Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  In between reading, doing crosswords fortuitously pre-loaded on my tablet and sorting through the yard and shed, I’d kept the camper spotlessly clean and washed my car using a bucket of hot water from the shower and a hose. There was only so much to do, and only so many books to read, before I’d exhausted every task and devoured every page.

  Even as I shrank gratefully into the sense of security I felt in my new home, I was also growing antsy. Maybe if I’d had places I was required to go, obligations and appointments, I would have appreciated the quiet seclusion more. But it was hard to stay in the circle of oak trees. Hard to be wary and watchful all the time in this self-imposed exile.

  It was the phone call that decided it. Even as it raised all my hackles and revived my fear at full strength, it also spurred me into action.

  I almost didn’t register what was happening at the first low trilling noise. I’d decided to paint the rusting metal bistro set, and had begun to sand it down before applying a coat of the red enamel paint I’d found in the shed. It wasn’t until the third ring that I realized what the noise was, throwing myself into the camper and grasping for the small black phone with desperation as soon as I understood—and then stopping, my breath coming fast.

  “Don’t pick up the phone if it rings,” Marianne had said.

  “How will you reach me to let me know you’re safe?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be in touch, I promise. You have to lie low a while, that’s all. The phone’s only for emergencies—I won’t contact you that way. Don’t keep it on.”

  I’d kept it on. I couldn’t help myself. It was my only connection to her. I’d even bought a cheap power cord at Safeway to keep it charged.

  And now it was ringing.

  And it probably wasn’t Marianne.

  Which meant it was someone else.

  Someone trying to reach me—to find me. Someone out there with this number, a number that only one person had. The phone stopped ringing, leaving me in a sudden silence. I looked at the caller ID. It said “Restricted.”

  With shaking fingers I turned it off and put it down. I couldn’t imagine who might be holding that other phone. It was the first time in my life I’d wished for the sane disruption of a robocall, but how likely was that on a burner number? If the caller wasn’t Marianne—oh God, how I wished it was her!—but she’d said she wouldn’t call. Which meant she wouldn’t.

  We grew up together, as close as sisters. Her parents left her with mine when they lived overseas, beginning when Marianne was two and I was a newborn. She was my hero, my babysitter, my confidante, my playmate. Our mothers were half-siblings, years apart in age, never close. Now and then Marianne’s parents would come back for a short visit and she would stay with them, or they’d take her with them to South Africa or Indonesia or Greenland. They were some kind of global activists first, parents last. Their work, whatever it was, always took precedence. To my parents and me, and to Marianne herself, we were her family and ours was her home.

  If she said she wouldn’t call me, she wouldn’t.

  I didn’t know what she’d gotten involved in. I didn’t know what she’d done or why she was in such trouble. I didn’t even resent that somehow that trouble had thrown clinging tendrils over me. Marianne wouldn’t have deliberately endangered or hurt me, I was sure of that. Whatever had happened, it had been an accident—some unlucky chance.

  I wasn’t as sure that she was totally innocent herself, as guilty and disloyal as I felt thinking it. She’d said she was sorry with tears in her eyes, but she hadn’t explained—or, more ominously, denied—that there was a reason behind the need to run.

  Six years ago, she’d gotten involved with some very strange people. She was living on the East Coast, urging me to visit. When I did go, I found that her lifestyle was beyond anything I could understand or relate to. A dozen people, women and men of varying ages, lived in a filthy warehouse loft together in Newark, all ostensibly dating each other as a group. It was some kind of modern commune. I hadn’t liked any of them. I’d resented and felt uneasy about the way they looked at me, the possessive, abusive way they’d treated my cousin. They ranted about the false authority of God and the government while smoking pot and meth and who knows what else.

  I still didn’t know why Marianne had lived with them. She was intelligent, poised and educated—she could have done so many different things with her life. I left after barely ten minutes, and later told her I hated the way she was living. She’d glared at me—then laughed with a frightening bitter ring to it and hugged me. “Silly Lo,” she’d said. “Of course it’s awful. But it’s an adventure, don’t you think?”

  Less than a year later she’d emailed to say she was living in an apartment in Manhattan and working at a travel agency. She came out to the funeral when my mom died of cancer, and again when my dad died of complications from a stroke four years later, holding me tightly as I sobbed into her neck. Even if she’d done something truly awful, and even if that awful thing—whatever it might be—ruined both our lives, I would always love her, always stand by her. My playmate, sister and best friend.

  All my grandparents died before I was born. My father was an only child, my mother had only the one half-sister, who I’d barely met. Whatever extended family might exist, they were too distant and unknown to count.

  Marianne was all I had left.

  I stood there staring at the phone, my mind reaching out to her, willing her to be OK. I couldn’t process what this meant for me. Was I in more danger, or less? I couldn’t know. But I knew now that the threat was as real as she’d told me it was. I’d trusted her, while only half believing it was true. Even as I ran, scared and anxious, even as I hid, I’d only half-believed.

  With the ringing of that burner phone, I believed.

  Someone was looking for me. They might even have found me. The question now was: what was I going to do about it?

  Chapter 3

  I put down the phone, locked the camper and rode the bike down the bumpy roads and across the freeway to the ocean.

  It was a beautiful, breezy day, white clouds skidding across the wide blue sky. The beach wasn’t crowded when I got there around two, even though it was probably seventy degrees and warm for this part of the coast. A school bus driving by clued me in that it was a weekday—Friday, I realized. It had been Friday when I left LA. That was a strange thought. Only a week had passed, but it felt as if a year severed the two eras, there was such a gaping void between then and now.

  Clusters of beachgoers sat or played volleyball, while those who were alone read, looked out at the ocean, jogged or walked their dogs along the shore. I pushed the bike onto the sand and sat, spending a long time watching. It felt good to be surrounded by people, even if I didn’t know anyone. There was something comforting in being near others without feeling crowded, everyone within their own bubble of activity or inactivity.

  The phone call had shaken me. It had frightened me into even more intense worry about Marianne, and reminded me why I’d rushed headlong away from my life. But it had also freed me, in some strange way.

  I couldn’t go on living like this. Whether I stayed here for a day or a year, I couldn’t continue under this strain. It wasn’t a matter of taking risks—I didn’t want to die, or even be arrested. I was still confused, still longed for answers and an end to this exile. But as far as I could tell, one wasn’t coming. At least not right this second. I’d done everything Marianne told me to do, protected myself as best as I could. I was at my limit, the edge of my resources, in the best safehouse I was capable of finding.

  Until I decided what to do next, or until something or someone decided it for me, I wouldn’t go on the same way, cowering under the covers. That wasn’t how I wanted to spend my last hours or days, if they were going to be my last. I’d do everything I could to enjoy this time. Maybe it was a gift—a karmic reward, a cosmic blessing before the end. Maybe it wasn’t. But either way, I wasn’t going to waste it.

 
I leaned back with my head resting on the wicker of my basket, dreamily regarding a huge brown dog as it leapt joyfully into the waves after a stick. It dashed madly back up to its owner, barking hysterically until the stick was thrown again. Again, and again, it never tired of the game, always as thrilled to chase the stick, always as excited to bring it back for another round.

  They moved slowly down the beach. Throw, run, splash, catch, return, bark, throw. When they were about even to where I lay, the dog looked over and spotted something—a fat seagull who’d for some time been standing not far from my bike on the sand, eyeing me hopefully in case I happened to drop a sandwich or something equally tasty. Never mind that I hadn’t brought any food with me.

  With an ecstatic growl the brown dog abandoned its toy and came racing up the beach toward the gull, scattering sand with every touch of its large paws. The gull, no fool as gulls go, spread its wings and flew off. The dog, without slowing down, changed direction and ran full tilt toward me, skidding to a stop and barking furiously just feet away.

  Before I had a chance to do more than pull my feet in closer and struggle to sit up, the owner had arrived, grabbing the dog by the collar.

  “Down, Oss,” he commanded. “Sit.”

  The dog, loath to give up this new game, gave one last ringing bark before obeying.

  “Sorry about that,” the man said.

  “It’s OK…” I started to stay, squinting up into the sun to see his face.

  Something jolted in my stomach. It was a familiar sensation from the past few days, except that this wasn’t anxiety.

  It was attraction. More than attraction.

  Recognition.

  “I think he took exception to your bike,” the man was saying. “Sorry again.”

  With desperate effort, I pulled myself together and scrambled awkwardly to my feet.

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  My heart beat strangely inside my chest cavity, thumping wildly around. I tried to meet his level gaze, but found I was too nervous to do more than glance quickly at him and away.

  “He’s not as fierce as he seems,” the man said, and somehow I caught a glimpse of years of this: years of this large loud dog leaping at people and his owner following to do damage control.

  “He seems sweet,” I said, my voice sounding high and unnatural as it reached my ears.

  I looked down at the dog and gave him my hand to sniff. Oss, if I’d heard his name right, was sitting placidly on the sand beside us, tongue lolling, looking as cheerfully satisfied as only a dog can. He licked my hand in a friendly way and waited for something to happen. So did I.

  “Thanks for understanding.” The man didn’t quite, but almost, smiled, nodded, called Oss to heel, slowly walked back down to the abandoned stick, resumed their walk.

  I stared after him, wondering what had just happened. Was I going crazy? I’d never seen him before—not to recognize, anyway. He wasn’t in line in front of me in Safeway. I wasn’t in school with him years ago. I was sure we’d never met.

  I just—knew him. It was the oddest feeling. My body tingled as I tried to identify what exactly had just come to pass. I’d looked up and—there he was. Like I’d been expecting him.

  Except I hadn’t. I’d been thinking about nothing in particular, taking a break from worrying about Marianne. I wasn’t even daydreaming about romance novel heroes or surfer deputies who weren’t my type. Romance—and men—were the furthest things from my mind at that moment.

  I watched him get smaller and smaller down the beach with the dog beside him. Once or twice it almost seemed like he was looking back at me, but I couldn’t be sure.

  It felt awful, like a part of me was walking away.

  Which was crazy.

  I must be going crazy. The strain had taken its toll. Maybe I wasn’t even here, maybe I was lying on the floor of the camper having a breakdown and imagining the whole thing.

  I pinched my arm, using fingernails. It hurt, which didn’t tell me much, except that if this was a fantasy it was an elaborate one. I couldn’t fathom what any of this meant.

  The most bizarrely absurd part was, I didn’t even remember exactly what he looked like. I could recall ordinary features, dark hair, some color eyes… brown? Blue? I couldn’t picture his face. I could see his hand, holding the dog by the collar. I could see Oss’s big dog grin and floppy wet ears. All I knew was that I was drawn to him in a way I’d never been drawn to anything or anyone. Not even my deepest adolescent crush had felt as powerful or real.

  Because it really did feel real. Real and somehow… right.

  Even if it was all in my head.

  ■ ■ ■

  If I’d been restless before the beach, it was nothing to after it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the dog. I didn’t even wonder, much, who he was. I just thought about him. I listened to his voice in my mind: I think he took exception to your bike... Thanks for understanding… I relived that moment of intense pull and recognition over and over again, every time experiencing the same thrill of rightness, the same wave of nervous excitement.

  What was I doing? I’ll probably never see him again, I told myself firmly. Even if I spent every day of the next week at the beach, I might not see him—and what if I did? What if he was there, would I casually stroll up to him and say, “Hi, I’m Lola, are you my soul mate?” It was laughable.

  It was also, I realized with a startled jolt, possible. I might actually do it. I’d never done anything remotely assertive and gutsy like that in my life. Texting a guy first was a big deal in my world. But insane or not, I had a feeling that if I ever saw the man again—the man whose name and face I didn’t know, but who attracted me with a depth I didn’t understand—I wouldn’t let him walk away a second time.

  And that was almost as strange and disconcerting a thought as the idea of a nameless person or people out there searching for me for a reason I didn’t know.

  I was too wound up to think straight. I’d ridden home before dark, and now that dusk had fallen was pacing around the yard in circles. I forced myself to sit and eat a peanut butter sandwich, then to slowly sip a vodka cranberry, in the hopes that it would calm me down. Unfortunately, the alcohol had the opposite effect, increasing my excitement and flushed anticipation. Anticipation of what, I didn’t know. I felt like Tony in “West Side Story.” Something was coming. Maybe imminent death by persons unknown, maybe something else that I couldn’t even name, but it felt exactly like that.

  I took a shower and brushed my hair and teeth, as if I could actually contemplate going to bed. It was also only six thirty. Without making a conscious decision, I found myself putting on a clean shirt and jeans, stepping into low boots—the only one of three pairs of shoes I’d brought that weren’t sneakers—tying back my damply curling hair and prettying my face with the few cosmetics that had been in my purse when I left home.

  I carefully closed the camper and locked it, taking a flashlight with me, and walked over to unlock and open the gate before getting into my car. With the same calm resolution, I drove out, closed the gate behind me and headed down the road.

  The Hideout was easy to find, just off the main freeway as Deputy Tom had said. It was a weathered single-story wooden building, its windows vivid with lights and movement, sitting beside a large gravel parking lot about two-thirds full of cars. I parked and walked purposefully toward the main doors, paying no attention to a cluster of people smoking the requisite twenty feet from the porch. A hand-painted sign hung above the doors, stating the name of the business, with a distinct piracy-on-the-high-seas inspired flair to the lettering.

  The entrance opened into a wide vestibule with doorways on either side, a cork board covered in fliers and notices straight ahead. The right door was closed, though it opened as I came in and two women entered from a hallway, passing me and going through the open doorway on the left. I followed them into a low-lit, wood-paneled barroom.

  The bar, taking up almost the full length of the
L-shaped room, stood along the far wall, across from booths on the near. High tables in the center were about half full of people, and occasionally the sound of pool balls could be heard clacking from the back area of the large, low space, out of sight around a corner. Classic rock played over the sound system, just audible over the hum of voices. The pirate theme hadn’t been carried inside in an obvious way, but the walls held a few interesting brass nautical instruments and framed black and white photos of old ships and forts.

  I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. I wasn’t doing anything in particular. I was just there, just moving forward with a kind of blissful, simple purpose and at the same time no expectations. I ordered a vodka tonic and ate from a fresh bowl of pretzels while I waited for it, smiling internally while I compared the Hideout to the trendier spots in LA. Those places wouldn’t be caught dead serving free plain pretzels and Bud Light on tap.

  Personally, I thought the rustic vibe had a lot going for it. At least it was real. I’d never enjoyed the hot “scene” bars with long lines to order eighteen-dollar craft cocktails and everyone pretending to be someone else. But the scene was the whole point of going, and so we all went, waited and paid.

  I handed five dollars to the bartender and finished the pretzels.

  “You made it,” someone said behind me. Deputy Tom, of course. I turned and saw that he looked younger out of uniform. His casual t-shirt and shorts definitely suited him better.

  “Hey,” I said. “Yeah, I was getting a little stir crazy.”

  “Vacations will do that. I’m glad you showed up—the trivia is about to start. You’re welcome to join our team.”

  “Thanks,” I said, appreciating the offer. “I might just watch, though.”

  “Sure,” he said, “but come sit with us anyway.”

  I didn’t mind, it was nice of him to include a stranger. I followed happily enough, still feeling intensely present, yet pleasantly detached. In spite of the earlier vodka, I wasn’t drunk at all, I was wide awake and taking everything in. I didn’t seem to care what happened. I wasn’t self-conscious or nervous of doing something wrong. That kind of social anxiety was a different breed entirely from the excited nervousness I’d felt all afternoon.