Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  “Yeah, anyway. Leaving aside all the drugs, which were enough to give my father another heart attack if he’d seen them, they had a barbeque going—inside—the place was filled with smoke. There were about a dozen other fire hazards, unlawful partitions and more occupants than I could count. I didn’t really want to know what was going on, but I couldn’t help looking around—I mean, that’s what I was there for. I’d asked to talk to the lessee, if he was present—the name on the lease was Michael Sorenson. Nobody seemed very sober or inclined to be helpful, but one girl drifted off into the back and eventually this Michael showed up. A mean son of a bitch. He yelled at me to get out, spouted off a bunch of garbage about overthrowing the system and tenants’ rights and God knows what else—all I knew was, it didn’t sound good for the eviction, since the last thing we needed was a messy legal battle. I was about to stand my ground when I saw something that changed everything, and I got the hell out of there and called the police.”

  “What was it?” Peter asked coolly, though I was on the edge of my seat. Richard Napoletti told a great story.

  “A girl was tied up in a back room—on the floor—right next to what looked like some kind of homemade bomb.” He waited as we stared at him. “Nutso, right? I mean, I thought they were messed up, but didn’t imagine they were kidnappers and terrorists. If I’d known… well, at least they didn’t get away with it.”

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  “They raided the place and arrested the whole damn nest of ‘em. The girl they’d kidnapped was barely eighteen, poor kid. I guess they thought her father was a congressman in New York, though it turned out they got the wrong girl—they meant to grab her school friend. They were going to send her home with a bomb strapped to her, if you can believe it. I mean, crazy. Most of them got sent to rehab and turned witness, I think, but the guy in charge, Michael Sorenson, he was charged with a couple of felonies and ended up serving time at Rikers Island. I testified at his trial, though it was probably one of the other people who put him away.”

  “Do you know if he’s still there? At Rikers?” Peter asked.

  “Last I heard, yeah. He won’t be up for parole for a good long while.” He fiddled with a pen on his desk while we took that in. “You thinking of going to talk to him?”

  “Maybe,” Peter said.

  “If he’s willing to talk to you, he’s probably your best bet. We never had any other names on file, and all the rest of them scattered once the place broke up.”

  “Thank you,” I said, not sure how else to end the interview. “We really appreciate your time.”

  We all stood and Richard Napoletti moved to open the office door.

  “No trouble. You’re the second people who’ve ever asked about that group,” he remarked, walking us out. “It’s definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced in this business.”

  “Oh? Who else was interested?” Peter asked casually.

  “Some older guy—I don’t remember his name. Seemed normal enough. It was after I’d decided to renovate but before I’d started the eviction process, come to think of it, so the place was on my mind. He wanted to know who was the tenant of record, said he was looking for his daughter. Later on, once I got in there, I wondered which one of them he was talking about, but I never heard back from him. I just assumed she got back in touch with her family once Sorenson was out of the picture.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, since Peter seemed too preoccupied to respond. We said goodbye, and left the office.

  Chapter 9

  “Well, we know that Mike was into some really extreme stuff,” I said as we started back for the train station, hauling our bags with us.

  “Right,” Peter agreed, his mind still seeming to be elsewhere.

  “Where’s Rikers Island, anyway?”

  “Queens, I think. The other side of Manhattan.”

  We walked along in silence for a few minutes. As we neared the train station, I found my stomach gurgling in an empty way.

  “I’m getting hungry, are you?”

  “Mm? Hungry? Good idea. Let’s get some lunch—what about this place?” We were passing a café-bakery, one of several along the busy street. It looked inviting and wasn’t too crowded, so we went in and ordered sandwiches and iced tea from the cashier before finding seats in the small dining room.

  “What did he say that’s got you so thoughtful?” I finally asked, after another short silence.

  “Hmm? Oh. About the other man who asked about the loft.”

  “The one looking for his daughter?”

  “Right. Wouldn’t that be around the time that Marianne moved out—five years ago?”

  “Yeah, it would. I don’t know the exact date, though. When she emailed me she was already living in Brooklyn.”

  “Mmphmm.”

  I waited, sipping my tea. Our number was called, and I went and got the tray with our sandwiches and sat down. We ate. Peter’s eyes stayed unfocused, as if he was doing a complicated math problem. I was reaching for my book when he suddenly spoke.

  “I don’t see how it could be tied to the loft people,” he said. “Whatever your cousin is involved in now. It was too amateur, and it’s been too long. But I’m interested in the other man who came asking about them.”

  “Do you still think it’s worth trying to talk to that Mike guy?”

  “I think so. He might be able to fill in some gaps about your cousin’s life, if nothing else.”

  “If we can talk to him—and if he wants to help us.”

  “He doesn’t sound like he’d be the most… cooperative guy, but maybe he’s had a change of heart,” Peter suggested gravely. “Turned a new leaf.”

  I snorted a skeptical laugh, and finished my last bite regretfully. It was good—melted cheese and ham on a baguette.

  “So what now?”

  “I don’t think there’s a lot more we can do today. We can look into Rikers tonight and how to go about visiting someone there. Our hotel should let us check in, even if our room’s not ready, and we can leave our bags if we want to walk around.”

  “Can we catch a train from here?”

  It turned out we could—a PATH train would take us to the World Trade Center, a short walk from there to the 5 train and up to Grand Central Station. We had luck in the early afternoon commuter lull and didn’t have to wait long for our trains. In just over an hour we’d made our way to our hotel, a fairly nice DoubleTree with tourists of all nationalities spilling out of the lobby onto the sidewalk and into the adjacent bar. Our room was ready; we got our key cards and made our way upstairs.

  First time staying in a hotel room together, I found myself thinking. First time on a plane—a train—a subway. First time splitting expenses and following directions to a place we’d never been. First trip, first overnight away from the camper.

  First investigation into criminal activities. First prison visit.

  After checking out the room and using the bathroom, I found Peter stretched out on the bed, shoes off, iPad in hand. Who knew he was such an iPad person? Something else I’d learned about him in the last twenty-four hours. I lay down next to him, sliding out of my shoes as well, feeling my body relax for the first time since the night before last.

  Peter was quiet. I was quiet.

  Without any warning, a wave of sheer, utter panic washed over me. My heart began to pound wildly, my stomach rippled with anxiety, my skin felt hot and clammy. I lay still, feeling the blood rush to my ears, heat rising to my face and neck.

  What the hell was I doing here?

  Was I really in Manhattan with a stranger—a man I’d only met three days ago? Did I really believe we were falling in love—that it could be that easy and auspicious and magical, like some goddamn fairy tale? How delusional could I get?

  All the strangeness, all the nerves, all the doubts I hadn’t felt flooded my brain and body, as if breaking through a dam that had held them back the past three days. I knew nothing about this man except�
�well, that he was nice, and thoughtful, and owned a bar and a dog, and seemed to have a solid reputation in town besides the whole brother-in-law drug trafficker thing… which I really only had his word for, after all. Maybe he was in it with Hal. Maybe it wasn’t Hal they were after, but Peter.

  Oh, God.

  I didn’t know anything about him, not really. Only what he’d told me, only what I’d believed without question. I didn’t know his political views—what, if any, religion he believed in—how much debt he had—how many women he’d slept with and ghosted the next day.

  What if he was a drug dealer—or a serial rapist? Or an alcoholic or painkiller addict or compulsive gambler? What if he’d lied about everything—well, everything other people hadn’t already confirmed? What if he had ten different venereal diseases—or AIDS—or something I’d never even heard of? I mean, we’d been safe, but all methods were only about 99% effective. That left 1%.

  What if my IUD and the condom had both failed and I was pregnant by this almost total stranger?

  I had tied myself to this man without knowing who he really was. Handed myself to him like a neatly wrapped victim-package. Trusted him like the most fatuous, dim-witted teen under the thrall of her first desperate crush on some “cool, mysterious” sleazy dude in his twenties.

  My heart raced even faster as I fully realized the danger of my position, my damp hands clenching into fists, my dread threatening to choke me as it rose in my throat.

  I was stuck in New York with him with nobody to call for help. I’d told him all my secrets. Shown him all my weakest spots.

  And now there was no way out.

  ■ ■ ■

  A gentle snore came from the lying, disease-ridden serial-rapist-cult-leader-gambler-addict beside me.

  I turned my head slightly to look at him. His iPad was face down on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. One of his hands rested on the bed between us, the other was draped across his stomach. The fingers were blunt, the skin deeply tanned, nails short and clean.

  I could see the tiny lines under his eyes, the light sprinkle of gray in the hair by his temple. He breathing came quietly and evenly, without a repeat of the snore. His lashes lay dark and thick beneath arched brows, his chin was covered by a light shadow of stubble.

  Watching Peter sleep, the panicked fear drained out of me. It vanished almost as quickly as it arose, and left a calm, blank emptiness in its wake. My heart slowed. One by one, all my tight muscles released.

  It was true that I knew almost nothing about him. He could have treated women poorly in the past. He might have high debt and low prospects. He could very well have voted for the far right candidates in the last major election.

  But it wasn’t true that I didn’t know him.

  Fairy tale magic aside, we shared an undeniably real connection. From the first moment he’d spoken to me I’d felt that odd, sure rush of recognition. And he’d felt something similar. It was strong enough to keep us thinking about each other for hours, strong enough to bring us together and keep us moving closer, unchecked by the usual doubts and conventions.

  He’d already proven a lot to me, without me asking him to. Everything he said he was going to do, he’d done. My instinctive trust of him hadn’t yet been proven wrong. He’d been unfailingly respectful and considerate and honest. Of course there would be more to the stories of his past mistakes and missteps than the basic outlines he’d given me. We’d barely had time to exchange hometowns, much less our deepest regrets.

  Maybe he had been something of a womanizing man-about-town, in Tucson if not in Half Moon Bay. Very few single guys I knew weren’t, on some level. Many of those who weren’t wished they were, which wasn’t any better. He’d said he was clean after some issues with drugs and alcohol, but “clean” could be a relative term. I knew he drank beer and wine. Maybe he still partied now and then, or smoked pot for migraines, or went on periodic binges of one kind or another. I hadn’t seen signs of any of it during our two days together, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

  Whatever he’d done, and whatever choices he’d made before we met, weren’t my concern. They might show poor judgment, but unless he really had killed or raped or swindled someone, or done anything unspeakably evil or corrupt, his past wasn’t my business.

  Besides, who was I to judge? I’d gone on at least a hundred dates in LA—two or three a month for five years adds up to a lot. I’d slept with several guys I barely knew. I hadn’t been a saint, either.

  I hadn’t gone in for hard partying or heavy drugs, I had too many muddled middle-class American inhibitions from my half-Chilean, half-Dutch mother and mixed-race father, both of whom had tumbled through the 70s and 80s as intense computer nerds, before that was really even a thing. I’d tried ecstasy once with a guy and locked myself in the bathroom for the rest of the night, throwing up in the toilet and moaning on the floor in turns. Strangely enough, we never went out again. I got sleepy when I drank too much, got panic attacks from pot, and had never been interested in or tempted to try anything white and powdery that went up your nose or into your veins.

  I wasn’t any better a person than anyone who liked those things—it wasn’t morality that kept me relatively clean. Probably a cocktail of luck, common sense and the knowledge that my mom would have absolutely hated it and, after she died, that she wasn’t around to hate anything anymore. That thought always sobered and centered me. Morality did keep me from committing crimes, of course—and I placed a high value on common decency. But unless I knew for sure that Peter had crossed an indefensible line, I couldn’t assume he had.

  Of course there was so much about him to learn, besides just the biographical facts. A lot of it I could probably relate to, and some of it might be hard to understand. The same would be true for him. Sure, it was impulsive and maybe irresponsible to leave town with a man I’d just met without thinking twice about the consequences. Looking past the intense attraction and connection, though, was it really so different from going on a weekend trip with a guy I’d been dating for a few weeks? That wouldn’t be unheard of. Would I know that hypothetical guy any better than Peter, having gone out with him, say, five or six times, slept with him once or twice, spent a total of maybe twenty waking hours with him?

  No, I wouldn’t.

  In terms of days, and in terms of depth, we’d moved fast. Very fast.

  But that didn’t mean we weren’t right.

  With a soft, contented sigh which released any last fragments of lingering tension all the way down to my toes, I curled up beside my lying, disease-ridden serial-rapist-cult-leader-gambler-addict and went to sleep.

  ■ ■ ■

  I woke up after about an hour, not exactly refreshed and rested but at least feeling up to a few more hours of daylight. Peter was still asleep. I slipped over to the window and looked out at the view below; the day was slightly overcast, diffusing the sun rather than hiding it, and humid, a warm 82 degrees, according to the weather app on my phone. It was so nice to have a phone again to check things like the weather. Even if nobody had the number and I hadn’t taken the time to set up my email or anything else on it, I could call anyone I wanted. I could look things up online.

  If I hadn’t already gotten over my extreme little bout of cold feet, and if I’d thought of it earlier, the fact that Peter had added a stranger to his phone plan would have helped reassure me. After all, he was the one on the financial hook for that. He hadn’t done it as some kind of control measure, not unless he’d somehow managed to turn on a parental tracking option that I didn’t know about. And that, I knew instinctively, wasn’t in his character. He wanted to be in touch with me—to know I was OK—to know I could get help from him or anyone else if I needed it. It was a gift, not a shackle.

  Clasping this symbol of Peter’s trust in one hand, I watched people and cars passing. Getting here had been something of a blur. Other than a vague thrill at walking through Grand Central Station again, looking up at the high
, fanciful painted ceilings and graceful architecture of a different time, I hadn’t experienced much excitement about being in Manhattan. Nothing about this had felt vacation-like, with our unusual reason for coming so entirely front and center since we’d landed.

  Now that I had a moment to sit quietly and watch New Yorkers and tourists mingling on the street, walking and biking and driving to their next destination, I felt the first stirrings of anticipation. This was a very cool city to spend a few days in, investigations aside. There was so much to see—historical sights and celebrated artwork and Broadway shows, so much to eat, so many neighborhoods to explore and people to watch. I’d barely made it to the most major attractions on my first trip, just enough to appreciate that you could probably live in New York for a lifetime and not see it all.

  I hadn’t come here with any expectations—about what we might find out or what we might do. But we were here. Even if we just circled the block and came back, we’d see something of the city, find something to notice and value. And we’d go out for meals, if we did nothing else.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Peter asked groggily from behind me, sitting up as I turned and came back to the bed.

  “Over an hour. How do you feel?”

  He yawned and reached for me, pulling me in for a hug and falling back with me onto the bed.

  “Better,” he said.

  Sometime later, after we’d showered—one, rather long, shower—and put on clean clothes, Peter suggested we make a game plan for the next step in our search for answers.

  “I did some research on visiting inmates,” he said, pulling up a webpage on his iPad. “Rikers is closed Mondays and Tuesdays, but Sorenson will be eligible for visitors on Wednesday, at least according to their schedule. They split it up by last names, A to L or M to Z on different days. That doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll be able to see him, but at least we know it’s possible. Visitor registrations start at one.”

  “Is there a way to make sure he’s really at Rikers?”

  “There’s somebody named Michael Sorenson there—the webpage lets you look up inmates by name or case number and see where they are. I checked a couple of spellings of Sorenson, he was the only one.”