask her, Ray, but—”
“Tell her she can close her eyes when the needle starts to drop. I just want to know she’s in the same room. I want to see her. One more time. Before I go. And I’d like you to be there, too.”
Ben felt his mouth go dry.
“See, they give me three seats. All the others are reserved for officials and politicians and victims’ relatives. Of which there are precious few. But I still get three seats. So I was hoping you’d take one.”
“Ray—”
“I know it’s a lot to ask. But I feel as if you’re my friend, Ben. I mean, it’s been a working relationship. You’re doing your job.” He paused, pursing his lips. “At the same time, I also know you’ve gone way beyond the norm for me. You’ve gone the extra mile and then some. I know it’s been a good long time since you got paid, but you haven’t slacked off a bit.”
Ben shrugged. “I just did what any—”
“And I probably shouldn’t personalize this, because I know that a lot of it is just that you’re a good, generous person. That all-too-rare breed. But I also like to think that—on some level—we’re friends.” He paused. “And that’s why I want you to be there. When it happens. Will you do that for me?”
Never in his life did Ben recall it being so difficult to speak. “If that’s what you want, Ray.”
“It is. And here’s the really horrible part—would you ask Christina if she’ll take the third chair? I know it’s dreadful, asking another woman to go through that. But I don’t know who else to ask.”
“What about your parents?”
“Long gone. My conviction killed them. It really did. I used to fantasize about the celebration we’d have when I was released. When my innocence was proven. But they didn’t live to see it.” His eyes fell. “And now it looks as though I won’t, either.”
“Friends?”
“After seven years in the pen? I don’t know from friends. Long gone. Unless you include my fellow inmates. A cockroach I’m particularly fond of. But they wouldn’t be allowed in.”
“Ray . . . I can ask Christina, but I can’t guarantee—”
“Sure. I just know that she’s worked on this case, too, long and hard, and I appreciate it. I’d like to show my appreciation. And the pathetic truth is—this is the only means left to me. So it’s important.”
Ben drew up his shoulders. “Then we’ll be there,” he said, even though he thought it was the most horrible potentiality he had ever contemplated. “Certainly I will be. And I think Christina will be, too.”
“And Carrie?”
“I’ll ask her.”
Ray nodded his head. “If she does refuse, Ben, at least—tell her I love her, okay? Tell her I never stopped loving her. I don’t want her to feel guilty. I just want her to know. Okay?”
“I’ll tell her,” Ben said. His voice was hoarse, and it had a noticeable catch.
“I’m so tired.” As his eyes turned downward, Ben sensed that Ray would end it all right then and there if the power were given to him. “So tired.”
Ben felt a sharp stinging sensation in his eyes, and he knew if their conversation continued much longer, they would both be crying. “I’d better go now. I’ve got a lot to do.”
Ray nodded, and when his head rose again, he said the three words Ben most dreaded to hear. “See you Monday.”
Ben drove all the way back to Tulsa steering with one arm, hugging himself with the other. But he couldn’t seem to get warm.
Chapter
27
Mike was about ready to scream. He hated paperwork, hated research most of all. And he was buried in it. Was buried and had been buried for more hours than he cared to count. It was a beautiful day out, best in weeks, perfect tennis weather. But instead of being out on the courts or perched on the patio at Crow Creek sipping a tall cool one, he was stuck at a desk piled so high with books that Baxter didn’t even see him when she first walked in.
“Can I safely assume these are all poetry books?” Baxter asked, after she finally located him.
Death Row Page 27